Archive for July, 2007

8:30 in the morning came way too early. I walked through Bedford-Stuy alone to get our morning Cokes. We got on the train into town and got off to get some Ess-a-Bagel. Unfortunately, the cross streets I had written down for it were incorrect. My Google Maps mashup of Famous Fat Dave’s favorites had addresses in the titles (the only thing I had printed out, and Sydney doesn’t have a printer), when what you really need to navigate in New York is cross streets and a Street Wise map (highly recommended). So after walking six or so blocks to nowhere, Berck got a bialy and cream cheese at a random cafe, and we continued our trek to the Guggenheim to meet up with Todd, who was staying at his nephew’s house. Berck’s knee was hurting, so while we waited outside the museum, I ran over to the nearest Duane Reade and bought him some naproxen sodium. Gianna, who is living in New York now, joined us a little later and got us a couple of free tickets. Berck has an Embry Riddle student ID that got him massive discounts at all the museums. The Guggenheim was great, if not very extensive. We especially liked a hilarious weird video about a bunch of women making dough.

That out of the way, we all met up again at the Whitney, where Gianna got us free tickets for the four of us. The Whitney has a very good collection. One floor was devoted to this guy who does huge pieces. As you get off the elevator, you’re greeted by a room whose walls and ceiling are covered in foil with graffiti scratched into it and the security guard scraping something into a one of the corner walls (interactive art). Another piece was called White Carpet and was white carpet covering an entire wall. It looked like someone had walked across it with sooty shoes.

The Whitney unfortunately was devoting two whole floors to The Summer of Love, which meant a bunch of record art, band posters, and photos of hippies. There were also, mercifully, some rooms showing films of swirling dots with sitar music, which you’re supposed to watch while dropping acid, but were really good places to sit and rest one’s feet for a bit.

The ground floor had a very interesting piece called Profiling that was a room with a projector displaying on one of the walls. In the room were a couple of cameras capturing people who walked into the room. One side of the display showed who was currently in the room along with several loops of the last several minutes, so after a while, there were several girls wearing baseball caps. The other side had a camera attached to a computer running a program the artist had written to capture faces. It would show a mosaic of everyone who had been in the room in the last however many minutes (lots of shots of the security guard pacing back and forth). Then it would hone in on one individual and follow them around the room. It would tack up a title under the person labeling them. It labeled Todd “Lonely” and me “Uneasy.”

The plan was to do the MOMA next, but we were all too tired. So we headed up to Harlem to check out a soul food restaurant I wanted to try called Manna’s. It’s a buffet with all manner of things, from barbecued turkey wings to banana pudding to a tray full of chicken gizzards. Their collard greens have smoked turkey in them because they don’t serve pork. You fill up a styrofoam box and then pay by the pound. Dave raves about their deviled eggs, but they had too much sugar in them for me. All the meats were really good, though, along with the stuffing, and macaroni and cheese. Harlem has apparently come a long way. There was a gigantic glass covered Old Navy across the street from us in a huge mall. Everything looked healthy and prosperous, and we were the only white people I saw. Apparently, you don’t want to wander down dark streets in parts of Spanish Harlem, but the rest of it is really making a turnaround.

We headed back to Central Park to take a quick crosstown bus to the Met. I played Hendrix’s “Crosstown Traffic” (doo doo doodoodoo) in my head. Gianna got us more free tickets (even though the Met is by donation only). Berck headed straight for the modern corner, which they’ve made nearly impossible to get to for whatever reason. Todd and I got distracted by some Hieronymus Bosch, The Death of Socrates, and all the Rembrandt, including Aristotle Contemplating a Bust of Homer. We finally found the Moderns and Berck and a Bird in Space. We were so tired that we started spending a lot of time on benches. The Met didn’t close till 9, but it’s huge and we were beat.

We called Sydney, much to the consternation of the security guards, and told her to meet us at a trendy restaurant on Union Square where Todd’s nephew was playing in a jazz combo. We were seriously under dressed, so we hung out in the shadows by the bar and drank some overpriced drinks while listening to the music. Nate took a break after a while and came over and talked to us. It turned out that he had met the drummer and guitarist when the three of them showed up to start playing that night. But the nature of jazz is that everyone knows all the standards, and it didn’t matter that they had never rehearsed or even played together before. They sounded really good. They had a six hour gig, playing from six to midnight. I guess New York is one of those places where somebody can actually make a living as a musician.

For supper Sydney led us to a Southern Indian place not too far away where we feasted on delicious vegetarian samosas and dosas (Indian crepes) for very reasonable prices. The rest of us were finished and waiting for Sydney to finish her Flying Horse, but she was too busy talking. So when she ran to the bathroom, Berck emptied her beer to a more manageable size.

