Category Archives: Uncategorized

November 12, 2011 · 11:55 am

A Coconut in November

It’s that time of year. Wanderlust has begun to nestle itself comfortably in the back of my mind, surrounded by a bunch of fluffy pillows, waiting for me to come under the blanket with it and escape one world for another. As always, the invitation is hard for me to resist. When I cannot fully escape, at least I’ve got TwT.

Boat through the leaves. Zihuatanejo, Mexico.

Kite surfers in Cabarete, Dominican Republic.

A Haitian man selling snacks on the beach in Cabarete, exactly two weeks before the earthquake hit Haiti. Cabarete, Dominican Republic.

Lava rock and ocean in Kona. The Big Island, Hawaii.

Sunset above the clouds, from the top of Mauna Kea (10,000 feet up). Big Island, Hawaii.

Palm trees and ocean. San Juan, Puerto Rico.

This post is an invitation. Please contribute (as a comment) your #1 wanderlust destination right now (travel bloggers – please share a link if you’ve written about a destination you want to suggest!). For me, that place is an island somewhere in the Caribbean. I want to hike through a rainforest, sit by a beach, eat mouthful after mouthful of perfectly ripe fruit…

I cannot get the thought of soft sunshine, fresh coconuts, that very specific sound of palm tree leaves brushing against each other between waves, the call of birds, the smell of plumeria, the light breeze blowing over my knees, the too-hot sand, the too-fresh air that I want to scoop out of the sky and eat like a bowl of melting ice cream, the sound of calm, the delicious feeling of wanting to be nowhere else, the wish that I could somehow capture all these sensations and take them with me to my real life…

Who’s coming with me?

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

6 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

October 16, 2011 · 9:31 am

A Moment in Amsterdam

I woke up this morning to an unexpected text from one of my best friends in the world, who happens to live on the other side of it. She was falling asleep in Oahu as I was waking up to a crisp yellow light here in Manhattan. Hawaii Heather, as we call her, asked me and the other girls who became best friends in college if we ever miss Bowdoin. I hadn’t heard from Hawaii in months, and hadn’t been thinking about this question, but my answer was a quick and simple: YES.

I’m nostalgic by nature, but mostly because I have a really good memory. Sometimes I wish I would forget some happy memories, because they were too good. We began listing the things we miss the most — how we haven’t laughed as hard and as constantly as we did while all living together in college, how we’d spend this time of year throwing each other into huge crunchy leaf piles while walking across the neon-colored Maine autumn on the quad, and then spend the next hour cracking up and pulling scraps of leaves and twigs out of our fleece and hair. We remembered life before broken hearts, before worrying about money, before it all got so complicated, before there were scars and challenges that we would have to get through on our own, without each other to dance around the dorm room with during our nightly 11:11pm dance parties (which would begin promptly when someone yelled “It’s 11:11!! DANCE PARTY!” and then everyone would have to drop the work they were doing, run into the hallway, and dance like crazy. The boys downstairs would sometimes run up and join. Hehe). How does it get better than that? During reading period, when it snowed like hell, we’d sneak a bucket of snow into the dorm giggling, and then start throwing snowballs at people (indoors) before it melted. Indoor snowball fights and 11:11pm dance parties seem to be two of those things that came and went with college… Replaced by what? Happy hours after work and friends’ engagements?

We’ve all found happiness in many different forms since college, but man… what a good fucking time that was.

In honor of this golden-hued time of year, when another season change reminds us of the world moving quickly under our feet, I’d like to go back to an October weekend I spent in Amsterdam. The past couple of weeks have been pretty rough (academically), so there is nothing I want more than to make a quick run for it… at least via TwT.

Purple glass on a canal house in Amsterdam.

A few years back, I traveled to Brussels to visit my friend Dawn, who was living there as a Fulbright Fellow. We quickly packed the bags under my eyes from my overnight flight and headed straight to Amsterdam via train. I quickly fell for the city, and definitely want to go back.

Orange Autumn in Amsterdam.

In 2007, I wrote this:

It’s raining and cold outside, and the grey has yet to subside, but I have returned from Amsterdam a happy Tavel, with a stomach full of hearty Dutch food and even more chocolate; I can’t really complain. Amsterdam was… gorgeous — more than I imagined it would be. The sky was constantly a wintery white, but the city was lit up by golden leaves that both fell from the trees and floated in the brown water of the many canals, which sat underneath bicycle-covered bridges crowded with old wooden boats. My immediate reaction to Amsterdam was postive, and that feeling never faded.

Bicycles outside Centraal Station. Amsterdam, 2007.

The first thing Dawn and I noticed when we got out of Centraal Station was the bicycles. Oh. My. Gawd. Imagine the most bicycles you can fit into a your frame of vision, and then double it. The dominant and obviously preffered method of transportation in Amsterdam is le bicycle. This was quickly proven by the aggression of the cyclists and the piles of parked bikes lining every sidewalk, bridge and street. Also, there are bike lanes on every road — lanes much bigger, proportionally, than the car lanes, and triple the width of the pedestrian walking-lanes. Bikes come in all different colors, some with wheelbarrows or kiddie-seats attached, and some decorated in flowers, leis, or junk. It was quite a site, and I was very impressed by the multi-tasking skills of every man, woman and child who rode around with the self-assurance and confidence of a truck driver.

Pink Bike in Amsterdam

Then, there were the canals. Ahh… the canals! SO beautiful! For those of you who don’t know this, Amsterdam is comprised of several concentric canals, with gorgeous curving bridges passing over them. Below, row boats and house boats in all different colors and styles float effortlessly on the quiet canals. Each is separated by streets full of “coffee shops,” stores, restaurants, and galleries.

An Amsterdam canal.

Dawn and I wandered our way over several canals, dodging bikes and trams and falling leaves, to the Van Gogh Museum, which I highly recommend. In college, I wrote one of my first major papers analyzing Van Gogh based on only two of his paintings (his “Bedroom in Arles” and “The Night Cafe“) along with his letters to his brother, Theo, about those two paintings. Along the way, we noticed many canal houses that seemed to sit assymetrically against other homes, as if they were falling out of the tightly bound sidewalks so slowly that almost nobody noticed them. Little by little, I began to see this more and more. It wasn’t until I found myself face-to-face with Van Gogh’s painting of his “Bedroom in Arles” that I realized how similar Amsterdam is to that specific painting. Like Van Gogh’s painting of his own tiny bedroom, Amsterdam is completely comprised of skewed perspectives and idiosyncrasies that challenge physics and add a certain fragility to the atmosphere.

After the museum, we hopped onto a perfectly-timed canal tour boat. Looking at Amsterdam from the canals themselves was an interesting and unique angle to take it all in. There really is no other way to feel a part of the city.

Finally, we were off to the Anne Frank museum, built in the exact location of Anne Frank’s home during her two years of hiding. This was one of the most important things for me to see, and I have to admit that I got a little choked up. It was really touching to be touring her house, lined up between German, British, and Israeli tourists, after reading her diary as a kid. There we all were, in her tiny bedroom where she was forced to stay, only to get taken to a concentration camp once her family was betrayed, and die of typhus one month before she would have been liberated, just after her mother, father, and sister’s deaths at the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. There I was, as a young adult in Amsterdam, in the very room she wrote the diary that I would later read. It was one of those moments when travel collapses onto itself and becomes something else.

Ceiling full of flowers at the flower market. Amsterdam.

I left Amsterdam a big fan of it’s off-beat, yet sophisticated personality. It’s a city where you can walk down the street and see scantily-clad women watching you from the flourescent windows of the Red Light District, where you can go to a store called The Magic Mushroom and choose what kind of drugs you want to buy right out there in the open, and where you can get around the city by boat OR bicycle better than by foot.

Street corner. Amsterdam.

Yet it is also a very modern and unique city, with a complicated history but an open mind. Like Van Gogh’s painting of his bedroom in Arles, there is something quirky about Amsterdam to which I connected, but also something surprisingly quiet and relaxing about it all, that I found very comfortable.

Graffiti. Amsterdam.

It’s been years since I was there, but amidst this crazy new life I have, at least now I feel a little bit like I’ve just gone back.

Now time to study!

Oh, and you might notice some familiar faces in this music video… which I got to be in last November… 😀 Shout out to the lovely Samantha Farrell!

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

4 Comments

Filed under A Moment In..., Amsterdam, Autumn, Life Stuff, Uncategorized

September 1, 2011 · 8:17 am

A New Yorker’s September 11 (in Maine)

In ten days, it will be ten years since September 11, 2001.

There are a lot of September 11 commemoration articles, documentaries, etc. going on, so I couldn’t help but chime in. I’ve never fully written this down, so here is my story — where I was, what I experienced, and how September 11, 2001, hit me. Please feel free to share your experience as a comment, or say whatever you feel needs to be said.

Rainbow in Dutchess County, a wedding gift for my sister from Hurricane Irene.

A New Yorker’s September 11 (in Maine)

The phone kept ringing. I figured it was just my brand new roommate’s persistent boyfriend, Jared, whose constant calling had already become routine even one week into my new life as a college freshman living in Maine. I had just had crew practice that morning and was up at 5 am rowing on the New Meadows River, so I was trying to catch a few minutes of shut-eye before heading to my 10:30am Art History class. After the third or fourth call, and my roommate’s third or fourth refusal to get out of bed and answer the phone, I got up — slightly annoyed, but more perplexed — and picked it up myself. Jared’s words changed my world.

Me: “Hey, Jared…It’s Rachel. Emily’s asleep.”

