Gotta Get Away

I was away for the second weekend in a row, and I really needed the respite. Mike's house upstate has become sort of our home-away-from-home, especially now that we've been there a few times.

On our way to Barrytown we made a pitstop in Eric's hometown of Cohoes, which is a town in transition and kind of a curiosity. The "Spindle City" has all these old mills that are being converted into housing and it seemed like all the other buildings had burned down in some horrible fire or another. I'm always curious about Upstate towns given my own Central New York upbringing in Syracuse, but I didn't find a lot of similarities between this Albany suburb and the Syracuse suburbs I'm used to. The houses kind of looked the same - lots of old Victorians and two-family homes - but part of Cohoes is actually an island which seemed totally foreign to me.

I'd like to go back in better weather and check out the view of Cohoes Falls, even though you can only view the waterfall from an observation deck because the banks are so high and dangerous. Plus I like Erie Canal-related history, and this is a good spot for it.

Saturday night we went grocery shopping at Hannaford, which is no Wegman's but it's a damn good supermarket, and Edith and Eric cooked dinner at Mike's house. Now that I'm older, I like that I can appreciate a good night in with friends, drinking wine and eating cheese by a fiery stove, petting the dog and listening to an old Victrola. What could have made it better? Maybe a dip in the hot tub surrounded by snow. But I felt like I was getting sick so better not take my chances.

The winter weather has made me seek out coziness - I think it's why I've been going to Marshall Stack so much - so I've been craving antique Edison bulbs, room temperature beer, and hot bubbling foods. On Sunday morning we caught brunch at Rhinebeck's A Spot of Tea, a lovely restaurant built into a historic home from the late 18th century. Even though we didn't sit by the roaring fire, we did get a warm reception from the waitstaff, and a hot pot of Irish Breakfast tea to boot. I had the chance to try some real English food, which is something I actually missed out on when I lived in England. Back then I was too poor to ever eat out, so I ate meals consisting of very un-English peanut butter, and tomato sandwiches on toast. For every meal. I'm not kidding.

So Sunday I had buck rarebit and a golden raisin scone, so much better than the dry crumbly scones you can get around here.

Taking so much comfort in food has placed me in the very dreaded position of needing to detox again, so as a last hurrah we stopped by Red Robin on the way home. Might as well go out in style with a tower of onion rings.

On my first night of detox, tonight I bought Edy's limited American Idol edition ice cream "Take the Cake," so I can enjoy some yellow cake-flavored treats when detox is over. It's the cheese at the end of the maze for me. I won't break detox to break the seal on the packaging, and when I finally crack it open, I know I won't eat the whole thing, but just having it in the freezer waiting for me gives me something to look forward to. Even though it's too cold out to eat ice cream.

Taxi Ride

I've taken a lot of taxi's in my life. I lived in Brooklyn for 7 years on the G train, and at only four cars long and an infrequent schedule, the train that doesn't even run into Manhattan dictated a cab home late at night (at least, once I made enough money to remotely afford it). Besides, I got tired of falling asleep on the L train.

Before that, I lived in Syracuse with a mother who had a lot of doctor's appointments, and not being a driver herself until I was a teenager (and my father working all day and night at two jobs), my mother hauled my sister and me around in a lot of taxis (the kind you have to call for). Even during my semester abroad in London, I gave in to the calls of "taxi, minicab" on the street after clubbing it now and then, when I was too tired or too drunk for the night bus. Sometimes it was more of an adventure than a double decker bus careening through crooked streets - I took a minicab once when I was lost, despite the fact that the driver chugged a bottle of beer before getting behind the wheel.

Lately I've taken to cabbing it to work nearly every day - I figure getting a little extra sleep is worth the $8 it costs me. Imagine if you could buy sleep.

