Somewhere Along West 53rd

She was innocent like words in a Taylor Swift song, and she wore her heart on her sleeve. Tonight, however, as she was getting ready, she hummed Joni Mitchell with determination. She knew she couldn't uproot her heart, but she could let it blend in with the color of her coat, at least for the night. She bought it because the sales clerk on Park Avenue told her she looked stunning. While tonight's activities didn't exactly call for stunning, she couldn't resist the red.

They took in the museum piece by piece standing together at times, alone at others. She liked the way he paused to study certain paintings; Mondrian's Broadway Boogie Woogie, for instance. He peered through the painting like a marauder as if the connecting squares of color were and underground map to someplace mysterious. Clasping both hands behind his back, he rocked slowly up onto his tip-toes, suggesting that two inches gave him a completely different perspective. She wished she had a photograph of that.

Post-museum meander, he navigated her through Grand Central like a pro and then bought her a hot dog from a street vendor. She asked a stranger to take their picture, the only tangible evidence of the evening. She didn't believe in hanging onto other things like ticket stubs or museum brochures. She was slightly superstitious that way. Although she knew the photograph would end up in the corner of the mirror above her dresser next to an all too common-place post-it reminding her to pick up the dry cleaning, she wanted to remember how they looked that night.

Closer, said the stranger as he peered through the viewfinder.

blue.red.yellow.

The two of them looked like a color theory lesson standing on the platform against the yellowing tiles of the subway -- he in his blue oxford shirt, the one with the collar stays, and she in her red coat. Add his dark features and they were a study in contrast, too. The photograph was taken seconds before the final train uptown by the fellow with the poorly tuned violin. He had been squeaking his way through the subway system, one unharmonious symphony at a time.

a cautionary tale

She knew the saying, Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but he had been out of her life for so long she wasn't sure she believed it. In fact, she was pretty sure she had forgotten about him completely. Except when she stumbled across the New York City subway map shaped like a heart. The one with Queens in the right corner. She had tucked it away somewhere only to be found by accident, like at the back of a big, deep drawer. She'd pull it out even though it would undo her a little. Even though upon the sight of it she'd realize that like Queens, he still occupied a corner of her heart.

It was all right, she supposed, that he was there and she was here. It was just fine that they were separated by miles, thousands of them. But in those rare heart-shaped map moments, she missed the days when the only thing that separated them was what lies between the two seats of his car. The one they used to sing Jingle Bells in at the top of their lungs. The one the same color as a heart.

winter wonderland

happy weekend.

{images}

Big Apple Birthday

Happy birthday dear Emily, who lives far away in the Big City. I wish her only the loveliest of things this year: long phone calls from favorite people, afternoons in Riverside Park, visits from loved ones, good little kiddies at school, time to travel (time here at home, too), a great new pair of red shoes -- every girl needs a(t) (least one) pair of red shoes, and everything else her heart desires. Love you, Miss Em. Wish we together to celebrate again this year.

City Babes

Cousin K is home from the Big City, something that seems intrinsic to my happiness. We made good memories there. In the Big City, that is. Like the time she joined Mom and me at The Waldorf towards the end of our trip my senior year. She arrived looking very New York-ish in the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria*, a stylish carry-on in tow. We lounged about in the lobby, opened up ridiculously over-priced items like microscopic bags of cashews from our mini-bar and took full advantage of the concierge, who gave us directions to the finest dining including a place in Little Italy where we gorged ourselves on pasta and sparkling water with lime. (When in the Big City, go big or go home. Always add a citrus embellishment.)

This amazing once-in-a-lifetime deal slash gift of graduation grace from the travel gods my Mother found included free makeovers at Bloomingdales. So, atop fifth avenue, adjacent to Central Park, the three of us were doted on by Estee Lauder employees for over an hour. We were pampered pampered pampered and walked out looking like we could walk onto a Broadway stage. None of us had ever worn that much makeup in our lives, but it was well worth it. The serums! The creams! The under-eye-circle-reduction potions! It was all so heavenly. In a moment of haste, after hearing "Yoah goahjuss, Maatha! Just goahjuss!" a thousand times and being told the fountain of youth was contained in a tiny bottle, my mother bought me the most expensive beauty product I have owned to date. Something about smaller pores, wrinkle reduction and skin rejuvenation. All I know is that it made my skin feel, as a New Yorker would say, "Like buddah!" And, at age eighteen, this million dollar cream that came in a bottle the size of my pinky, was imperative to my beauty-future. I used it down to the last drop, scraping the bottom of the bottle with a q-tip towards the end. I practically gave that bottle a funeral upon it running dry, turning my head as I dropped the pretty bottle into the trash bin. I held back the tears as to not remove the lotion-potion from my face with waterworks.

