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Saturday Night Fever……

What do these three things have in common, furniture found on the street, food on the verge of going bad and a pratfall?

Don’t worry, I’ll tell you.

My weekly food planning strategy is stupid at best. I always eat whatever takes the least effort first, this is also  the stuff that takes longer to rot. So my strategy is really abject laziness, procrastination and counterintuitive behavior. Last week I ate sweet potatoes for three days in a row. Then I ate the vegetables that I could stir fry quickly red peppers, onions and mushrooms, while the butternut squash and broccoli sat in the refrigerator getting old. I am too lazy to roast broccoli. I should win an award for that.

I got up Saturday morning and realized I was on the verge of wasting a bunch of food. So, naturally I started cooking immediately. Hahaha, don’t be silly… I cleaned the house, washed my hair and wrote. Then I tried to take an online class on SEO.  The class was so boring, my ADD kicked into high gear. When I snapped to, I found myself in a trance watching early 80’s music videos. The SEO video was still playing in the background.

And it’s 11:30pm

Cooking, I must get to cooking.

I started by making rice, because I was having stir fry for dinner. Then I sautéed the vegetables for the butternut squash soup. Eventually, I threw all the ingredients for the soup in the crock pot and turned it on.

I used a new recipe for the biscuits. It didn’t really work, but I ate five of them right of the oven. No need for stir fry any more.

Then I got a genius idea for the roasted broccoli. I would make a spice rub for it. I started toasting the Kashmiri chili and salt.  I threw in the garlic for a quick second. I should of watched it, but I wandered over to the linen closet to get a kitchen towel. It started to smoke. I ran over and turned off the stove. Then I ran to the other side of the kitchen jumped on the chair to open the window. I struggled for awhile, but I finally got it open. When I went to dismount from the chair, the chair wobbled, because I found it on the street and it’s not really stable. It just looks nice. So instead of sticking my landing, I fell flat on my side. 1:30 in the morning, lying on the ground stunned and it’s still smokey. I don’t want the alarm to go off, so I jump up and turn on the air conditioner.

I sit for a minute on the couch, contemplating whether I want to continue or give up. I need to take an Advil, the fall will not go unpunished.

I eventually persevere, rub the broccoli with the spice rub and put it in the oven. It’s very late, so naturally I call Anand. We play phone tag, because my phone has been unable to receive phone calls. I turn off the air conditioner, because it’s too loud and it’s October. Anand and I finally catch each other. Then….

Fire, Fire, Fire the fire alarm calls out in a calm slightly English accent. Its affected really. If a fire alarm is going to talk I want it to scream in shrill tones. FIREEEEEEEE!!!! I guess it’s better to get the weirdly calm English lady at 2am.

Smoke poured from the oven, because I put the broccoli on wax paper, because I didn’t want to wash the cookie sheet. Now, I am the asshole cooking at 2am. My neighbors must think I am drunk, but the broccoli was amazing.

1 Head of Broccoli

2 TBSP of Kashmiri Chili Powder

2 Cloves of Garlic Minced

Sea Salt

Olive Oil

Pre heat oven to 425. Wash broccoli and cut end off. (Don’t buy broccoli florets.) You want to cut the head of broccoli into long florets, like two inches long. Chop the garlic. Get a small skillet, put the Kashmiri chili powder and salt in the dry skillet on low. Toss the chili and salt around the skillet to release the oils. It only needs a couple of minutes and you need to babysit it. Then throw in the garlic, cook just so it becomes warm and then pour in olive oil. You need enough oil to make a slightly runny paste.

I am lazy and don’t like to wash dishes, so I pour the paste on my cookie sheet and toss the broccoli in the spice mixture with my hands. You can do it in a bowl with utensils, but if you do it my way, do not put your hands anyway near your face until you wash them thoroughly. Put the broccoli in the oven for 20 minutes or so. You want the broccoli still crunchy, with a little char. Eat with your hands. If it’s too spicy dip the broccoli in some Greek yogurt.

The Exes Week

I have a fair number of exes. At my age, unmarried and living in NYC, it’s pretty standard. What may not be so standard is my exes return again and again. They usually drop back into my life, in groups of three, in the span of one week. I like to call it what’s old is new again, disaster town or crawl into my hole and wait for next week. Since it happens pretty frequently, I should be used to it, but it stuns me every time. It’s Monday and this week is “The Exes Week.”

The first one arrived last night. L and I started as friends. He has always been there for me, but the age difference is too great. We are in different places in life, always have been and probably always will be. L actually saved me from J. Funny how their names are alphabetical. Anyway, L came back last night, we had dinner. Talked about what’s been going on in our lives and had a wonderful time. We never really ended our relationship. We just stopped seeing each other. He left last night and we promised to keep in better contact. The first ex that contacts is usually the nice one. The one I don’t mind seeing. It lulls me into a false sense of complacency.

