Holy Hurricane!

Finally Hurricane Irene has continued on her slow moving path and left minimal destruction in the New York City area. Other regions weren't as lucky, such as Atlantic Beach, NC and the New Jersey shore line.   I initially thought the area I lived in the City had a mandatory evacuation, but later discovered it was the end of my block that had to evacuate. I'm still trying to figure this out since I live on the East River, but zones were based on elevation, and I suppose I must be at a much higher elevation than my neighbors. None the less, to my mom's objections, I stayed put and decided to battle out the storm...Southern style. I loaded up on water, sweet tea, books and a yummy meal of creamy chicken, biscuits and wine...clearly, I was prepared!












My chances worked out in my favor because I woke this morning (apparently having slept through the eye of the hurricane) breathing and with electricity...I survived! People are out surveying the damage today so I  took a stroll myself to Carl Shurz Park on the Upper East Side, a favorite spot for many residents on the UES. It sits along the East River, and I was quite shocked to see the amount of damage done to the park. While only half a block from my apartment, the effects of Irene were seemingly undetected until I reached the park. Others must have had the same idea because the park was swarmed with people taking pictures of the damage-- and a few getting in their Sunday run.

Trees are down in many parts of the park and yellow caution tape is strewn throughout the park marking off areas with limbs on the verge of falling or trees already split in half. Mud, water and debris cake many of the sidewalks winding through the park, and trash is scattered everywhere. I even discovered a birthday balloon stuck in one of the tress (Happy Birthday to you!).

The most shocking discovery in the park is one of my favorite alcoves sitting below sea level. It is a secluded area normally filled with people on benches, and a central water fountain. Nearly the entire alcove is submerged by river water, making only the top of the fountain and benches visible. There was one dog having a field day playing fetch in the water, and became the one happy light of onlookers (I just hope they give him a bath in bleach and tetanus shot when they take him home).

The damage is certainly not in the streets, but along the water, in areas filled with tress. While the UES is known for its tree-lined streets and parks, so is the Financial District and its areas along the Hudson River, which are said to have been effected most on the Island. While we likely got the least of Irene, I can only imagine at this point what Lower Manhattan looks like.

Overall, I feel like officials in the city did a great job preparing people for the storm and evacuating high-risk areas. Many people are upset today with the decisions that were made, saying authorities over-reacted. But, it's always better to be safe than sorry. 

 

 I've now experienced two firsts this week-- an earthquake (18 stories high, mind you) and now a hurricane. Ok people, I'm checking out! Enough Mother Nature for now.

God Bless Saks, Jesus and Pizza

This weekend I tried to take advantage of the break from the rainy weather and spend as much time outdoors as possible. Saturday marked the last weekend the City celebrated Summer Streets, which happens for three weekends during August. Each Saturday officials close Park Avenue from Brooklyn Bridge to Central Park, setting up a series of "rest stops" where they have food vendors, kid-friendly activities and free bike repairs. I leaned about the event from coworkers who suggested I go. Of course when I think of a street festival I think of food AND retail vendors. I arrived to 68th and Park, dressed in my cute sundress, ballerina flats and iced White Chocolate Mocha in hand only to discover that the event isn't for the weekend stroller, but rather a mad house of runners and bicylists taking advantage of the few hours they don't fear for their lives thanks to the lunatics we call taxi drivers.

I walked along Park Avenue for about half a mile (I mean hey, I was there so why not take advantage of a closed street), and quickly decided I looked like a moron next to the exercise fanatics. On top of that, I started to feel very sad seeing the bicyclists and remembering my adventures on my beach cruiser back in Charleston. Well I suppose there was no better way for me to cure the lonely heart, but to suppress it with a little retail therapy. I got on my Blackberry and searched shopping destinations on Foursquare (which if you haven't uploaded the new version, do it. Immediately!) and what would you know...Saks Fifth Avenue was just around the corner!