On Friday I actually tried to avoid a cab in the snowstorm aftermath, but I couldn't get to the Airtrain because of a disruption in service on the E train, so I eventually caught one that was brave enough to drive me to Kennedy. As I mentioned in my previous blog, it was a strange miracle because Leonidas, the cab driver I got, has revealed himself as some kind of Taxi & Limousine Commission Guardian Angel to me - not only rescuing me on Friday, but also once before.

When I was living in Greenpoint, I would often make my way to the corner of Delancey and Essex on the Lower East Side because it was the closest point to the Williamsburg Bridge to catch a cab (and because there's an all night pizza place and McDonald's there). One late night years ago, I was standing on that corner in the middle of an unmitigated blizzard, no cabs, no B39 bus. Finally, one lone cab pulled slowly up and took me all the way home - across the Manhattan Bridge, with Willy B unpassable from snow, and through a million back roads I would've never been able to navigate myself.

My trip with Leonidas to JFK this weekend was similar - he took Queensborough Bridge which is common enough, and then he snaked his way through the Queens streets to Woodhaven which he took practically the entire way to the airport. Along the way we discovered that we had indeed shared a cab ride before, both recalling details of it. I particularly remembered him because during our first ride, he kept asking me, "Are you sure you are not Greek?!"

Of course, getting the same cab driver twice (or the same passenger who actually remembers you) never happens in New York. It seems like the kind of thing that would make you say, "Only in New York..." but it's not true. And the anomaly of it all makes me love taking cabs even more. It makes up for all the drivers who have gotten me lost on the way to Greenpoint, refused to take me to Greenpoint, and generally harrassed me and yelled at me for falling asleep.

Tori Amos - "Taxi Ride"

Back from Boston

I really didn't think the "Valentine's Day Blizzard" was that bad. I mean, I was out in it. It wasn't anything compared to the storm in my heart. Or to the blizzards of my childhood in Upstate New York.

But apparently it was enough to cripple the Northeast, including the area aiports - especially the ill-fated JetBlue, who foolishly tried to continue service during the ice storm. But I thought surely it would be cleared up by Friday when I was flying to Boston. Boy, was I wrong.

I had a hard time even just getting to the airport. No yellow cabs were available, and those that were put their "Off Duty" lights on when they saw my airport-bound bag. All car services had no cars. And the E train stopped running at 53rd/Lex.

I made my way up to 59th St to try to take the R train when I finally found a cab driver who would take me to JFK, and it turns out he had actually saved my butt once before, in another snowstorm no less. Years ago. That never happens in New York. And best of all, we actually remembered each other.

I got to the airport early to jump on an earlier flight just to be safe, but everything was running like two hours late and there were hoards of people sprawled out all over the floor, families who'd been waiting for their flights to the Bahamas. I was one of the lucky ones. I actually got to Boston.

My first night there, Jon and I went to Barbara Lynch's restaurant The Butcher Shop in Boston's South End and pigged out over some ripe cheese, the charcuterie platter, and the Hot Dog a la Maison which is more like a knockwurst. They've got some nice wines there too (including daily specials), and after my travels I was happy for a couple of glasses of a Guwertztraminer.

The best part about visiting Jon is that we don't have to doanything. And, in fact, he lives about an hour outside of Boston so we're not pressured to go sightseeing or shopping or anything. We can hang out. And eat. And drink.

Saturday we took a good wintery drive north towards Concord, stopping by Not Your Average Joe's for lunch in Acton and the Nashoba winery in Bolton for a quick tasting and to grab some bottles of wine. My JetBlue flight back to NYC had been cancelled already (a day in advance) and I had to book my return trip on Amtrak, so I figured I might as well take advantage of being able to take whatever I wanted onto the train (unlike airport security).

Saturday night we made it back into the city for some classic cocktails at Boston's own lovelybar, Eastern Standard, which definitely feels influenced by places like Milk & Honey and the like in New York. At $10 or less for very strong cocktails that are absolutely delicious, and enough room to actually seat a lot of people, it's actually somewhat of an improvement on some of the similar NYC establishments.