The second ex who contacts, is always a disaster. A Sonic Boom. I got on Facebook after L left. When will I learn? There in my Facebook inbox was J.  J and I parted horribly. I will leave out the details, but it wasn’t pretty and was part of my horrible year last year. To say I never want to see or hear from him again is an understatement and yet there he was in my inbox. Not really the inbox, he was filtered into the other box. I ignored him, because nothing good will come from us speaking.

I went to bed last night and dreamt of Justin Bieber. I never dated Justin Bieber or anyone that looks like him. I don’t even listen to Justin Bieber’s music. Is it a sign? I don’t know. The only thing I can predict about exes week is that there will be three. So this week, I will sit and fret and think of all the possibilities. What if exes week is going alphabetical?What if it is going chronologically backwards which would explain explain L then J. Either way all signs point to O.  O and I haven’t spoken in a couple of months, by my choice. I am bracing myself for impact and hope the universe is kind. Maybe Justin Bieber will appear instead.

Out of Shape

Move you’ve got to move, move. Run, Run, Run!!!

I am admittedly out of shape. Ten years in a high stress newsroom with an unlimited candy supply has made me a little soft around the edges. Also, in my former neighborhood, I had an addiction to cabs. My cab rides became a social thing, as I became friendly with the drivers. It was a way of keeping my hand on the pulse of the neighborhood. This is what I told myself anyway.

When I left the job in May, I decided I was going to be a little less soft around the edges. My current neighborhood is perfect place to tone up. In Washington Heights everything is either up or down a hill. My little legs were going to be tone in no time. Well, maybe not no time. The first week away from the job I went out to get groceries and as I was hauling them back up the hill, an old woman with a walker threatened to pass me. I wasn’t having it, so I sped up and lapped her. I am not going to be fitness shamed by an octogenarian with a walker. Petty…

Unlike my candy addiction, my fitness goals are not something I stick to. I have weeks I walk everyday and other weeks I sit on my couch ordering mofongo. As I sit in my shameful, carbed out coma, I promise tomorrow will be better and then it isn’t.

The other day, I was rushing to get to the post office before it closed. I still haven’t conquered my lateness, so I got a Lyft down the hill. The only way I could justify taking a cab, was to promise myself that I had to walk the long way home through Fort Tryon Park. I made it to the post office with just two minutes to spare, but I made it, handled my business. As I was leaving the post office, I looked longingly at the short cut and then I made myself cross the street towards the park.

Once at the park, there is an easy route and one that is basically like climbing Mount Everest. I decided to take Mount Everest. Fitness will be mine!!!! As I am climbing, I pass two teenagers making out. They stop and stare because I am breathing heavily and sweating profusely. I hadn’t even come to the first fork in the path and I wanted to quit. I kept going, sweating and cursing under my breath.

A few minutes later, I reach the first fork. I pause and pretend I am not sure which way to go. I put on my confused face, so if I encounter anyone, they will think, “Oh, she’s lost.” Not, “Oh the little beggar is out of shape.”  I regain my breath, a little, and continue. My heavy breathing starts back up as the incline gets increasingly sharp. My body is contorted into a 45 degree angle as I climb. I see a man in his 60’s power walking down the hill in an 80’s parachute track suit.  Clearly he is in better shape than I and is smiling as he power walks. My face looks like someone is beating me. As we get close to each other, he says.

Man: MOVE! You’ve got to move, move.

He marches in place as he shouts words of encouragement. I am embarrassed obviously. My charade is blown. My own personal charade, no one else was fooled.

Me: I am going

Man: Run Run!!!!

Me:Yes got it.

His encouragement is annoying now, so I haul ass up the rest of the hill. I hear him screaming Move, Move as I turn the corner. I guess his plan worked. He embarrassed me enough, that I ran up the hill. I almost collapsed at the top, but I didn’t.

I walked the rest of the way home, slowly. As a reward for my efforts, I ordered mofongo. This fitness thing may never be mine.

 

Bonnet and Frank’s

I haven’t been the most gracious about my new neighborhood. Most of my surliness comes from being overworked and feeling out of place. My opinion has drastically changed since I left my job and started roaming around during the middle of the day. I discovered that’s when the neighborhood comes alive.

Last week at Frank’s grocery store, I got caught in some drama. As I walked through the sliding door, I saw all the signs of a hot mess. There was an ancient woman in a woolen bonnet (average temp last week was 95 degrees) swinging a metal medical cane at the pastries on the top shelf. Pastries were raining down on the shelves behind. Boom, Scrape, Boom, Boom!

