A Bronx Tale

Since arriving here in New York, I have had the dubious pleasure of experiencing the hottest summer on record. This is not generally conducive to enjoying oneself, especially during stressful things like apartment hunts. Here's how it's gone.

Thursday I arrived at La Guardia to find my host, Jess, waiting for me in baggage claim with a Welcome sign. We returned to her apartment in Astoria, and despite my rather incapacitated state, I requested that we check out the Bronx immediately. She planned our route on the subway.

I at a certain point along the way, suggested we improvise. This was a bad, but hilarious, idea. We found ourselves lost in the vastness of the Bronx, on the wrong side of the park, and for a while, walking along the expressway. After what seemed like hours, we made it to Little Italy, and even up to Fordham:

This is merely a residence hall, but it was exciting to 

find it nonetheless.

We successfully made it back to Queens using a more acceptable route, and developed a plan of attack for the following day.

Friday, we made it to Little Italy by around 10:30 am. The first step in our plan was to meet a man named Al at his shoe store, Steppin' Out. Al immediately offered us espresso, and then took us on a tour of his apartments and the neighborhood.  The apartment he most wanted me to see was $250 above the top of my price range, but looked like this:

Well, part of it looked like this. The rest was awful 

nice, too.

Chagrined by the expense, Jess and I wandered. I called every number on every building, and got almost no answers. The answers I got typically involved pricetags of $1500 or more.  Then, all of a sudden, one company wanted to talk to me. They put me in touch with the owner of a famous ravioli shop called Borgatti's, and I went to see the place.  A mere $950, the unit was on an upper floor above the shop, and was larger than my current apartment in Portland. A sense of the place:

Proximity to campus.

Living room area, from the kitchen.

Kitchen area, from the living room. Eventually, there will be a stove.

bedroom/front room mini-bay window.

I talked to all the right people with regard to the apartment, and set up an appointment for Monday to talk more. 

Then, Jess and I had fun. We went out for restaurant week and had a three course meal, got caught in a thunderstorm and ran/danced 20 blocks to the bar where we were meeting my friends, and stayed out late bar hopping.

Saturday and Sunday were fairly low-key, because of the heat. I spent a lot of time in air-conditioned spaces or eating.

This morning, I woke up to make my appointment in the Bronx, and would have been fine had the subway not cheated me out of a river-crossing. The B train stopped in Harlem and turned around (I had earphones in so didn't hear the announcement) despite my assurance that rush-hour trains went all the way up. I wound up getting off the B ten blocks south of its final destination, and running the ten blocks back north to catch the D. I then proceeded to disembark at 183rd street, because the location of my appointment was also on 183rd street. 

However: 183rd street did not go through from where I was to where I needed to be, and I was already 15 minutes late. Slightly panicked, I started running.  The fine residents of the Bronx were witness to a crazy little white girl running through their neighborhood in Chuck Taylors and a skirt,* and probably had some very strange ideas about my reasons for running.

I made it to the office, however, and the people were not in the least disturbed by my lateness. The apartment, after about an hour of paperwork, became mine. I have keys and everything.  I immediately celebrated by buying an iced coffee and an Italian pastry, and climbing the many flights of stairs to my new home:

On my very own linoleum floor.

Task: complete. On to the next one.

Notes:

* Well, some of them did. Because I am out of shape, I could only really run for about three blocks at a time. The rest of them saw a sweaty, wheezing crazy little white girl.

Flying Solo

Minneapolis International Airport: 7:20 am

Part 1: First Leg

It has always been one of my favorite things to be in airports by myself (though I love being picked up at one, the whole interior space is something I tend to enjoy most while ensconced in solitude.  This carries over to the flights, as well: periodically, a person will engage me in conversation, and this can be pleasant, but generally it is me and my antihistamines (to both relax and prevent allergic reactions to my neighbors)

My zen (and yen) for travelling alone in this manner was tested this morning, however.

Upon boarding my PDX-MNP flight, it became readily apparent that fully half the passengers were 12 or under.  One of the elder ones looked a bit like a man named Levin that I used to know, but by this point I had taken the necessary cocktail for plane-sleep, so my cognitive abilities were not at their best (this dose would knock me out toot sweet were I near a bed).

As you know, airplane seats are nothing like beds, and I discovered that kids today have a great deal harder time adjusting than I had in my youth.* Young Jacob¹ had chosen the aisle seat so that he could sit next to his 8 siblings,² which rather pleased me because I figured leaning on the wondow would facilitate the napping project started by the allergy pill.