Jared: “I’ve been calling nonstop! You’re from NYC, right?!”

This was the little many people knew about me at this point.

Me: “Yes…”

Jared: “Turn on the TV right NOW. Terrorists are attacking New York! They just crashed a plane into the Twin Towers! TURN ON THE NEWS! IT’S HAPPENING RIGHT NOW!”

His words didn’t make sense. What was he TALKING about? Terrorists? Attacking MY hometown? My family was there… all six of them. This stuff didn’t really happen, did it?

Me: “Wait, WHAT?”

Meanwhile, I started to hear knocking at my door. I told Jared I had to go, and that I would turn on the TV. I thanked him for calling. My mind started trying to spin some sense out of what he said, but his words still bounced off of me as nothing but words — they weren’t sinking in.

I answered the door. It was a couple of my dorm-mates asking me if I was ok. Ok from what? I still wasn’t sure what the hell was going on. I started getting nervous. I had only left New York City a little over a week ago, and all these people checking in on me were shiny new friends who knew little more about me than the fact that I was a New York City girl in Maine living on the fourth floor of Maine Hall at Bowdoin College, but I would soon need their comfort more than I had ever needed anyone’s.

Most of us hadn’t connected our TVs or cable yet, so the boys downstairs came and got me, and told me to call my family and come watch TV in their room. My first instinct was to call my Mom — my Dad was at work. I tried calling. NOTHING. I couldn’t get through. I tried calling my Dad. Nothing. I tried calling cell phones, landlines, home, work, brothers, sisters… Nada. Word came through that the Pentagon had been attacked too. My dad worked in Rockefeller Center in the middle of Manhattan, 30 or 40 floors up. Was he safe? Where was my baby brother? It was his first day of school.

Just before I headed downstairs to watch the news, the other NYC-girl who lived next door to me, Allison, came to my room. She asked me if I heard what was happening. I could barely comprehend what was going on because it was all happening so fast. I had never used the word “terrorists” until that day. I had never used it directly relating to my life, at least. Earlier that summer, in July, I had taken a friend visiting from Paris to the Twin Towers. I was just there, probably for the fourth or fifth time in my life. I remembered how impressive the lobby was, with the high stone arches lining the endlessly tall windows. I remember waiting in line in the lobby, and loving how excited all the tourists looked.

We went up to the top, and looked down at the whole city. It seemed like a dream now. My mom used to work in one of the Towers. Sure, I remember the bombings. I remember getting bomb threats at our school and piling into a nearby school’s gym until we were told it was safe. Growing up in NYC during the 80s and 90s was different — the city had changed a LOT since then. It was safer, stronger, there were less prostitutes, less drugs, fewer crack vials on the sidewalks and less guns, but I knew the city had a dangerous side — I grew up there. My backyard was Riverside Park.

Who else did I know who worked in the Twin Towers? I knew there would be someone — if not someone, 50 people that I knew indirectly. Maybe many more. But the Towers would be fine. They were huge. They were the biggest thing about the biggest city I had ever known. They were indestructible. Were they our Titanic?

Allison burst into the room and asked me, “Did you hear what’s going on?” I said “Yeah, I’m so confused. What is happening?!” A few friends stood and watched as we tried to put together the scraps of information we had gathered. Neither of us could get in touch with our families. All I kept thinking was what’s next? Where is next? How many of these attacks are we supposed to expect? Were we safe? Was my family safe? Was anyone safe?

Then Allison and I had the most bizarre reaction; we started laughing. It was a nervous, uncomfortable laughter that neither of us could understand, but we stood there covering our mouths in shock. Then, she said “Oh my God, I think I’m going to cry…” I told her I thought I was going to cry too. I still didn’t even know why, but everyone was scaring me. I knew so little, but I could see the fear and the shock on everyone’s faces. Before I knew it, our awkward laughter had turned into a confused, fearful cry. It was almost like everything around us was telling us to cry, whether or not we understood why… yet.

No one else was crying. People hugged us and told us to go watch the news. The first priority was getting more information. Allison began to realize this was affecting us differently than everyone else. We sat on the floor in the dorm room directly below my new room and watched, live, as the second plane hit the World Trade Center. At this point, my tears turned silent. I felt sick to my stomach. My new roommate stroked my back. Someone else got me tissues. I just watched. I couldn’t believe it.

No, this was not happening. I was not seeing this.

The first Tower crumbled to the ground. I watched it happen, live, with my hand covering my mouth, feeling like I wanted to throw up, watching my world crumble, feeling my heart break, just trying to understand what my eyes were telling me.

I never planned to have all these new friends see me cry ever, let alone within two weeks of arriving on campus. But I had no control. I settled into my tears and watched, in shock, quiet. I didn’t want to talk. I couldn’t.

As we watched, RAs came around to tell us that classes were canceled for the day, and that there would be a mandatory full-campus meeting in the gym at 4pm that afternoon to discuss what was happening. They also told all the New Yorkers to hang tight — that they would help us get in touch with family as soon as possible.

There I was, surrounded by almost-strangers, in a new place, with a new life, after leaving my one and only hometown — Manhattan — to live somewhere else for the first time in my life. And there I was, watching on TV as the world I knew best literally fell apart. I kept thinking: I was just there… I could have been standing right there.

My 18th birthday was two days later. I felt weird. I was in the wrong place to be experiencing this. I should have been there, on the ground, running away from the plumes of smoke with everyone else, trying to help. I couldn’t comprehend what this meant. I remembered plenty of bombings and minor attacks on New York City, but this hit too close to home. This was too big. This was different.

I watched as each Tower crumbled into dust from a dorm room in Maine. I watched as the lobby I had just stood in disappeared into an ominous, terrifying cloud of black death. I watched, helplessly, as I tried desperately to come up with the names of people I knew were in that building. I couldn’t think of any. I watched with my hands covering my mouth, tears rolling down my cheeks, new friends stroking my back, my phone sitting silent, my family all within a few miles of this disaster, and I tried to understand WHY? As large-scale as these attacks were, why did it feel so personal? Why did it feel like someone was attacking me? As weird as it sounds, I felt in that moment like those Towers were my family, and everyone in them was a part of my family, and I was watching someone kill them right in front of me, and I couldn’t even remember their names.

The Bowdoin College campus was right next to a Naval Air Base. Pretty quickly after the disaster struck, planes started soaring over campus. Huge planes — the kind that blast in your ears and shake the whole building. I felt so incredibly vulnerable. I had never felt that vulnerable. The way I saw it, my home, my family, my world was under attack, and I was so small that I couldn’t even make a phone call to check that my mom, dad, two brothers and two sisters were ok. What could I do besides sit there and watch everything fall apart? How long would we have to watch? Whose world was I living in?

I was worried about not even showing up to my 10:30 am class, so I told everyone I had to make the two-minute run across campus to tell my Professor that I wasn’t going to be there. I was prepared to sit through class if I was supposed to. Mostly, I think I needed alone time, and to run away from what was happening the only way I could.

As I ran across campus, I caught the eye of a friend — Elliot — who had been one of the pre-orientation leaders I met during my backpacking and canoeing trip the week before. He sprinted — literally — across the campus to give me a hug, to ask if I was ok. He looked me in the eyes and held my shoulders and said “Are you OK? Have you talked to your family? Is there ANYTHING I can do?” I was blown away by the support of Elliot, of my dorm-mates, of my proctor group friends, of the boys downstairs, of the girls upstairs… I hadn’t processed my feelings yet. They were just coming out in sloppy, bizarre bursts of emotion that were completely disorganized and confused.

I reassured Elliot that I was OK, although I wasn’t sure if this was true, and accepted his hugs before I continued on to my Professor’s office. I walked in, totally shaken like a bright orange autumn leaf on the ground that just got stomped on. I was the only one there. He told me class was cancelled, of course, and asked me if I was ok. We talked briefly, then he told me to go back to my friends and keep trying to get in touch with my family. He wished me luck.

The rest of the day was a blur, but I was beyond impressed with how Bowdoin handled something so unexpected and shocking. In retrospect, I think it brought me closer to my new friends, and my entire campus, than anything else could have done in the first two weeks of college. For the rest of our lives, this would be something we all went through together. For the rest of the day, week, month, year and years to come, this would be the family that surrounded me when tragedy struck… and it would again, only in a more personal form a few months later when my mom was diagnosed with advanced breast cancer that December, 2001.

Needless to say, it was a rather somber 18th birthday. But no more so than when I went home, for the first time, after September 11.

I’ll never forget it. The city was different than when I had left it. The atmosphere had totally changed. American flags hung from every building entrance. The city that once stood tall like the Twin Towers — untouchable and strong — was now aching, heartbroken, and trying to muster the strength to stand back up. It was hurting, but beneath the hurt there was pride. Every restaurant or cafe I visited, people were still talking about it. You heard, “I was doing… (this) when it happened…” “So and so’s brother was getting a bagel on the corner…” “My coworker lost his father…” Etc. etc. My parents knew at least 300 people in the towers. My friend Chris’ parents had reservations for their anniversary dinner at the restaurant on top of World Trade Center — 7pm, September 11th, 2001. A family friend was catching the elevator, late for work after a fight with her husband, when a fireball shot through the elevator down to the ground floor and knocked her across the lobby. She wouldn’t get home until March 12, 2002, after two months in a coma and a long, painful recovery from 2nd and 3rd degree burns covering 82% of her body (her story is currently featured in Vanity Fair). The stories kept piling in. So and so’s uncle died, so and so’s fiance was there, and on and on and on and on and on… But, we were safe. What I was feeling, what I was experiencing, as profound as the effect felt for me, it was nothing compared to how this was going to directly affect so many other people’s lives. But the city, as a whole — the country — we were all in this together.