After a big French-Cambodian dinner, it's surprising that we were hungry at all for breakfast the next morning, but we stopped into Penny's Place for some good ol' New England dropped eggs (that's poached to you New Yorkers). I resisted the jonny cakes and the chorico (=chorizo) - some more local favorites - but I did get a pancake with locally-grown cranberries which was fan-tastic.

I was actually really happy to be taking the train back. I get so claustrophobic on flights, and hungry and cranky, and I actually quite like Amtrak's cafe car food (like the microwave pepperoni pizza, I know, I'm crazy). Besides, it's a beautiful ride through Connecticut and, with the snow-kissed landscape and frozen-over rivers and ponds, it was quite a scenic ride. And you know what? It departed and arrived on time.

Here are some views out the dirty window:

  

My Day in Court Part II

So quickly after my first court experience, I already got my judgment in the mail! In favor of: claimant (that's me baby).

You'd think that would be good news, but now begins the "long, arduous process" that my arbitrator described of actually collecting my money. I'm going to have to send the debtor a letter first (I'm thinking through their attorney), and if they don't pay after 30 days, I have to send a NYC Marshall or a sheriff over there. And even then, I won't necessarily get paid. I have to file paperwork to prevent them from selling off assets and spending money that's rightfully mine.

If only Ralph Edwards Productions was able to convince the defendant to appear on The People's Court with me, then I would've gotten paid regardless of the final judgment. Of course I was more than willing to appear on cheesy syndicated daytime TV, but I don't even know if they were able to find the people I was suing. I haven't been able to find them. Not recently, anyway.

So here's another research task at hand. Time to do a little digging. This time for a better cause than trying to date some dude.

My day in court

To be honest, most of my court-related experience to date has been with the food court in a variety of America's malls. I've served jury duty a couple of times, and I contested a transit ticket in Brooklyn once, but otherwise my life hasn't really intersected with the legal system all that much.

Last night I got to go to a real life Night Court, attending the hearing for a claim I filed in Small Claims Court against a former vendor who has refused to pay me for the last four months of freelance work I did for them. I was a little intimidated and probably waited longer than I should have to file the claim, but once I got there, I stopped being scared and started to have fun. I swear I was sitting next to Vinny Parco of Court TV's Parco PI fame, and when they were calling out all the names of the other claimants and defendants, we were totally cracking up (I mean, "Tuck It Away"?! PLEASE).They led dozens of us into a big courtroom like you see on TV, big pew-like benches, high ceilings, "IN GOD WE TRUST" on the facing wall...

I got called into a hearing with an arbitrator, and since the defendant didn't show up, he held an inquest to hear my side of the case...As someone who seriously considered attending law school and who wishes Henninger had a debate team, I really got a kick out of presenting my evidence and opening and closing arguments all in one fell swoop. I sort of wish I got to have my case heard in the actual courtroom full of people rather than in a private little office, but this way was far less nerve-wracking.

My arbitrator was a weird little man who said hilarious sarcastic stuff with the most deadpan face, never making eye contact with me, but I think he got my side of the story. Unfortunately, I have to wait two weeks for my judgment to be mailed to me, and even if it's in my favor I still have to figure out how to collect the money I'm owed, but this all feels good.

I like participating in the legal system. I've never deferred jury duty, and have shown up 2 or 3 times in both Brooklyn and Manhattan. The last time, of course, I was that person who asked a question during the voir dire that ended up getting nearly every juror dismissed because I basically shattered the defense's case. I was actually kind of bummed that I didn't get to serve on an actual trial, but I'm sure I will at some point in my life.

When I contested my transit ticket in Brooklyn 5 or 6 years ago, I was ready to defend my case with great flourish, but I didn't really get the chance. I'd been ticketed at Union Square for evading fare because I let some guy, whose Metrocard said "JUST USED" because he swiped it too many damn times, double-up with me in a vertical turnstile. We got busted by a plain-clothes transit cop and both got ticketed. In retrospect I don't really remember what my defense would have been, but at the time I was unemployed and had the time to go to court (and DIDN'T have the money to pay the ticket) so I figured what the hey.