We headed back to The Living Room to try to meet Anjeanette, a classmate of Berck and Todd’s, but apparently, she had already left. We got some $6 beers and listened to the last couple songs by a chicka from Spanish Harlem with a little guitar. At the end Anjeanette called and said they were turning their taxi around. She and her friend and boyfriend showed up a little later, and we tried to talk in the now packed bar area since all the music had ended at the pathetically early time of midnight. We decided we needed to go to a much a quieter place with tables, chairs, and beer. We walked down the block, ducking in very loud, full bars. Finally, I insisted we go back to Katz’s, “It’s quiet, there’s chairs, tables, and beer.” Berck asked, “There’s beer?” So that’s what we did. Berck got me an egg cream, and it was really good. It was like drinking Hershey’s syrup watered down slightly with soda water. I’d had an egg cream once before, but it tasted like soda water with a hint of chocolate and wasn’t very good. Berck said they poured a lot more than that in there. We had a fun time and finally left around 1.

Sydney and Todd made their way to a party with Sydney’s law school friends and a hookah. I was beat and my feet ached and had been for some time, so Berck took me home. We got down to the subway platform right as our train was pulling out. We waited 20 minutes for the next train. Sydney’s brownstone is a block away from the Franklin station, and she can take the C train from there, or walk up Fulton a couple blocks and take the A Express. This weekend they were doing construction on the C line, so the A was making local stops. Only that night it wasn’t, and when our train finally came, we had to get off at Nostrand and walk back in the dark to the apartment, though that was probably quicker. We collapsed into bed, and I didn’t bother to set an alarm.

We got a later start on Friday than we’d intended, but we’d been up so late the night before. After everyone got a shower, Sydney, her roommate, Todd, Berck, and I walked to Tom’s Restaurant south of Syd’s brownstone in Brooklyn. Famous Fat Dave had not steered us wrong; the waffles and home fries were exceptional. I had a Belgian waffle with ice cream, whip cream, syrup, and cinnamon butter. Tom’s is strange because they hand out orange slices and cookies before taking your order. Then there were post-breakfast cookies and lollipops.

Todd had forgotten his wallet and MetroPass, so we had to walk back to the apartment to get it. Then we hopped on a train to the Lower East Side to visit the Tenement Museum. Unfortunately, we had to wait an hour to take a tour, so we made our way to Pommes Frites, a tiny restaurant that only makes fries and dozens of sauces to go with them. Sydney gave us a quick walk around NYU and then took Berck to buy a Koti roll, some nan enclosing Indian potato goodness. Berck spent the rest of our trip begging to go back, which makes me suspicious that they include cocaine.

By then we had 15 minutes to get to the Tenement Museum, and we just barely made it, being only about a minute late; they were just starting the tour, and we weren’t the latest ones–a group arrived just as we had entered the building, and a redheaded guy apologized for making them late. The guide told him they’d have to take a quiz at the end for their punishment. The museum was possible because in 1935 the landlord couldn’t afford to shell out the cash to install a metal fire escape in the back, so he just evicted all the tenants except for the shops downstairs, and the rest of the building stayed pretty much untouched until the museum bought it. It’s hard to imagine a family of 12 living in three tiny rooms with one window and running a sewing business out of the apartment at the same time. It’s no wonder the child mortality rate was greater than 50%.

By the end of the tour, it was too late to go to any other museums, so we took the subway down to Battery Park and hopped on the ferry to Staten Island. The port facilities are massive and modern and seem more expensive than necessary. Berck didn’t believe us that the ferry was free, and it’s amusing to me that the loudspeakers keep thanking you for riding it. As we rode the escalators up, men in suits up above stared intently at everyone coming up, profiling, I guess. We got some seats at the very back, but Berck spent the whole time happily leaning over the rail and taking pictures. The weather was nice that day, dry and cooler, and it felt good to be out in the breeze.

At the other end, we wandered around the opposite port facilities, trying to figure out which bus we could take to get to the pizza place for mozzarella sticks. Todd figured it out, and we waited a couple minutes for a bus to take us there. We missed our stop but only had to walk back a few blocks. Staten Island is very suburban with actual houses with little yards and cars. Everyone still talks funny, though. Denino’s Pizza was packed, it being a Friday night, but we managed to get some sticks for takeout and sit at the bar and drink some beers. The sticks were good but not exceptional. I wondered if we should have gotten a little pizza, but Berck didn’t want supper right then (I’m guessing because of his Koti roll).

Across the street waiting for our return bus, we tried Ralph’s Ices that just happened to be right there. Their cream ice was AMAZING; if only they were on the subway line. We missed a bus buying ice cream, so we had to wait extra long to get back. That put our return trip on the ferry at sunset, though, and that was not at all a bad thing.

