The Library

I am a loyal patron (great, this intro makes me sounds like an old man) of the Mid-Manhattan branch of NYC's library system, even though they suck at alphabetizing and actually having books that are in the system and all those things a library is supposed to do. My loyalty is pretty much solely based off the fact that they are open latest out of all the branches, and that I know how to get there. It's pretty hard to miss; it's right across the street from Bryant Park (no, not the library with the lions -- this one is ACROSS the street. Note the prepositional phrase. Across. The. Street. Not "next to." Here, I'll show you a map:

See? Not the lion one.)

Anyway, the point is not that I'm a huge nerd. The point is that every time I leave the library, without fail, something amazing and only New Yorkish happens right on the corner of 5th and 42nd. One time I saw a guy with only one eyeball trip over a bump in the sidewalk, and then LOOK AROUND (which must have been difficult, considering) to see if anyone had noticed. Um yeah, dude, I think that tripping in public is your biggest awkwardness right now. Seen a mirror, lately? No? Unsurprising*.  I kid you not, this really happened. I couldn't make that up if I tried.

So today when I was leaving the library, a new horrific event was taking place on the same mentioned corner. I noticed that one of those rickshaw carriages that the snarky drivers try to lure unsuspecting tourist couples into was kind of sitting crooked on the sidewalk, and that everyone was giving it a wide berth. Being a nosy person, I scooted right over to check it out. The driver was sitting in the rickshaw cart, which had one back wheel completely broken in half. A crushed bike was lying half under the wheel. I watched as the rickshaw driver raged on (in a very non-English language) at a man standing next to the wreck who must have been the bike's owner, and who kept trying to get close enough to look at the damage. Every time he took a step toward the mess of bike/cart, the driver would start screaming. After a second, the poor big hippie bicycler man stopped, stood frustratedly, and started crying. In the middle of the sidewalk.

Good god I love this city today.

*Caveat: I mean no offense against one-eyed or altogether eyeless people. I'm sure they're just like normal dudes and ladies, just a little sight impaired. But seriously? I think a patch is a better look, don't you?

The Men

Ohhhh the men.

The awful thing about being a woman in NYC is that there are four million other women here. And, Ravi says, New York has the world's most beautiful women. I disagree with this, but there certainly are so many of us that it's hard to be special. Particularly when everyone here dresses to impress. Being a graphic tee (or the old staple wife beater), sneakers and glasses kind of girl myself, I feel like a total schmuck about 90% of the time. The worst is waiting in line for bars/clubs, when other girls are wearing sequined ass-length "dresses" and 4-inch stilettos, and I had felt pretty cute back in my apartment with my denim mini and pink Chucks. Luckily, the bouncers don't seem to care as long as you've got the goods (no, I'm not dumb enough to try this look at a trendy club. Not willing to pay for a trendy club either, or spend my time in the company of trendy club-going douschebags. So no big there). What I'm saying is, walking down the street, a little white girl (even a gorgey one like myself) tends to get lost in the masses.

That, my friends, is one of the many reasons I love Harlem. Call it narcissistic, but there it is. In a mostly Dominican neighborhood, an average-sized, brunette (with a tint of red that I pay a lot for), pale Jew girl like myself is consistently called "bonita" in the streets. On Sunday I was running a couple errands in my p.j.s, because it was Sunday and that's what you do. I was absentmindedly staring up at an awesome-looking sneaker store, and I accidentally got in this dude's way on the sidewalk. If we were in the Financial District near my work, he would a.) walk right into me, or b.) side-step me at the last second while muttering under his breath and checking his Blackberry.

But no, this is Harlem. This adorable man actually apologized to ME. "I'm so sorry, miss." Let's analyze this apology, shall we? (You have no choice, readers.) Firsties, he apologized to me. As if I weren't the bumbling sidewalk etiquette-less idiot. This served the dual purpose of taking away my embarrassment, and also making me fall a little bit in love with him. Secondsies, he wasn't just sorry. He was SO sorry. If it were just a mumbled, "Sorry," I wouldn't have believed him. But he was so sorry. For reals. Thirdsies, he called me "miss." I love that. It's polite, but also a little bit scandalous. It admits, "I'm trying to be appropriate, but I've noticed that you're an attractive young woman. You're not some old crone. I see you."

And you know what, Mr. Blameless Apologizer? I see you, too.

The Heat

Somehow, the lack of air conditioning here is more painful than anywhere else. In Syracuse when I was this hot, I'd just be pantsless (difficult when you have three roommates who you'd like to convince you're a normal person), or I'd sit on the lawn with a book and a daquiri. Here, it'd be more like huddling on the fire escape. Not as refreshing.

