10 Things I Learned in NYC

Just a small note before I bust into this full on. Even though I haven’t used anonymity at all in my previous blogs or journals, because I am hoping to do some writing about my past on this website and that will undoubtedly lead to me writing about people that are no longer in my life, I will not refer to people by their names on this page. I will use an old archaic form of anonymity where I will just use the initials of the people I’m talking about.

I know that most people will know who I’m talking about, and that is fine. I’m not really protecting anybody. I just wanted to keep a small veil of protection around my friends and family. Who knows? I’ll probably lose interest in this little trick 4 or 5 blog entries down the road.

10 Things I Learned in New York City
(Presented Chronologically and Not Necessarily Having Anything to Do with New York City)

1. How do people live like this?

We landed in LaGuardia at around noon on Thursday. The airline, of course, lost our luggage. By 12:30 we were in a taxi headed to the Edison Hotel, our home for the next two nights. As we swerved in and out of traffic and then waited in traffic not moving for minutes, it occurred to me, “how do people live like this?”

I am not anti-people, but I do like my space. I understand that there is lots of “stuff” to do in New York City. That is why it is a great place to visit. However, I can’t imagine living in a place where I have to make special trips to see nature, never get to see the stars and 500 square feet of living space costs me 2 grand a month.

Plus there are all these people. Everywhere you look, there are people! You can’t get away from them. Even in the comfort of your own hotel room or apartment, you hear them scurrying around. Doing nasty people-type things.

Nothing against people mind you, but you can have them!

2. If you only know 100 words of English, some of those words should piece together the phrase “That is what I am talking about!”

I knew that JH and I would be on our own for at least our first meal in NYC. I asked a co-worker that had lots of experience in NYC for advice on a place to eat lunch on Thursday. He emphatically recommended the Carnegie Deli. That is where JH and I walked in the warm rain to dine.

I knew eating in New York City was going to be expensive, but I had brought a tidy sum of cash and I knew I wasn’t going to be purchasing any souvenirs. Besides eating and the occasional entertainment and travel expenses, the only other money I planned on spending was on postcards for a group of 16 people.

One look at the prices on the Carnegie Deli menu and I thought, does WM or BW really need a postcard?

JH asked if our co-worker had recommended anything to eat.

In truth our conversation never went deeper than “Carnegie Deli, goood!”

JH called him and after a brief conversation we decided on the Woody Allen. But he warned us to order only 1 sandwich. The sandwiches were big enough to feed two people.

This information helped alleviate some of my worry. The 23 dollar price tag on this sandwich had just been cut in half. BW and WM were back on the postcard list for this trip.

After we had decided on the Woody Allen our waitress approached our table.

We told her we wanted the Woody Allen, but she told us we should get The Melo. She pointed it out on the menu and then said: “That is what I am talking about!”

The waitress was Asian and based on the awkwardness with which she delivered the money phrase, I’m guessing she knew very little English. The best way to describe her delivery is to think of the prostitute in Full Metal Jacket that says, “Me love you long time.”

Truthfully, it wouldn’t have taken much to talk me out of the Woody Allen. I hate Woody Allen. It is not uncommon for me to say “I’m glad I’m not from New York City because I don’t want to be forced to pretend that Woody Allen is funny.”

We quickly changed our order to The Melo.

When the waitress brought our sandwich to us she sat it between us and said, “That is what I am talking about.”

Our first positive New York City memory was in the bag!

3. Maybe there is something to this blood is thicker than water thing.

My cousin ST and her boyfriend TC met us at our hotel for supper. It is not an exaggeration to say that I have probably only seen ST 3 or 4 times in the last 20 years.

The memories I have of her are less than overwhelming. Although I can’t back this up with any kind of solid evidence, I think that when we were children we did not like each other.

My first memory of her as an adult is when she came to our Uncle Bob’s funeral. I was surprised at how we actually seemed to click at this brief meeting because I was sure we didn’t like each other and because she wore a giant hat to Bob’s funeral. So New York City. So Sex and the City. So out of touch with her Midwestern Kansas roots.

Yet we definitely clicked.