There was a vulnerability to the once cocky city, a vulnerability like the one I felt as I watched the World Trade Center disappear — one life at a time — into nothingness. But there was also a strength like I’ve never seen before.

I remember taking off my bags and putting them down beside my bed when I got home, to NY, for the first time that October. I walked up to my window to look out at the changed city and noticed it was hard to see through the screen. The screen was filthy. I had never seen it so dirty. I took a paper towel and began to wipe away the thick layer of ashes that coated my window. I’ll never forget it, because in that moment, as I wiped the layers of dirt and ash off my screen, I realized where it had come from. I wiped it as carefully and thoroughly as I could, and let a tear roll down my cheek as I did so, because I knew that those ashes came from the World Trade Center on September 11th. I knew that the wind had carried them uptown, and that I was wiping away broken hearts, and that it wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right, but it was as real as ever.

I couldn’t wait to get downtown. I was supposed to be there and almost felt guilty that I wasn’t in NYC on that horrible day. My local train was the one to the World Trade Center. I got on and took it to the closest stop it would allow. And then, it hit me: THE SMELL. I’ve never smelled anything like it. As the train got closer and closer, the smell got stronger and stronger. It was the first week of October. Everything was still so fresh. Every wound was open and still bleeding, and you could smell the death. When I walked out of those subway doors, I had to cover my mouth and nose. It smelled like burning, like chemicals, like metal…like hatred. It smelled toxic and sad, and so so real. I walked out onto the streets. I followed them to the remains of the buildings I once knew. I saw the signs for missing loved ones. I smelled the burning. I felt the destruction. I can smell, see, feel it all still today.

I know it might sound cheesy, and cliche, and melodramatic, and whatever the heck you want to call it, but that day really did change my life. For the first time, I realized I was a part of this world more than I thought I was. I was not untouchable — my city was not untouchable — and I could do whatever I wanted with my life but the world would be something I couldn’t control.

I also realized how much I loved New York. I loved it like a brother or sister. I loved it because it was a part of me, and I was a part of it, and I was going to love the hell out of NY because anything else was unacceptable. Yes, this wasn’t just about New York. The attacks on September 11th were so much bigger than New York, and yet for me, I felt instinctively protective over my town. As Carrie Bradshaw once said (oh yes, I went there…), “If Louis was right, and you only get one great love, then New York may just be mine…and I can’t have nobody talkin’ shit about my boyfriend.” New York and I, well, we were in this together. New York took a hard hit, but I wasn’t about to let anybody think they could knock us down.

This fall, I will go back to the site of the World Trade Center for the first time in ten years. I will go back to remember, and to reflect. My heart goes out to all of the families of the victims, but not just to them — attacks like this one happen all the time, and nobody rebuilds for the nameless victims in more constant, small-scale attacks. That said, when I get down to Ground Zero, and stand over the footprints of the World Trade Center Towers I once knew so well, I will be looking up, at a new tower, built stronger, smarter, and taller than the first ones. In many ways, I am that Tower. New York is that Tower. Each decade only makes us stronger. I can’t wait to enter the new World Trade Center, go all the way to the top, look out over the city and smile — for me, for New York, and for everyone who couldn’t be here today. Until then, I remember. We all do.

12 Comments

Filed under Life Stuff, New York City, September 11, Uncategorized, USA

August 3, 2011 · 10:12 pm

McQueen and I

I entered the MET determined, slightly rushed, but prepared (so I thought) to finally see the Alexander McQueen exhibit, “Savage Beauty.” I knew it was going to be amazing, but I did not know I would feel the need to write a blog post about it.

That said, you have all been so patient with my student-life updates, which — I can only imagine — are nowhere near as exciting as reading about the woes of being hospitalize abroad, what it feels like to have stingrays brush over one’s feet at sunrise in the Galapagos Islands, or what it smells like to be at a noodle shop in Kyoto. So, I’m going to shake things up a little. Today, I want to talk about something I’m definitely NOT an expert on: fashion! Or, more specifically, how something I usually feel very detached from — high fashion (besides the fact that I currently live in SoHo and am surrounded by it) — directly hit me with the unexpected exactness of bird crap today (but, good bird crap…err…I think I used the wrong analogy here) and simply made me go: WHOA.

Iguana Hand. Galapagos Islands.

I had been meaning to visit this exhibit all summer, but somewhere between the weekly statistics exams, the Developmental Psych classes and my constant weekend excursions, I managed to make it to the last week of the three-month long exhibit without experiencing McQueen’s genius for myself. I have yet to read a single review of the exhibit, which ends this weekend, but I just knew it was something I wanted to (or, oddly, needed to) see. I’d make it happen.

It’s been almost 18 months since McQueen was found dead, hanging in his wardrobe. [WARNING: uncharacteristically somber subject matter for TwT coming right up!] Reports concluded that he had cut his wrists with a ceremonial dagger and meat cleaver, taken immense amount of cocaine and other drugs, and basically left this world with the same complexity that his art always conveyed: he died with a dark but fascinating bang. Unlike his death, however, his morbid yet striking creations elicit pure awe. Now I know first-hand.

You can appreciate his art as a fashion expert, or you can appreciate it as a regular human being looking at something that simply is so creative and captivating to look at that it communicates in such a way that transcends fashion education. Not everyone has the magic to turn totally mundane objects into barely recognizable yet functional alien versions of themselves. It was like standing in a room and watching Lady Gaga stare at herself in a mirror. The entire exhibit was full of surprises, pain, and blissful self-expression.

Plant at the Orchid Show. Bronx Botanical Gardens, May 2011.

The tragedy is that McQueen could not see the four-hour line I witnessed today, which circled the museum I’ve spent my whole life visiting in a way no exhibit I’ve ever witnessed at the MET has. I’m sure, in some sense, he realized he was brilliant. But sometimes brilliance is more of a ball and chain than an escape route. Or so it seems.

I wandered up the stairs, then to the left, then to the right, then the left again, feeling a little like a mouse in a maze trying to find the damn cheese. But I was a mouse with a membership; no line for me (yes, I felt very lucky). That said, here were people from all over the world — literally — who were willing to spend at least 4 hours of a probably short trip to NYC not even looking at the McQueen exhibit yet, but just waiting to get in. What is it we are all really trying to see? What does it do to us, give us, teach us, that is so worth the wait? [This reminds me of college courses I took that forced me to define “art” and explain the purpose of museums… (The whole fun was trying to answer these questions and the discussions that came with them. I love questions like that! You try to answer them as a comment…)]

When I walked into the first room, the most unexpected thing happened to me: I got choked up. It came out of nowhere! I could barely enter the first room, it was so packed with people, and yet something hit me instantly before I even had a chance to take it all in. I was taken aback. Music floated through the room — dark, eery music like we were all trapped in some strange funhouse and should expect zombies to pop out at any second. Videos of runway shows adorned the walls, ceilings, and sometimes, a box you had to bend down to look into. The costumes fluttered between S&M outfits and headgear, and a fantasy land of floating, gravity-less dresses — a McQueen world of feathers and ruffles that we “normal” people stood there trying to understand. The exhibit was more of an interactive circus than I expected, with all the designs taking on a performance of their own.

Rusty hook. Od San Juan, Puerto Rico.

I’m sure most of you are wondering why I got choked up. Let me try and figure this out. [Thinking.] I think, although it seems odd to say this, it really just felt like McQueen was there with all of us. I was blown away by his creations. Even with all the plastic mannequins standing completely still and lifeless, the energy in each room felt like we were interacting with McQueen himself — like he was performing right in front of us and we couldn’t look away. You could feel his sadness, his pain, his struggle, which seeped through quotes scattered around the displays, and yet you could also see how it all burst out of him as art in a beautifully grotesque (or, I guess, savagely beautiful) way.

I think I have also been so set on my new career plan lately that I have barely had a chance to go to museums, see movies, and appreciate the arts in a way that I am used to. Seeing the McQueen exhibit hit me more deeply than I anticipated; it reminded me of how much I love creativity, individuality, and people following their guts, their hearts, and their passions wherever they might lead them, and how incredible something can be when it is expressed in complete, disarming honesty.

I can’t remember the last time an exhibit made me get choked up. Maybe I’m just becoming a total sap (someone please tell me if I go too far). I guess I am just glad to know that this humanities girl turned pre-health studies “science” girl can still appreciate a little art. It’s ironic that such beautiful work could come out of someone so deliriously sad he chose to take his own life, but what came from that place — no matter how dark or light — is something no other person could ever produce. There is only one Alexander McQueen, and this exhibit takes you right to him, where even though the room is dark, the music eery, and the artwork surrounded by chaos desperately trying to be controlled, there is a certainty, a truth, and a beauty that overpowers all the grotesque. Here’s a guy who gave the world something it couldn’t think of on its own. And now, he’s gone.

I left the exhibit smiling, unsure about why I was smiling, but smiling nonetheless.

That Summer Place

Summer has arrived. YAY YAY YAY. (If you haven’t picked up on this by now, I’m a major warm-weather girl.) But this year, I’m a student in the big city. I need your help getting to those special summer places we’ve all been before… The ones that give you chills of excitement during the winter, the ones for which we wait all year, the ones that come with dripping slices of watermelon and pink toenail polish — BBQs outside, humidity-heavy breezes, and road trips out of the city, the ones that are about to arrive because TODAY is the very first day of my favorite season… It’s sweet, sweet SUMMER TIME!!

