Photo Essay: Saarinen's TWA Terminal, JFK - Exterior

I've been a dedicated attendee of Open House New York ever since its inception in 2003, so much so that I named it the sole reason I would return to NYC after nine months away.

A year or two ago, I emailed the OHNY organizers to request a future site: the old TWA terminal at JFK, designed by architect and industrial Eero Saarinen, as well-known for the "tulip chair" as for the St. Louis Gateway Arch.

This year, upon my return to NYC, my request was granted.

When I asked for access to the Trans World Flight Center, I knew it had fallen into disrepair, and plans to incorporate it into the new JetBlue Terminal 5 had been aborted. A visit would be true urban exploration. But by the time I got to it, it had been partially restored, all three red letters on the outside now lit at night.

These are photos from the flight center's exterior. Interior shots to follow.


























I flew in and out of T5 so many times last year, criss-crossing the country to set the stage for my future move to LA. The sight of the gull-winged building was as much a beacon of home as a sendoff to my new home.

So upon my return to New York City, it was more than well-worth an extra trip back to JFK - after flying in on a redeye Friday morning and flying out Monday afternoon - to finally get access to it.


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Setting Priorities

There’s a ton to do in New York City - art, culture, history, architecture, theater - but somehow I have always spent most of my time there eating and drinking.

I had ambitious plans for this past weekend, a special weekend of activities and architectural tours throughout all five boroughs, but when it came down to it, I only had so much time. And a lot of food to eat. And a lot of people to see.

With all that New York has to offer a visitor like me, I had to set some priorities.

I went straight to my eye doctor’s office, whose optician I have loved since we first met in 1997.

I went blind to lunch with a married friend whose job and domestic New Jersey life as a dad would prevent him from sharing any nightlife with me.

I crammed 12 people at a table for 10 at Arturo’s, a restaurant that doesn’t take weekend reservations but delivered every bit of wine, garlic bread, clams, salad and pizza we asked for with a wink and a smile. I struggled to shout over the noise of the restaurant and our table, losing my voice with every sip of wine. I worried about neglecting those who didn’t know the rest of the table very well. I probably ordered too much food. But at some point, I stopped worrying about catching everybody up on everything that has happened in the last nine months, and just enjoyed the laughter and ebullience.

The next day, after paddling the Bronx River Estuary, I could’ve rushed to visit more Open House New York sites in Queens and Roosevelt Island, but instead I took the quick ride to Upper Manhattan to meet a friend at the new Dinosaur BBQ for lunch. For years, he’d invited me to meet him there (well, at the old one), his apartment conveniently nearby. I’d always declined. I wasn’t sure why - I loved him, and I loved the restaurant - but I knew I regretted it. I had some making up to do. And I finally got to see his apartment, a huge part of his life and a huge source of pride for him.

A couple hours later, I crammed another 10 people at a busy Williamsburg restaurant (a few repeats from the night before) and hoped I’d do a better job of catching up.

After we paid our bill and filtered out onto the sidewalk, I sheepishly told the group, “Michelle and I are going to Whiskey Brooklyn now. Anyone can join if they want, but don’t feel obligated to go…” I was being selfish. I wanted to recapture a sliver of my notorious New York nightlife, and I wasn’t sure anyone wanted to witness that, much less partake in the cocktail of 80s music, dancing, and pickleback shots.

To my surprise, a whole bunch of them did.

When we got there, I went straight for my favorite spot at the bar, even though there was no seat there and not enough room for our entire group. For a few minutes, Michelle and I stood there, hoping it would open up. It didn’t.

And so I looked around at the bar, at all the faces I didn’t recognize both behind it and on my side of it. I didn’t care about any of these people. I didn’t need to know any of these people. I would probably never see any of these people again.

I then looked over at my friends, standing against a brick wall in a little clearing in the crowd. They shifted their stances. They sipped their drinks. And they looked around.

“Come on, let’s go,” I said to Michelle, heading for the rest of the group.

And we spent the rest of the night dancing, screaming, singing, and sloshing pickle juice and whiskey, reminiscing about old times and making new memories.

Even at the sacrifice of more tourism and urban exploration, I still didn’t get to see everybody. Even with the addition of a Sunday night happy hour, I didn’t get to spend as much time with people as I wanted.

But how much can you really do in just three days?

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Photo Essay: Bronx River Estuary Paddle

Ever since I attempted the urban hike down the Bronx section of the Bronx River - and spent most of my time crossing the street and hanging out under highways rather than even seeing the river's shore - I've wanted to navigate it in some kind of vessel.

I'd had a couple of opportunities to paddle it in the past but they never worked out for one reason or another.