The other memory I have of Sarah is when I took a group of friends to her Mom’s house after an Iowa State football game in Kansas City. That night was all over the place. With her dad telling us stories about cannibals and one of her brothers offering us drugs. It was a clash of cultures and awkwardness that I will never forget.

Yet, while we were having supper at Empanada Mama and TC was going on and on about the greatness of their Chocolate Banana Empanada I realized maybe there is something to this blood thing.

I’ve never been very close to many of my cousins. For one reason or another it just has always been the case. It is either because of huge age differences or just because most of my cousins just aren’t like me. That is probably my fault. I’m not like most people. That isn’t braggadocio, it is closer to lamentation.

Here in New York City it finally occurred to me that there is somebody else out there that is like me AND is related to me. Crazy!

4. Midwesterners are tougher than East Coast type people.

I already knew this based on how soft SK became after she moved away from Iowa to Pittsburgh. It was less than a year away from the allegedly brutal Iowa winters before she was whining about 40 degrees being cold. Cold? That is shorts weather!

Thursday was a beautiful warm rain. I don’t think I have experienced a warm rain since September. I wasn’t going to let it go to waste by hiding under an umbrella. This behavior was considered crazy by ST and SK. They repeatedly tried to get us to take cover under an umbrella. But we weren’t wasting a good warm rain. Even though our luggage still hadn’t shown up and the clothes we were wearing were all the clothes we might have for the foreseeable future.

However, I also think that we might be thicker skinned. Now I know that a person could make the case that story I’m about to tell you involves a Midwestern transplant, so you could argue that a true New Yorker wouldn’t have acted this way. You could also make the case that what I did in this story is just the part of me that is my Mom. It is well-documented that my Mom doesn’t have a problem spouting her opinions or trampling feelings. Why should I be any different? A cynic might ask.

As we settled into our seats to watch American Idiot SK and I compared our Playbill.

The people on the left side of SK noted and were saddened that Justin Guarini would not be participating in the night’s production.

SK then pointed that out to me. I said, apparently not quietly enough for SK’s comfort, “Phew, looks like we dodged a bullet there!”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t he the guy off American Idol?”

“Yeah.”

“Then he has to suck!”

I have numerous cognitive shortcuts I use to get myself through life. One of them is: American Idol equals suck. I’m sure people would make the case that going through life with such utter and complete cognitive laziness is going to cause me to miss out on many, many great things.

I’m willing to roll the dice. I’m pretty sure that little equation has saved my ears from much pain and much anguish. Not to mention saved me from many a mundane conversation around the office water cooler about that thing Simon said last night.

However, SK quickly spoke up, “No, he was really good on that show.”

I knew she was lying. People who share May 18th birthdays can always tell when another May 18ther is lying.

SK is easily the most talented vocalist I’ve ever known. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t slum with American Idol, but I let it slide and wondered why she cared about offending the people to her left.

Just not as tough as she used to be I deduced.

5. Sometimes you can hear a great concert in a complete stranger’s apartment.

ST, JH and I were sitting in Chinatown trying to think of something to do in New York City on a Friday night. I didn’t want to leave NYC without hearing some jazz. We had walked past Birdland the night before. I badly wanted to go to the Village Vanguard since John Coltrane recorded a couple of live albums there. But their websites didn’t prove to be overly helpful so I floated a trial balloon: One of my favorite bands, The Guggenheim Grotto was playing in concert in New York City tonight.

I had no clue if they would go for a band they had never heard of, but I threw it out there. Surprisingly everybody was game.

When JH and I got back to the hotel we called up (what was presumably) the bar House #4 to see if tickets were still available.

The voice on the other end of the phone asked, “Do you have reservations?”

“Reservations” seemed like the wrong word. I am a stickler for always using the exact, right word for the situation, so I was taken slightly aback.

“No.”

“Sorry, we are sold out.”

I texted ST the bad news.

Back to Plan B, which did not exist. However, Birdland wasn’t far away. I was willing to pay the 40 bucks for the set and watch ST and TC drink my two drink minimum. I knew that nobody else involved on this trip loved jazz to my level. So this was going to be a tough sell.