While I may have been overdressed for Summer Streets, I'm sure I looked like a hobo in Saks. I walked around the ground floor for probably 20 minutes trying to figure out where all the clothes and shoes were. Thankfully I discovered a directory that informed me there were seven floors of shopping....Lord, save me! I took a deep breath and decided to only choose one floor (shoes and handbags) so it appeared I was there for something in particular and not some tourist going as part of a destination location with no intent to puchase. The feeling I got walking around must be similar to Andy in Devil Wears Prada, ovewhelmed and drooling at the masterpieces in Vogue's clothing department. I've been wanting to get a new bag, and they have lots of smaller bags that I'm sure I could afford...$2,000 for a clutch? Just kidding! Instead I settle on a pair of light brown Tory Burch ballerina flats, because afterall I've been thinking about it for awhile, excluding them from the "impulse buy" category.

I topped off my day with a late lunch at Rockefeller Center and last minute sale at Anthropologie. I was extremely successful at this store, and I reaffirmed why I believe you should NEVER pay full price for something (except my Tory Burch flats, that is) because I got an amazing summer dress for $20 marked down from $188...insane!

As I'm walking back to the subway, and dreading the sauna that awaits me, I walk past an enormous cathedral. Hmm, there were a lot of people in front and crosses at the top of the steeples...it must be Catholic. I look closer at the sign, and discover it is St. Patrick's Cathedral. I've literally been scoring left and right because this was on my list of places to see! Winning! Although I felt sacreligious with my shopping bags, I went inside and realized why this is rated with five stars in my tour of NYC book. The cathedral began construction in 1858 and was modeled in a Neo-Gothic style. After a brief halt in construction during the Civil War, the Cathedral opened its doors in 1882. Each side of the Cathedral is lined with chapels dedicated to saints and each housing offertory candles. I sat in a pew taking in the grandeur of everything all while watching a wedding take place at the main alter (I am later told the bride and groom must be politicians' children). I recommend Saint Jude's Chapel located on the left side of the Cathedral and the prayer card table at the back right of the Cathedral.

I wrapped up my weekend with a Sunday gathering for my amazing co-worker's 33rd birthday. She hosted it at Adrianne's Pizzabar in the heart of the Financial District (literally, blocks off from Wall Street). Adrianne's can be found on Stone Street, a hidden teasure in this concrete jungle. The street is lined with fabulous restaurants and pubs and is closed to vehicles. Guests can sit at tables on the cobblestone street, and it is perfect for hosting large groups. It was such a treat to meet a lot of new faces in the city and to see a gem I would have likely ovelooked.

This weekend is certainly one for the books, finding sweet surprises around every corner...literally. God bless Saks, Jesus and pizza.

The Met: Part 2

Somehow we are back to another weekend, so I will continue my journey where I ventured through several centuries in the African, South American and Native American exhibits.

The Ethiopian exhibit featured dozens of masks and costumes worn during ritual ceremonies. Several masks struck me with their direct connection of historical events happening during the time of their creation. These masks, referred to as "white-faced masks," portrayed light-skinned males. During the time these were made (19th century), Europe was having a field day on these native lands colonizing each region and introducing Christian missionaries into the region. While many of the items found in these exhibits resembled African gods and goddesses, there was a significant number of items also featuring Christian images. Bibles, necklaces and tapestries all were designed with scenes from scripture of Christ hanging from the cross.

Regardless of religious beliefs, Africans during these periods had a strong sense of what marriage was and how sexuality played a part in that union. I stood by listening to a tour guide (I know, I took a brief, free tutorial) describe the significance of one statue in particular. She said the statue represents a married couple because of the arm placed around the shoulder of the female. The placement of the male's hand signifies that his wife is with child, and the enlarged belly-buttons of the couple represent a connection between the two coming from the core of their bodies. African culture believes all unions come from the center of the body where the most vital organs are located. There were many of these types of sculptures throughout the exhibits, and while I thought they might be a bit R-rated, it was amazing to me how scholars on the subject can put such meaning into a piece based solely on a few depicted features of the body.

