I left the office in Midtown with every intention of taking the subway from 51st and Lexington Avenue to The Lower East Side. I didn’t even have proper walking shoes on. I was wearing some tanned colored Hush Puppies. I think they were Hush Puppies but I am not sure. I don’t even care if they were Hush Puppies or not. I just love the sound of those words. “Hush Puppies.” If I don’t own a pair I may just go out and buy a pair and then i can talk about my Hush Puppies all day long.
My office is literally a stone’s throw away from the subway station. The weather outside was hot and steamy. It was close to ninety degrees with a similar number as measured by the humidity. It wasn’t pleasant. It was, what I describe as New York City shower weather; meaning that you need to take one immediately after walking three blocks. My destination was four miles away, due south. For some unknown reason I passed the subway station and turned right to walk down Lexington Avenue. I still don’t know why I did this. It was as if my feet had mutinied against my brain and had set off on their own journey, totally disregarding all logical thoughts. It proves that it doesn’t really matter what you are thinking at any given time since the feet have a mind separate from the rest of your body.
It was blisteringly hot. My feet didn’t care. They were on a mission. I was sweating profusely and begging for them to stop and do a u-turn back to the subway but this didn’t happen. A hundred yard leisurely stroll turned into a four mile hike, battling the elements and dodging a few pedestrians and cars to boot. Before I knew it I had turned onto Third Avenue as I instinctively knew the walking route I needed to take to arrive at my destination on time.
There really isn’t much to admire on Third Avenue. There are a whole plethora of office complexes and below average restaurants and delis. It is a pretty uninspiring walk. I was reluctant to continue my adventure but the feet insisted. They would not accept any compromise. I started talking to them as I was walking, in a vain attempt at trying to reason with them but they simply ignored me. They continued to point the way and carried on striding towards Downtown. It wasn’t until the final mile when they showed any sign of letting up. They suddenly became tired and achy and were very irritable. By this stage I was so upset with them that I insisted that they completed their task. I was cutting my nose to spite my feet.
By the time I arrived at the Bowery I was drenched. I probably smelled none too clever either and I resembled the many homeless who had started to gather outside some of the more famous shelters that house them. I was furious with my feet for having senselessly put myself through this unnecessary ordeal. The blaring, torturous sun had clouded my thoughts and I began to yell at my feet threatening all sorts of punishments that I could unveil if they ever did this to me again. Without fully realizing it, other pedestrians began to cross the road to avoid me. The last thing they wanted was a confrontation with a disheveled sweaty lunatic who was contemplating self foot torture.
It was only when I arrived at the bar downtown, that happened to be the correct destination and I started to suck in the sweet, cool, refreshing air conditioning, that it suddenly dawned on me. Walking in New York City is a tremendous pastime. It saves on cab fares and the discomfort of overcrowded trains. The grid system makes it very difficult to get lost. The one drawback is that in the Summer, the heat is so stifling and disorientating that it plays tricks on the mind and encourages a foot coup d’état.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
INDEPENDENCE HEART BLOCKAGES.
The mass exodus has started. Panic and mega planning take over this city during this time of year as those who leave spend more time calculating what the best time to depart is, than their actual journey. This year the 4th of July falls on a Monday. We finally get a legitimate three day weekend as opposed to a brief midweek work stoppage .
At this point I would like to voice a complaint against the 4th of July. Not because I was born in England and still hold joint nationalities. It is however quite ironic that I celebrate a day when the English were kicked out of here for no taxation without representation; yet I was a green card holder for 8 years paying tax and not being able to vote. I complain because the 4th of July holiday should always be on a Friday or a Monday allowing for a three day holiday. On the three occasions it falls smack in the middle of the week it turns out to be an inconvenient holiday rather than a joyous one. The 4th of July should be mandated to fall on a Friday or a Monday. It doesn't really matter if we celebrate it on the 6th or the 7th of July. Three day weekends should always be the norm. In England the holidays are always Bank Holiday Mondays for that reason alone. Otherwise it becomes too disruptive.