View of Adirondack chair and pool at my parents' place upstate. Dutchess County, NY.

Last year I spent my summer in the perpetual spring of Quito, Ecuador. I was over 9,000 ft up in the stunning Andes mountains, but couldn’t stop dreaming about sea level. This year, I will fill my summer with as many weekends in Dutchess County by the pool as I can. Man, I love summer weekends.

No matter where future summers take me, the summers of my childhood can never be replaced. Back then, life was as simple as the crinkly grass under my feet. All I was looking for in my life was blue sea glass or an extra pretty shell. I spent each summer at a beach house on the North Shore of Greenport, LI called Rocky Bluff. My parents began renting the house with another couple before they even got married. We continued to spend our summers in Greenport until there were just too many Tavels to squeeze in the old cottage. Not to mention, rents skyrocketed as the nearby Hamptons became, well, THE Hamptons, but Greenport always remained a slice of Heaven; it had the happiness and peace of a still-undiscovered perfect place, far away from the swankiness of the it-town.

Summers revolved around life in the backyard eating corn on the cob with our neighbors, and playing imaginary games of shipwrecks with my then three siblings using the washed up driftwood, seaweed and garbage that covered the shore. Our backyard smelled constantly of ocean and honeysuckle, fruit was as ripe and fresh as I’ve ever tasted it, and we’d eat only vegetables from our overly successful garden, which we tended to daily with the help of my once organic-farmer dad and our neighbor Byron, who looked like Elvis Presley. Oh, and the fresh fruit pies from Briermere Farms – the best, freshest pies in the world. How could I ever forget the pies?!

This summer, I’m obviously doing the whole student-thing (and they weren’t kidding: it’s hard work!). I’m also writing, and working on a book dream. But no complaints! Things are off to a wonderful start. I’ve got some really good new people in the picture and great old ones, too. I’m doing my best to balance everything (school, writing, pressures of academia, friends, special friends…) with summer’s sweet charm, but things are inevitably going to spin off-balance here and there, and that’s ok. I just hope I can get some “summer” out of this summer, while working my butt off.

Wave. Galapagos Islands, Ecuador.

As we all know, I’m staying put for a bit. (Read: a “bit” — this is deliberately vague, as we never really know where life will take us next. Can I please still believe in that a little?) I’ve begun wanderlust-ing for Thailand pretty hardcore. Not to mention the constant yearning to stroll beside the Alhambra with the sweet citrus scent of orange trees and ham in Southern Spain, or even the simple and constant desire to be by the sea, near wild blueberries, somewhere far away from the city…

But summer as a student in the city is different. And mine needs your help.

Because I cannot travel right now, I would like everyone to contribute — as a comment — a few sentences about their favorite summer place (how does it feel, smell, sound, and taste? where is it? why there?). What is your ideal summer setting? Let’s all sip a sangria (or iced coffee, depending on time of day people!) while we read, and let real life and it’s imperfectly busy moments wash away with our footprints in the sand, at least for a few shared moments on TwT…

Take us to your summer place, wherever it may be, and feel free to recommend exact hotels, beaches, B&Bs, or whatever…

Now, about that sangria… I’ve gotta make some. And soon.

14 Comments

Filed under Contributor, Life Stuff, School, Travel, Uncategorized

May 21, 2011 · 9:23 am

White Noise

As I sit here at my new desk, in my new room, in my brand new SoHo apartment, I’m thinking about the noise around me. I’m living, for the first time, on a busy NYC street and on the lowest floor yet (3rd, after fifth-, fourth-, and seventh-floor apartments). Every time a bus rolls by, my apartment shakes like there is a minor earthquake. Whenever a truck goes by, I hear the aggressive screeching, rattling and clanking that distinguishes it from any other vehicle. Cars whiz by in a relative whisper compared to these big gas-guzzling monsters, and even motorcycles add a loud chuckle and spit to the busy background sounds that will now become my new New York white noise.

Like the traffic outside, things are moving quickly. I just spent my first few nights in SoHo, and what can I say? It takes a couple weeks to get settled into a new place, but I think I’m on my way. Here’s what the past week has been like:

On Monday, I woke up really early to spend four hours sitting at a sterile, isolated computer desk while people all around me took important, possibly life-defining standardized tests. There was a palpable sense of stress in the air that seemed to parallel the weather outside, where humidity condensed into the blackness of a summer-like thunderstorm. From the 17th floor of a high-rise in midtown Manhattan, I watched the rain crack down from the sky like it was never meant to be up there in the first place.

I was taking the GREs. The first hour was rough, unfamiliar, and uncomfortable. It had been twelve years since I took a standardized test, and the security measures of the facility were a bit over-the-top (I was not allowed to wear long-sleeves!). But at about the halfway point, I got into a groove and felt comfortable. In a sick way, I was enjoying myself; there was a certain nostalgia to the whole test-taking experience, and I found myself sinking right back into the experience of it, like sitting in the same nook of an old smelly couch you haven’t sat in for years.

Stillness at sunrise on Isla Floreana, Galapagos Islands. Ecuador.

After celebrating my completion of the exam with several beers that evening, I found myself a bit dazed and burnt out the next morning (ok, fine: hungover) when I was supposed to be packing for my final move into the new digs. (I had postponed the move because I realized I was focusing way too much on the apartment and not the GRE-studying, so decided it was wisest to focus on my exam, and move in immediately afterwards). On Wednesday, I loaded the last things I had at my parents’ place into a taxi and headed downtown. Finally, I was home. Sort of.

Home is an empty word when you haven’t lived there yet. The apartment needed a lot of things, and I wanted to take care of the odds and ends before the weekend. Thursday, I spent most of my day running errands around the new ‘hood, with a quick stop in ‘Dash, the Kardashian’s store because I couldn’t resist (just to look and see if they were there, while pretending to admire sparkly mini-dresses and $75 tank tops. Mmhmm… not so much what I’m going for these days!).

The afternoon was spent at the famous wedding dress mecca that is Kleinfeld’s. This was a pretty wild experience for me. I went to help my sister’s girlfriend/fiance find a wedding dress for their wedding this August, and let me just say: WOW. Like, WHOA. I have never been surrounded by that many brides-to-be. It felt like I was in some diamond-encrusted bubble of beaded silk, embroidered organza, satin, chiffon, charmeuse and lace. Needless to say, I felt out of my element.

But, there was something slightly fantastic about it all too. I mean, this was a bizarre place for ME to be in, and yet, it only takes one moment surrounded by racks of designer wedding dresses to get you in the mood. My mom, future sister-in-law, and I began plowing through the dresses. These weren’t just dresses, they were GOWNS. Not to get all GRE on you, but here is a quick multiple choice analogy question:

Kleinfeld wedding gown: dress

a) carrot: vegetable

b) stiletto: flip-flop

c) Kobe beef: hamburger

d) limo: bicyle

e) diamond: dirt

(The best answer is C.)

It didn’t hurt to have the cast and camera crew of “Say Yes to the Dress” all around. The experience was somewhat thrilling, and at the same time, confusing. I am not one of those girls who fantasizes about their wedding, but there is something to say about the whole experience when you see some of these dresses. I mean, my mom CRIED (like, actual tears behind the leopard print eyeglasses) when a girl she didn’t even know walked by in what appeared to be seven layers of dresses in one. I was like “Mom, are you crying?! You don’t even know her!” as she, the same woman who told me to play in the traffic as a kid (jokingly), struggled to coherently say “but that DRESS! It’s just so, so, exquisite! It’s beautiful!” Shit, it was true. But I will NOT get choked up for a wedding dress that is not mine! Every time I made a comment about a dress, my mom would laugh at me and say “but Rachel, it’s not YOUR wedding” and I would bite my tongue and take the scathing bullet that I didn’t even think would hurt. Obviously I didn’t care. Right? I really wasn’t there thinking about me at all… And yet, why did that hurt just a little? Probably because, as we all know, there are layers and layers of depth to a comment like that.

Blue feet: dare to be different. Blue footed boobie. Galapagos Islands, Ecuador.

Alas, watching my sister’s fiance prance around in these actual wedding GOWNS was a fun, out-of-body experience for me. Every now and then, I would catch myself noticing dresses that I liked for me (how could you not?!), and I’d have to quickly look at a mirror, see my jewel-less style, my blue plaid flannel shirt, and my dark circles under my eyes to jolt me back to reality.

But hey, my reality aint so bad! Yesterday, I had my NYU post-bac pre-med orientation. I met some awesome people along with whom I will be spending the next couple years struggling through hard sciences. It was so cool to be with a bunch of other people whose friends and families think they are kind of crazy for doing this, and to commiserate over the fact that we are all in our mid-t0-late twenties and even thirties, starting something new, and excited as heck to begin.

Among my new classmates: a couple professional musicians, a published novelist, a Marine, a Navy pilot, a twenty-two-year-old who just graduated early from NYU and already wants to get back into school, a bio major who has to retake all the pre-requisited because they’ve expired, and… me.

In a couple hours, I will be heading to Connecticut for a high school friend’s wedding — the first of six (give-or-take what I can actually swing) this summer. On Monday, I have my first class. It all starts to happen. I bought my first textbooks yesterday, and am standing in the gates, waiting for the doors to break open so I can fly through. I’m going back to school hungry, and the time has almost come to take my first bites.

