Hallelujah

It started with Handel and ended with champagne and fireworks. This is Christmastime in the city.

I rushed back from Brooklyn to meet my roommate and her work friends. The streets were alive with cold and I could hear church bells ringing above the jabbering vendor of sweet roasted almonds. I had thrown on my going-out appearance in about seven minutes, but I felt that I looked exceptionally fabulous, dressed almost to the nines and maybe a bit beyond, to the elevens or twelves. Every light changed for me as I ran across Park and Madison, and every pedestrian I passed was bright and laughterful. The light-strung trees were flirting with the winter stars, bouncing twinkles up and down the sleek sides of the office buildings.



Jillian and her friends were attending Handel's Messiah by the St. Thomas Church Fifth Avenue Choir of Men and Boys, and I was joining them at intermission. Thanks to happy-heeled feet and serendipitous trains, I was early; I was the girl who rushed red-cheeked into the Museum of Modern Art and blurted out, "Where is the bar?" Then I danced back down the block to The Modern, where the hostess nodded me to a seat right in front of the charmingly flirtatious bartenders. They winked a glass of wine across the marble to me, and I felt like a million dollars as I sipped in my $10 little black dress, $6 little black tights, $18 little black heels and $12 little pink sweater. A million dollars could sit down next to me and I would nod cooly, then go back to making eyes at the bartender.



Jillian and her friends ran in, there was a flurry of wine being poured and drunk, then we all ran back down the street to the most beautiful church in the world. As the men and boys sang, the subway rumbled below in a grimy subterranean duet - yet in my flesh shall I see God - a multitudinous bassy echo of all the souls, bright or dirty, through all the years who've sung the notes or heard them sung in great glorious swells of hope and glory.




And then we emerged once more into the bright cold night, with Fendi sparkling across the street from the holy magnificence. And our hosts hailed a cab that turned into a white stretch limo, and I climbed right in as if I took limos to midnight dinners every day of the week. We sailed up to a noisy and delightful Italian restaurant, where the waiter kissed the ladies twice, brought rich red wine with a smile and whisked plates of artichoke salad and spinach ravioli in truffle sauce out of the air.





Later, it was down the street to Bar and Books, where elegant gentlemen plied me with martinis and champagne. Then the lights dimmed, and the waitress bought out a piece of cheesecake dripping in chocolate with fireworks sparkling vivaciously on top. I looked around for the birthday person, but she placed it in front of me. The bar burst into song - "Welcome to New York, it's the birthday of your New York life."

My New York life. World-class music and truffle sauce. Tidings of great joy. Champagne, limos, fireworks, ga-ga ooh-lala. I could get used to this.

Moments of Greatness in the Midst of Littleness

My new old job has me spending 30+ hours a week in the deep scary netherland of the Barnes & Noble at 86th & Lexington - namely, the Children's Department. This is a place of bright colors, soft paintings, books, games & toys, noise and unspeakable horror, ruled intractably by an ever-changing horde in diapers and overalls. Between the hours of 9 am and 6 pm, the aisles are clogged with crawlers, toddlers and tiny runners and the accompanying parents, nannies and gigantic messes. The din hits a decibel level anywhere from Metallica concert to jet engine, and the attendants (mostly nannies, sometimes parents) read gossip magazines or slavishly tap iPhones while the kidlets freely and cutely terrorize us with their fondness for throwing books and temper tantrums all over the floor.

But for every nanny watching passively as one charge beats another unconscious with an alphabet puzzle, for every entitled parent questioning the validity of my existence because I can't provide the moon, undrooled on, by yesterday morning, for every grandparent masking their confusion in soul-crushing rudeness, there is a little moment of glee.

Like the bite-size person who wanted to be read every Sesame Street book in order to crow "Ah-Ah-Ah" whenever The Count appeared in an illustration. Or the little curly-headed sir who wandered up and stood stroking my textured tights, to his father's mortification. And the clear-headed newly de-strollered young gentleman who approached me saying, "Excuse me, Miss. Are you the owner of this store? Do you know any books that I would like to read?"