It's not uncommon today to see people with enormous holes in their ears from stretching the earlobe by gauged earrings. This trend is one that began far sooner than most would know, and it was shown in the Colombian collection dating back to the 16th century. The jewelry was astonishing in its size and weight. Ear gauges, or as they were referred to, "ear rods," nose pendents and even necklaces weighed several pounds, and if seen being worn, I can only imagine would cover half the face. The South Americans utilized all resources found in that region of the world, from gold and silver, to bronze and wood.

As astonishing in size as the South American jewelry were the Native American totem poles. These poles adorned meeting houses to ward evils from places of sacred value. The tribes owning these poles can be identified by the spirits personified on each pole. The detail of the wood is one that any carpenter would give a leg to have the skill to copy.


I feel that my adventures to The Met are not over, but this is a taste of what you may expect to find. Let the adventures continue...

The Met: Part 1

Over the past few days parts of the City have flooded due to nearly seven inches of rain. Keeping my promise to explore one new place each week, I decided to go to The Met, formally known as The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Of course I knew this would likely be the day activity of half the City, but decided to take my chances. I couldn't foresee the mass chaos and magic that lay ahead.

Now, The Met's architecture is a museum in itself, consisting of three floors with more than 100 different rooms on each floor. Many of the rooms range in size dependent upon the particular exhibit, and finding them must be similar to a rat in a science experiment. I've never been one for art, or understanding the philosophic viewpoints of how certain brush strokes or colors make tangible a specific emotion, but have always loved my grandfather's paintings. In his retirement he took on his childhood hobby, and shares his love for art by giving his family and friends pieces of the simple things from his life. Whether it's a bench in a garden or an Italian loaf of bread, he makes the simple simply beautiful.

Deep in the heart of The Met I felt this too, not by the paintings or photographs or charcoal pieces, but through the "simple" things that used to be part of everyday life to the Ancient Greeks, Ethiopians, Colombians or Native Americans.  Throughout the day I explored these exhibits admiring the detail and ritual behind each piece, that today, we often find so irreplaceable.











My final semester of Graduate school I took a course about Classical Rhetoric (yes, I probably should have signed up for Modern offered the previous year), and often struggled understanding the concepts my professor proposed in class discussions. But when I saw first hand what he was trying to say, I felt that same sense of awe I knew he had for the subject. Each piece in the Ancient Greek exhibit, whether it was a pair of earrings, perfume vases, armor, pottery, combs or even tweezers, they each had a story. Intricately carved into every item were symbols of animals, Greek gods and goddesses and historic battles.


One set of gold earrings featured a scene of Prince Ganymede in the grasp of Zeus, personified as an eagle, the pair hanging above honeysuckle. Greek mythology claims that the Prince was the most beautiful human creature and was an honored soldier from Troy. Zeus transformed into an eagle and swooped up the Prince and took him back to the heavens to be the torch bearer for Olympus.

There were cases filled with hundreds of pendents, or for all purposes, medals. Each were decorated with similar mythologies, such as one dating back to 1450 B.C. with the image of the phoenix. As mythology goes, the phoenix is burned to ashes every lifecycle (500-1000 years), resulting in a new phoenix hatching, symbolizing rebirth. Many Catholics today even wear these medals, depicting saints or images of Jesus engraved into each, acting as a constant reminder of spirituality and beauty in simplicity. Whatever the piece in the exhibit, it meant something to its owner, and it wasn't found on a canvas, but in everyday items.

Governor's Island: The Home of Ghosts

This weekend I spent a day exploring Lower Manhattan with a friend who lives in the area. He graciously attempted to be my tour guide for the day, beginning with a stroll along the Hudson River followed by a quick excursion off the Island. Living on the UES I am getting used to the East River and the small parks that line it, hosting several basketball courts, small picnic areas and even a public pool (although I won't be taking a dip in there anytime soon). The Hudson River is far more luxurious and upscale in comparison. Home to many multi-million dollar yachts, its shoreline is marked by cafes, dining tables and sculptures. Parallel to the shoreline is a sea of sky scrapers and important landmarks, such as Trump Towers, Goldman Sachs, Wall Street and the site of Freedom Tower (the first building to replace one of the fallen Twin Towers, and absolutely stunning in design). It is lined by the business Mecca of New York, and you can literally see the difference below your feet. I just so happened to look down as we walked past a homeless man (maybe another sign of the wealth in the area) and low-and-behold I found a $20 bill! What are the chances? Wait, you will see where I'm going with this soon...