The entrance to Frank’s is really tight, so the cane was coming perilously close to my head every time Bonnet swung back. Her shopping cart was blocking the path, so no one else’s cart could pass through. I froze, because I knew I couldn’t help or get past her. I was also completely fascinated. I just stood there, with my mouth open, as Bonnet destroyed the display. I tried to catch the eye of the cashiers on the other side, but they were too busy. After a minute or so of pastry carnage, two women came in the store. One of them realized the damage Bonnet was doing and offered her help.

Good Citizen: Let me help you. What are you looking for?

Bonnet: I want to see all of them. (She continued to whacking her cane at the shelf.)

Good Citizen: But what kind do you want?

Bonnet: I want to see all of them. (Screaming) I want you to bring every piece down and show it to me.

If you are wondering, I am still standing there with my mouth open. I hear the sliding door open behind me. A woman was standing just outside the door with a 6 month old on her hip. I looked back at her and nodded. 

Me: Do you want to get by?

Baby Lady: (shrugs) I need a cart. There is nowhere to go.

Me: I’ll move over there.

I pointed to the area behind Bonnet’s cart.

Baby Lady:We’re ok.

Me: Well at least you will be able to get in the air conditioning. (It was a very humid day.)

I squeezed past Bonnet’s cart while she was busy with Good Citizen. The Lady and her baby took my spot.

Good Citizen: How about one of these?

(The good citizen brings down three)

Bonnet: No, no, no!

(The good citizen puts back the first three and brings three more down.)

Good Citizen: Ok, what about these?

Bonnet: No!!!!! (Screaming and banging her cane on the ground.) I want to see the ones in the back.

Good Citizen:Give me a break lady!

Bonnet: I want to see all of them!!!!!!!! (Still banging her cane on the ground.)

Good Citizen: You are a miserable, nasty lady. I am done. I’m DONE!

Good Citizen stormed past me and the two staff members who had just arrived to help.  One of them was picking up the rubble from “Tornado Bonnet” and the other went around to help her get the right pastry. The baby lady had enough and stuck her baby in a cart. She tried to push it through the tiny opening between Bonnet’s cart and the fruit, but she couldn’t.

Staff Member: Ma’am, I am just going to roll your cart away for a minute.

Bonnet: You will not. I want it there. Leave it there!!! (Banging her cane on the ground again.)

Staff Member: Well we can just roll it right back.

Bonnet: Leave it! I want it right there.

While the staff member had Bonnet’s attention, I took the opportunity to move her cart back so Baby Lady could get through. Bonnet sensed her cart move just as Baby Lady was pulling through the newly freed space.

Bonnet: Don’t move my cart! I want it right there!!!

Me: Lady, I have been waiting here for fifteen minutes. I am going to go get a cart and push it through.

The second employee took Bonnet’s cart from me and kept it to the side, so I could get a cart. I passed Bonnet and moved quickly down the aisle, happy to get a little space between us. I ran into Good Citizen in the middle of the produce aisle. She turned around holding her face. I could tell she was exhausted from her encounter with Bonnet.

Good Citizen: That was awful.

Me: Yes, it was.

Good Citizen: She was so nasty.

Me: She is still yelling over there. 

Good Citizen was standing directly in front of the limes. The limes were on the top shelf, out of my reach and the main reason I came to the store. I didn’t want to ask for help. I don’t really like to ask for help and Good Citizen had been through a lot. So, I stood there looking in the direction of the limes (like a weirdo) and then she asked.

Good Citizen: Do you need something.

Me: Yes, um could you grab two limes for me?

Good Citizen: Sure, how do you want them? Sort of hard but not too hard?

Me: Yes, that’s perfect.

She picked out two limes and then we walked down the aisle together. We got to the meat section and she turned to me.

Good Citizen: I used to see her in Gideon’s (The Kosher Bakery across the street).

Me: Oh…

Good Citizen: You know Gideon’s closed.

Me: Right

Good Citizen: That’s where she got her pastries.

Me: And she could see of all of them and point to which one she wanted.

Good Citizen: Yes

Suddenly, I started to feel bad for Bonnet. Her neighborhood is changing and she is too old to adjust. I am going to guess Bonnet was never the most reasonable individual, but the pastries are just a symbol of her frustration. It must be awful to feel like your world is gone and you are too tired to learn the new. You slowly lose your independence.  All you want is the what you want, nothing extravagant, just the ability to choose. Gentrification is not just about money and race. It’s also about age.

Coping Skills

I haven’t been riding the subway much, during my sabbatical. In some ways, I have become a suburbanite. I stick to my neighborhood. There are places to get food and a really great park to watch the sunset. It’s not that I am avoiding the subway, it’s just not something that occurs in my daily life now. Yesterday, I had the pleasure of riding it to midtown and my coping skills were tested.

All New Yorkers have a very developed set of coping skills. This life isn’t normal. There’s the rotting trash in the summer. The overcrowded subways with people with questionable hygiene. Hauling food and furniture on the subway, because it seems like too much of a hassle to rent a car. This life is not for everyone, so you develop the skills or you leave.