But first, I will toss back a little champagne and get my dance on at an old friend’s wedding to celebrate the important stuff and the amazing friends that happen along the way — the calming white noise that will counter the loud cacophony that is about to become my new life as a student. While, as has been the case for a few weeks, I feel a bit in-over-my-head, everything is under control at this point.

On Monday, I begin. Right now, I pack. And, in case anyone was worried, the writing won’t stop. TwT is along for the ride.

Here’s a little rock and roll for you, coming from an uptown (North side?) turned downtown girl:

20,000 Hits Under the T, and Joe

You, me, and TwT have made it to 20,000 hits. The blog was started twenty-two months ago with no certainty of where it might go. During this time, I think I took about 20,000 hits myself! OK, maybe that’s a bit melodramatic, but a lot of shit happened – let’s be honest. Yet somehow I made it here, to another turning point between one set of life decisions and another, past the 20,000 hits and onto the next ones.

I’m in the eye of another storm – a pleasant but slightly stressful one (as I’ve mentioned before, I’m not very good with change, even though I invite it constantly). Things are chaotically being thrown all around me, and I’m just trying to keep centered and hold on to my Panama hat. For starters, as we all know, I’m moving from the Upper West Side to my first non-UWS home in NYC: SoHo. You know, it’s funny moving downtown. It’s like moving to the opposite side of your hometowm – mine just happens to be NYC (and it’s the only hometown I’ve got). I’m about to take the GREs, which I thought I’d never ever have to do and would somehow get away without every seeing a standardized test again. The hardest part was realizing what happened to all that math I studied so hard throughout high school and during my freshman year of college. As I was telling a friend yesterday, my brain really feels like an out of shape muscle right now. I got it from a slow walk to an awkward jog, and now I’ve got a reasonable pace, when it comes to my math abilities, but I’m definitely not in sprinting form yet. Hopefully I should be there by the fall.

This is how my brain felt when I started studying for the GREs. Sea Lion on the shore of Isla Espanola. Galapagos Islands, Ecuador.

Speaking of, I’m about to go back to school for — if all goes according to plan — what will be five straight years of intense classes without A SINGLE summer vacation. Brutal, right? No more rendezvous in Buenos Aires whenever I want. No more last-second trips to sleep on a friend’s floor for a week in Brussels, or hop on a plane to a friend’s family’s home in Kona, Hawaii, or convincing anyone to fly to Central America for a week or two, or being a “YES” person when it comes to trips and expensive meals. But you know, I really am excited for this “other” path I’m on now. Thank goodness I got all those trips and international romances out of my system, because only now, after experiencing more than I would have ever imagined I might in my early twenties, am I ok with giving all that up.

Some of you might not know this, but since January, I have been volunteering at two different physical therapy/sports medicine and rehab facilities here in New York. I signed up partially because I needed some volunteer hours for my eventual Doctor of Physical Therapy application, and partially because I wanted to be 110% SURE that this investment of time and LOTS of money (breathe Rachel, breathe!) is going to be worth it.

I’ve got to say… I walked into the volunteering with only a vague idea of what to expect and what I might get out of it. I was nervous before the first day, realizing that there was ever-so-slight-a-chance I could still change my mind, and I didn’t want to. But I hoped, if anything, my volunteering would at least confirm everything I was planning to do.

Well, it did more than that. Not only did I become more certain than ever that this is what I want to do, career-wise, but I got even more excited and more motivated. I love it. I’ve said this before, but it’s so funny how different and foreign the whole healthcare thing is from what I’ve been doing since I graduated, and yet how right it feels to be involved in some way. Working with people is fascinating, fun, exciting and inspiring. Through my PT Aide jobs, I have encountered such incredible and fascinating people! There’s been the professional female volleyball player, the ballerina who her PT describes as “the Black Swan” equivalent, the gay Irish speech therapist, the Argentine guy with back problems, the Polish man with a frozen shoulder, the teenager who wears totally inappropriate things to her PT sessions, the attractive male athletes, the marathon runners, the pregnant woman with backpain, the adorable arthritic Ecuadorian lady who speaks Spanish with me and bakes us zucchini cake every week… the list goes on and on!

Lonely George. The last remaining turtle of his species. Charles Darwin Center. Galapagos Islands, Ecuador.

And then there’s Joe (*not his actual name). One thing you learn quickly in PT, and I’m sure in other medical fields, is that everyone has a different response to pain and treatment — both physically and psychologically. The way each person deals with his/her injury on both those levels can vary incredibly. Much of my job has been working one-on-one with patients, either getting them ready for their treatment, helping them after their treatment, or showing them how to do certain exercises and self-care measures for when they are on their own. I deal with ice, heat, e-stim, laser probes, foam rollers, mats, BoSus, thera bands, exercise balls, ramps, weights, and all that good stuff all day long (in case you were wondering). But one thing that always changes is the individual, and you have to adapt to each one as you go. For me, that’s one of the most fun parts of this job: just seeing the way people are different, and making sure each one feels comfortable, safe, strong and hopeful.

A lot of the time is spent motivating the patient to push themselves, get through their exercise challenges for the day, and/or generally measuring their progress and capabilities (while having conversations over just about anything – so fun!). Everybody has such an interesting life story, and they always want to know mine. It’s funny, because when you talk to people, you really get to see that everyone has been through SO much… Ups, downs, loves, frustrations with the world… Most people are also willing to open up very quickly, which I respect and appreciate. I get lots of unsolicited advice about life, actually, which is great (hehe), and I surprise people when I tell them that I am not fresh-out-of-college, that I’m changing careers, and that I have traveled to a lot of different places. They are also intrigued by my family’s background, which is fun to talk about.

But the best experiences are when you get to work with people like Joe.

Joe is 82. He is about 6’4”, totally grey and old in some ways (on the outside), quiet, respectful, and sweet as can be in that silent, reserved, peaceful sort of way. He is a musician and an orchestra conductor (the office I work at is right by Lincoln Center, so we get lots of performers). Joe is also an avid runner and has been his whole life.

I see many patients just out of surgery, with crazy scars (I love scars!), swollen joints, extreme pain, and a list of complaints. Joe had both hip and ankle surgery on the same day. He aces every single exercise and strengthening activity I give him, and he never complains – not even a little bit. Not only that, but some people take months or even years to get back for a run after a surgery, and Joe took weeks. In addition, he runs every day. He is 82, I repeat. And, without a negative comment, a complaint, or a frustration, he tackles every challenge ahead of him and succeeds with flying colors. He has an incredibly strong mind, and he is determined to get back to running 8-10 miles per day.

Joe is an inspiration to me, and to the other patients. He is one of those people who –without trying to be an inspiration at all– quietly shows everyone else that we are capable of whatever we set our mind to (at least with the proper preparation and care). After working in PT for a few months, you finally get to see patients make extreme progress and take steps towards a new chapter — the one that begins after their pain has ended.

At first, I loved the PT Aide-ing because I was finally able to be useful and work with people in some helping capacity, be trusted in that way, be an authority (at least they think so!) on how to help. But when you see a patient who can barely lie down on the treatment table on day one riding the stationary bicycle so hard you have to slow them down on their last day of treatment, you realize what it’s all about; that feeling, that smile, that moment when you witness someone who has overcome a difficult experience… THAT is what makes me so happy and so excited to suffer through all the science classes I’ve got ahead of me right now.

Joe is one of the reasons I cannot wait to be a part of this field. I knew I would feel this way, and for years I tried to brush it off because who wants to spend five years without summers in school when you’re supposed to be getting married, thinking about having babies, buying a house and making a great salary (allegedly)?! Well, my work with Joe is done, and I’m about to begin school. But the other day, Joe’s physical therapist told me he was asking about me. He told her that he wanted to thank me, because my work with him really helped and he felt great and was running 8 miles a day again. What did I do?! I’m not sure I really deserve the thank you, but that gesture, that thank you, is why I’m doing this. The truth is, Joe is the one who should be thanked.

A large wave off the coast on my last morning in the Galapagos Islands, Ecuador.

But where am I? This weekend, I’m moving, for real, into my new apartment. I take the GRE in ten days. I go back to school in two weeks. Everything is uphill right now. Nothing feels easy.

Then I remember Joe. And if Joe can run 10 miles after hip and ankle surgeries at age 82, I think all of us can, in our own way.

Cheers to the next 20,000 hits. And THANK YOU for the first 20,000.

6 Comments

Filed under Healthcare, Life Stuff, New York City, Physical Therapy, Uncategorized

April 27, 2011 · 8:59 am

SoHo Za-Za-Zoo

I headed downtown with reluctance, ready for another disappointment, tired of searching, but – as always – with a twinkle of hope in my increasingly cynical New Yorker eyes. I was beginning to resent swiping my Metrocard at the entrance to the subway, for it only led me onto a train of disappointments.

After searching uptown, where I thought there would be more apartments available and for better prices, the realtor with whom I had been apartment-hunting sent me photos of a small SoHo apartment with black brick walls. SoHo? I thought. Yeah, right…

Cherry Blossoms and Sky. Central Park, NYC. (Taken by Blackberry)

The idea of being within walking distance of NYU seemed impossible, so I hadn’t been looking downtown. I looked at a couple Brooklyn apartments (some day, I do think I will end up in Brooklyn if I am still in NYC…), but, in order to get the benefits of cheaper apartments, you’ve got to go deep enough into Brooklyn that the idea of hopping on a train one to two times a day (for science labs, NYU events, using the NYU gym — whatever) buffs the sparkle of Brooklyn down to a dull muted tone. There is a lot of appeal to living in Brooklyn, but I guess this just wasn’t my Brooklyn-year.