So when I was plotting out my schedule for Open House New York - this year as a visitor instead of a resident, with a very restricted window of time - I reserved my spot to canoe the Bronx River rather than tour any number of buildings or infrastructural facilities.



I once again returned to Concrete Plant Park, which was finally open to the public. I once again wished I'd seen it before its restoration.




The boat launch is just across the river from ABC Carpet & Home...

...and we were outfitted with lifejackets, paddles, and a quick lesson before we launched.



We three had a little trouble paddling through the gusts and the tide. We had a little trouble steering. We had a little trouble maintaining a sunny disposition despite how remarkably the weather had recovered from the prior day's rain.



But we made it under a number of bridges and overpasses...



...through trash-strewn tree branches and bramble...











...and past a bright display of fall foliage, anachronistic amongst all the industrial wreckage and floating trash that surrounded us.







The Bronx River may not be dirty, but it's full of trash.

And the pedestrians crossing the river overhead stopped to gawk and call out to us.



They must've thought we were crazy.



I even got out of the canoe and into the river at the turnaround point, to take a break from paddling and take the middle "Princess Seat" from which I could document the trip. My bare legs were mud-streaked the rest of the afternoon.



I was glad to cross another NYC activity off my bucket list, but I thought the trip was more significant than that. Not only did I choose to be outdoors and exercising, but I also managed to get myself to bed early enough and abstain from partying enough to actually make it there in the morning - probably the one thing that always prevented me from being able to take such a trip when I lived in New York.

Related Reading:
A Futile Search for the Bronx River Greenway
A Long Walk By the River
Photo Essay: The Bronx River's Northernmost Pathway
Photo Essay: Race Against Time Along the Bronx River

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A Place Where I Used to Live

I felt anxious the entire way to the Burbank airport for my Thursday night redeye to New York, but I thought the anxiety would subside once I got on the plane.

It didn’t.

I thought my anxiousness would dissipate once I landed at JFK Friday morning.

It didn’t.

I rolled my luggage towards the taxi stand – thankfully empty at 5:30 a.m. – and the attendant, as though straight out of a 1980s sitcom, grumbled at me, “Where ya goin’, kid?”

“Manhattan,” I declared.

“Manhattan it is!”

I got into the cab with a young dreadlocked driver, just starting his 12-hour shift for the day. He misunderstood “34th and Park” as “34th and 1st” more than once.

We breezed down the Van Wyck, the Grand Central and the LIE to the Midtown Tunnel, and I didn’t even look for the red flashing lights at the top of the New York State Pavilion in Flushing Meadows Corona Park.

When it occurred to me that I’d missed them, I realized the one prevailing truth of my trip: I wasn’t coming home; I was just visiting a place where I used to live.

I crept into my friends’ apartment at 6 a.m., changed into my pajama shorts, and crawled onto their couch, which they’d made into a bed. With only 20 minutes of winks caught on the flight out, I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. It was bright, the lights of a thousand skyscrapers beaming into their midtown bay windows. It was noisy, the sound of traffic and trucks and mechanics and industry blaring through their open windows.

I strapped an eye mask over my head, held a pillow at my side, and exhaled, trying to empty my brain of the thoughts that wanted to invade it, my ears of the sounds that they could not avoid. Finally, I drifted off…

My alarm woke me up at 10:30 a.m. – the same equivalent time it wakes me up every day in LA – and I was ready to tackle the city. When I left at the end of January, I’d been on the defensive for years. Upon my return this weekend, I was determined to not even notice anything that would require a staunch defense. I sauntered across the street, impervious to the corner-turning cabs and stroller-pushing pedestrians. I sat waiting in the chair at the eye doctor’s office, neglected and unaffected. I let them dye my eyes orange, numb and dilate them. I arrived to lunch a half hour late and blind. I required the waitress read the menu to me.

I survived the 6 train ride to the East Village, my first time anywhere underground except a mine shaft since January. I braved the chaos of the Russian Turkish Baths, sat in a sauna so hot my lips burned, and plunged into a pool so cold my pelvis froze. I was downright affable.

Until the rain hit.

“Ugh, I hate New York,” I said.

“Oh it’s not so bad…See?” Edith said as she gestured up to the sky. “There’s blue sky over there. “

“I can’t see it,” I said through my squint. “I see black clouds here” – pointing overhead – “and white clouds there,” pointing to the distance.

Putting her palm outside of her umbrella to test the rain, she smiled and said, “Oh, I forgot. They blinded you earlier.”

“I still don’t think I’d be able to see it,” I grumbled.