My subway stop is two stops from the end of the A line. It’s pretty rare that I don’t get a seat, especially during non-peak hours. Yesterday was no different. I sat by the window, the seat next to me was open. It remained open for three stops and then a man forcefully plopped down next to me. All seemed fine until the doors closed and it began.

Nigga, Nigga, Nigga, why you lookin at me?

Nigga, why you lookin, step back Nigga.

There was no one near him except for me and I was staring forward.  When someone starts screaming, the NY thing to do is to go on lockdown. Don’t make eye contact, don’t acknowledge you hear anything, put your sunglasses on if you need to. It’s our version of closing our eyes, putting our fingers in our ears and screaming “La, la, la, la, la, I can’t hear you.” There is a reason the transit system’s motto is “If you see something, say something.” We have to be reminded to get out of our cocoons.

Try me Nigga!

It is still unclear who he is talking to. No one is engaged. I scan the car to see if he is actually addressing someone and I don’t see any acknowledgment from my fellow hostages. I say hostage because we are on an express train and relief is delayed. Also, if you acknowledge by getting up and walking away, you run the risk of becoming the target. I decide I need to see what my seatmate looks like. I quickly glance to my right. My seatmate is a Latino man in his 30’s, wearing dark sunglasses.  Despite the big sunglasses, I can see a star tattoo near his eye peeking from behind. That’s all the information, I could gather in my 20-second scan. I turn back and face forward. He didn’t notice me.

Nigga, you want to hold me. Hold me down like Rodney King. Try me Nigga. TRY….. ME….

Girl Power Nigga!

Girl Power….

Fuck that shit Nigga!

We reach the next stop and a woman tried to sit in the seat in front of us. Our subway kidnapper slams his feet on the seat as she is about to sit down. The woman quickly scoots to the seat next to it.

Nigga naw, naw Nigga!

He continues ranting and I keep my music on full blast, but I can still hear Nigga being thrown around.

The woman gets off at the next stop. The doors stay open for a while and she stands on the platform. It becomes clear to me she got off because of my seatmate. My seatmate is still ranting shifts towards me in the seat and then screams “Fat Bitch.” I assume he was talking to me, but I ignore and then he slams his foot on the seat in front of us and takes his shoe off. He starts wiggling his sockless foot around on the seat and pointing it at the man two seats from us. Everyone is still ignoring.  As you can see from the picture above, no one is acknowledging him. That’s his knee. Look at the people across the train. Most have their eyes closed. I can assure you they aren’t sleeping. That’s a coping mechanism.

I snuck the picture. I couldn’t get one of his face. I am a journalist, but I am no Christiane Amanpour and getting a picture of his face seemed one step too close to danger. My stop was the next stop, but the time in between 125 and 59th street is at least 8-9 minutes. I hold my breath and hope I can make it. Then I realize, I have to ask him to move his leg, so I can get off. How will I accomplish this? We pass 72nd street and I brace myself. My stop is next. Will I have to talk to him? Will he rage out.

We reach 59th street, I stand up and miraculously as the door opens my kidnapper puts his leg down and releases me. I run out of the car before he changes his mind. The car quickly fills up with more unsuspecting hostages. I turn around and wish them luck as the train leaves the station.

Prince and Me

On my eighth birthday, my brother bought me my first grown up record, Prince’s Purple Rain. Chris being five years older was my style and pop culture guru. I remember opening the magical record and immediately running upstairs to play it. I played it over and over again for weeks. That is until Darling Nikki came on during Saturday morning chore time. Over the roar of the vacuum, my father clued in to the lyrics. Let’s just say it didn’t go well.

Dad: What is that filth!!!!

Me: It’s my birthday present from Chris. (Wrong Answer)

Dad: Chris! Why would you buy that filth for your sister?

Chris: It’s just Prince.

Dad: Turn it off immediately!

I was too young and sheltered to understand what Prince was singing. My brother was too. Strangely, my father never took the record away. So, I went into hiding and played it when he wasn’t home. I was pretty adept at hiding contraband media. I watched Good Times and What’s Happening everyday, despite both shows being banned from our home.

Prince became an obsession of mine. He was so weird and small. I was always weird and small. He fascinated me with his confidence in his weirdness. I was always a bit of an outsider for various reasons and I felt like Prince was too. The next summer my Aunt Lucy invited me to visit her in Minneapolis. Prince was from Minneapolis, maybe I would see him. Maybe we would dance together.

Aunt Lucy planned a full week. She even found me a buddy. Shitona is the daughter of my Aunt’s friend Sharon. She was 12 and I was 8 and although our age difference was huge in kid years, we had a lot of fun swimming, going out to eat and canoeing.