I headed down to Canal Street on the 1 train — my loyalty will always be to the 1, no matter where I live — to meet the realtor in front of the SoHo walk-up. While black brick walls aren’t my thing, my quest for the right apartment was becoming thoroughly dehumanizing, and I had to give something different a chance.

SoHo is way too cool and hip for me — I’m a comfort girl. SoHo is like the pair of cute shoes that I figure I should own, but never actually wear because I’m much more comfortable in my Upper West Side-esque flip-flops, alpargatas (actual ones from Argentina, such as these, NOT Tom’s – side note: did you know these currently very popular shoes are Argentine gaucho shoes that Argentines have been wearing forever? Notice the Argentine flag on every pair?), and flats. SoHo is chic, fashionable, designer, white tablecloths. I am sporty/casual, low-maintenance, reusable water bottle, and second-hand table right now. But I am also something else: open-minded. I had to at least see what a SoHo apartment could look like.

We met downstairs. I immediately felt this neighborhood — the SoHo-Tribeca border with Chinatown and Little Italy just a few blocks away — felt totally not me, in a good way. I’m an uptown girl at heart, but if I could live on the corner of Guanguiltagua y Arosemena Tola en Batan Alto (my Quito address – yeah, I had to carry an index card around my first week), I could probably handle this change of scenery too. South of Houston isn’t South America — what’s the big deal, right?

Bridge in Central Park. NYC. (Taken by Blackberry)

On the corner of my potential future block: a cute Mexican restaurant. SCORE. Also on the block: a mini-supermarket, a pizza place, a cool lounge, and a modern Chinese-comfort food restaurant. All great things. I also like it when buildings have names. This one did. But I’ve stood hopeful outside a building many times. This momentary optimism was usually quickly shut-down upon ascension into the potential digs. According to the photos, this apartment had black walls. That’s a big no-no for me! But I knew that a little paint could fix that — the black walls, at this point, were not a deal-breaker.

We entered the red and white, tiny, tiled lobby. Good vibe. We headed up to the third floor – good: fourth floor or higher apartments were deal-breakers to me (knee trauma), and second or first-floor apartments usually meant noise, garbage, cold, or darkness — all deal-breakers. (I told you, I know what I want.) The staircase was wider than other ones I had seen. I liked this: good for carrying my bike up and down. We got to the door. It had a good number. I walk in, quickly evaluating the tiny but cute kitchen, which opened up into a decent little living room, and that’s when it happened: I smiled.

The apartment is completely imperfect — the kitchen is teeny-tiny, but it is an actual eat-in with a big window: score. The bathroom is in two parts: a toilet in one end of the apartment, the shower at the other end (hehe — this would “not” make sense better if you could see it). They call it “European-style” — yeah, yeah, whatever. The walls were NOT black! Much to my happiness, the apartment was full of light, the brick walls are painted white but in a really nice way. The light fixtures were antique-style, not the usual upside-down glass bowl with a cluster of dead bugs at the bottom. The floor was being redone, the closet space was great, the views were actually nice (enough) and — most importantly — despite all it’s minor imperfections, it was the first apartment that I walked into and felt HAPPY.

After a whirlwind of cashier checks, lease-signing, paperwork and the nightmare that is moving-logistics, I have a new apartment to call home, beginning this weekend. It’s going to be a quirky place to live, but – if anything – it can be “that quirky SoHo apartment with the weird bathroom that I lived in during my twenties.”

As you can see, I may come off as a perfectionist with unreal expectations (OK, I really hope I don’t but I think that is how the previous realtor I was working with might describe me), but really, I just know what I want is out there, and I’m willing to take a little longer to find it. Of course I am also willing to compromise, and I’m not expecting everything I am looking for to come in one perfectly tied-up package, but the important thing is finding that place that makes you happy, despite its imperfections. And really, the imperfections are what make my new home special.

A mid-April stroll through Central Park. NYC.

Every apartment brings with it a new set of memories, life experiences, ups and downs… I’m excited to find out what SoHo has in store for me. Within the next three weeks, I have to pack up all my stuff, move it all downtown (along with furniture in three different locations), unpack, set up wireless, set up cable, set-up furniture and LIFE. I also have to finish studying for the GREs, take the GREs, get my new NYU ID, figure out my new life, and begin school for the first time in six years. There is actually even more going on, which I’m not blogging about… Just trust me when I say I’ve got my hands pretty full right now.

But outside, the cloak of winter has been lifted and the cherry blossom petals rain over the cement. A new season, with a new apartment, and a new chapter full of possibility is about to begin. And the black walls have been painted over in white.

3 Comments

Filed under Life Stuff, New York City, Uncategorized

April 13, 2011 · 10:08 am

The Quest for Apartment Za-Za-Zoo

I interrupt your wanderlusting to share with you the dreadful non-adventure that is the NYC apartment hunt.

I can’t help myself. I’ve got to write about the fruitless quest for the perfect (trust me, “perfect” is a very loose term in New York City real estate lingo), affordable (herein lies my first major problem), apartment (or excuse for one) to spend the next two or more years studying.

Finding an apartment in NYC is like the apartment-Olympics; ANYWHERE else in the world, you are competing at the high school or maybe intramural college level. In Manhattan, it aint NO joke. It’s as tough as it gets. Yes, it’s rough out there, people. We take a lot of shit in this town, because it is fantastic. Or at least, at times like this, we have to keep telling ourselves that.

In Manhattan (yes, Williamsburg, you count), it’s not about what you get, but what you don’t get. A deal? Let’s just get this overwith: you won’t get one of those. Roaches? Meh, maybe. But if you don’t have cockroaches, you most likely will have mice. No mice? Congrats! Bedbugs for you. Don’t even get me started on the bedbug conversation… If you’ve never checked out bedbugregistry.com, now might not be the best time to do so, as bedbug infestations are predicted to be the worst — by far — beginning this June (so help us all).

View from the outside of a beautiful, spacious apartment I loved... with a history of bedbug infestations.

If you get a great layout, you sacrifice natural light. If you find an apartment with many windows, it is most likely on the first floor which does you no good. The cheapest apartments are on the top of fifth- and sixth-floor walk-ups — a deal breaker for the girl with a bad knee. When you finally find the dream home you were looking for, you’ve got a drummer with daily 9pm band practice in the room directly above your bedroom (but you don’t find this out until you’ve already moved in). No matter what you find, apartment-wise, you can never predict your neighbors, or their hobbies (opera singers: check, drummers: check, barking dogs: double-check)… and they are EVERYWHERE. Like, within a foot of your home in every single direction.

Apartments in New York are lose-lose situations. We just accept that. The trick is to find some WIN in that loss. It’s a delicate dance of sacrifices.

I’ve gotten lucky with apartments in the past. Wait, scratch that.

My first Manhattan apartment was on 80th and Amsterdam — a neighborhood that has now become incredibly yuppy (a recent New York Times article called it the new “suburbs of Manhattan” because of all the blossoming young families of finance advisors and lawyers who can afford the ‘hood). But in my defense, it was an opportunistic move; a friend from college (shout-out to SK!) had moved out a year earlier, and even though she had found a replacement, her roommate now needed to move out too. So, I got in touch. I had been to a party or two at her place, and knew it was exactly what I was looking for, although a bit more expensive that I was hoping to find. That said, the cost of not having to search for a roommate or apartment in New York (brokers fees, crazy people, questionable supers galore) made the extra monthly cost worth it. I could slip right in.

Well, when I say I was excited to move in to my first Manhattan apartment and out of my parents’ place, where I had been living and saving money for travel and life for two years, that would be an understatement. I was feeling empowered, grown-up, and beyond ready to finally be independent in NYC. I felt so strong that I decided I could move into the 5th-floor walk-up without any help (pssh, boyfriends – who needs them?! Fresh out of heartbreak, I didn’t!). I wanted to prove to myself that I could manage without anyone’s help, even if it meant my quads would be burning by the fourth or fifth trip up the steep, pre-war stairs.

I did the move in flip-flops, because it was a gorgeous day and I was young, sturdy, and in my eyes, unbreakable. Now, it’s one thing to walk up five steep flights of stairs over and over again. It’s another thing to do it carrying as much as you are physically capable of holding during each trip up. When I say I did this alone, I should add that I didn’t have a bed or dresser yet, my parents stuck by the car downstairs, and I had a rowing friend bring over a table she wanted to get rid of. I eventually had a couple teammates help me carry my Ikea and West Elm furniture up in pieces, which we then sat on the floor and put together (adult Legos), which was SO much fun. I actually love building furniture (side job?!).

Nevertheless, I must have completed at least 20 trips up and down those stairs. I’m no mathematician, but I probably walked up over 100 flights of stairs while carrying around 30-50lbs of stuff on many trips up. That’s a lot. But when it was all said and done, I couldn’t have been happier. I was in my first apartment, I loved it, and that suppressed (do to lack of funds and stability) domestic side of me was ready to pounce on the possibilities of my new home. Exhausted but thrilled, I finished the move off right: with my rowing teammate (the table-donator) and a couple margaritas at the bar downstairs. It was the perfect start to summer.