It was then that my phone alerted me to a text message from ST.

“What is the name of your favorite band?”

I wanted to be as specific as possible, since I spent a long time on Liberty Island earlier in the day staring at a woman I thought just might be Marketa Irglova.

“The Swell Season is my favorite band, but the band playing tonight is The Guggenheim Grotto.”

About 10 minutes later ST called me.

“How bad do you want to go to this concert?”

“Pretty bad.”

It turned out that there had been a cancellation and that two of us could go. JH and I were in, but they were out. I felt slightly guilty about leaving them behind, but how many times will I get a chance to see The Guggenheim Grotto in concert.

I monitor the websites and Twitter accounts of about 5 or 6 bands to see if they are ever coming to Minneapolis or as a laugh – Iowa. The Guggenheim Grotto hadn’t come near the Midwest in quite some time. Unless you count Chicago. I don’t.

So I decided, “Get to the subway now. Deal with guilt later.”

ST texted us directions and an address.

JH and I went to the address: 21 W. 103rd. However it was clearly an optometrist shop. It was also clearly closed. So even if they would be playing “Fee Da Da Dee” or “The Universe Is Laughing” in an optometrist shop, wouldn’t that optometrist shop be open?

We walked around the block and found nothing promising besides a grocery store. Well the grocery store wasn’t exactly promising, but at least it was a business.

As were were about to give up, I noticed a door with buzzers next to it, next to the optometrist shop.

More out of desperation than hope I approached the buzzers. Written in hand and pointing to Number Four were the words “Press for Music.”

Still not really expecting anything I pushed the button.

Back came a voice, “Yes?”

“We’re looking for the Guggenheim Grotto concert.”

“Pull on the door.”

So we pulled on the door and walked inside the apartment building. But we still had no clue where we were. We saw a large amount of pictures on a wall leading to a door and we watched a woman walk through that door. So we followed her.

After the door closed behind us she looked at us and asked, “What are you doing?”

“We’re here for the concert.”

“This is the basement. You want apartment number four.”

A few moments later we were knocking on apartment number four’s door. We were greeted by Ihor (pronounced e-hor). He introduced us to his wife and told us to put our coats in their bedroom.

Although we still had no idea what to expect, it ended up being one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to in my life. It was a great enough concert that it held me over to DG’s big with the Against the Grain “reunion” concert. It will also be enough to hold me over to the other big concert of the year, JG’s Boone City Band concert this summer.

6. The trendiest place on Earth is apparently only as trendy as Boone High Class of 1993*.

After we left Hill Country on Friday night we hopped in a taxi to the Village. We ended up in line at a bar called Fat Cat. This would mark the first (and hopefully last) time in my life I have waited in line to get into a bar. Luckily the line wasn’t very long and the payoff was a pretty decent jazz quintet playing inside.

Fat Cat’s theme (in addition to lots of live jazz) is games. They have tons of pool tables, shuffleboard courts, and ping pong tables. Plus they have about every board game imaginable.

ST, JH and I hung around in the middle of the pool tables while TC put in our name for a ping pong table. While he was gone I began looking around. If I were ever to go back to NYC and really spend some time, this is the part of NYC I would want to spend it in. After all, we had drove past the Village Vanguard on the way to Fat Cat!

This is the trendiest place in the world. While I’m not what anybody would mistake as a trendy person (for example I just recently found out that Adele was popular when her show at First Ave in May sold out immediately, who knew other people had heard of her?) I love being surrounded by art and music. If I could stomach giving up nature and being surrounded by the vile creatures known as humans, this is where I would live.

However, as I looked around I noticed that I was also surrounded by something else – PBR. PBR in a can.

Pabst. Blue. Ribbon.

In. A. Can.

It was everywhere and worse yet, everybody was drinking it. This is the trendiest place in the world and everybody was drinking what my graduating classmates were probably also drinking at the same time. In a far less trendy or urbane environment.