The big excursion for the week was a trip to the amusement park. We were going as a big group with Angelique’s daughter Brooke. Angelique was another one of my Aunt’s friends. On our way to their house, my Aunt told us that Angelique’s boyfriend was the drummer in one of Prince’s protegé bands. He was driving us to the park. I didn’t know what to do with that information. It was overload. Too much. I would be 1 degree away from Prince. Shitona didn’t seem fazed with this new information. I guess growing up in Minneapolis Prince doesn’t faze you.

When we got to the house, I was nervous. I wanted my questions answered, but I tried to play it cool. Eventually I just asked about the band and Angelique showed me a copy of her boyfriend’s album. They were all dressed in fluorescent spandex. This really seemed promising.

Brooke and Shitona hit it off immediately. They sort of excluded me. Shitona was fascinated by Brooke and ready to drop me. Now, I was too young for her taste. I didn’t care, the drummer was coming with us. I tried to ask Brooke about him, but she just rolled her eyes. I didn’t care. He knew Prince, so how bad could he be. I was about to find out. The drummer finally showed up. I was less than impressed and Brooke was making fun of his outfit, almost to his face.  To be fair, she was right. He had a curly mullet, was wearing white jazz shoes, white nylon dress socks, red and white striped very short running shorts and a mesh tank top. With one look at this outfit, I had a hard time believing Prince hung out with this dude. 

Prince is not hanging out with jazz shoes.

Prince wears interesting costumes, but jazz shoes and white dress socks are not something he would approve of.  Anyway we got in Jazz Shoes gangster door, white sedan and drove to the park. When we got to the park, Brooke, Shitona and some of Brooke’s friends ditched. I was left with my Aunt and Jazz Shoes. I was embarrassed, not because the older girls ditched me, but because I was with a guy that knew my musical idol and he was wearing jazz shoes. The indignity of walking around an amusement park with a guy dressed like a reject from an Olivia Newton John video still burns decades later. What’s worse is he wouldn’t answer my questions about Prince. He seemed annoyed if I even mentioned his name. I got nothing for my embarrassment. 

It was a hard lesson to learn at eight. Even Prince has poorly dressed nerdy friends.

The Lion King of 190th

I miss my old neighborhood. I am really homesick for Bed Stuy. It’s fall and the trees on Jefferson Ave are gold and red. The street lights illuminate them in a way that makes the leaves look like twinkle lights.

Twinkle Trees Bed Stuy Trees

The sun as it’s setting lights up the brownstones in such a magical way. But all that beauty can’t match, the beauty in the people who live there.

Brownstones

I desperately miss the people. They grounded me. I used to be just a stoop away from a surrogate mother. In Bed Stuy, I was never alone and that may have hindered my writing. When I was procrastinating, it was really easy to sit on the stoop and chat the evening away with Miss Barbara. When I was feeling ugly, I would walk to the Bodega.  One of the old men who hung out at the candy store next to the Bodega would tell me how beautiful I was. It’s like they knew exactly what I needed when I needed it. A whole house of my best friends was around the corner. I may have not seen them every weekend, but they were right there.

The new neighborhood is not built to be communal in the same way. It’s more like the burbs. We know our neighbors to say hi, but have no idea what is happening in each other’s lives. If I don’t go to the grocery store, I may not speak to another human in the flesh for an entire weekend. During difficult times, it’s really lonely.

That’s why Bubakar has become such an important person in my life. Bubakar sells newspapers at the intersection of the elevators and the ramp at the 190th street subway station. It’s the perfect place to sell papers and to greet everyone on their way to work. When I get off the elevator, he says “Good Morning” with the biggest smile. He is missing one of his front teeth, but it doesn’t take away from his beauty. He’s probably in his late 50’s, with perfect dark brown skin.  His booming voice sounds like James Earl Jones in the Lion King.    

When I get off the elevator, he yells “run” if the train is on its way or if I just missed a train, I am met with “Don’t Rush.” On the days when I don’t have to rush, we chit chat a bit and he gives me a damaged paper for free.  As I am walking away, no matter if I am running or had to time to stop for a chat he screams “Have a nice day,” as I am walking away. It’s the best way to be greeted in the morning. I hate the mornings when I don’t see him.

India pt.1

India has 28 states with 22 official languages and 758 non-official languages. The food differs across states, religions and regions. It’s cuisine is as diverse as it’s people. I had the fortune to grow up with the traditional foods of Kerala, a state in the southwest corner of the Indian peninsula.  My other mother is from Kerala.  From birth to seven my other family, The Drs Berger (Sosamma and Nate) and their children lived next door. The two families were more like one big family. There were five children between the two houses (Chris, Josh, Ravi, Me and Sarina).  The youngest three (Me, Sarina and Ravi) were inseparable.  We spent our days running in and out of the two houses, tearing across the lawns and generally being nuisances to our older brothers.  When meal time arrived, we sat down at the nearest table and were fed. I spent a good portion of my early childhood eating Southern Indian food.  Sambar, Pappadums, vadas too many dishes to name.  Vadas were always a favorite snack of mine.  It’s a south Indian fritter that can be made from lentils, chickpeas or yellow pigeon peas. There are at least a dozen types of vadas, but I grew up on Parippu vadas.  They are made from yellow pigeon peas, chiles and spices.  Spicy, crispy and comforting, they are the perfect snack after a hard day of playing.