In front of me was a woman with two daughters, verbally abusing them. A passenger stood up for the pair of 4 year olds, and was rebuffed with language even I won’t print here (and I am a girl of few compuctions). There were also no fewer than 3 infants on the plane.

  

Why it seems logical to put young flyers in the most physically stressful situation, the red-eye, is beyond me. The red-eye is for academics, college students, and honeymooners. That is, the people who aren’t living on normal sleep patterns to begin with.

In any case, Jacob took to alternately laying his head on me for comfort, which was fine, and then kicking me heartily at the first sign of neck pain.  Eventually, however, we found our happy medium, Jacob and I, and slept (fitfully) for much of the flight (which was, mind you, a mere 3 hours).

Upon being told of our descent, and crankily acknowledged that my sleep was not my own to govern and looked to the window. I caught this:

 The tired didn't really matter right then.

Part 2: the Layover

Intended to be 20 minutes long, I took my time rehydrating (I slept through the beverage cart for the first time ever), and learned of the plight (or blight) of our overbooked flight. Wanting to get into New York promptly, I held back. Then I was a woman crying because she couldn’t catch a later flight for whatever she was doing. She wasn’t crying at the podium, so I stepped up and volunteered. My flight has now been delayed (changed) to the 10am flight, which get me into LaGuardia at 1:40. 

Karma for this good deed, hoever, has brought me the following:

1)      1)      6 dollars to spend on breakfast at any joint in the place. I chose Einstein Brothers, They messed up my order by making me an egg sandwich with cheese. Luckily, the cheese was physically bonded one bagel half only, so it became an open face bagel sandwich.
2)      A $400 voucher towards a flight , with the only apparent caveat that it be taken in the next year. Luckily, that should be easy out of NYC.
3)      A first class seat on the next flight, which is the longer one.
4)      A chance to rehydrate, snack, and nap.

The Spoils of Poor

I have determined that this is somewhat  like my original plan—we’re just rearranging nap-times and Jess should see me fairly refreshed-like. It’s even possible a Bronx trip might happen today.

For now, being woken up from a drug induced slumber (albeit totally legit drugs  caused the slumber, means my nose is running, and I am hallucinating colors and shapes.  This means it’s time to head back down the nap trail.

More soon when the Author is fully functional.

Notes:

*Back in my day, children were small enough to curl into the fetal position and sleep happily, anywhere.

¹ Names changed to protect the innocent fat kid.

² Not hyperbole. Eight of them, the majority localized in my row.

Packed my bags last night pre-flight

The journey begins, ladies and gentlemen.

Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I am sitting in terminal D15 at the Portland International Airport. From here, I will take my red-eye to Minneapolis. From Minneapolis, I will go to New York, be picked up by an old friend from Portland, and spend the next week trying desperately to find an apartment.

Hopefully, I will be able to document this in real time. If not, y'all will have an overview upon my return to Portland next week.

Wish me luck.

Also, the cat came back. Finally.

The Cat Came Back, part 2.

In this whirlwind of lunacy that is my attempt to lure Cat back home, I have found myself enacting tactics that Wile E. Coyote would have engaged in.  Witness the following, which occurred after 9 hours of operation cat rescue yesterday (placing this at around 7 pm, and me at my wit's end):

Step One: After eating a hasty dinner of poorly made pancakes, I start to think..

My "thinking" face has often been mistaken for my 

"judging" face. 

Then, an idea!

The only way to tell I have ideas is to wait for the 

yellow light bulb. This applies in all situations.

I change my tactic, now to be less "Wile E. Coyote" and more "Guerrilla Sniper"*:

And that, dear reader, is me hiding in the bathroom. For three and a half hours.  I maintained this outpost until 10:30, when a round of fireworks went off outside that I immediately mistook for gunfire.¹ At that point, I panicked over the fact that the door was open, thus proving that in a real guerilla warfare situation I would probably be the kind of liability that gets shot by my own battalion.

It seems that crouching in a bathroom in complete silence for hours on end can make a person jumpy. This is a lesson I have now learned.

I have also learned that Cat's disdain for me is unparalleled, as she never turned up.  I have decided, thanks to two days in the breach and an email from her owner, that this qualifies as the "Old College Try", and I am giving up. I'll put out food, and leave opportunities for her to return, but no longer will I sit dependent on the whims of a creature that licks itself and cannot communicate with me.²

And so now I am free. The cat will survive, as cats do, and will almost certainly return as soon as my unwelcome presence is, well, no longer present. This calls for some cable television and a real meal.

Notes: 

* Except without the guns, jungles, and rampant rape, pillaging, and murder. So not really "Guerrilla Sniper" at all. But it sounds hardcore, so we'll stick to it.