I don’t drink and for the most part, I don’t hang out with people that drink. So I don’t make it to the liquor store very often and if I can humanly avoid it, you won’t find me at a bar back in the Cyclone State. I freely confess that my exposure to alcohol is somewhat limited. I had no clue that they still made PBR.

I still haven’t quite gotten over the shock.

*In fairness, I believe that the official beer of BHS is or was Busch Light. However, I could be wrong about such things. I do remember my Dad drinking PBR, so that makes the Village even further behind us.

7. Bicyclists are jerks the world over.

I don’t know if that is actually fair, but since this is my story I’m sticking with it.

As a general rule I hate bicyclists. Not all the time, but any time I see them on a County Road causing me to have to decrease the speed of my vehicle and delaying my arrival by a few seconds to whatever pressing social engagement my presence is needed at, I really just want to run them into a ditch and laugh hysterically all the way to the Big House.

It isn’t that I hate all bicyclists, as long as they are in a park or on a trail, I’m fine with them.

But as long as they are in the way, which seems to be all the time, I hate them.

It is a reciprocal relationship. They seem to hate me back. In the last several months I’ve managed to anger bicyclists in 3 states. That doesn’t seem enough in retrospect.

Why all this yammering on about bicyclists?

When we got to the Brooklyn Bridge on Saturday I was blown away by its narrowness.

I would be a fool if I tried to deny that almost all of my impressions of NYC before I got there were from movies. I’ve seen at least one movie (okay it was Sex and the City) where a couple met on the Brooklyn Bridge. It just seemed so much wider in the movie.

But what made it even narrower was that half the walkway is designated for bicyclists. That seems excessive to me.

Almost as soon as we got on the bridge ST pulled me aside and told me that one side was for humans and the other side was for the metal-rubber-human hybrid known as “cyclist”. If I didn’t want to get yelled at I would be wise to stay on the pedestrian side of the bridge.

I think I scoffed out something like, “It won’t be the first time I’ve pissed off a cyclist.”

Memories of an encounter with a bicyclist at Flugtag whirred through my head. However, I made a concerted effort to try to stay on my side of the bridge.

I’m not a person that has a problem with concentration. In fact, I can be extremely focused. Almost to a point of frustration to the people around me. Mostly because I’m not focused on them. I’m focused on something interesting.

It wasn’t more than 2 minutes after ST’s warning that I locked eyes on the Manhattan Bridge. I instantly crossed over to the cyclist side of the bridge to photograph the Manhattan Bridge.

Almost as soon as I took two steps onto the other side I heard, “Yahhh!” Or something like it. A cyclist was angered by my encroachment onto his side of the bridge and was screaming at me. Just not in English or any other discernible language.

I would do this at least 5 more times on the walk across the bridge. Each time I would get the angered scream from the cyclist. Each time I cared a little bit less. If a person can care less than zero.

8. Not all tall buildings are lame and boring.

When I boldly announced I was coming to NYC to ST and SK they both sent me a list of potential touristy type things to do. I didn’t really know what we would have time to do, so JH and I both decided on one thing that was a must do for each of us. Mine was the Statue of Liberty. His was Central Park. Neither of us named the Empire State Building.

The Empire State Building was on both ST and SK’s list of suggestions.

My initial response was, I’ve already been in tall buildings before. It was boring. It was lame. However, when we were in the city I got the itch to go up the Empire State Building. In retrospect, I’m surprised that it took me so long to want to go up that building. I’ve already confessed that much of what I wanted to do in NYC was based on movies. My favorite movie as a child was King Kong. The 1933 version. Not the lame 1976 version. It is still one of my favorite movies. The 1933 version. Not Peter Jackson’s King Kong goes ice skating version.

As we got near the Empire State Building I kept bugging SK with the question, “What side of the Empire State Building did King Kong fall off of?”

She didn’t know the answer to this question, so I don’t know if she is a real New Yorker. Maybe when she has been there a year somebody will pass her in the subway and whisper the answer to that question in her ear. That is my dream.

The line to get to the 86th floor was painfully long, but it was worth the wait to see all of the King Kong paraphernalia on the way to the elevator.

Then to my surprise, the one thing I didn’t want to do was one of favorite things on the trip.