When I was seven the Bergers moved to Cleveland.  It was a total heartbreak for everyone, but we kept in touch.  So much so, that when Sarina and I were twelve, Dr. Berger asked my parents if she could take me to India for summer vacation. My parents agreed and that summer I was off on the biggest adventure of my life. When we landed in Mumbai, my brain went on overload.  The traffic was insane, the poverty intense and the beauty was overwhelming.  Nothing in my short life prepared me for this.

The food was also an adjustment.  My morning cereal came with goat’s milk and hamburgers were made of lamb.  It was just different.   Although I spent the first part of my childhood eating traditional Southern Indian fare, that did not prepare me for the food in Mumbai.  Our first night we went to a fancy restaurant with family.   I had no idea what was coming, but then the waiters arrived with two brightly orange colored chickens. I learned very quickly the magic of butter chicken.  The taste was so heavenly, Sarina and I each ate an entire chicken a piece. We spent the next three days going to sari palaces, dressmakers and taking in the sights.

We flew to Cochin in Kerala the morning of our fourth day.  Uncle Kunjappan met us at the airport and drove us three hours to their village.  Along the way, I watched the landscape change from jungle to village to red rock and back again.  The Keralan countryside was everything Mumbai was not, quiet and peaceful, but as we traveled deeper into the countryside, I felt like we were getting farther and farther from everything I recognized.  We arrived at Uncle Kunjappan’s house in the late afternoon.  It was a mid century dream nestled among the rubber trees and a flowing river that ran past the property.  Sarina and I shared a room on the main floor that opened onto the indoor pool.  The whole house was open, birds flew in and out freely and at night lizards ran on the walls and ceilings. When Sarina and I were bored, we chose lizards and pretended they were in a race.

The first night Isaac, the cook, made a traditional American meal to greet us.  Pot Roast, french fries and mixed vegetables.  I was a little homesick, so it was a welcome taste from home.

We spent the next three weeks hanging with Appachan Sarina’s 100 year old Grandpa.  He didn’t speak much English and we didn’t speak any Malayalam, but we communicated in other ways, mostly through food and physical comedy.   He insisted that we learn how to eat with our hand.  By the end of our visit, we were masters.

We spent the rest of our time, visiting family.  Uncle Johnny and Aunt Mary, Uncle George and too many cousins to mention.  Every time we went to a new house, a large platter of vadas greeted us.  Sometimes they also served banana fritters, but I wasn’t as concerned with those.  Vadas were my connection to home and to India all at the same time.  India changed my life and vadas were my connection to the two worlds.

 

Rasputin and Annie

The first day I went to work from new apartment, I ran into Rasputin and Annie on the subway platform. I was standing at the end underneath some water damage, when I looked to my left. There was an early thirtiesh couple walking towards me. The man, Rasputin, was skinny, pale, had a Rasputinesque beard and long stringy brown hair.   He was wearing a vintage leather trench coat, jeans and a floppy newsboy cap. He looked like the 70’s version of Rasputin.  Annie, his girlfriend, was dressed like Diane Keaton in Annie Hall.  High waisted pants, a silk blouse with high neckline and a leather vest. Her pants were rolled to the top of her granny boots.

They stopped just past me on the platform. I kept one eye on them, while we waited, because Rasputin had weird jerky movements. He was moving way too much for a Monday morning.  The train came and I got on through the second door and they got on at the next.  The car was basically empty, but Rasputin ran in frantically, stood in the aisle and stared at the empty seats.  His eyes were moving back and forth analyzing every open seat. He was paralyzed by all the choices. This is very strange behavior for a New Yorker, because we all have a favorite seat on the subway. I like a window seat facing backwards. When normal New Yorkers get on the subway and see their favorite seat is empty, they quickly put their derriere in it. There is no standing around gaping. Gaping is for tourists. I got tired of waiting for Rasputin to resolve the crisis in his head, so I chose the backward facing window seat to his right. He gave me a look like I cheated him and I gave him a look like “Oh well.” Rasputin and Annie sat across the aisle from me giggling the whole way. I put on my headphones and wrote.