My legs were soaked, feet sliding into flip flops, umbrella dripping all over me, and I looked around at the crowd by Madison Square Park, who held their ground with the onset of the rain. No one ran away. They barely broke out their umbrellas, instead just moving in closer together under the public table umbrellas despite seats getting soaked and food getting cold.

“And the amazing thing is,” I said, “Is that New Yorkers don’t seem to care. This doesn’t seem to bother anyone at all.”

“But,” I continued, “I never could stand the rain. Even when I lived here, the slightest bit of rain sent me straight into cab to work.”

A few minutes later, as Edith predicted, the rain let up quickly enough to allow us to walk back to her apartment, get ready, and go back out to take the subway to my first big reunion dinner.

Another Friday night in New York City, after thousands of others. I could do this.

Right?

But would I turn back into the same person I’d been when I left, just like the first time I returned to my parents’ house after a year at college?

Or would I be able to stay Californian in a city so self-obsessed it can’t see beyond the tip of its own concrete nose?

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Not My Kind of Friend

“Where do you live?” I asked a friend of a friend, who I’d just met. It was his birthday and he was really celebrating, and his jovial attitude made me want to engage him in conversation.

“Palm Desert,” he said, sheepishly.

“I hope you’re not driving home tonight!” I said, gesturing towards the cocktail he gripped in his hand as his lids drooped and knees bounced up and down.

To my relief, he explained that he’d come up to Hollywood for his birthday and was crashing here for the night.

“Oh you know I’m going to be down in Palm Springs on Halloween weekend,” I mentioned, even though I’ve been considering cancelling my trip in favor of whatever festive opportunities might present themselves here.

“Well we should hook up!” he said, “Here take my number.”

And I did. I was grateful at the prospect to have someone else to hang out with. I still feel really new in town, and in the short time that I’ve lived here, plenty of friends have already come and gone. During my last trip to the desert, things went a bit sour with a friend who cancelled our very platonic dinner plans and then tried to show up to my hotel room in the middle of the night with a bottle of wine - despite his wife and children. So I was hopeful in making a new friend to keep me company when I inevitably return down desert.

“OK cool thanks,” I said, as I plugged the number into my phone.

“You better give me your number too…” he said, leaning in.

“Okay…”

“No really, you should give me your number, and you should hurry,” he urged, eyes shifting around the room. I noticed his wife was no longer sitting on the barstool behind him. Had she gone to the ladies’ room?

“Six four six…” I started, rattling off my old New York number that I’ve refused to give up despite my new West Coast address.

He came in even closer. “Maybe we should hang out sooner than that. Maybe I’ll call you sooner…”

I sneered. And then, always eager to please, I smiled. “Okay…”

His wife returned for a quick consultation, and then they both got up off of their barstools and started to collect their things. I put my hand out to shake, and he leaned in and said, “You know I’ll give it to you good, right?”

“Um, okay, sure.”

I knew he would want to. I knew he would try.

For the next hour or two, I received a series of text messages that postured sexual prowess and then pleaded to see me the next day.

“Sorry I’m in New York City this weekend, back Monday,” I responded. “Besides, you’ve got your wife to deal with.”

“Forget her,” he wrote. I didn’t reply.

“So Monday then?” I didn’t reply.

“Tonight?” I didn’t reply.

The text messages subsided, and I hoped that the birthday boy had ceased his celebrations and retired for the evening. I went home and did the same.

But when I woke up in the morning, I saw that I’d missed a 2:30 a.m. message: “Hello?”

I bet that he wouldn’t even remember any of it. Enough alcohol can make people do bad things. And nothing good happens between 2 and 4 a.m.

Twelve hours later, the text messages began again – at first innocently enough, complaining of overdoing it the night before, not enough sleep, the resulting hangover.

And then the propositions resumed.

“Just looking for a friend,” I wrote, “Don’t need to sneak around any more wives/girlfriends. Enough of that already.” It seems like the only guys that are interested in me are those who are otherwise occupied.

“Friends with benefits,” he suggested.

I stood my ground. “I don’t need to be another guy’s other woman, sorry.” It was easy because I barely knew him. It was easy because I wasn’t dying for it. It was easy because there’s someone else’s boyfriend who I’d much rather have. I’d rather just pine after him.

“I hear ya. See ya around.”

And then it was over.

I felt stupid and naïve for trying to make new friends, for putting my misanthropic, antisocial nature aside to embrace optimism in humanity. I felt stupid for thinking a guy in a bar would want anything from me other than to sleep with me.

I wondered why I’m such a magnet for cheaters – both guys who cheat on me and guys who want to cheat on their girlfriends and wives with me.

