The Road Less Traveled

I was running a bit late for work this morning, but nonetheless decided to take a slight detour and walk to the subway via a different street.  I was immediately rewarded:

I walked a bit further down and found:

This "Become Your Dream" artist has often made his mark on my neighborhood, and he occasionally breaks from the fish-with-feet to instead draw snakes, all of them admonishing passers-by to Become Your Dream.  He (I do believe he is a He) becomes particularly active on garbage days, and leaves his images on discarded cardboard, tables, toilets, anything with enough surface space.

I hope some day to catch him at his craft, but suspect he might be a bit like the enigmatic Banksy (for those unfamiliar with Banksy, go right away to: http://www.banksy.co.uk/outdoors/horizontal_1.htm).  There is no comparing the art of the two, of course, but they are both mysteries to me and both make me smile.

Three hours on Sunday afternoon

I met my friend M. at the Morgan Library & Museum this afternoon.  No, I hadn't heard of it either.  It's quite grand-- it's an expanded version of the private library of financier Piedmont Morgan. They had a small but exquisite exhibit of the letters of Jane Austen (the library owns 51 of them, more than any other institution in the world) as well as illustrated Flemish manuscripts from the 1500s. 

Both exhibits were interesting, but it was the actual Morgan library that really inspired awe.  Unfortunately cameras were not allowed, but if you follow this link (and, if you're ambitious, check out the rest of the website) you'll see why my eyes were wide and my mouth open:

  http://www.themorgan.org/about/campusEnlarge.asp?id=11

Can you imagine having something like that in your home?  Rich in every aspect of the word.

After we had our fill, we headed to a little tea shop.  M. pulled out a little treasure that she had been wanting to share with me:

How did she happen to be in possession of a very small Chinese bill?  She had purchased an umbrella, a bright red one, from a local pharmacy.  She caught sight of a piece of paper in the folds of the fabric.  And there it was.  It was so reminiscent of my own little treasure (see my very first blog entry, Cold nose, warm heart) we could only laugh.  If I remember correctly, gift money is often enclosed in red envelopes in the Chinese culture.  Did someone far away tuck this in the umbrella, with hopes that a stranger would find it and smile?  A modern version of a message in a bottle, kindness across the miles.

On missing Moby but finding fish, cherries & bruschetta

Last weekend I went to the Lower East Side in search of Teany, a tea shop owned by the musician Moby.  I was a little startled when I came up from the metro and stepped into the neighborhood.  When people call New York City "gritty" it's a good guess that they are referring to LES.  I marveled anew at how many different kinds of neighborhoods there are in Manhattan.  Upper East Side is a different world from Harlem, which is different from Spanish Harlem and Senegalese Harlem, not to mention different from than the Village, and Chinatown, and KTown, and Little Italy, and the Financial District and Chelsea and Murray Hill.  How many neighborhoods will I encounter during my time here?  It's official: it's impossible to be bored in this city.

I found Teany, but had forgotten there had been a fire sometime last year.  They hadn't reopened yet, but the trip was nonetheless worthwhile.  The reason: lunch at next door tiny and lovely Bruschetteria (yes, a restaurant devoted to the art of perfect bruschetta.  So yummy). 

And then there were the unexpected mosaics at the Delancey metro station.  As I got out of the train, I was greeted by The Fish:

Hmmm, I thought.  A harbinger.  I turned the corner. Sure enough:

Pretty cool.  I peeked down the hallway... yep, more there too.

All right, let's look at this puppy close up:

Even closer:

I just can't get over how someone patiently placed thousands of tiles, one by one, eventually creating this massive piece of art for all to enjoy.  Or for the occasional awake person to enjoy.

When I returned from lunch, I encountered more fun-- cherry trees.

Why cherries, and why fish?  I did a bit of Google research, and learned that a cherry orchard used to be on this site (a cherry orchard?  In Manhattan?) and that the fish represent local shad as well as the immigrants who have crossed the water on their way to this crazy city.

It's the Small Things: Laundry

When I first moved to NY, my friend M told me three things:
1. Buy a pair of Wellingtons (rain boots)
2. Get your groceries delivered via Fresh Direct
3. Send out your laundry.

As a corporate refugee who's recently moved to the non-profit world, I resisted all three pieces of advice.  Too expensive.

