Recently in City Life Category

Manhattan Friday
Cocktail doves, cafe lovelies
Pavement Lullaby

Also: Prop 8 Protestors Take Manhattan.

A bunch of my talented, creative, and resourceful lady friends have started an awesome new blog called Recession This! to help us all "navigate the economic downturn with style and humor". Loaded with quick witted tips, delicious recipes, and freebies galore, Recession This will keep you from Dreading That which ails us in these trying times. "Cheap but Chic"!

Oh, what a weekend! My birthday was a vacation right here in the city I love to live in with the boy I love to love...

It was laughter and reverence with Miranda, David, and Becky.

It was waking up to a capuccino and big bag of chocolate.

It was one new gym bag and some theatre tix (yipee!)

It was unwrapping a future heirloom and a couple of books from my family (thank you, thank you!)

It was tickling the ivories on a piano card from faraway friends right before peeling the paper off of a mysterious moustache from H.

It was lolling about in my pajamas before receiving that lonely subway ride I've been wanting for months.

It was pink champagne, baked eggs on polenta, and mousse au chocolat in my favorite faux Paris.

It was tripping through Chelsea (Galleries, why are you always closed??), dodging sweaty tourists uptown, and buying some shower gel just because we had a discount.

It was fingering clothes we can't afford, taking a cab instead of a train, and ducking into the cinema to beat the heat. It was there that we nuzzled into the mezzanine, giggled at the Coen Brothers, and felt as if we'd gone back in time. Je T'aime!

Oh, and it was also a little light Japanese magazine browsing...

A side of spicy prawn curry...

And a martini spiked with sweet "S'Wonderful", my favorite song (thank you, Mr. Gillespie).

It was a birthday to remember on a steamy Memorial Day weekend that saw most New Yorkers running for the other islands. It was an escape to the familiar and all that I adore about this magical city that I get to call home. It was waking up after it was all over knowing there was still a whole day left..no work, no anxiety, and no alarm. It was returning to the home I've made without ever having left it, dozing without regret, and feeling safe in our li'l urban treehouse.

As the sun went down yesterday, we shuffled hand-in-hand into our local watering hole. There on the couches was our merry Band of Brooklyn (and Washington Heights!) Brothers already sipping cold ones and slouching in the heat. The music was Built to Spill, Johnny Cash, and The Clash, and we munched on gummy bears until dinner. Then it was over Mexican beer, too much chili con queso, and that always present laughter that I finally said good bye to another number and hello to another year. There in the light of the fireflies I'm convinced flew up from Texas.

HAPPY SUMMER EVERYONE and THANK YOU THANK YOU, LOVED ONES!

Amen, Brother. I'm glad that Joss Whedon is in Hollywood. I feel like maybe he's fighting the good fight for us.

We live near an Italian funeral home that has a lovely fish pond out in front. Sometimes, depending on the day, there are ornate silver hearses parked along the curb. Always, there are men in suits out in front. The suited men seem nice when we pass on our way to the subway every day even though evidence of a nod or smile is rare. Words are never exchanged, but they respect the passersby as we respect them.

This morning, I had a particularly forceful spring in my step. I set off down the street guided by my clacking boots that seemed to march faster than I could keep up. I rounded the corner in front of the funeral home while passing a woman with a stroller. Directly in front of her was a tall gentleman in a black suit and hat. I recognized him from the funeral home. He stopped and turned to face me.

MAN: I hear you're coming.
ME: (Stopping dead in my tracks.) Excuse me?
MAN: I hear you're coming! (He gestures to the entrance of the funeral home behind him.)
(Pause. Pause. Pause pause pause.)
ME: Yes. (Pause) What?
MAN: I HEAR YOU'RE COMING.
(MAN smiles, turns, and walks inside.)

Baffled, I continued my trek to the subway and thought, "Did he just say 'I hear you're coming or I heard you coming?" Surely he meant heard! Surely. I reached into my bag, pulled out my iPod, and set it to shuffle. The first song?

"Soon" by My Bloody Valentine.

The uptown F train was crowded as usual. Straphangers smooshed together in a morning rush hour clump. I lucked out with a seat and wedged myself between the end of the partition near the door and a man in a cap and navy blue overcoat. The genleman occupying the space directly in front of my knees wore a black trench, black slacks, and a stern scowl. HIs glasses were tortoise. Everyone else was a quilt of tweeds, denims, courdoroys, iPods, paperbacks, and downward gazes stitched together into my periphery.

He entered at East Broadway. The door opened and closed followed by a loud grumble. There was nary an inch to move, but I could hear feet shuffling and bodies edging modestly out of His way. The hair on the back of my neck stood up when it hit us. My stomach flipped and collapsed. I looked up just as the man in the black trench and tortoise glasses seized my eyes with dissolving disgust. It hit us again. Stronger, louder, and foul foul foul. I turned to the left to take a look at Him but only caught a sliver of curly hair and a slice of ruddy skin. Again it hit us. The rot of pickling skin. The hot breath of a deeply blackened lung. He was one of the walking dead, and He wanted to be heard.