Tonight, nearly ten years (yikes!) and a few wrinkles (gasp!) later, I was going through a bunch of free samples in my bathroom drawer, tossing this and that. A tiny bottle caught my eye. It was way too pretty to be of little importance and therefore tossed. It's a blue-green that shimmers in the reflection of the mirror. I opened it up, and with one whiff, I was back on the fifth floor of Bloomingdales, with the beauty experts in their white coats, saying "Yoah goahjuss!" Whether it makes me goahjuss, I have yet to say. This I know: it smells like heaven in a bottle just the right size for Stewart Little. I shall use it ever-so-sparingly. But mostly, I will unscrew the lid, inhale deeply and transport myself back to my first adventure in the Big City with Cousin K. There have been more adventures since our Fith Avenue Facial Fantasy come to fruition and there will be more in the future, but for now, I'm glad she's back on home turf, at least for a little while. Welcome home, dahling. Yoah just goahjuss!

*Lest you're ready to cue the theme song to Green Acres...
(New York is where I'd rather stay.
I get allergic smelling hay.
I just adore a penthouse view.
Dah-ling I love you but give me Park Avenue)
know this: My mother dearest found the most amazing deal. Staying at The Waldorf was cheaper than staying at the Marriott. I swear. It was, in a word (or three) an absolute dream!

Universe in a Red Bag

I stepped out onto 25th Street, between 5th and 6th Avenue, and in a very Martha Takes on Manhattan attitude, my morning stride matched those of the other native New Yorkers. I was determined to blend in; to seem as if I knew exactly where I was going. I was surrounded by people getting their morning groove on, ipod earbuds shoved in their ears to drown out the sounds of the city. I could have joined them. But this trip I knew I'd spend a lot more time on foot than the last, and I wanted to hear and see it all. I had everything I needed in my bag (ipod included). K helped me plot out a path the night before. I was to head straight down 5th until I reached Union Square.

* * *
In my visits to the City, I've noticed that everyone carries large bags. Why? Because they have to be prepared for anything. A last-minute dinner date, an unexpected downpour, sore feet after a long day on Wall Street, an extra bone for their little dog (who fits in their bag) a coat in case the wind changes, an ipod, a laptop, clothes for the gym, a good book for the subway...New Yorkers, for the most part, are prepared for anything. I've seen ladies pull full wardrobe changes out of their bags. By the time the Subway stops on Broadway and 42nd Street, they're all dolled up and ready for a night out on the town.

There is a scene in a less than stellar chick flick where the two main characters (guy and girl) are sitting on a bench. Guy has just gotten himself into a bit of a situation and girl comes to his rescue. Girl pulls one thing after another out of her bag, all of which aid in the rescuing of said guy. In what could be considered one of the cheesiest exchanges in the whole movie, (if not in all of Chick Flickdom) guy asks girl, "What else do you have in there?" The response, which inevitably makes me want to throw up each time I hear it, "My universe."

* * *

I made it down to Union Square on my own, and, in one of my dumber moments, purchased books for my family at the beginning of what I knew was going to be a long walking day. I figured I'd lug the books around until we braked for lunch, at which point I could switch my satchels at K's place before the afternoon adventures commenced. The rally spot was Whole Foods. The only thing on our list: organic marshmallows. Both practical and delicious. They wouldn't add any heft to my hauling. K would meet me there after her morning of work. I'd tell her all the things I'd seen; all my favorite spots.

I forgot to mention that in a moment of utter ignorance, I brought THE most impractical bag ever known to (wo)Man. It was big, therefore, I thought it was the perfect candidate for the job of towing things to and fro as K and I traipsed up and down Manhattan. When I saw it in a store at home, it had a certain je ne sais quoi about it, and, with a New York state in mind, I thought I'd bring it along and try my hat at the whole avant garde thing. So, I bit the bullet and bought the bag. Darling, yes. Practical, no. The straps slid off my shoulders, the cute flower on the outside kept catching on my sleeve. By the time I lugged my books seven blocks, I was through.