Our destination along this path was the Governor's Island Ferry, a free ferry ride to an historical island. This piece of history is only open to the public Friday-Sunday and all Monday holidays.  We did not know much about the Island prior to our journey, and were left with little to see upon our arrival, except for this eerie feeling that we had stepped onto the set of Shutter Island. As we exit the ferry, wondering what we have walked in to, I look down again, this time finding nine $1 bills. Now, finding substantial money at all is rare, but twice in one day? It must have been either Lower Manhattan or Governor's Island boosting my luck that day! Now, back to the point...

We stepped onto the Island and noticed a lot of visitors on bikes, which we later learned personal bikes could be transported on the ferry. Luckily for us two bike rentals for two hours was $30, so we took the cash I found, tossed in an extra dollar, and rode on our merry way. Cheers to my good luck!


Now a little history-- the Island has gone back and forth between control by the British, Dutch, U.S. Army and U.S. Coast Guard. Originally controlled by Native Americans, "Nut Island," named after its abundance of nut-producing trees, was officially purchased in 1637 by Dutch representative Wouter Van Twiller. Twiller was lucky he only shelled out a few building nails, a string of beads and two axe heads because only one year later the Dutch government confiscated it.

Nearly 30 years later the British regained control over the Island, then referred to as "Nutten Island," when they seized New Amsterdam, renaming it "New York." The Island became the home to His Majesty's Governors over the course of a century until Britain's exile from New York following the Revolutionary War. America captured the Island, naming it Governor's Island, and utilized the land for an Army post. Governor's Island Railroad, a stretch of 1.75 miles of track, was even built to help haul supplies from the harbor to the warehouse. This post became a vital tool in regards to artillery storage and residential housing during the War of 1812 and Civil War.


In 1966 the Island was then turned over to the U.S. Coast guard, where it was the home to nearly 3,500 guards, becoming the largest American installation. In September of that year the Coast Guard relocated all residents and considered the Island a public property. Governor's Island is now a vacant island of dormitories, municipal buildings, a post office, a bookstore and rows of homes once occupied by high-ranking officials. The homes, distinct for their pastel colors (and only color on the island) reminded me of the historical homes in downtown Charleston, marking the post-Antebellum era. One of the homes we were able to go into where we found framed photos of various monuments, homes or views of the Statue of Liberty from the Island. Each home is unguarded, making it extremely easy for the rebellious travelers to venture off course (which crossed my mind, but I didn't sneak on this trip).

Governor's Island apparently hosts a slew of events throughout the summer months, even concert series and kid-friendly events. During off-peak periods the Island lays dormant and makes for a quiet afternoon of biking or even picnicking on some of the homes' lawns. It doesn't make for much of a history lesson (as the majority of these facts I've told you I found through additional literature), and should only be visited if you need a timeout from the City for a few hours or are interested in 17th century architecture.

A Night with the Comics

Last night I experienced my first comedy show in the City at New York Comedy Club. Now this wasn't my first comedy show, but certainly a different experience than previous shows I had ever experienced. Imagine the one bar in college you frequented that was a total dive bar, but there was something special about it. Although I had never been to this club before, there was an ora about it where I just knew it was more than a place where people are entertained, but a place that, to many, meant more than I could possibly understand.

When I first entered the Club I found myself in a dark, mildew-smelling room with an old, polished bar. Lining the walls were photos and paper mache heads of past comedians like Lucille Ball. While I waited to be escorted to the main stage, I met the headliner for that night's show, Clayton Fletcher, who is one of the few comedians successful enough to perform for a living. He has toured across the world and acted in several movies and TV shows. Fletcher performs at the Club each weekend, and his act consists of many sets featuring friends and fellow comedians, one being a friend and mentor of mine. I noticed many of the audience members and comedians exchanging pleasantries with one another, almost like a community based off a common interest: a love for performing.