The bus returned us to the ferry terminal, where Berck and Sydney ran to use the bathrooms. I spotted the water fountains and told Todd I was going to refill my water bottle. He said something about a bird being in the fountain, and I thought he was making a literary allusion I wasn’t getting until I saw a pigeon actually sitting in one of the drinking fountains.

We watched the sunset behind the Statue of Liberty on the way back, amused by a crazy guy who wanted to talk to us about the Sex Pistols CD he was listening to. We’d originally planned to attend a free Neko Case concert in Central Park at 7:30, but by then it was 8:30 and would have taken us another half hour to get there. So we headed back to the Lower East Side to The Living Room, which has free music and $6 beers and a one drink minimum per set. We headed upstairs and heard an excellent folk trio called Barnaby Bright, but they only played two more songs in the way too hot gallery. So we headed downstairs to the overcrowded main room. I was too tired to stand around listening, so I sat out in the bar area on a comfy couch and planned the next day’s activities.

Sydney came out later to tell me they’d snagged a table. We heard a really good acoustic solo guy calling himself Birdwire, who invited a red headed friend of his to play something I’d never heard of. The guy came up and sat on a wooden box and started slapping it with his hands. In the middle it sounded a nice bass, and up in the corners it sounded like a snare. Sydney said, “Is that the guy at the Tenement Museum today?” but I didn’t think it was; Berck thought it was too, but he is notoriously bad with faces. Then the singer invited another guy up with a harmonica, and the three played a wonderfully rousing song about a train. The soloist told everyone he was giving away free CD’s, so Todd went over to get one. “Hey,” said the red head, “Weren’t you at the Tenement Museum today?” Blue hair is kinda hard to miss.

At midnight I was exhausted and ready to go home, but everyone else was ready to keep going for the next set that a huge band was setting up for. At least I was sitting down, though in the very front I figured it would be pretty darn loud. La Strada has a lead singer/accordion/guitar/piano player, guitarist/backup, bassist/backup, drummer, and string trio. They have a huge sound, often interesting lyrics, and a lead singer that sounds like the guy from Decemberists… in fact, they sound very much like the Decemberists. I loved them.

All of the bands these days don’t have websites; they have MySpace pages.

We stayed until the end, then came out to find the street that had been moderately busy at 10 was now hopping at 1 am. We made our way down the block to Katz’s Deli. $14 is a lot to pay for a pastrami sandwich, but it and the plate of pickles that came with it fed me and Berck, so I guess it’s not that bad. Besides, where else are you going to find a quality pastrami sandwich at 1 in the morning? At Katz, they hand you a ticket when you walk in. Whenever you order something at the counter, they write on your ticket and hand it back to you. When you leave, you hand your ticket to the cashier and pay for whatever it says on it. If you lose your ticket, they won’t let you leave unless you pay them $50 cash. No one in New York takes credit cards; it’s an all cash economy, like any European city. There’s a bouncer and often a cop at the door… and an ATM.

We finally got to the subway around 2 and, of course, had to wait half an hour for a train, even though the station was packed with party goers heading home. We finally got home around 2:30. The next day was going to be a packed day of museum seeing, so Berck and I set our alarms for 8:30. Sydney said not to bother to wake her up.

The Ani DiFranco concert on Wednesday night was fun. Deciding to cut through the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens and Prospect Park, we navigated according to my compass along paths that kept winding the wrong way. Little directional signs at intersections weren’t a whole lot of help; one pointed the direction we were going, while the next pointed the opposite. We finally realized that if we just followed the short-haired girls with lots of piercings, they’d take us directly to the band shell. Then we relaxed out on the grass while the two opening acts played (both of them Ani wannabes), drank beer out of plastic cups, and watched the group of lesbians in front of us pass a joint around. Berck was one of the few males in attendance. On the way home, Sydney got us lost because she hadn’t thought to bring her glasses or her map, much to Berck’s dismay because he urgently had to visit a bathroom.

We found out about the steam pipe blast in Manhattan when we got home and checked e-mail and the news online, just like we would have if we were home. So much for being in New York when a big story hits.

In the morning, I was awoken by Sydney’s cat Killer, who was playing with his jingle-ball hanging from the wall. I got up and push-pinned it to the bulletin board above it, but this only seemed to tick him off. He started leaping up against the wall trying to reach it, so instead of a gentle jingling, there was a loud thump of a roundish Manx hitting drywall, followed by a little jingle. Berck sat up and laughed at him. “Killer?” he said, getting the cat’s attention. Killer turned his head and uttered the most ticked off meow I’ve ever heard.

