Photo Essay: Masonic Hall NYC (Open House NY)

After years of seeing it on the schedule, we finally decided to go check out the Masonic Hall on 23rd Street as part of Open House New York.

The masons are a secret society, a fraternity that pledges to "take good men, and make them better." Their ways of going about that - and many of the other things that they do - are mysterious and steeped heavily in symbolism and, somewhat bafflingly, geometry (as evidenced by the glowing "G" in every room).

"Marble" pillars are plaster

There are a number of meeting rooms, each built, designed, and restored in a different color palette, style, and theme, ranging from French to Greek to English castle.



painted to look like cloth





The garish designs of the rooms are reflected in likewise stylized pipe organs, one in every room.





There were plenty of ornate touches, including gold leaf pillars, wood carvings, altars, and glowing chandeliers...





...and a gold statue of George Washington, also a mason.

Hollender Room

Although this site isn't particularly hard to get into (there are even more extensive tours given six days a week), it's one of the weirder and more inexplicable stops on the OHNY itinerary, and therefore, in my book, worth a visit.

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Photo Essay: MTA Substation #13 (Open House NY)

For the last seven years, I've looked forward to one special weekend out of the year: Open House New York. Its all-access ethos has fueled my inner urban explore, has given me much fodder for photography and blogging, and has taught me a lot about New York City.

Every year, OHNY provides limited, reservation-only tours of an MTA substation in Brooklyn, and I can never get in.

This year, they moved the tour to Manhattan, and didn't require reservations.

Which meant I finally got in. I just had to wait in line with a bunch of irate retirees, who couldn't understand why they couldn't just leave and come back and get in.

waiting in line

story of my life





Substations take high voltage AC electricity and convert it to DC to power the subways. As I noted during my live tweeting from the tour, they used to be manually operated, and still contain huge machinery for it, relics featuring switches and nobs and alarms and cables and wires, much of which is out of commission, now that a lot of the work is done automatically and by remote control from a few blocks away.

our tour guide

rotary converter













Still, especially upstairs, the substation is alive with electricity, buzzing in your ears. As we approached the loudest area upstairs, our tour guide told us, "Don't touch anything that looks like copper," so we shoved our hands in our hoodie pockets and peered wide-eyed at the equipment around us.



This is what powers the dreaded and deadly third rail. Zzzzt.

Regular substation tours are available through the Transit Museum, whose membership is totally worth it for access to special programs and tours of the abandoned City Hall station.

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By Its Right Name

In my last job, management kept trying to convince its staff that titles meant nothing, but people have a natural inclination for naming - naming stars, species, babies, and themselves, as well as nicknaming loved ones and pets and the otherwise nameless guy on the subway platform every morning.
When I started working out of college, I stopped using my last name in conversation. I never introduced myself by my first and last name, only my first, and when I answered the phone or made calls or announced myself to building security, I always addressed myself as "Sandi from Atlantic."

Since then, I've been "Sandi from Razor & Tie," "Sandi from Kidz Bop," "Sandi from Ziggy Marley," and now, "Sandi from Ultra."

People ask me what I do for a living, and I often tell them I'm a marketing consultant. I might tell them I work in the music industry. If I'm really brave, I tell them I'm a writer.

Earlier this week, the woman I'm filling in for while she's on maternity leave introduced me as her "temp." Duly noted.

I guess it doesn't matter what other people call me. But with my refusal to embrace my given last name and without a definitive career goal to serve as a surname ("Sandi the attorney," "Sandi from Peace Corps"), I'm not sure what my right name is.

What is "Sandi," all by itself?

This is a question that has plagued me since I first released myself from my last job, where I recoiled at being called a "marketer." Of all the things in the world that I am, that's the one name that someone should choose to call me?

Why not:

• adventurer
• explorer
• student
• teacher
• sister
• friend
• mentor
• instigator
• investigator
• sinner
• dreamer
  

?

Surely all of those would be true, and permanent.

I guess you can call me a "temp" now, for my current working state is temporary. But I hope for a longer-term impact out of my time spent there. Unless we figure out by what right name to call me, we will forever keep each other at arms' length.

I keep hoping for something or someone to get close enough to give me a name that really is right.

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Disappointments, I've Had a Few...

Avoiding disappointment = not going somewhere because you're afraid you'll go and not be able to get in

Avoiding regret = going somewhere even when it's sold out, when you're not on the list, when it's raining, when everyone has ditched you, because you really want to go, and you just have to try to get in.

If I spent my life avoiding disappointment, I would never interact with the human race. I would never buy a concert ticket for fear the show would be cancelled. (Come back, Lady GaGa!) I would never give out my phone number, even though I know they will never call.

Avoiding regret is about keeping up your end of the bargain. You do whatever is necessary and whatever is within your control. But sometimes when regret is avoided, disappointment remains...