And then I wondered, are there any guys who aren’t cheaters?

“It’s just so f’ing slimey!” Michelle complained when I told her my story. “Why are so many dudes slime?”

“Because girls let them,” I wrote.

And I hoped that maybe turning this one dastardly dude down would help stop the vicious cycle of enabling bad behavior. But turning this one dude down doesn’t make up for all the times I didn’t turn other dudes down. And just because I wouldn’t do it doesn’t mean he won’t find some other girl who will.

Because I’m not special, and neither are they. We’re not selected because of who we are. We’re chosen because they think we’ll be willing.

And sometimes I am. But not this time, and not anytime soon.

Related:
Pacific Standards

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Upon My First Trip Back to New York

I've been nervous about my first trip back to New York City for some time now. (Note that I didn't say "home to New York City," for that city has not felt like home for years.)

But now I sit in anticipation of a redeye flight to JFK, and my stomach is in knots.

I don't want to leave LA.

I've left LA plenty of times since moving here - to visit Joshua Tree, Palm Springs, Big Sur, San Diego, Anza-Borrego, Mono Lake, Vegas, etc. - but something about this trip recalls too closely the times last year when I visited LA, when I fell in love with LA, when I fell in love in LA, and had to leave and return to New York.

I never wanted to leave LA then.

I always wanted to come back to LA then.

A part of me thinks that I could never return to New York City again, pretend that it doesn't exist anymore, that it never existed, and maintain a perfectly wonderful existence. That is, if the place were only a place.

But New York City is more than its claustrophobic skyscrapers and subways, its pollution, bad weather, bad attitude, and endless nightlife.

For those of us who dedicated a large chunk of our lives to living there, New York is still embodied by the good people we left behind.

I say that I'm returning to New York City for my favorite weekend, Open House New York, but in truth, I wonder whether I'd really go back if there were no good people to experience it with. It's not just about whether I'd have a couch upon which to crash, but what (or who) would really make the trip worth it? I  mean, haven't I seen enough? Is it worth a cross-continental flight (and then a cross-continental return three days later) just to paddle the Bronx River, or tour the old TWA terminal at JFK?

When it comes down to it, the people weren't enough to keep me in New York. I had to leave.

But they're probably enough to keep me coming back.

I guess we'll see after this weekend.

But as I sit here in the Bob's Big Boy in Burbank, a place I love inexplicably, I already can't wait to come back home to LA.

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Facing the Unknown

There are certain things in my life I have known. I knew my parents didn't love me. I knew I would eventually leave their house and never speak to them again. I knew I would go to Colgate University and that I would belong there. I knew who I would be friends with for life.

I knew I would ultimately be alone.

I knew I would get my jobs at Atlantic and Razor & Tie.

I knew Freddy would cheat on me.

I knew Phil and I would never last.

I knew I wouldn't have babies.

I knew when I was done with New York.

I knew which jobs weren't meant to be, even the one that moved me to LA.

I've always known when my period is coming, when I was going to be fired, and when someone was mad at me.

I haven't always known when the bills are due. I haven't always known when I've had too much to drink. I haven't always known how to seal the deal.

But now, I know nothing. I know not where I'm going; I know not where to go. I know not what to do; how to wake up; how to live; how to die.

I know not what the future brings.

I know not what it means.

I only know how I feel, how I love, how I want, how I hope. I only know what I don't know. I know what's not there. I know what hasn't happened.

I know that where I am is where I want to be.

And that's all I can know.

For now.

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Photo Essay: The Faces of Hollywood Forever Cemetery

There's this relatively recent trend - especially among Armenian-Americans, for some reason - of putting your face on your own headstone.

It's a little weird to see the faces of the dead smiling up at you as you walk over their buried bodies.

But there are plenty of other faces in the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, faces frozen in time and in stone, looking over those who have long passed.













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Proceed with Caution

One of the highlights of my entire 14 years in NYC was getting up early in the morning one day last summer, taking Edith's bike out from her 34th Street apartment, and riding it up and down Park Avenue while it was closed to motorized traffic. At 8 a.m. on a weekend day, Park Ave - given the moniker "Summer Streets" - was safe, welcoming, and wide open like never before, all the way up to the 90s, and all the way down to the Brooklyn Bridge.

So when I switched coasts and heard that LA had something similar - the unfortunately named "CicLAvia" - I was thrilled to try it.

But in the flurry of my move and starting a new job, I never got the chance to buy a bike, and I never got the chance to run the shut-down streets of the first CicLAvia.

Fortunately, it returned this weekend.

And I have a bike now.