At the bottom of Union Square, near Whole Foods, I spotted it: Filene's Basement. Therein lied my salvation. I walked in, perused their purses and grabbed a big black one off the hook. Behind the black bag was a red bag. Red. I quickly switched the two, and bought the bargain bag (Thank you Filene, your Basement -- which really isn't a basement at all. I took two escalators to get there, and your bottom-line prices). I told the lady, no, I didn't want a bag for my bag and hurried out to the lobby where I spilled all contents of my bag(s) onto the tile floor between Filene's Basement and DSW. The Red Bag was a smash hit from the beginning, fitting all the contents of my old bag, a new pair of shoes from DSW (turns out my sensible shoes weren't so sensible) an umbrella, my books (still a dumb idea, even if I found a Central Park Running Guide Dad just had to have for his next trip to the City) and all other necessary contents for a City Girl on the go. The shiny redness of it all helped, too. And the patent-leather (Fake. We're talking Filene's Basement, folks) would be practical for those on-the-spot New York down pours, rain pelts sliding off the patent.

The bag traveled with me for the next nine days. It's contents grew by the day, as did the grooves in my shoulders. But, the straps stayed in place, and everywhere I went the people did shout, "Where oh where did you get that bag?!" New York people. The very Avant Garde themselves! I wanted to say I found it on sale at Barney's to send a mad dash of female shoppers in a frenzy, but instead I said proudly, a little shop at Union Square called Filene's. Back here at home, even a year and a half later, I say, "Filene's Basement in New York." "You're kidding?!" is the typical reaction. "Forty bucks," I say. Oohs and aahs follow.

So, in what was a moment of utter frustration and unpreparedness, I bought what I thought was a bag to fit the bill. Really, what I bought was a sense of self. That red bag has become my signature. I take it where ever I go and when I arrive, I put whatever I find inside. The straps are fraying, the zipper on the inside is becoming loose, and, when the seasons change (patent ain't so hot for summer, or so I'm told) I nearly cry when as it is laid to hibernate for the summer months. I'm utterly amazed at what I find when I empty it: too many lip glosses to count, receipts, business cards, glucose tablets, tiny notebooks, medium-sized notebooks, graph paper, the latest read, lots of change. Just the other day someone asked if anyone had a pen. I quickly opened my red bag, showed off my collection and asked, "Which kind?" It was a felt tip that did the trick. I guess you could say that bag contains my universe. But, you won't ever hear me admit that out loud, at least not to a guy.

we built this city

For those who heart NY. Full article here.

{Thanks, Miss Taza of rockstar diaries for the referral}

med/moy in Manhattan

(NaBloPoMo: eight)
There are few things I love more than a great pen. I've got boxes and boxes of fine point Sharpies, which since design school have become The Favorite. Then there's Micron...oh!...and Staedtler...love Staedtler...and Zig...You see? Few things I love more. When felt tip or rolling-writer won't do, there's Bic, tried and true. I've been known to hang on to certain Bics for years. E.M. and Kates, do you recall the turquoise-green Bics I was given that were almost more precious than the boy who bequeathed them? The last one ran out of ink last night. Truly, an emotional evening.

As one can imagine, I've got quite the pen collection. My nightstand drawer houses hundreds hyperbob-ly (that's for you, Linds) speaking, but I've got lots. As not to make the drawer-dwellers feel forsaken, there's a great little wire basket at arms-length, on the bottom shelf of said nightstand. A good pen needn't go friendless. My drafting desks...well, that's another story! A Universe of Pens.

While in NYC a few weeks ago, I found myself in an atrocious situation. After flipping on my book light for some light reading, I pulled out my journal to do some night-light writing. I searched my bag for Mr. Sharpie. What?! But how? The gasping could only go on for so long. K lives in a loft, so there's a "Shh!-the-Loft-Mates-Are-Sleeping" policy posted and strictly enforced. Because of the bitty-barracks, along with the "Shh!" policy, they also live by the credo, "What's yours is mine and what's mine is ours," which was in my favor that penless night. So, Book Light Beacon and I were soon on the grave-shift prowl. Two design students in residence, this place was bound to be a pen-haven. I'd have a 05 Micron between my knuckles in no time. No need to panic.

Alas, alack and, woe indeed, my discoveries were definitely discouraging: a lone Bic. A lone Bic (!) And not my beloved med/moy, but a fine Bic, which totally cramps my style. To make the midnight more calamitous, the pen's top had been chewed to bits. I made my way back to the futon and muffled my despondent yelps. Not only was this the only pen in the household, this proprietary pen had been assaulted. This wasn't the work of a girl. No, no. Girls don't carry out such acts. This was most decidedly the work of a MALE. How can I be sure? Here's how: along with the munch-marks, the pen had been drawn on with another pen. Graffiti-ed. Tattooed. Who does that? Lest we dwell on such savagery, let's go back to me, my book light and K's loft in mid-town Manhattan: Pen in hand. Collected, I passed the night pensively writing away, with the aid of Mr. med/moy Bic. He did quite well for himself.