Sydney’s alarm kept going off in the living room where she was sleeping on the couch. I went in and asked her what time she had to be at work. “Nine-thirty, why?” she said putting her alarm on snooze again. When it went off 9 minutes later, I gave up on sleeping any longer and got up and walked around the corner to get a couple of Cokes.

Sydney’s neighborhood is made up of West Indians and Arabic speakers, primarily, almost all of them black. I only saw three other white people the whole time we were there: her roommate, a guy who lives upstairs who let us in last night after the landlords inexplicably changed the front lock, and one of her other cotenents. The landlords are apparently very racist, which is why Syd got such a great apartment for “cheap.” She greets all her neighbors whenever she leaves the house, and they all smile and greet her back, including the older lady next door, who always says, “Hey, baby!” Sydney said she heard her yelling on her cell phone outside recently, “No! I ain’t no f***ing crack addict! I’m an alcoholic!”

Sydney eventually got up that morning, complaining that she couldn’t hear her alarm and that she was going to be late for work. Berck got dressed, and we started our adventure for the day by fortifying ourselves at Yonah Schimmel Knishery. I had a sweet cheese, and Berck had a potato. Both were amazing.

Berck’s college roommate Todd was arriving on the Boston Chinatown bus around noon, and we didn’t have enough time to hit any of the museums properly before we met up with him. So we visited the Institute of Photography’s exhibit. There was an exhibit of Stephen Shore who is well known for traveling around North America in the ’70’s, taking pictures of landscapes, towns, motel rooms, or whatever. A lot of them looked like photos Berck has taken, and it amazed me that so much of the country still looks exactly the same. He would make postcards of shots and deposit them in card racks in stores in every town he went.

We walked the short distance to Times Square, looked around, and then jumped on the subway to Chinatown. Todd had dyed his hair blue, which clashed with his grey-green eyes. I told him purple would probably go better, but he likes blue. It was always easy to find him, though. We made our way to the cross streets where a Chinese/Cuban place was supposed to be, but instead of a restaurant there was a poultry shop. Berck went in and asked, but they had never heard of the name of our restaurant. Todd still had his bags with him, so he started up his MacBook, found an open wireless network, and checked Google. Google said we were right where we should be, but there was another address for the same name in Chelsea.

We gave up and continued down to the federal building where Sydney is working for the summer. We had to be searched to get in, but the view from her little corner office was incredible. She works near the top of the northernmost, tall building in Lower Manhattan, so she has an unparalleled view of Midtown. Then she took us to a yuppie Cuban place near her office that was quite tasty.

Berck had spotted the Intrepid Sea & Air museum on my map, so I looked it up in my guidebook and realized it was the aircraft carrier. We only had a couple of hours before it closed, so we thought we’d go directly to the ship without dropping Todd’s bags off. It seemed like an eternal walk as we took turns carrying his luggage, but we finally made it to the water. We passed by the Carnival cruise ships that came before the ship and then spotted a disturbing sign that said, “INTREPID,” U-turn arrow, “RETURNING FALL 2008” next to an empty spot on the wharf.

“Oh, yeah!” said Todd. “I read about them moving it to be refurbished. It got stuck on a sandbar.”

“Oh, yeah!” I said, “I remember reading about that too.”

“Well, why didn’t anybody say anything!” demanded Berck in exasperation.

Tired of carrying the bags so long, we hailed a $12 cab to take us to the Frick Collection, which I’d heard was free, or used to be. Berck paid the exorbitant price of $15 while I was checking my backpack; otherwise, I would have suggested we skip it. It’s a good small collection, just way too expensive, especially with Berck complaining about it the whole time. At least we could check Todd’s bags.

Back at the apartment, we added Todd’s laptop to the collection of four already there and relaxed a bit while waiting for Sydney to get home from work. I had the evening all planned out when Sydney arrived and informed us it would take an hour to get down to the southern end of Brooklyn. The subway map isn’t exactly to scale. We decided to do as much of it as we could and took a train down to Avenue U to Famous Fat Dave’s favorite place for Sicilian pizza, L&B Spumoni Gardens. The restaurant wasn’t exactly at the end of the F Line, so I had to call to get directions from there. But we found it and ate a Sicilian rice ball and discovered that it was indeed an amazing pizza, and we couldn’t possibly eat it all. I finally asked for the check after we’d been sitting there for hours; Sydney informed us later that you have to ask for it in New York (like any other European country). We had just enough room for spumoni, yummy stuff with chunks of pistachios in it that we ate on our way back to the subway station.

We got to a little place in Park Slope to see Todd’s nephew Nate (who is a couple months younger than he is) play bass, but his band had just finished their set. But we got a couple beers while Todd and Nate caught up, finally walking back to the subway and getting home very late.

Pictures are up in the gallery. I’ll label them soon.