Then I realized that the washers and dryers in my apartment (which are actually in the building next door, in the basement) were out of commission, and I had no choice but to patronize one of the many "Wash and Fold" establishments in my neighborhood.  That, or wash my clothes in the bathtub.  I'd never tried anything like it, and in fact don't even remember seeing this type of service in any other city I've lived in.

I was hooked after the very first time.

For years, I've spent precious weekend or evening hours monitoring laundry loads.  I now gather everything up, drop it off around the corner, and pick it up the next day.  Everything is perfectly laundered, fresh and neatly folded.  Average weekly price: $20. 

It wasn't something I had originally budgeted for, but I've made room for it.  Yes, it saves me time.  But there is also something sweet (and perhaps sad) about feeling taken care of-- I work long hours and live alone, and it's so nice to have someone just do something for me so I don't have to think about it. 

I guess the next step would be Fresh Direct and maid service.  But I'll try to hold out.  For now.

A Round of Cupcakes

I am a bit of a cupcake aficianado (who isn't these days?), so I was naturally curious to sample the city's homemade specialties.  I am a little surprised, and somewhat disappointed, to announce that the best cupcakes are to be found.... in Washington DC.

Georgetown Cupcake on M Street in Washington DC by a Manhattan mile.

No, I have not sampled every cupcake shop in the city.  But I've visited three of the most popular ones.

Magnolia Bakery (made even more famous by its mention in Sex in the City):

The cupcake was moist and sweet, with the flavor of... sweet.  Nothing particularly noteworthy.

Next was Sugar Sweet Sunshine:

Again, moist and sweet, though the texture reminded me of Duncan Hines.  Promised to be chocolately, but it was a sweet chocolate and not a true chocolate flavor.

And then, the Big Daddy of cupcake shops in New York, Crumbs:

I ordered my favorite flavor, coconut.  Once again, moist and sweet, but no unique flavor.

I am so disappointed in the relatively bland flavors I've found in NYC that it's killed my desire to sample any others (probably a good thing).  Georgetown Cupcake has somehow figured out to capture an element of the Divine and bake it into all their cupcakes.  The next time you visit DC, visit the store and eat one.  You will understand.

http://www.georgetowncupcake.com/home.html

P.S.  No, I did not eat all of the above cupcakes on the same day. 

P.P.S. No, I did not eat the entire cupcake on any given day. 

 

The tension of opposites

I had a rough day at work today, and was feeling grumpy as I walked home, writing today's post in my head. I had chosen to share several signs that I encountered in the past few days, all of them interesting, and all of them, to me, slightly depressing:

As I stepped onto my block and started down the sidewalk, I saw a well-dressed man bending over two children who were sitting against a building, each with a bag, and each looking like they didn't belong there. I overheard part of the conversation "....what can I do to help you?" "We're okay" "Are you sure? How can I help...?"

I walked on, inspired but also even more tired. It's exhausting to stay open and present, to not fall into a trance and to try and see everything around you. If I were better at practicing meditation, perhaps I could be present and tread lightly upon the streets. But I do not yet have that detachment, and instead the sheer number and vastness of opposites that I encounter are wearing me down.

I cannot stay detached when I see the homeless man shuffling along, crossing paths with the doorman who is opening the limousine door (yes, a limousine) for the young girl on her way to school. It pains me to see the color divides in the city-- I often see black women strolling with white babies, but never see white women caring for black children. When I take the train in early, I see people of color in their uniforms. When I take the train a bit later, I see the pale people in their business suits. It hurts to see the very old leaning on each other, maneuvering the stairs of the city, while insouciant youth run past.

It would be easier to don a pair of headphones and simply walk, eyes straight ahead. But I cannot, I cannot. Neither am I sure how to tend to a heart that holds the pain of myself and others. I must find a way.

Tender Buttons

I took the day off from work today, and spent much of it wandering around in the unseasonably warm and sunny weather.  My explorations brought me to the sweetest little shop, one devoted entirely to buttons. 

Floor to ceiling with carefully labeled boxes, and buttons ranging from inexpensive to extremely pricey.  I could have spent hours looking at each of the little treasures. 

In the end, I found a few tiny gems for my niece, Baby Bird.  Her mother is an accomplished seamstress, and I know they will find a good home on just the right little sweater.