¹ Because apparently, I also thought I was suddenly in an episode of "The Sopranos"

² Hopefully, there will never come a day when I find myself dependent on someone who can communicate with me but still chooses to lick him/herself, either.

The Cat Came Back The Very Next Day (or rather, didn't).

Dear Reader, you ought to prepare yourself.  What follows in this post is a tale of the epic and eternal struggle of humanity and nature, man against beast, Reason against Instinct.*  What follows in this post is the terrible story of house-sitter v. house-cat.

Here in the Washington Riviera, I was given 3 tasks:
1) Keep the house occupied
2) Water plants in case of a heat wave
3) Keep the cat indoors

With any normal cat, number 3 would have been no issue. But this particular cat has the Cheshire-like ability to be present without ever being seen, and has a dangerous proclivity: bolting for the door.
Now, cat apparently has an excuse. Cat lived a hard-scrabble life on the streets before being taken in by the owners of this house, and indeed lived outside for the first several years of her belonging to the family. One day, she decided to be an "inside cat", and her owners obliged.  Since then, she has shown a shocking lack of social skill, and has vanished on previous house-sitters.

Confident, stupid me believed that I would have no such problem.

I kept her litter box clean, and the doors shut, and periodically poked the hole in the mattress of which she was a denizen to be certain she was alive and well enough to hiss like a vicious monster.

Then, I prepared to leave for the weekend (my instructions noted that her food and water was good for several days at a time, and I had the business of packing/organizing to accomplish at home), and made sure all was in order. At some point in the process, Cat vanished with nary a grin remaining.

The deep, mocking laughter probably still ripples from the beast

The problem with an invisible Cheshire Cat vanishing is that it's rather difficult to notice. The offending moment, as far as I can make it out, came when I was up on the balcony feeding the birds; confident that invisible Cat had not been upstairs for even a moment since my arrival, I left the door open and turned my back to fill the bird feeder.  I saw nothing move.

I left Seattle, confident that my tasks had been taken care of (I even watered the plants!). I went about my business in a carefree, delighted manner.

Upon my return, Cat was clearly absent.

I spent the first evening despondent, placing food out in case the animal was hungry (and also, still alive). The next morning, I placed a bowl of food by the door through which she must have escaped, and locked everything down so she would be unable to sneak by me.
The break came when I descended into the basement to put on socks and glance out the window. She was there! She was alive! She saw me, and promptly hotfooted it away.

And thus began operation cat rescue, in which I entered stake-out mode with the door open and food inside. Also involved in this highly advanced operation:

Your eyes do not deceive you. That is a string, wrapped around my hand and tied to the doorknob. It's an excellent strategy, and I began it around 11 am. The time then passed. And passed.

At about 2 pm, I had to eat. Since the food in Cat's dish was kind of out of the question,¹ I abandoned my post to make a PB&J. I also went to the bathroom, to minimize future issues. Then, I returned.

At about 7 pm, I had to eat some more, as the Peanut Butter was not as life-sustaining in the long run as, say, eating real meals. So I made eggs in the speediest manner possible, and once again returned.

At 8:30, Cat turned up. She moseyed up to the door, stuck her head in, looked at the food, and then at me. There was no fear in her eyes. There was, however, a great deal of disdain. She did not get close enough for me to pull my string. Instead, she turned tail and sauntered away.

I mistakenly took this as a good sign. She never came back.

Now I sit, on day two of this ordeal, hoping against hope that Cat comes back again.  I know she is alright, and I know this has happened to people before me, but I am wildly chagrined at my own inability to keep a house-cat in a house.

I have some friends visiting Seattle tomorrow--Portland, grad-school type friends: MG and G-face. Their presence will force me to give up on the cat situation briefly, which will be good for my mental health but bad for my sense of guilt.  My only real chance at enjoying their visit is if Cat returns, but that is apparently not up to me.

More soon, as Cat wrenches my sanity from me bit by bit.


Notes:
* These may all be declared synonymous, and largely dependent upon pre-Enlightenment (yet delightfully Empiricist!) worldviews, but dammitall if that's not an acceptable philosophical bent for this situation. 
¹ Though more because I was using it as bait than from any sense of human-food propriety--I was reallyhungry.

A life in Banker's Boxes

Over this past weekend, I left the Washington Riviera in order to make further progress towards the ultimate trek across country.  This began with full-Seattle-House-lockdown, and involved an interim stop in Olympia.

Once in Portland, I found myself somewhat distracted by the world (read: friends, food, and waterfalls), but also managed to sort through a considerable amount of stuff. You might call it junk. I would call it my Portland life.