Suddenly, the train screeched to a halt, and the doors opened at 2nd Avenue. More people than usual scurried out, and He came into focus as they hurriedly dispersed. There was a dark mustache, navy blue zip-up sweatshirt, and eyes gray and shifting. He shouted in a foreign tongue while swaying and shooing people out of the door like a matador with an invisible cape. Once they were out and the doors shut again, He struggled to find stable footing while all nearby straphangers scattered. Footing was found with a slam against the partition nearest to my head.

Already being aware of Him to my immediate left, I leaned into the man in the navy blue overcoat on my right as I raised the book I'd been reading aloft to protect myself from His incoming elbow. He caught Himself just in time but kept the elbow suspended in front of my face. I looked to the man in the navy blue overcoat. The man in the navy blue overcoat looked away. I twsited my chin up to The Elbow while trying not to breathe in the stench of stagnant tobacco and ethanol. The Elbow would not move. With a tiny inhale, I lightly tapped the edge of my book into His lower back.

He stirred. He awoke. He whooshed around to face me. Both eyes fixed on mine, He lowered his lids while each corner of His mouth furled upwards in a closed-mouth grin. "Excuse me..." He mumbled. "Excuse me...YOU." I couldn't move for fear that I'd make Him angry by not accepting His apology.

"You..." He mumbled again.

I said nothing.

"YOU, youuu, YOU!" He began to spit.

I began to shiver.

"YOU, YOU... Jeeeew. " He hissed, "YOU JEWISH. YOU. JEW!"

My throat went dry. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to move. He was transfixed on me and swaying in fetid delirium. I looked to the man in the black trench for help, but he, like the man in the navy blue overcoat, averted his gaze while closing a gaping mouth. The train lurched to a halt again as my eyes moistened.

The door opened, and another rush of people stampeded out. I leapt out of my seat and into another available one further down in the train. As I fell into it, catching my breath and clutching my bag to my chest, I watched Him sink into the space I had just occupied. He promptly let His head fall to His chest, and I believe He fell asleep.

I have finally come to a point in my life where I've learned how to be on time. Chalk it up to a job I like. Chalk it up to maturity. Whatever it is, it suits me well. Know why? When you're early, you have extra minutes to explore the unknown in this town, and I'm the most curious of cats. That being said, I arrived uptown for work super early last week and decided to walk down 58th street to see what I could find. It was a bit out of the way, but I've never explored 58th between 5th and 6th Avenues, so I turned the corner into unknown territory.

Traipsing along in the sleepy rain, I came across a grey awning with the words "Fika" and "Espresso Bar". Since I hadn't had my morning coffee yet, I decided to go in. Inside was this tiny, white tiled space with a glass case full of confectionary delights and a bearded man pulling coffee from a mod espresso machine. There was a patient line of neighbors and workers from the nearby (and newly demolished) Plaza Hotel, and it smelled like coffee heaven. While waiting, I discovered that Fika is New York City's "First Swedish Espresso Bar" specializing in Lofbergs Lila's Swedish coffee beans as well as assorted Swedish snacks and chocolate. The aesthetic was clean and minimal, and I pretended I was in an undiscovered Ingmar Bergman film.

When it was my turn, the delightful bearded man took my coffee order with a smile and then smiled again as he handed it over. He said, "WAIT! I must-a-give you da cover for da coffee so ya not burn ya hand!" He put on the cover, then motioned for me to "fill da cup of da coffee with da chocolate!" To my left was a two tiered tower of both white and dark chocolate chips for da fillin' of da cup. HELLO, FAVORITE COFFEE PLACE EVER.

I got off the subway again this morning and realized, yet again, that I had 15 minutes to kill. It would be a Fika morning! I entered the sugar cube space and was met by the smiling Delightful Bearded Man and this diminuitive elderly woman who must have been a neighbor. I stood in line behind her. When her turn came, Delightful Bearded Man lunged over the counter and embraced this woman with arms full of Swedish rainbows and sunshine. He whispered, "How are ya, my angel?" She squealed with delight. An 8 year old in an 80 year old body. She said, "I am wonderful, my dear. What do you have for me today?" He motioned towards the back of the shop to a unseen area and replied, "Fresh orange juice for my sweet." It was a verbal tennis match of loveliness.

Delightful Bearded Man then took my order warning me again to not burn da hands. On my way out, I heard his Angel asking about his weekend. Having forgotten to add my chocolate chips, I sipped the sweetness of their plesantries.

This has nothing to do with Bjorn Borg, but I really like the music of Peter Bjorn and John and urge you to check them out. Also, please visit Fika sometime if you either live in or plan on visiting New York.

I ran into my doppelganger.