Fortunately for me, I didn't have to say anything. They threw the case out because the ticket said I was seen "attempting" to evade fare but not that I actually evaded it. Hooray for technicalities! I love the law. This other story is just like mine, with a different happy ending.

The one thing about the legal system this time around for me is that if the judgment is in my favor, the defendant can choose to re-open the case if they had a good reason to not show up last night. But that's OK, that just means last night was a trial run and I get to present my case even better next time.

I've always said I've wanted to be a woman of many careers. Maybe attorney is still down the road for me...

Underneath the City (Hall)

There are many mysteries that lie beneath New York City, not the least of which are part of the transit system. I swear I feel the Second Avenue Subway rumbling beneath my apartment building (there are functional tracks). The Hoyt-Schermerhorn station in Brooklyn has a whole platform for unused tracks (as does the Delancey/Essex Street's JMZ line). A few years ago they discovered an entire tunnel under Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn that you can only access now through a manhole.

The only subway station that I've seen closed since I've moved to the city was demolished as a result of the World Trade Center collapse, but there are a few others that are still standing. (The Transit Museum occupies such a station.) If you ride the 6 train downtown between 23rd St. and Union Square and press your face against the window, you can catch a glimpse of a very dirty 18th St. station. And if you stay on the 6 train at Brooklyn Bridge, the last stop, you might catch a glimpse of the closed City Hall station when the train turns around on the looped track to come back to Brooklyn Bridge on the uptown platform.

This weekend the Transit Museum hosted a guided tour through the old station, a much better look with the 11 chandeliers lit up. There are three skylights in major disrepair that also illuminate the platform, much of their original leaded glass shattered, blackout paint covering the remaining bits. When it comes down to it, it's a small station, only one platform, two entrances (one still filled with concrete), and a mezzanine with a big blank space where the ticket booth used to stand.

Another skylight above ticketing area, whose tar has been removed as part of the restoration of the station. Some of the bulbs need replacing but it gives a real indication of the original splendor of the station, something that was unusual for the IRT line even at the time.

View of the City Hall archway to the single staircase, leading up to the mezzanine, with the center skylight (and lead glass in tact).

As much as they've cleaned up the station, everything was still covered in black soot, and it's no wonder: the track is so curved that it not only creates a huge gap between the train and the platform, but also a horrible screeching sound that gives Union Square a run for its money for shattered eardrums. And steel dust. Eroded tracks. Black soot.

View of the platform facing downtown, with the gorgeous vaulted Guastavino arches looming above, illuminated by lit chandeliers.

It's too bad that the station was closed to the public in the 1940s, but it wasn't very popular back then. Brooklyn Bridge was more of a depot, a gateway to Brooklyn, and it was just steps away anyway (as are many of the train stations in Lower Manhattan, frankly). And Brooklyn Bridge could accommodate the longer 10-car trains, whereas City Hall's platform was too short (and not easily extendable).

There's a similar phenomenon with the South Ferry station, where for years you've had to be in the first few cars in order to get off there (as I experienced during my first trip to the Staten Island Ferry in 1997). They're actually doing major construction on that station to finally extend the platform...After 60 years...

The Transit Museum is hosting another of these tours in February, which costs only $20 but you have to be a member of the museum. Personally I think it was totally worth signing up for the membership just to get into the City Hall station, which I've been dreaming about for years.

If you want to do some exploring on the outside of the station, get out at the City Hall station on the R/W line, or the Brooklyn Bridge station on the 4/5/6 to Brooklyn Bridge. Walk downtown past City Hall, past the locked gates, to the public entrance of City Hall Park (either on the east or the west side). Towards the west side of City Hall, across the way from the police booth, there's a black subway entrance just like the green ones you see all over the city - we're pretty sure that's the functional "emergency exit" to the closed City Hall station. If you look on the sidewalk right by the police booth, and also in the grassy park to the left, you can also see skylights embedded into the concrete.