Speaking of book recommendations, I have one for you: Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann. It's the best book I've read in months, possibly all year, which is probably why it won the National Book Award (surprisingly, my opinion was not canvassed in selecting this year's recipient, but I agree with the committee's choice nevertheless). And I mention this here because of the following final story of gold from the plastic whirlwind of the Children's Department.

A customer, being helped by another drudge, passed my desk carrying Let the Great World Spin under her arm. For no known reason, I lurched forward, tapped her shoulder and said, "Oh, that's a magnificent book. I'm reading it right now and it's brilliant. I think you'll really like it." The customer turned to me and smiled. "Well, my son's best friend's dad wrote it, so I figured I should go out and buy it." I of course responded very collectedly and intelligently: "Glurg." Later, as I rang up her purchases, she mentioned that Mr. McCann is a lovely, humble and friendly man who lives in this neighborhood and is a little overwhelmed by all the attention garnered him since his award.

And that, boys and girls, is why it's ok that I'm back at Barnes & Noble, working terrible hours and often dealing with terrible people for terrible pay: because it keeps me in the neighborhood of greatness.

Head of the Heap

If someone posted a Missed Connections about me today, this is what it would have said:

"Girl on the F train in pink sweater wolfing down a turkey burger and revolting fries from Chiurping Chicken - I'm not sure why I want to see you again. You are obviously lacking time management skills and grace of all kinds, and you're clearly carrying some new strain of tuberculosis that makes you cough with reckless abandon every 7-9 seconds. But something about the determination with which you juggled overpriced-Coke-from-Hudson-News in one hand and take-out container in the other hand, while having your center of gravity knocked askew by a purse the size of Kansas, caught my curiosity. Should you be interested in ceasing from your wild flight between bed, bookstore and Brooklyn, let me know."



This has been my life. The same week that I (re)started full-time at Barnes & Noble (a much bigger, brighter and fancier one) and also covered my friend's nanny job, I was felled by a mysterious and merciless respiratory ailment that laid me on my back with a 103-degree fever on my one day off, then sent me off to work coughing till I bled from the eyeballs (nearly).

Despite these bumps in the road, it's been a fascinating week. The girls I'm nannying are a delight, and have showed great forbearance with my tendency to get us lost in all corners of Brooklyn on the way to soccer, tennis and more. The greatest challenge was distracting them with desperate banal conversation when one corner of the after-school-snack coffee shop was occupied by several generations of the local Italian Mafia, who loudly discussed a variety of topics from what terrorists yell right before they detonate their suicide bombs, to the dispensations with which various strippers have been blessed, to the differing amounts of blood in bodies of different races.

Unrelated (although it's creepy) but cool pic of me and roomie
enjoying the view of the bridges from South Street Seaport

Barnes & Noble has been fairly surreal. Imagine being forced to return to your worst nightmare, but in situations that make it a blessing, and then the nightmare itself has been run through a Brita pitcher several times and Photoshopped, so that it's the same, but oddly pleasurable, smooth and functional in all the places it used to be hellish and ugly. Yeah. That's pretty much it. I've got a job in the bright and busy children's department at a new big shiny fancy-shmancy Barnes & Noble that's just a dozen blocks from where I live. Part of me is cringing at being back there, but part of me is enjoying at the experience of working in a fully staffed, efficient, high-morale store. I'm sure some of the bells-and-whistles that amaze me today will be my pet peeve tomorrow (the Stroller Parking room is already perched on the fence between, thanks to my experience as an infant parking attendant for today's holiday storytime), but I can't complain too much about spending all my time in kiddieland with a huge children's-only staff, compared to my past experience of doing everything on my own with only half my time dedicated to the department.

Ummm that's all for now. I'm omitting stories out of laziness, absentmindedness or the cough syrup haze, but that's ok. My body is now maintaining its temperature at 98.6, I have regular paychecks lining up ahead of me and Christmas is a few weeks away. I'm walking on sunshine (or Dr. Scholl's, now that I'm a Shopgirl again...)

Not-So-Black Friday

I am four weeks into my new life in a new city and I know just a teaspoon of people. But I never felt friendless, familyless, loveless, this Thanksgiving - and how many of those who gathered with their blood relations can say the same? There's something really sweet - even beautiful - about what is patched together by a group of orphans on a holiday. Families are all well and good, but they have to love you - they have to welcome you on certain calendar days, take your coat and cook for you - and more often than not, you have to go there, whether you want to or whether you really, really, really don't want to.