Also, in my neighborhood, people seem to take the heat a lot better than I do. In the laundromat today, while I was the most iridescently shiny white girl you'll ever see (I'm so pale I probably blind people when I sweat), my Dominican neighbors seemed perfectly comfy in the sweltering heat. The kids didn't even open up our fire hydrant. I am apparently the only person for whom 90 degrees and lingering humidity (no Syracuse breezes in the big city) is a problem.

I guess I could just buy an A/C.

The Commute

I live at 143rd and Broadway (I know, I know, that REALLY is Harlem. You're about the 20th person to say that to me. You don't have to tell me that, I live here. I should know. Plus, when I told you I lived in Harlem, what did you think I meant? Upper West Side? Not so much). I work at Fulton and Broadway. For those of you who don't know the layout of NYC, a.) how dare you because "The City" is the center of the world (we'll talk about this later) and b.) 143rd St and Fulton St are pretty much the opposite ends of the island, longways.

The commute isn't as bad as you might think. I do have to switch from a local to an express train, but that's just right across the platform. Including walking and elevator time, it takes me about 45 minutes to get to my desk from the time I leave my apartment.

Let me tell you, I LOVE the train. You might think this is weird. Hell, I think it's weird. The train is dirty and smelly, and people are cranky and sometimes a little bit wacko. You never have enough room for your feet so you can stand comfortably without falling when the train jerks. If you get stuck near the door, you are literally crushed in like a cow on a cattle car, with stinky comMOOters (...please don't kill me for this pun) touching you on all sides. Additionally, New Yorkers have this really weird thing about eye contact that I may never understand, but will also certainly talk about more in a future post.

But despite all these caveats (one of my associate director's favorite words, and I still don't know exactly what it means or when I'm using it correctly (but I THINK I just made a caveat for my use of the word "caveat")), I think my time on the train is great. I am, in general, a pretty high-tension person. I am constantly being pulled back and forth between two of my main characteristics: extreme stress and extreme laziness. In fact, usually the laziness causes the stress, because I have to make up for it later. However, on the train, I have to be lazy. I am forced to just chill out, because there is nothing I can do about how long it takes me to get to work. There's no cell service or internet underground (yet), and that means that just about the only things I can do down there are read, listen to music, and people-watch. It's fabulous.

Some of my favorite people-watching games:
-Every time I'm on the train, I have to pick at least one person in my car that I'd sleep with. Emphasis on the "at least." This is actually a problem sometimes, like a couple nights ago when there were only about 15 people in my C train car and the only dudes were old and gross. But we must make do with what we have.
-Watching other people people-watch is a lot of fun, and sometimes you make new friends. The other night I was sitting next to this adorable drunk (or very happy) young Indian couple who kept thinking up good songs from their past and singing them. In super cute Indian accents. With head bobbing. A guy across from me was staring at them. Then he caught my eye, and we both grinned. Boom. Insta-BFF, whom I'll never see or talk to again.
-Watching pervs check girls out can be amusing. If a girl gets on the train with a super low-cut top, instead of watching her (because, honestly, I'm not usually impressed), my eyes immediately go to the dudes around. I particularly like it when their heads actually turn to follow her, since jaded New Yorkers generally refuse to show that they are affected by public spectacle in any way.
-As any huge nerd will admit to, I love judging people by the books they're reading. If they're using a Kindle, I will judge them firstly for that, and then still try to figure out what books they're reading for additional judgment. Apparently "urban erotica" novels are a big thing right now, and I think these women are extremely ballsy for openly reading them on public trains. I keep my romance novels strictly e-book in public so no one will ever know (except now, since I've exposed myself on the internet. GREAT).

As you can see, my train time is filled with personal brain entertainment. Sometimes I'd even rather be on a train alone than with someone else who's jabbering on and distracting me from the awesome public atrocities going on around me. When I think about it, I spend more than 5 hours a week on the train, and that is kind of sad. And by sad, I mean amazing.

To come (in no particular order (is that a caveat???)):
The Work
The People
The Neighborhood

The Move

Ok. I did it. I moved to NYC. I packed up my two giant suitcases (both hitting right at the 50 lb. mark, obvs), survived the 4am hour-long car ride with my parents to the Cleveland Amtrak station (please note how GMaps shows it IN THE LAKE), and even suffered through the 13-hour train ride into Penn. My cab driver had to help me haul my bags up to my Harlem door, but I got here. Look out, New York.