The car filled to capacity at the next stop and remained at capacity all the way to 59th street, my stop. As we were pulling into the station, I gathered my stuff and started to think about making my way through the crowd. Rasputin started pushing his way to the doors while the train was still moving. He crawled over people’s legs, pushed past the people holding the poles creating confusion and annoying everyone along the way. When the doors opened he frantically ran out of the subway car. But, when he got to the middle of the platform he seemed confused. He started walking one way and then suddenly came back in the other direction.  He looked like he was participating in a modern dance performance because he kept going back and forth down the platform with really exaggerated movements. He was sort of leaping and flailing his arms. I was completely fascinated, but I needed to get to work.  I ran upstairs and headed for the escalator.  As I was riding up, Rasputin ran past me with confidence.  Unfortunately the confidence was not to last, because when I got to the top, he was confused again. He had gone in the wrong direction and come back.  I passed him on the sidewalk trying to work it out. I normally help lost people on the street, but Rasputin’s problems seemed more extensive than a quick, “Hey go straight and then make a left at the next block.”

Rasputin and Annie have become regulars in my life.  Rasputin continues to struggle with directions at 59th street.

Moving to the other side of the Earth

The best part of living in NYC is the people. If you aren’t meeting new people everyday, you are wasting your time here. When I move to a new neighborhood, part of my adjustment period is finding my regulars. The people I see everyday, that will become the foundation of my life. They become part of my routine, no matter how annoying. I have found a few in Washington Heights. There’s Rasputin and Amelia Earhart, the newspaper guy with the Lion King voice and Julio the Super.

I met Julio on one of my visits to measure my new apartment. I was walking back to the subway when he stopped me on the sidewalk. Julio is an attractive middle-aged man with a full head of silver-grey hair.

Julio: Habla espanol.
Me:Un poquito
Julio: Usted Dominicana?
Me: No

Now that I live in a Dominican area, everyone thinks I am Dominican. Unfortunately, my high school Spanish doesn’t get me very far. I get the sideeye more often than not, like I am letting my people down. I see the disgust in their faces. There is usually some awkward exchange where I try to explain that I am black from the midwest in broken Spanish.  Sometimes people believe me and sometimes they don’t, but that’s not the point of this story. Back to Julio.

Julio: My name is Julio. You live here now? I haven’t seen you around before.
Me: Almost, I am Cara.
Julio: Well, I am the super for this building right here.
Me: Ok great
Julio: Where do you live?
Me: Over there.  (I point down the hill, but without a definitive direction.)
Julio: Oh on Fort Washington?
Me: Yes, near there. (Which is the truth, but not really specific.)
Julio: Can I get your phone number? (Julio is very clearly wearing a wedding ring.)
Me: Oh I have a boyfriend
Julio: But we could just be friends (Friends=Booty Call)
Me: Um I don’t think my boyfriend would appreciate me giving you my phone number. But it was lovely meeting you.
Julio: Oh,ok
Me: Bye
Julio: See you soon.

I walked away knowing that Julio was still staring at me and that we were going to have similar conversations in the future. I wasn’t wrong.

Three weeks after I moved in, I met Julio again.  I was rushing to the subway on my way to work, per usual. The garbage was lining the streets and the trash truck was slowly picking up all the old furniture and rotting trash from the weekend. I looked over and caught eyes with a portly black man in a building uniform.  I smiled and kept walking.  He ran over and stood in my path.

Derrick: Hi, I am Derrick
Me: Nice to meet you, I am Cara.

Then Julio ran up from out of nowhere and stood next to Derrick and then I realized what happened.  I had been trapped.  Derrick was sent by Julio to stop me until he could get there. Derrick is Julio’s assistant in the building as well as in trapping ladies on the street.

Julio:  Hi, remember me?  We met a couple of weeks ago.
Me: Yes, how are you?
(Derrick was standing there with a stupid grin on his face just staring at me.)
Julio: Great! You moved in?

Me: Yes, thank you. It was great seeing you.  I am a little late to work.
Julio: Well see you soon.

I ran down the block to the subway station and that little exchange caused me to miss the train. I watched as my dreams of being on time, pull out of the station.

This week I ran into Julio again.  I often wear my noise canceling headphones to block out the outside world. They are usually my protection.  I was almost at the entrance of subway when I felt someone next to me.  I looked to my left and Julio was walking with me trying to get my attention.  I jumped a little and took off my headphones.

Julio: I have been calling you.
Me: I can’t hear anything with these on.
Julio: Are you on your way to work?
Me: Yes
I kept walking, because I was really late. (Disclaimer:I had been working since 7am.)
Julio: Ok, I will catch you on the way back. When will you be back here?
Me: Oh 6 or 7.
Julio: Ok, well I will see you then.
Me: Ok

I get home at 8pm and had no intention of meeting Julio on the way back. But, I am sure I will see Julio a lot while I live here.