Far more precious is the family you make for yourself - the family that takes you in for no blood reason, or the group of kindred spirits that you form into a family. Sometimes it's the group that recognizeses you have nowhere else to go, and opens its doors. This is the group that wins sanctification when you're in a new town, or a strange town, or somehow stranded far from the genetically obligated concelebrants. This is the church, the homeless shelter, the hospitable swarm or retired mother that never minds one more chair at the table, one more spoon dipping into the mashed potatoes. Other times, it's the group of friends and lovers that you choose to spend your free time with, and therefore even more donate your holiday time to, the faces next to you or across from you at every movie, every wine bottle opening, every ill-advised spending free. Best of all is when these two groups overlap. When your local family is both your first choice and your only choice.



On my first night in New York, my first New York City friends invited me to their Thanksgiving, when their siblings would be visiting. I was glad to know I was wanted somewhere, and I loved cooking in my tiny New York kitchen, then taking my bag of side dishes on the subway to Brooklyn, where we shared a feast of roast duck with port sauce, rosemary stuffing, pecan-crusted sweet potatoes and everything else you can imagine. Thankful.



And then I had a second Thanksgiving tonight with my roommates - we sat on the floor in our sweats and stuffed ourselves with leftovers, laughing to the point of suffocation when Jill dropped her plate, sending green beans flying across the newly cleaned floor. I'm living with two fun, funny, wise and happy girls. We have adventures together, make fun of each other, share one tiny bathroom and one full length mirror with no bloodshed. We all went shopping separately today and came home with many of the same sweaters, or dresses that looked better on each other than ourselves.


I still need to tell you all about my new job. I need to tell you how thrilling it was to watch the New York Thanksgiving parade in person, listening to thick New York accents on all sides with the still-gloriously-fallish Central Park right behind me. I still need to tell you how hilarious it was when Jill sat on the duck. But it's late, and my thoughts are disorganized, and I'm tired from an exhilirating midnight trip to Starbucks and the Gap, followed by leftover-apple crumb - this is my life in New York. It keeps getting better and I still can't believe it's real.

Giving Thanks...

...for courage, stubbornness, perseverance and an idealistic gaze.


...for the encouragement of faithful friends and the galvanizing criticism of unfriends.
...for the smiles of new friends and adventurous roommates


...for the bright lights and strange streets of new cities
...for bookstores, libraries, stacks of free books, rows of used book stands and brothers who ship books from state to state
...for warm little green apartments and free old furniture left on the curb
...for coffeemakers and coffee shops and coffee mugs and coffee beans and the smell of coffee after a nap

...for fairly regular subway lines at a fairly affordable fare
...for pizza and croissants and speakeasys and pumpkin cheesecake and Pinkberry and wine bars.


...for Lady GaGa
...for my new old job/old new job that will pay the bills during these tenuous in-between times


And today,
...for Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and all the police officers, marching bands, scary clowns, semi-celebrities and cheering crowds that run its way


...for scarves and hats and pigtails
...for Central Park, hot dogs, cinnamon almonds and last bits of fall against the gray of sky and skyscrapers


...for the strangers on the street that remind you you're alive, in this moment, with eyes that see and a heart that beats and ears to hear the sounds of the smells that float on the final few edges of November


...for Christmas coming, every single year



And always,
...for cameras and facebook and iPods and Twitter and playlists and smart phones and text messages and emoticons and laptops and all the other bits of technology that keep you close at heart when I'm far away

"I would send you a bouquet of newly-sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address. On the other hand, this not knowing has its charms."

Yesterday I watched my number one all-time favorite movie: You've Got Mail. A celebration of all things bookish, autumnal, romantic, improbable and, above all, New Yorky. I love it.