So why was it fun and interesting when every other tall building I’ve ever been in is lame and boring?

Besides King Kong (and don’t think that is a small part of it) is the fact that you actually get to go outside. It is much more interesting being a thousand feet up and having the wind blowing in your face.

True JH didn’t enjoy it much, but I guess it is a blessing not being afraid of heights.

9. Taxis won’t wait for a hug.

After we got a boot from the hotel on Saturday we crashed with ST and TC. We got up early in the morning to get a taxi to meet SK to take a tram to Roosevelt Island for lunch.

ST walked with us to show me a mailbox to send off my last batch of postcards and to show JH a drugstore so he could buy cough drops.

After we had each run our errands, she walked us down a couple blocks to a street where we were more likely to flag a taxi. She stood out in the street and waved down a taxi. Almost immediately a taxi pulled over.

I turned to hug ST goodbye. The taxi start to take off.

Displaying nearly cat like reflexes, ST jumped from my grasp and began beating on the side of the taxi. The taxi stopped. The taxi took us to the tram station and the driver did not receive a tip.

10. Sometimes when a pretty girl calls you to talk about vaginas, it isn’t sexy.

As we sat in LaGuardia JH fell asleep. I was texting JG about the trip. Although I’m not a phone guy like JH or TC or WM, I do love my phone. As a useful tool. However it does this annoying thing where it erases all of my text messages every now and again. I don’t know why. I haven’t figured out why or when or more importantly, how to stop it from ever happening again.

How this relates to this story is that I can’t reconstruct my conversation with JG and I’m not entirely sure how we got to where we did.

What I do recall, is that part of the conversation revolved around Born into Brothels. This is one of my all-time favorite movies, but I know it is an extremely difficult sell to get other people to watch it. What you want me to watch a documentary? On something depressing? With subtitles?

The words, “Sign me up” seem to never be the words that come out of the person’s mouth after my passionate sales pitch. So usually I just say, “Shut up and watch this, it will be good for you.”

Somewhere along the way, I had sold JG on watching this movie, but when she actually sat down to watch it on Netflix it had expired as an “instant viewing” option. However Netflix had very nicely suggested that since she was interested in Born into Brothels she might enjoy A Walk to Beautiful.

“Sign me up,” JG said.

This is how I got a text asking if I had ever watch this documentary about Ethiopian women and fistulas.

I am a well-rounded individual, but I don’t know anything about fistulas. There are times my ego might have just continued on with the conversation like I knew exactly what JG was talking about, but this time I swallowed my pride and asked, “What is a fistula?”

The answer came back, “A hole that forms between the vagina and the bladder or rectum during prolonged, obstructed labor.”

Sign me up for the movie on a hole that forms between the vagina and rectum due to prolonged, obstructed labor. Legitimately. I have since watched A Walk to Beautiful and would recommend it to anybody, but I know that few people will follow my advice. Why watch something like that when How I Met Your Mother is on? Right America?

At this time, I thought the fistula conversation was over, (not that I was begging for it to be over, but I don’t know that I really had a witty or remotely clever comeback for such a text) but then my phone rang with the sweet dulcet tones of Adam Levine’s voice, indicating that JG and only JG could be calling me.

I answered the phone and she wanted to explain to me in greater detail what a fistula was and how it happens. So I listened to how more than 2 million women worldwide live with fistula. I listened to how it happens when women give birth to a stillborn baby and the labor process can last sometimes as long as a week. I listened to how it makes women incontinent and how these women are shunned. I listened to how there is really only one hospital in Ethiopia that handles the surgery that fixes the fistula and it can only handle about 1,200 surgeries a year.

Of course the conversation did move onto other subjects when the incredibly loud LaGuardia intercom system would allow our conversation. We covered the NYC jazz scene and how she is giving flute lessons to one of her friend’s daughter. We covered how she is hoping to teach her new student stage presence.

We covered several other topics while I waited for my flight back to the Cyclone State. But I will always remember sitting in LaGuardia talking about fistulas. As strange as that seems, I can’t think of a better way to end my trip to NYC.