I tend to live my life in a series of boxes. I don't mean this in an existential, world-weary sense ("oh, woe this compartmentalization of my identity, woe this codified homelife, woe this series of labels!").  I mean this rather literally: in my home(s), over the years, I have filled shoeboxes with life. Artifacts. The detritus of my me-ness. These boxes are, more often than not, organized by year, and the items in them are, more often than not, totally worthless to everyone but me.

A sampling of a few things found in my Portland Sentimental Miscellany:
- A stick with the words "Pirate Cove" written on it.
- A mints-tin filled with sand poured out from a shoe.
- A message in a bottle.
- A mini-potato gun.
- A build-your-own Kaleidescope kit.
- Several scraps of fabric.
- A pair of unwearable yellow safety goggles.
- An empty pack of chiclets.

These examples span 3 of my 4 years in Portland, and each of these things has a full narrative attached.  Take the first, for example.

It was July 7, 2006, and the Best Friend and I were bored. We had already driven around town aimlessly, dropped in on several people, and established that there was no party-o'clock that night. It was about 9pm. We decided to call another friend, JF, who had long been amenable to spontaneous adventuring. JF did not answer, so we decided to intrude instead.
JF was embroiled in a fierce poker game when we burst through the front door and announced that he was coming with us. Initially, we were rebuffed, but few people can withstand our charms for very long--we were piled into my car soon thereafter, headed for the coast.  We stopped at a place suggested by JF that required us to hike through the woods, cross a rope bridge, and navigate the wilderness without flashlights. Our reward was the Pirate Cove at Short Sands beach, where legend holds that a Pirate Ship once came ashore.  Legend also holds that the booty from that ship remains somewhere nearby.
We did not go looking for it, in part because we didn't know the legend yet (I in fact did not learn that we had gone to Short Sands until months later), and in part because it is a known fact that Pirate booty is cursed.  In lieu of damning our very souls to the depths of Davy Jones' locker, we built a bonfire and went swimming.

Then, we watched the moon set.

This is one of those things few people can claim to have watched. We did not watch the sun rise--we actually left the beach at around 5 am--but we did watch the moon go down over the horizon, and we walked back to the car in the pitch black of pre-dawn.

Now. That is, of course, only a short version of that story. I thought out the whole version of the story,* and therein lies my trouble. Thinking through the long-form of every narrative of every knick-knack takes time, energy, and emotional fortitude. At the end of each shoebox I wanted to look through the shoebox again. Instead, I was forced to put each shoebox into a slightly larger Banker's Box for indefinite storage.

Thus is the process of leaving a town, I suppose. I wouldn't be able to leave it if I took it with me,¹ so I find myself compartmentalizing memories in order to make room for new ones.  Also, I find myself compartmentalizing so that I don't have to lug sticks and tins full of sand across the country to collect dust.

This process was repeated, to a lesser extent, in Olympia this week as well. I have thus nearly completed the sequential order of my life for the last dozen years, and successfully taken enough strolls down memory lane to wear irrevocable ruts and potholes into the road.

Next task: start packing the stuff that does get taken.

Notes:
* It may be said that there is no whole narrative, since each individual is by necessity offering only part of said narrative and probably stuff gets lost in the shuffle. But it may also be said that Bröt and Bread lack perfect conceptual equivalencies and are therefore always never perfect translations of one another. We'll leave those tensions to the continental philosophers, and return to the blog post.
¹ Oh, ho-ho! Tautology for the win!

The Washington Riviera

A few weeks ago I was offered the opportunity to house-sit for my former academic advisor and her husband in her house on Lake Washington in Seattle.  This offer was for a three week gig, involved a hot tub and a view, and the best part was that they would pay me to live in their digs for this period.

So now I have entered into what I have decided to call my "Washington Riviera" phase of the summer, wherein I live in a three-story home with picture windows, sleep in, drink coffee, and look out over the world from a balcony.  It's very much like being on a real vacation.  I have yet to go out and do anything, but I am prepped for getting important work done and have the time to peruse the housing market in the Bronx--a task I had been neglecting in the end-of-the-year muddle and during the quest for the Whale.

This means that I will perhaps have very little to announce for a bit. If all is quiet on the Western front, know that it is because I am watching On-Demand television or napping in a giant love-seat, in the most positively relaxed manner one can imagine.

I am thus cocooning myself in luxury (or what seems to be luxury to a poor, poor person like myself) in preparation for the weeks, months, and years ahead.  Those years will have no cable TV, and no hot tubs or balconies, though I may be lucky enough to have a fire escape that I can access.