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A Private Feast, in Pictures

I lived in Brooklyn for seven years, and while I was there, I tried to make the most of it. Instead of going "into the city," I hung out in my neighborhood, Greenpoint, quite a bit, even though there wasn't much happening there yet, and ventured into Williamsburg whenever possible to experience what the locals had to offer.

That was before the affluent hipsters living off their parents' wealth moved in. And the celebrities.

I often hung out on the south side of Williamsburg, by the bridge, when local artists like Vic Thrill were singing about the "Williamsburg Stranger" and lived a block away from the Chickenbone Cafe, where an up-and-coming chef named Zak Pelaccio made amazing pressed sandwiches out of an open kitchen with only a sandwich press and a hot plate.

Vic Thrill was forced out of his studio and Zak out of his kitchen, and I moved to Manhattan. The Brooklyn zeitgeist was over.

Since then, I've followed Zak to 5 Ninth, Fatty Crab, and Borough Food & Drink, never quite recapturing the homegrown quality of his original restaurant endeavor but gathering new fans along the way.

Today, Epicurious gave me the opportunity to sample a preview of Zak's return to Brooklyn, the soon-to-be-opened, BBQ-themed Fatty Cue, as part of their Epicurious Entertains New York festival.

It was hot, meaty, and juicy.



Zak





brisket

cucumber salad



bacon & clams, charred turnips

Banh Mi

Tecate w/Thai chili pepper and yuzu

Supposedly, today's menu was to be more adventurous than the restaurant's menu will actually be once it opens. Knowing we were experiencing something special, we were happy, satisfied, and burning and yearning for more.

New York allows you to have a favorite chef, who doesn't have a TV show and who isn't endorsed by a celebrity. You can follow them around to their various restaurants and champion them amongst your friends. And when they succeed, you feel like you've helped them a little bit, by eating their food and saying hello to them when you can. Sure, they're not celebrities like Mario Batali or Bobby Flay (who I also love), but they make damn good food and are actually in the kitchens of the restaurants they operate, charring turnips and winking at you when you greet them.

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Photo Essay: Wave Hill Public Garden

Since I'm forever seeking a partner-in-crime for my various escapades, I figured I'd take advantage of Edith's offer to take the day off from work in order to go on one of my infamous urban hikes. Accompanied by someone who'd appreciate it as much as I!

Like the New York Botanical Garden, Wave Hill is appealing because, although it's a public garden, it seems safe considering the required admission charge and the onsite security. Also like NYBG, as well as Van Cortlandt Park and Pelham Bay Park - two of the most satisfying urban hiking experiences thus far - it's located in topographically diverse and surprisingly woodsy Bronx. There's even a short woodland trail you can hike, mulchy underfoot, moderately thick canopy full of acorn-munching, berry-picking squirrels and throngs of shelter-seeking finches, blue jays, and redwinged birds.







Outside of the woodland trail, there are more formal gardens of perennials, wildflowers and herbs: from dahlias, lilies, and lavender to lemon verbena, peppers, and even wormwood. And plenty of pollinating bees, still at work.

















Like the day before, the sky was mottled in shades of gray, dark gray, nearly black and nearly white - all reflected in the lilypad-laden pond whose sign asked for us not to feed the fish.

I found the most common subjects of my gaze - and photography - the wilting petals of summer season flowers still trying to hold on, reaching high up to the sun but losing their vibrancy one by one. Their decay reminded me of the many abandoned buildings in which I have sought shelter, struggling to stand up and retain some semblance of usefulness. Beautiful in what life is left in them. But soon just a shell of their former selves.

Wave Hill's lofty location on, appropriately, a hill gives a nice overlook of the George Washington Bridge and the New Jersey Palisades across the Hudson River. Located at the end of a winding street lined with ancient stone retaining walls and gnarled tree branches, it's hard to remember you're in the Bronx at all, until you hear the distant moan of a passing Metro-North train (nearest station is Riverdale) and the meowing of schoolchildren somewhere beyond the forest.

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A Good Start

For years, I never took my birthday off from work because I wanted to be certain that I would be around people and not alone. This year, I had the pleasure of not working most of my entire birthday week, and I made the most of it by driving with Joe and Edith out to the North Fork Wine Trail in Long Island, capturing a bit of California at the tip of New York City, and giving me a birthday that was a tipsy, celebratory revelation that turning 34 can make you feel both young and happy.





Sure, at the end of September, Long Island is cold, damp, and windy. The sky threatened rain with a billowy gray cover, wrapping us in a woolen blanket, cool as though pulled from its winter attic storage. But the orchards were green and plentiful, and this peak harvest time proved to be fruitful with white, blush, rose, and red.





It was too windy to light a candle on my birthday loaf, but we didn't care. We were sipping wine on the back patio on a bright day, watching green grapes being trucked in and savoring every moment before we had to return to the city.



The day was capped off with dinner with friends back in the city, and I was home sometime after midnight, cheeks hurting, eyes swirling, lids drooping, and heart loving.

It was a good day. Maybe, for once, it will be a good year.

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