The most obvious of the skylights that you can see in City Hall park. This is the only one in the grass.

Here's a diagram that might help you find your way. We didn't find the round skylight over the ticket booth but there's such tight security over there, we didn't really have free roam over the park...

Fight Like a Girl

Many of you know that somewhere out there, Jim Kiernan has a wrestling video of me in my underwear in a Motel 6 in Albany. He hasn't put it up on YouTube yet, but he hasn't shared it with anyone, either. I don't even have a copy.

So I have a history of picking fights. When I first saw Gotham Girls Roller Derby, I really wanted to participate but I'm the worst rollerskater ever. I don't even think I could train to be good enough to try out.

But then I found out about the Pillow Fight League (PFL), which requires no skills except for the same kind of cute stage names and character costumes as roller derby, but without the rollerskates. Perfect. I saw their NYC debut tonight at Galapagos in Williamsburg, Brooklyn...

The Toronto girls totally kicked ass. Pillowfighting rules. I kind of wish I'd submitted myself for the amateur competition, but the only prize was the PFL DVD, and I wanted to survey the situation first and get my bearings before I actually participated. Besides, I had to go alone (how is it that I could find NO ONE to go with me tonight??!) and I'd rather bout in front of some of my friends who could report on my awesomeness. So in the future, if I could win some money in front of some of my friends, I'm totally in.

I have to say, in that back room in Brooklyn, this all felt very underground, like Fight Club or a cock fight or something. These girls - with names like Boozy Suzy and Betty Clock'er - are out to kill, and are cute to boot. I think in my regular wardrobe I have plenty of clothes to assemble into a costume (from fishnets to little frocks and everything in between).

Afterwards I foolishly attempted to grab dinner by myself at DuMont Burger but of course it was packed, so I took the J train to the LES and wound up back at Marshall Stack, for a Cuban sandwich and some delicious beer...It's nice to have a comfortable place to go again...

Underground History

It's a long weekend and I had a lot to do - a little work, a little play, but everything was something I could cross off my list of things I really wanted to do.

I started excavating my apartment to clean it up and put some stuff away and I ended up uncovering a big part of my past. My mother had given back all her mementos of my childhood: packed up all the essays, certificates, awards, ribbons, stories, and clippings in a big box and shipped them off to me. She didn't have any use for them but I feel a bit sentimental about them so I've kept them.

I've always gotten a lot of media attention. I have a knack for being in the right place at the right time. I was on TV a lot in high school when I used to speak at the Board of Education meetings on behalf of my favorite teacher who was about to lose his job, and I even ended up on The Montell Williams Show with a bunch of other kids from my high school because of racial conflicts we were experiencing. Mom didn't keep any of those tapes. She thinks she threw them out.

But I still have a whole bag full of clippings from the local newspaper. There were more than I remembered, actually - starting when I was in nursery school with a big full-color pic on the cover of the Lifestyle section of the Sunday paper, all the way up through senior year in high school when I graduated 2nd in my class and got a big scholarship to Colgate, and a feature on the back of the front section of the Saturday paper. Nice bookends to my time in Syracuse - with other awards, spelling bees, and "student of the month" features in between (not counting all the articles I actually wrote for the local paper as a teen reporter).

You can't find any of this stuff on the web. Nobody puts local news like that up on YouTube. The Post-Standard doesn't archive articles from that far back like the Times does (and who knows whether they even have them on microfiche?). So for now I have my own little time capsule of my life. I have to be the curator of my own little historical museum.

Fortunately when I'm interested in exploring worlds beyond my own, New York City is full of historical collections, not the least of which is the Transit Museum. I recently became a member (my first time supporting the arts in such an "official" way) so I could go to their upcoming tour of the abandoned City Hall station, but I figured I'd put my membership to good use and go back to the museum, which I haven't visited for several years.