Three weeks into my brand new one-year lease, while rowing 3-4 times a week and running almost every day I didn’t row (I was planning to race again for the first time since college, and as always, wanted to rip it up on the water), disaster struck. I dislocated my knee, could barely walk, and found myself in so much pain I kept blacking out as I walked on my suddenly bad knee. A few x-rays, a couple MRIs, and three disagreeing doctors later, I realized I was in a tough spot. I could barely walk, let alone go up five flights of stairs, but I refused to give up my new independence so quickly. Instead, I decided I could hop on one foot up the five flights of stairs, and the staircase was narrow enough that I could slowly get down it using my upper body to lift myself between the wall and the banister, and lower myself several steps at a time, while keeping all weight off my right knee. It was a hovering technique, and it almost worked.

A couple weeks of this, and I knew I was screwed. I had to move right back into my parents’ place, leave my new apartment (which I still had to pay for), and wait until I was healed enough to get back in there. My roommate would pack me some clothes and bring it down the stairs for me, and I’d hobble with a roller suitcase back to my parents’, in my sunken, new, injured reality. Thanks, life.

I moved back a month later, definitely prematurely. I continued my hopping up the stairs and hovering down, to the best of my abilities, plotting each day so that this up and down procedure only needed to be done once. It wasn’t long before my good knee started getting mad at me, and one day, while getting my breakfast ready for early morning physical therapy, I nailed my forehead on the sharp corner of a new shelf I had installed, giving myself a small concussion. I half-passed out in my towel, and had to lay on the floor of my kitchen until the nausea and stars stopped twinkling overhead. I’ve had brighter moments.

My year in the fifth-floor dream apartment in the perfect neighborhood didn’t quite pan out the way I had hoped, but I got through it. Sadly, I was forced to move because my knee just wasn’t healing (the last thing anyone with a knee injury should be doing is walking up and down five flights of stairs daily, often more than once). For apartment number two, I required an elevator, which usually shoots the rent right up.

Thanks to the economy crashing, and sudden panic amongst the New York landlords, I snagged an incredible apartment twenty blocks further north, with an elevator! I was prepared for a long hunt, but this was the first apartment I saw, and I knew it was the one. I took it, without a second thought, and it was — although I hesitate to use the word — perfect. I reluctantly hired movers to get my furniture from the fifth-floor walk-up to my new, cheaper-and-easier-to-access 4th-floor digs, and, yes, with the help of a wonderful boyfriend (who would fail to last until the next move), the transition was smooth. I was in this place to stay, I could only hope. The biggest issue was that, like clockwork, every night when I finally got into bed, the thumping of a pedal, the strumming of an electric guitar, and the low off-key notes of a 20-something guy having band practice would cause my bed to vibrate. But eventually, I was able to make peace with the guys who played the drums above my bed. It was a New York miracle.

I had so many good times while living in that apartment. When one romance ended, another one began. It was a fantastic, albeit tumultuous, year. But, when the second relationship fell apart, I was offered a job in Ecuador, and it was clear that I was going to have to give this gem of an apartment up. That decision still haunts me a little, but it was the right one at the time.

Now, I’ve got to find myself a new place. I knew it would be difficult, but the options I have seen so far are just depressing. Not only has confidence in the economy suddenly spiked, causing the highest rents the city has seen in a few years, but there is also less than 1% vacancy in New York City apartments. That means people are desperate, landlords can raise rents, and any apartment you see has several other applications already in the works. If you don’t act immediately, your crappy option for an apartment is gone. So, what about the good ones? The “perfect” apartments? Well, apparently they are no longer out there. Yippy.

So far, I have seen apartments with barely any windows, beautiful teaser apartments that have a history of bedbug infestations, and construction sites with no walls, sinks, or floors installed yet that already have applications in progress. Every apartment that comes close to being something I can work with has a deal breaker, such as bedbugs, one bedroom with no windows (that does NOT qualify as a bedroom, ya jerks!) or hardcore construction going on directly outside every window. In other words, there is a reason all these apartments are vacant. And in NYC, finding an apartment that works is like striking gold; you don’t give that up for nothing. Right now, all I’m getting is the scraps.

Actual apartment I saw yesterday, available immediately for $2400. This is one bedroom. The other one didn't have a window.

Sigh. It’s brutal, people. This apartment hunt is making me question why I love NYC so much. It makes me want to live anywhere but here. Every year, I get closer and closer to wanting to live elsewhere. I fantasize about having a home or apartment in any city but this one, and I know I could find something that works for a fraction of the cost that I have to pay here. I have to stop myself from thinking about this reality because it is painful, especially in moments like this. Whatever you do, do NOT tell me how wonderful your place is and how little you pay for it. And if you have a porch or terrace, you must remain silent. Bottom line: I KNOW, ok. I know! And I don’t want to hear about it. [See other posts for why I love NYC. I should probably re-read those right about now…]

Because I am going to be a student, I am not very flexible on the cost. This takes me to new depths of despair. Because I have a soul, I am not flexible on the amount of windows and natural light. Because I am a New Yorker, I know what is out there — I know what each neighborhood means, in terms of apartment, atmosphere and accessibility. I’ve seen it all, at this point, and yet the only thing I haven’t seen is a place I could or would want to live for the next year or two.

The gloomy view from another apartment I saw yesterday. $2300/month.

It’s pretty depressing. I’m feeling a little deflated with the whole search process, but finding an apartment is like finding someone to love: some people are willing to settle, some people think “I can work with this if I just change one or two things around,” but I’m not looking for a fixer-upper. I am looking for it, the apartment that I can fall in love with, the one that clicks (I’ve felt it before), the one that becomes my home — the one, above everything, I can trust with my new life. I need an apartment that gives me the za-za-zoo when I walk in. It’s got to make me happy, and be zen. I might be picky, but I’ve seen enough apartments (and yes, had enough relationships) to just be at a place where I know what I want. I’ve felt the za-za-zoo before, and I need to feel it again. As discouraging as this search is right now, I know my future apartment is out there. Until I find it, I just can’t see myself settling for anything less.

And so the hunt continues.

5 Comments

Filed under Life Stuff, New York City, Uncategorized, USA

April 5, 2011 · 11:48 am

A New York Girl In Old San Juan

I didn’t expect “beautiful.” No, not necessarily. Puerto Rico isn’t the most culturally “exotic” place for a New Yorker to visit since we’ve actually got more Puerto Ricans in NYC than there are in San Juan. Plus, the island is a US territory; although they consider themselves their own country, culture, and nationality, no passport is required for Americans to enter (nice!). But I did want a taste. I wanted to know what it would feel like to walk the streets of Old San Juan surrounded by Puerto Ricans and enveloped by warm ocean breezes, rather than riding the subways of New York City surrounded by the same people all bundled up in the frigid stillness of an East Coast winter. It quickly became clear that, even while many Puerto Ricans and I call New York City “home,” this island, this colonial city, is where their heart is. And for one week, mine got to be there too.

View from Fort of San Cristobal. Old San Juan, Puerto Rico.

Part of me expected Spanglish to fly out of everyone’s mouth, because that’s what I’m used to in NYC. But when you’re on the island of Puerto Rico, you’re far, far away from the urban jungle. I found myself speaking Spanish like I was in South America — how I love when I have to speak Spanish. While most locals speak English as well as Spanish, many do not. I quickly realized that I was farther away from the US than I expected to feel, although the first sight of a Starbucks, Chili’s, and Walgreen’s helped to remind me of the connection. It’s Miami meets Cuba meets New Orleans. That’s how I’d sum up this town. The Latin energy thickly coats the muggy nights, and the colors, architecture, and rhythm are undoubtedly Spanish-influenced. It’s exotic but familiar, foreign but navigable, us (U.S.) but them, here but there…

Old San Juan, Puerto Rico.

Often when I travel, especially to Latin American cities or even Caribbean islands, I find myself confused by a feeling that I am almost more in my element and more at home in these places than in my beloved Manhattan. I definitely feel more at home in Latin cultures than anywhere else in the US where, even though I look white, I never feel as white as the general culture around me.

Fort of San Cristobal. San Juan, Puerto Rico.

I love to dance. For anyone who doesn’t know that, there it is. But, as I have joked, I can’t really dance to “white people” music — the kind they play at weddings and in well-lit rooms. It just doesn’t feel natural. I’ve got to get my hips shaking and I need the right beat, but without forcing anything — it’s got to just start happening on its own. I like to get close, to sync-up with another person charged by the music. I like to be spun and led by a Latin man who knows how to work it. I can’t just listen to salsa, merengue, reggaeton, reggae, bachata, cumbia, dancehall, soca, tango, etc. and not MOVE. It gets in me, as white as I may seem, and works its way through me with a determined vigor that rock (or whatever you call it) just doesn’t give me.

Graffiti in Old San Juan. Puerto Rico.

This all became extra clear on Saturday night, when my mom, my sister, her Australian boyfriend and I headed to the Hotel San Juan just down the street from our swanky hotel, where we were told the locals love to go for the live salsa music and dancing. We sat in the old, massive lobby and watched as Puerto Ricans of all shapes, sizes, and ages got up and shook their hips, gliding across the dance floor with their partners in an effortless haze of natural talent. These people are so unafraid, so uninhibited, so free and HAPPY when they dance — and boy can those men dance! At one point, we all found ourselves completely mesmerized by the hips of a tall dark-skinned man with moves that could slay vacationing gringas with one perfectly placed thrust. Women wore anything that resembled second skin — words that come to mind: short, tight, revealing and/or excessively sparkly. Men wore loose, airy button-down t-shirts with white belts and comfortable pants, many with that dark complexion that beckons a panama hat and cigar. They danced because they couldn’t help it. They danced because it was in their sangre. They danced and danced and all I wanted to do was transport this place to New York, take all of this energy with me, and dance with them as one of them on my island. But this time, I was an onlooker.