A few moments ago, here on Yale, a similar situation, involving paper and pen, presented itself. I reached for the closest writing instrument when...What the? My hand felt something prickly. Yucky. I looked down, and there it was. The Innocent Assaulted Pen. I abducted Him! Why? And now He'd settled in to abide with the others: The Felts, The Rollers, The Bics, The Staedlers, and The Zigster? All cozy-like and accepted. My pens. They had risen to the occasion. It's almost as if they shoved Mr. Innocent to the front of the line - The Head of the Class to ensure His usage tonight. I guess it's for the better, you know? Loneliness can get old, right? And, we've got a history now. A good pen needn't go friendless. So, K, Hillary, and Jordan, if you're missing your dear Bic, don't you worry, He's not out on the streets. He's safe here, back in a big Bic family, getting used - in the good way. And, for crying out loud, girls, walk a few doors down to the CVS and buy yourselves some Sharpies. You won't be disappointed, nor will your midnight-meandering guests.

Right Through the Very Heart of It

(NaBloPoMo 6)
Something has to be said for being able to take in Rothko, Albers, Van Gogh and Warhol, then Puccini's Madam Butterfly at the Met, (so spectacular I cried as soon as the curtains parted and Mme's stunning red kimono rippled out, silk rivers of red, before our eyes) explore a 16-story building full of designer fabric and only fabric, inhale the best deep dish apple pie a la mode in all my 25 years, puddle-jump through The City a la Gene Kelly, (the cabby who launched upon me a virtual tsunami from hip down only added to the experience), watch an early Halloweener-gone rubiks-cube try to fit through the subway, dine on the most delectable burger known to Man in a restaurant only equipped for 19 and chat with the owner while doing so (he wasn't so bad his British self!), feel smaller than a dot, equally as important as one, love every minute of it...and still manage to get the best sleep of my life on an air mattress all within a 24-hour period.

I heart NY.

I Wanna Be A Part of It: NYC Part I

"New York remains what it has always been: a city of ebb and flow, a city of constant shifts of population and economics, a city of virtually no rest. It is harsh, dirty and dangerous, it is whimsical and fanciful, it is beautiful and soaring--it is not one or another of these things but all of them, all at once, and to fail to accept this paradox is to deny the reality of city existence." |Paul Goldberger|

Here I sit in the loft of 22 West 25th Street, on matress #2 (of 3), on K's laptop, directly across from St. Sava's. St. Sava himself keeps watch over us here, his big eyes peering directly into the apartment and up into the loft. He's watching me now as I type. He's turned his nose at the Sunday flea-market-goers and the noisy cabbies arguing below. This place is amazing. And I feel so little and unimportant in it. It's marvelous!

After being so busy with work before I left, I've been anxious for a little "me" time, looking forward to a little MM experience of my own: seeing all my old friends in the City; walking alone in Central Park. I'd forgotten how big The Park is. What a glorious sight it is, no matter from which area of the City it greets you. I used my feet as a broom as I walked in the Park today...searching for the still-crowned acorns, cloaked in an oak leaf blanket that seems to stretch across most of the lawn near the carrousel. I pocketed a Royal Few. They'll take up residence at home, nesting next to cousins from The Boston Commons and from Grandma's tree with the bird feeder. Sometimes I'm a lot more like my Dad than I thought - scrounging for little bits and pieces of nature from the places I've been. Like him in the best way, that is. As if there is a bad way to be like my Dad. He loves this City.

K knows the history of the carrousel. Her Dad would be proud. We jumped on with childish delight, as soon as the guard let up the gate, and rode round and round. The majority of the riders were adults, which I found to be amusing and magical.



Karli and I walked about the Park for the rest of the afternoon. We talked about The City, K's job, what she's learned after a year of being here as a true City Girl. We had fun imagining Grandpa and Bis among the same sights and streets: the beautiful house in Pelham, Bis's days at NBC and Grandpa's days on Columbia's Crew team, rowing along the Hudson.

There's a little bit of New York City in me, and not just because I love the fast-paced excitement of it all. I feel a sense of heritage when I'm here. It's exciting to be a part of that history, and to take a little piece home in my pocket.

Next up: The West Village, Soho, Chelsea Market, Union Square/ Parsons, The New York Design Center, The D&D Building, Times Square, Harlem/Columbia, etc.

Signing off for now,
Me, Eloise.