In one delightful scene, Kathleen Kelly writes to her email buddy, "Once I read a story about a butterfly in the subway, and today, I saw one. It got on at 42nd, and off at 59th, where, I assume it was going to Bloomingdale's to buy a hat that will turn out to be a mistake - as almost all hats are." I loved watching that scene for the millionth time, but this time I know that those are stations on the green line, just south of the Upper East Side, where I live, though I also know that most of the movie is set on the West Side, so she was probably riding the blue line - except the Bloomingdale's is on this side. I know exactly what the streets look like at 59th, exactly which way to turn to go to Bloomingdale's - and what's more, I am currently wearing a grey wool hat bought from a street vendor that I think is turning out to be a mistake.

Elsewhere in the movie, Kathleen writes, "Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life. Well, not small, but valuable. And sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around? I don't really want an answer." That line has always plucked a slightly nervous pang in me, one of the many lines in the movie that I could have written (blogged), and, ironically, I've often wondered, about this movie in particular, how much do I relate to it because it reflects my life...and how much has it shaped my life because I've watched it seven times a year for a decade?



My heart is full of the same children's books Kathleen discusses throughout the movie; I even worked in a children's bookstore - well, at least the children's department of Barnes & Noble, which was obviously the model for Fox Books. I even wear the same well-meaning, sort of classy but more often slightly librian-ish tights and sweaters in the same earth tones that Kathleen wears throughout the movie. I'm clumsy and not very poised and I walk kind of funny and get too attached to the past at the expense of enjoying the present and being wise about the future. And, yes...I've read Pride & Prejudice a hundred times. Now that I'm in New York, the third member of the movie's love affair, it fits me even more.



At any rate, now I've been brave. I'm seeing myself in this movie even more because I live on the streets Kathleen loved, and yes, this movie surely encouraged my lifelong dream to be a part of this city, but now that I'm here, I know which came first. I know I loved the movie because I belong in its world. My life might still be small, but it will be small and brave and full of valuable risks.



Some have complained that this blog has been too joyful and pontificatey lately, claiming to miss the good old entries about my highly embarrassing moments or rants about trivialities. I'll see what I can do. But no promises. I quite like the joy.

Our Sea-Washed, Sunset Gates

New York is a busy, expensive, glamorous city, but the best things so far have been nearly free and very simple, like the feel of the wind in your hair.

Roomie outing. Best ever.

Yesterday my roommates and I rode the subway down to Battery Park City and walked up the waterfront. It was the most beautiful day that has ever happened this close to the end of November, and the late afternoon sun gleamed twice, in the sky and again on the surface of the water. The weather was warm in the sun and brisk in the wind, but with hot cups from Starbucks and a shared packet of cinnamon almonds, we were perfectly happy.



Then we rode the Staten Island Ferry across the bay, past the Statue of Liberty and back. On the way there, the sun was gold and strong; on the way back, the sunset splashed timid pink, then lazy orange, then a more audacious pink across the waves and the skyscrapers that were waiting for us to return to Manhattan.

The air-bridged harbor

Keep your storied pomp; send these to me.

The boat ride was invigoratingly cold, because we claimed a prime spot on the hurricane deck. With only the orange railing between us and the waves, the wind had its way with our hair, and we loved it.



The seagulls were clearly boastful that they spend most of their days floating on the breezes around the statue. They didn't want to share their view of the city, the island, the state across the way, and dived into our pictures at every chance, but we just laughed at them and kept clicking. The sky was too blue and the buildings too sharp and bright to worry about a few ruffled feathers.

These seagulls live the best lives ever.
Except for ours.

Laying your own eyes on a famous sight is a bit surreal. Sometimes it's hard to appreciate the moment because you're so used to seeing it on the screen or in pictures, and there's nothing to make it real - nothing to convince you that this your retinas are seizing this image for themselves, no intermediary. But Lady Liberty, this day, with the wild free wind and the riotous colors all around, reached up her torch for all the countries of the world and for us alone, just across the waves. This was feeling alive, this was being a part of America in a way that voting booths and concealed muskets and constitutionally protected speech will never be.

Worldwide welcome - Read the inscription.

We were surrounded by tourists marveling in all languages, and we kept grinning at each other, because this is our home now. They're here for the weekend; we can take this boat ride any time we want, because this is our backyard. This was an exceptional day, with the perfect beams and blues and breezes mixed together on the canvas, but next time will be amazing because it will be starlit, or it will be snowy, or it will be springtime.

King of the world. Better than kings. Us!

I can't wait for tomorrow.