Window and cobblestones. Old San Juan, Puerto Rico.

It made me nostalgic for Ecuador, where every Wednesday I would go salsa dancing with a combination of gringas and Ecuadorians (shout out to Victor, my favorite dance partner!). That’s probably what I miss most about living in South America: the dancing. The constant liberty to just move if you felt like it — the inevitability of dancing. This is what the US lacks. Americans can be so up-tight on the dance floor — so afraid. Especially the men. (Of course, this is certainly not ALWAYS the case.) It just isn’t a part of the culture the same way it is in the Caribbean, Africa and Latin America. And it’s not in Americans’ (oops, “our”) blood to just MOVE, to let a beat take them wherever it wants to, and to let go. When I travel and dance in other countries, all I want is to take these places and the people back with me to Manhattan where I can feel at home in my hometown. And yet they’re already here, already transported, immigrated, mixed right in. But it’s different here, on the continental US. The energy, the music, the weather — it’s just different.

Colorful homes in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico.

I’ve got to say: I loved Old San Juan. I was expecting it to be a little seedy or run-down, but it was quiet vibrant and — the travel writer’s most despised adjective — charming. Not to mention, Puerto Rican men can be quite friendly when you wear short shorts… Yeah… Hehe.

Ok let’s see if I can paint the picture for you: Imagine you’re walking up a hill, two sixteenth-to-eighteen century fortresses to your right are separated by a large expanse of bright blue ocean. To your left, a dark man with a potbelly in a too-tight bright green t-shirt shakes a bell, letting you know he’s selling coconut and mango flavored ices. Another man sells potato skins in a rolling cart. An overwhelmingly warm morning is whipping around you in the refreshing ocean breeze. When it stops, you realize your sunglasses are sliding off your sweat-slicked nose. The tops of your feet are burning a little in your flip-flops, but despite the excessive heat, the air is light. The streets are filled with colorful colonial-style homes, with balconies and shutters that remind you of the Creole-Caribbean influenced houses in the French Quarter of New Orleans. All the streets are cobblestoned and lined with leafy trees, bright magenta flowers, and the occasional graffiti. The energy is new even though the city reeks of history, pirates, cannon ball fire, large ships with the quest to conquer, and footprints of the Spanish.

Ship sketch on wall of dungeon in Fort of San Cristobal. San Juan, Puerto Rico.

Dome next to El Morro. San Juan, Puerto Rico.

Especially after the sun sets, Old San Juan comes to life from beneath the heat. Pulsing with a newfound chic-ness, this city is anything but dead or run-down. Puerto Rican food is generally unhealthy — chincharrones (the Puerto Rican interpretation of chicken nuggets) and fufu or mafongo, a sort of stew with a base of mashed plantains and black beans — are staples here. However, either I had very good luck with our restaurant selections for the week or Old San Juan has an amazing little selection of Nuevo-Latino restaurants with with which to play. (See list at the end of this post.) Let’s just say I ate well. Like, really well.

Tres Banderas: Spanish Military flag, Puerto Rican flag, American flag. El Morro. San Juan, Puerto Rico.

For those wondering, this was a family trip. Every year, my family (of seven) tries to do a spring break together. It’s a tradition that, for most families, fades after high school, but in ours, it has managed to continue, albeit with the occasional sibling missing in action. One nice perk to dating a Tavel: you get to join, courtesy of my dad. Not too shabby… Not that you need ANOTHER reason to date or hang out with me, but there it is. (HA! SO JUST KIDDING. This better be obvious.) Not bribing. Just sayin’…

Me strolling through Old San Juan.

Since I graduated from college, the annual Tavel spring break has taken me to Turkey (Istanbul), Argentina (Buenos Aires, Salta, Tucuman, Cafayate, Purmamarca), Portugal (Lisbon, Sintra), Austria (Vienna, Salzburg, Bruck), Italy (Rome, Pompeii, Vatican City), and now Puerto Rico. As you can see, most of the trips have been to European cities, where we spend our days exploring museums, ruins, and general neighborhoods in a nonstop fury of productivity, punctuated by heavy, excessively delicious three-to-five course meals that often happily backfire on us and slow things down. Getting four adult kids and an opinionated, sassy Argentine mom to agree on the daily itinerary can be trying, at times. It often feels like the opposite of vacation, and sometimes – by the end of the trip – I find myself needing another one just to dilute the intensity of the phantom vacation I supposedly just had. But it’s also wonderful, and it means a lot to my parents that we are still happy to do these trips. That said, I always end up in the middle seat on every flight when I specifically request the aisle (why, WHY, will no sibling every trade with me!?). My mom acts like an excited puppy when she sees good shopping, at which point my impatience begins to take over (I am not a shopper). We all just have slightly different agendas, and it takes a lot of bending and shutting up to make things work in a big family. Alas, it somehow always does…in its own way.

Colorful street. Old San Juan, Puerto Rico.

Needless to say, it’s getting harder and more complicated to pull off these trips without a clash of opinions, priorities (mine are always cultural – the art, the food, the people, the street life, the history, the desire to take in the big picture of a place), and moral/existential/social/personal preferences. To try something different (and save a little cash), I thought we should go somewhere that could combine our interest in another culture with our desire to completely RELAX (you know — the point of a vacation), and suggested Puerto Rico.

El Morro. San Juan, Puerto Rico.

To my happiness, this worked out PERFECTLY. Every morning, we’d sip our Puerto Rican coffee on the balcony of our hotel overlooking the ocean, and spend most of each day either basking in the sun by the pool, or submerging ourselves in the warm sea. We’d go for daily walks up and down the beach of Isla Verde, and order the occasional pina colada, mango smoothie, or beer from the comfort of our bright blue pool-side chairs. Most evenings, we’d venture into Old San Juan for a trendy restaurant, and spend a morning or two casually strolling through the city, only to follow the effectively calm morning up with an afternoon nap by the water. It really was heaven, and for a change, it truly felt like a vacation.

Beach. Isla Verde. San Juan, Puerto Rico.

And now we’re back in New York City. Gone are the beaches and the palm trees, the waves of calm water, the cilantro and plantain-filled meals, the constant pulsing desire to move my hips and speak Spanish. But here in Manhattan, I’ve still got the Puerto Ricans. A girl like me can only hope that I will find myself a slice of that Old San Juan energy somewhere within the crowded streets of this less tropical and slightly less Latin island that, like for many Puerto Ricans, I call home.

For those of you actually traveling to Puerto Rico, here are some restaurant suggestions:

Tavel’s Old San Juan Dinner Picks:

Marmalade. Considered “the best” restaurant in Old San Juan, it was an easy choice for the Tavel clan. The restaurant is very trendy, but backs it up with a really delicious and funky Latin-inspired menu. I opted for the four-course tasting menu, which included a paella with smoked chicken, then an unforgettable white bean soup scented with truffle oil and dusted with pancetta, followed by a perfectly tender beef tenderloin in a cabernet-rosemery jus with roasted mushrooms and three cheese potato gratin, and topped off by a killer chocolate mousse. Before dinner, I sipped a honey-chamomile martini (for a girl who hates sweet drinks, this was a good choice as it was like a chill, alcoholic version of relaxing and strong chamomile tea with honey). White curtains dangle between diners, and the hip but relaxed atmosphere of this primely located San Juan restaurant — not to mention the memorable food — hit the spot. It’s a great place to celebrate anything, or nothing. Basically, just come up with some excuse to go here if you find yourself nearby. www.marmaladepr.com.

Baru. The tapas-style menu, along with the flamenco music on the speakers and the outdoor courtyard in the high-ceilinged Spanish-style building, will temporarily transport you to Southern Spain. I loved this restaurant from the moment I walked in. Immediately, the interior architecture makes you feel like you could be in someone’s home, with the small rooms having the natural flow of a house, and the outdoor seating small enough to be intimate beneath the shade of a big palm tree, but large enough to feel you’re on your own even surrounded by other diners. Highlights of the menu include a salad with greens and incredibly sweet mangoes, plantain chips in fufu and a spicy black bean dip, amazingly light pan seared scallops in a coconut curry sauce, a delicate asparagus risotto, a fresh paper-thin halibut carpaccio, and possibly the best chocolate mousse I’ve had in a long time. The vibe is a perfect island calm, and it’s a great place for a small group dinner or a romantic evening for two. After dinner, the restaurants and bars on this famously beautiful street, San Sebastien, fill with locals grabbing a quick bite or setting up for a night of live salsa. www.barupr.com.

Dragonfly. Located on a bustling Old San Juan street with a string of outdoor dining just outside, this restaurant was modeled after a Shanghai opium den. The atmosphere is hip at this Latin-Asian restaurant, which provides a great getaway from the Puerto Rican standards while incorporating the strengths of the island’s flavors. The dark, red seductive interior goes well with dishes like the criollo BBQ pork steamed bun sliders, the pork and amarillo (plantain) dumplings, and the miso-honey halibut. Creative cocktails and tapas-sized dishes make for a fun dinner experience. More sexy than casual, I’d definitely go back — perhaps with a nice Puerto Rican man rather than my family, the second time around. If you can stomach it, try the ginger tres leches dessert. www.oofrestaurants.com.

And here are a few songs to finish off this post and complete your immersion into the San Juan mood (as always, ignore the actual videos and just enjoy the music):