 

London, The Cleaners pt. 1

EastEndersDuring my junior year of college I lived abroad in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, South Kensington, London. Sounds fancy and it was, sort of. Princess Diana, lived at the end of my street, but we also had an elderly, semi-homeless drunk couple, who drank tall boys from brown paper bags on the steps of the neighborhood church. We never knew what their names were, but their terrier was named Tommy. The man screamed Tommeee, Tommey, Tommey in between swigs of beer. His wife was a sad woman, who often had black eyes.

Our section of South Kensington was also the foreign student ghetto. The block was full of townhouses converted into hostels, budget hotels and dorms. There were a few actual homes dotted in between. Lycee Francais Charles de Gaulle was down the street. Lourdes Leon was a student while we were there. We were hoping for a Madonna sighting, but all we got was Hugh Grant. Hugh Grant was a big deal then. He was the talk of the town. We heard rumors of him being nasty to fans, so we didn’t approach. We just whispered behind his back in the corner store, while he bought skittles.

My dorm was filled with the United Nations. The majority of the students were from Japan, but there were also students from Hong Kong, Bangladesh, Nigeria, Belarus, Russia, Jordan, Pakistan and us, the Americans. By the second month, it didn’t matter where we were from, we were all partying together.

Our second night in the dorm, the school hosted a meet and greet boozer. The Americans, Zohair and Maen went as a group to the party. I hadn’t been in London that long, but I was drunk for most of it.  This night was no exception. The alcohol flowed freely at the school sponsored function and we all got a bit rowdy, including the Dean.

The party ended at 9, but our crew wanted to continue the celebration so we walked back home with the addition of a straggler named Muhammed. Zohair had promised to let him sleep in his dorm room.  When we got home I went to my bedroom, which was right off the front hall. Muhammed followed me talking non-stop. Everyone else dispersed to their bedrooms to drop off their stuff, before we continued the party in my room. Let’s just say I got played. No one came back and Zohair conveniently locked Muhammad out of his room. Muhammed and I banged on Zohair and Maen’s door, but no one answered.  Which is how I ended up with a leather panted overnight guest, whom I barely knew.

Muhammed continued to talk non-stop. While he was rambling on, I laid my duvet on the floor, so he would have somewhere to sleep. Apparently, the threat of sleeping on the floor is the only thing that could get his attention. He immediately started complaining about his back and how he couldn’t sleep on the floor. His back would be a nightmare the next day… blah blah blah. I being the naïve girl said fine, you can share my bed.

In addition to his leather pants, Muhammed was also wearing a silk shirt and square toed boots. He was decked out in his 90’s finest.  It was a little too much, even for back then.

I made some ground rules for sleeping in my bed.  They are as follows.

1.  He had to take off the weird leather pants.

2. He had to sleep over the sheet, but could sleep under the duvet.

3. There would be no touching of any kind.

Muhammed took off his leather pants and his silk shirt, to reveal his tighty whities and wife beater undershirt. He turned out the lights, got into bed and almost immediately fell asleep. Muhammed snored so loud, the bed vibrated.  He was also not a restful sleeper, so I spent the night being shoved up against the wall. He rolled on top of me a couple times and I thought I was going to suffocate from the weight. He was a hefty kid. Frustrated, I kicked him hard in the back a couple of times, but he didn’t budge or skip a note of snoring.  I finally fell asleep as the sun was rising. About twenty minutes later, I awoke to a commotion in the hallway. There was a lot of screaming and banging and I didn’t recognize the voices. I also didn’t really care, I was exhausted. Muhammed was still snoring.  Suddenly, a tiny English woman who looked like she belonged on the cast of East Enders came bursting through the door screaming “Time to change your sheets.”  She had a cigarette hanging from her lips and a polyester dayglow smock over her clothes.  I kicked Muhammed in his back, trying to rouse him from his snoring slumber. He finally woke up startled and jumped out of the bed in his tighty whities.  She screamed “Cheeky Monkey” and wagged her arthritic veiny hand at me. Muhammed was trying to get his leather pants back on, but leather is not something you just jump into. It’s more of a grinding motion.  She continued with “I know what you were doing last night.”  I denied it, which only made her laugh harder. This was the beginning of my relationship with the cleaners at 86 Queensgate.

 

Too much Facebook leads to envy and depression

CNNMoney, New York, NY.

Constantly checking Facebook to see what your friends are doing could lead to some serious depression.

A recent study conducted by researchers at Nanyang Technological University, Bradley University and the University of Missouri Columbia found that heavy Facebook (FB, Tech30) users can experience envy — which can ultimately lead to extreme sadness.

The researchers surveyed 736 college students and found that, basically, if you quietly stalk your friends on Facebook and then realize that your life doesn’t measure up to theirs, you feel bad about yourself.

“If Facebook is used to see how well an acquaintance is doing financially or how happy an old friend is in his relationship — things that cause envy among users — use of the site can lead to feelings of depression,” said Margaret Duffy, a professor at the University of Missouri School of Journalism.

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