But I haven't ridden my bike much. I've only just gotten a helmet, and traffic and parked cars still intimidate me - so much so that I wiped out while nervously trying to avoid them on Melrose. I'm terrified to ride at night. And before today, the farthest I'd gone on that bike was probably 2 miles.

So how was I going to get to CicLAvia, mapped through Koreatown, Boyle Heights, Downtown, and other far-flung enclaves of LA?

Throw my bike on the rack of a Metro bus....?

....No, I would have to ride it.

The thought of riding my bike 5.2 miles through the city streets of Los Angeles - which are sometimes terrifying enough to drive through - was so nerve-wracking, I almost aborted mission and bailed on the whole idea.

But I forced myself to go.

Even on relatively traffic-free roads like Oakwood through West Hollywood or 4th Street through Hancock Park, there are plenty of hazards to make a bike ride harrowing: pavement cracks, drainage trenches, palm tree debris, swinging parked car doors, tumbling trash, camouflaging shadows, blinding sunlight, and thick layers of road paint can all trick a wheel, destabilize your grip, and sabotage the ride.

But at CicLAvia, on those wide streets blocked off by cones and police tape, guided by crossing guards and surrounded by first aid stations, water filling stations, food trucks and port-a-potties, the biggest hazard of all was other cyclists.

We rode close and tight, like a wild pack of beasts, menacing and advancing forth, handlebar to handlebar, basket to basket, each bell echoing another in a constant cacophony of metal on metal. Some cyclists wore costumes. Some rode low and hunched; others perched high above in tricked-out frames whose saddles reached the sky. A few towed babies and toddlers; one towed a skateboarder.

I labored and sweat. I smiled and squinted. I pedaled and coasted. I gazed and gawked. There is so much to see in LA, and so much of it you just miss out on by speeding past in a car.

I got over my fears while I floated through the streets of LA on the wave of cyclists, but once I'd gone nearly eight miles and decided to turn back, the trepidation set in again.

How was I going to get home? All the way home?

I retraced my ride, in reverse, repeating the names of streets and recalling the perils of intersections, cross-traffic, and left turns - not to mention the basket-rattling bumps. My return wasn't hazard-free, but it was accident-free, and passed quickly.

Before today, the farthest I've ever gone on a bike was 12 miles, from E. 34th Street to W. 34th Street around the southern tip of Manhattan. Today I conquered nearly 16 miles. Today I conquered my fears.

Next time, I'll have to figure out how to proceed with caution without letting the caution make me a neurotic mess.

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A Season of Holidays

I moved to California at the end of January, when the biggest holiday I had to face for months was Valentine's Day (which was pretty tragic).

I've spent most of this year alone in California, and that's been okay. For the first several months.

But at the end of September, my birthday kicks off a season of holidays that I have to face spending alone, outside of my regular routines that I spent 14 years building in New York.

No after-work birthday happy hour here in LA. I didn't think anyone would come. Most certainly plenty would want to and intend to, but we live in the land of endless desires and best intentions, unrequited love and dreams deferred. As much as I hoped it wouldn't turn out that way, I couldn't bear the thought of spending yet another night sitting at a bar alone - not on my birthday - so I went to Vegas.

And now I face Halloween, a favorite holiday second only to Christmas. No clutching onto friends as we wind through haunted houses or corn mazes. No Halloween night party in my apartment with orange snacks and ridiculous games. I'm shopping for a costume but I don't know where I'll where it or who will see it.

I've often spent Thanksgiving alone, or as an orphan invited to someone else's celebration, from college weekends spent with Jon in Massachusetts to dinners with Michelle and her parents in Manhattan. This year, all the way out here in California, I'm far from almost everyone who would take pity on me, save for one friend who extended a Thanksgiving dinner invitation to me months ago, practically immediately upon my arrival to LA, with one condition: I would have to bring a date. He said it with a wink, and only wishes the best for me, but I really hope that he's kidding.

Thank God I'm managing to go back to Syracuse to spend Christmas with the family that has become mine.

And New Year's? Alone, I'm sure. Naturally.

And once again to face the humiliation of a lonelyhearts Valentine's Day

But these are choices I have made and that I continue to make. I chose to move to the Left Coast, the West Coast, the Best Coast, even though I didn't really have anybody that close out here. I chose to stay out here when I lost the job that relocated me here. And I've waited nine months to return to New York City (a trip which looms next weekend), to let me gestate properly, to become Californian, to prove that I can make it on my own.

I choose not to date people who aren't the right match.

I choose to spare the expense and travel hassle for Thanksgiving, which is really just one day.

I can't always run back. I have to figure out how to live in LA on my own.

I have to make a life of my own. Or find someone to make one with.

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