Soon after I was lead to the "main stage," a dingy room of about ten tables and handmade wooden platform substituting as the stage. The crowd was small (Fletcher would later tell me it was the smallest he had ever seen), only a handful of about 12 people. But again, it was a community of diverse people all coming together for common interests, whether that be to gain a few laughs for the night or supporting family or friends.

The lady across from me was there to see her "daughter's father," as she described him to me, and said she saw all his shows. Well honey, I give you credit for being overly-supportive to someone you only give credit to for being the sperm-donor. There were two guys we later learned were from New Jersey, only in the City for the night...of course that would explain the Jager bombs they were taking at the bar in the lobby, and their public admittance later in the show that they dabbled in the nose candy. There were also two guys around my age in the crowd, whom I was certain were gay due to their impeccable dress and perfect bodies (because aren't the best-looking guys always gay)? It turns out they were from Norway and became the butt of most of the evening's jokes because the comedians had to explain every joke to them, but then again I'm sure they didn't even understand they were the punch line. There were two couples also in attendance, one sat at the table I shared with the one comedian's baby mama, and the other couple sat at the table behind me. It was evident that the couple at my table were on a date, possibly their first based on their awkwardness. The other couple sat canoodled at their table the whole night rarely laughing at any jokes, meaning they were probably the old married couple. And then there were the rest of us, the singles, praying that no one would make a joke out of us for flying solo.

The show began with the host for the night, Stephanie Holmes, who is likely the life of every frat party. Her sense of humor was vulgar and on the verge of offensive-- you certainly don't find those words coming from a Southern girl's mouth. But her style was so hilarious I found I sometimes had tears in my eyes. The majority of her jokes were based on putting herself down or harassing the audience, never knowing what she may say next or whom she would target. It is evident that she is the budding young comedian in this family of comics, and clearly the cheerleader of her mentors.

Over the course of two hours I listened to a variety of different comics, each with extremely different backgrounds. The show featured everyone from a Russian immigrant bartender and PhD dropout to a co-founder and extremely successful PR professional to a once homeless girl obsessed with her cat, Pasta, and determined to never get married or have children (think she may one day be the "old cat lady?"), each with their own humor and style, but all loving comedy, making them a family in and amongst themselves.

Some of the humor turned me off, like the lady's "daughter's father" who referred to every female as a bitch (including his mother and grandmother), and some so hysterical my cheeks ached, such as the comedian who talked about his 90-year-old father enjoying NJ's medical marijuana after being diagnosed with Glaucoma. Every comedian had his/her own flare based upon their life growing up or day-to-day life experiences.

If you've never gone to a show in the City I highly recommend it because it is truly what this city is about. It's a melting pot of different people with different lives and different backgrounds, but they are each brought together through one thing. Like we are all brought together by the love for this wild and chaotic city, they are all brought together because they love to make people laugh. When you walk through that door it doesn't matter if you are the unemployed father of an illegitimate baby or the owner of a successful company, you are all the same, and you are all a family.

MTA: Manners To Be Announced

When I finished my undergraduate career my parents gifted me with one of the most solid pieces of machinery I've ever come in contact with -- a BMW 3-series, fully loaded, black exterior with a beige, leather interior. Unfortunately this beauty isn't gracing the city roads with her four tires, instead, she's sitting outside my parents' home, sheltered by a car cover. I decided that I wasn't about to risk my love's safety on the streets of New York, or deal with the outageous parking costs of the city. Instead, I was going to make a true effort to become a city girl and take the NYC subway, or MTA.

Now, I must say that the stereotype that New Yorkers are rude and mean is by far one of the most unfair and inaccurate perceptions I have encountered thus far. Quite frankly most everyone I have come in contact with is friendly, social and polite...except on the subway. When it comes to chivalry and simple acts of kindness, well, the MTA is not the place to find that.