Charles was a great tour guide and took us into a "staff only" area where we got to see the board that lights up and shows you were all the trains are in real time (and their still-working rotary phone back there, but Charles didn't have anybody to call just then, yeah). He also told us all about riding the old elevated trains (which can also run underground) out to Far Rockaway and took us on the very subway car that was featured in the film The French Connection. And name-checked his favorite movie, The Warriors, scoring points with me.

The old trains have been preserved pretty well, with new paint jobs in their original color schemes, working light bulbs and bells, straps still hanging above. The coolest thing is that they're on real working tracks with a live third rail, in an actual old abandoned subway station (on Schermerhorn between Boerum and Court St., where the HH shuttle used to run).

There were tons of kids there but I don't think they could really appreciate the tour, or, really, the history of it all. I suppose I wouldn't have been able to do when I was a kid, either. But then again, back then I was busy making history.

Put the blame on me, if you want to....

I'm 31 years old. I'd like to think I get better every year ("I am chaaaaanging...") but there are certain things intrinsic in me that aren't going to go away. At least not overnight.

I need a lot of attention, and I'm not shy about asking for it. I'm willing to take the bull by the horns. If I need or want something, I go get it. However, I recently asked my parents for some more attention and it may have destroyed what was left of our relationship. As part of a tirade I can't quite describe, I had to hear about what I was like as a baby - and let me tell you, from their perspective, it was not good. But the interesting thing is, I was pretty much exactly like I am now. So that tells me that I can't really be blamed...

Given my need for attention, and wanting to get what I want, last night I made the very conscious choice to break detox. I had become obsessed with the #s - how much I weighed, how much I lost, how much I gained over Christmas, how much I needed to lose - so much so that I'd forgotten that the whole goal of detox was to make my pants fit. Meanwhile I was pulling my loose pants up, agonizing over what kind of virgin cocktail to order at Temple Bar. (Turns out seltzer, mint and lime is quite a good option.)

So I broke detox and drank, blame me for being weak but there's no sense detoxing if it makes you miserable. It should be all about feeling good. And let me tell you, drinking the last remains of the Delirium Noel keg @ Marshall Stack felt good (as did the asparagus/goat cheese/truffle oil pressed sandwich, which really isn't that bad for you).

I don't think my love for jukeboxes is going to change anytime soon, either. They have a good one at Stack, lots of classic rock and a bit of funk and soul, enough to encourage me to pump in a buck to hear "Strange Magic" by ELO and "These Eyes" by The Guess Who, both songs I own. It's funny, people complain about paying $1/song on iTunes, but people will still pay $1 to hear 2 songs only once and not even own them. I'm happy to pay for my song downloads. I like owning my music. Blame me for being old-fashioned. I was probably like that as a baby.

After a great night and something like six hours at the bar, I weighed myself this morning. I'm a pound less than I was on Christmas Eve, which is my new detox low. That felt good too. Say what you want about numbers, but I had a goal, and I got what I wanted.

So apparently Baby Sandi was logical and analytical and capricious - cuddling one moment, crying another. She loved her daddy. She wanted attention but not too much. And whatever she wanted, she had better get it. Things haven't changed that much. But don't blame the baby.

In the mood...

It's a great weekend to be in the mood....for love...for the holidays...

I'm 13.5 lbs lighter and feeling strong and rejuvenated. Almost all the Christmas shopping is done, wrapping has begun, and work is almost over for the year.

Tonight we made what's hopefully our annual pilgrimage to Dyker Heights in Brooklyn, and although it wasn't snowball fight-worthy this year like last year, it was still magical in its competitive commercialism. Ah, the true spirit of Christmas...animatronic decorations and multi-colored lights.

I hear that Howard Beach's decorations might be better, but I'll believe it when I see it. I do think I'm going to check out the Bronx Zoo's holiday lights this year....