On my way to work this morning I heard for the first time an automated campaign encouraging riders to give up their seat if another is not available to persons who are elderly, suffer from disabilities or women who are pregnant -- an obvious sign that the issue is an apparent problem. The best part of this campaign is not the message itself, but the fact that it ends with a statement claiming that "being courteous is contagious."

Earlier this week I waited 15 minutes for the train to scoop me up from 86th Street. A train derailed causing delays on all trains. It was an especially hot day and the trains were crowded. If you've ever been on the MTA on one of these days you know what a stressful situation this can be. Lucky for me I am at the top of the route, and usually get a seat before the train is too crowded.

But on this particular morning, as I'm riding, content with my iPod drowning out the screeching train, I look up to see a girl around my age glaring at me. As soon as I make eye contact I watch her eyes go back and forth from me to the 3.5 inches of space next to me. Without a word she turns around and slowly begins to lower her big rear-end into this space which is wide enough for an 8-month-old. No exaggeration, it is a 15-second lowering process...how nice, she's kindly given me time to move over into the man to my left's space. When she realizes she doesn't fit she proceeds to wiggle back and forth, likely similar to how she attempted to fit into her skin-tight jeans earlier that morning. I sit there, squished between her and the man, looking like sardines and sweating like a criminal in church.

Needless to say, I found myself getting up and standing directly in front of the girl who essentially pushed me out of my seat. Never once was I given a thank you for letting her weasle her way into a space clearly unfit for her size or an apology for bullying me to give up my seat to appease her laziness. I'm certain she would never give up her seat for those more needing of it.

My only hope is that this campaign becomes somewhat of a success and the next time someone sees an inch they don't try to fill it with a body that doesn't deserve to be there. Unless you have a cane or look like you are about to drop a baby, don't mess with me or my space. Please and thank you.

Welcome to the Concrete Jungle

 Exactly one and half weeks ago I moved to the city Beyonce once referred to as a concrete jungle for, as I refer to, my first "big girl job." Recently graduating from the College of Charleston with my Master's degree I found myself in the position many of my friends were in post-undergad...jobless! After reaching out to my connections, and having a few strings pulled in my favor, I landed my dream job...the only thing was that my deam job is in the city I said six months prior, "I could NEVER live there!"

Well, bless my little heart, but I ate my words, sent my gratitudes to Heaven and decided I was going to make the most of this because now I am living here. One week prior to my official move I spent four days in the City to scope out my new diggs...and by diggs, I mean I was looking for a legitimate one-bedroom, full kitchen, and if I was lucky, maybe Carrie Bradshaw's closet. Afterall, I was moving from the beach house I shared with four of my closest friends on Sullivan's Island, SC...where was I going to hang all of my bathing suits? After touing 25 apartments up and down the Upper East Side, I found my home in a studio apartment beside the East River (my new version of the Atlantic Ocean).

While I ADORE my apartment, I do not drool over its architecture. I was blessed with a generous moving package by my company making my transition seamless, except for a tight squeeze that posed some difficulty. The last piece of furniture to enter the threshold was my beloved oatmeal-colored Jetton couch. It is such a solid piece of beauty that not only is the back of the sofa literally unremovable, its legs remain permantly fixated to the frame. For all you city-dwellers I'm sure you are now laughing at my expense because you would have seen this problem from the moment you walked into the funiture store, but what a hard lesson for me to learn....one of the few material possessions I've dreamt about was impossible to move through the frame of my 1950s-circa building. In the words of Snooki, "Wahhhh!!"

 My sofa is now on its way back to North Carolina where our local funiture store is graciously taking it back. I received a new couch this past weekend, a "fancy" Target sleeper/sofa, neatly packaged in a box (obvisouly a narow squeeze through the door). So while I now have a couch (and extra sleeping quarters), I will constantly be reminded that this is not my beach home. As my friend told me pior to this ordeal, "everyone makes sacrifices to live in NYC," and his words ring true. While I may not have the couch I love or the ocean in my front yard, I have a home that I love, a job that's a dream come true, all in a city that I only knew before as a place in the movies. So welcome to the concrete jungle, my new home.