Those who leave, do so in patterns and in droves. This year as I stare out of my office window into the abyss, I can already cast my tired eyes down on the Thursday night exiting brigade as they frantically attempt to miss the Friday rush hour disaster scenarios. I do have some rather bad news for them. The Thursday night rush hour ain't that much better than Fridays and may even be worse. Because of their early departure, Friday may have less traffic. Thursday nights include the normal rush hour crew plus the early get away folk adding to congestion.
The smarter folk leave in the dead of night as Thursday turns to Friday. They depart after 10pm and experience very little traffic. The problem is they are so tired when they start their journey that they are a much greater risk for an accident than their earlier peers. The journey during the wee hours is clearly conducted in the dark and is more terrifying but does seem to present a much quicker escape than those who peril the same routes just hours before.
The Friday morning choice, just after rush hour provides NYC leavers, with most likely, the best time slot. They miss the morning madness and sandwich themselves between the rush hour commuters and the holiday travelers. Those who have no choice but to wait until after work Friday to get away to their holiday destination , are in for a nasty surprise. Even a ten per cent increase in traffic over the normal mess creates total havoc on New York Streets. Comparing the roads in and out of New York to a dodgy heart is a fair one. The arteries get clogged because of bad driving habits of its citizens and the sheer increase in volume on the roads adds stress to the heart because the arteries cant pump the blood fast enough to allow New York to breathe. Without any stints or a prospect of bi-pass or open heart surgery, New York City's ticker gives up causing massive heart failure on those days just before the start of the holiday weekend.
I have a really good solution to this problem. Do what I do. Go nowhere. Be a stay at home family. Gather in large amounts of food and drink from New York's finest grocery stores, lock the doors and relax in good air conditioning, thus avoiding the pandemonium below. Take a stroll on the 4th of July and watch the fireworks and then stroll home again. You therefore don't ever have to deal with the utter insanity of getting away. Don't forget that those who have left have to come back and repeat this painful exercise on Monday night, many of whom scramble to get back while I am gazing into the sky at the bright lights and loud sounds celebrating the fact that 235 years ago they kicked my lot out of here.
At this point I would like to voice a complaint against the 4th of July. Not because I was born in England and still hold joint nationalities. It is however quite ironic that I celebrate a day when the English were kicked out of here for no taxation without representation; yet I was a green card holder for 8 years paying tax and not being able to vote. I complain because the 4th of July holiday should always be on a Friday or a Monday allowing for a three day holiday. On the three occasions it falls smack in the middle of the week it turns out to be an inconvenient holiday rather than a joyous one. The 4th of July should be mandated to fall on a Friday or a Monday. It doesn't really matter if we celebrate it on the 6th or the 7th of July. Three day weekends should always be the norm. In England the holidays are always Bank Holiday Mondays for that reason alone. Otherwise it becomes too disruptive.
Those who leave, do so in patterns and in droves. This year as I stare out of my office window into the abyss, I can already cast my tired eyes down on the Thursday night exiting brigade as they frantically attempt to miss the Friday rush hour disaster scenarios. I do have some rather bad news for them. The Thursday night rush hour ain't that much better than Fridays and may even be worse. Because of their early departure, Friday may have less traffic. Thursday nights include the normal rush hour crew plus the early get away folk adding to congestion.
The smarter folk leave in the dead of night as Thursday turns to Friday. They depart after 10pm and experience very little traffic. The problem is they are so tired when they start their journey that they are a much greater risk for an accident than their earlier peers. The journey during the wee hours is clearly conducted in the dark and is more terrifying but does seem to present a much quicker escape than those who peril the same routes just hours before.
The Friday morning choice, just after rush hour provides NYC leavers, with most likely, the best time slot. They miss the morning madness and sandwich themselves between the rush hour commuters and the holiday travelers. Those who have no choice but to wait until after work Friday to get away to their holiday destination , are in for a nasty surprise. Even a ten per cent increase in traffic over the normal mess creates total havoc on New York Streets. Comparing the roads in and out of New York to a dodgy heart is a fair one. The arteries get clogged because of bad driving habits of its citizens and the sheer increase in volume on the roads adds stress to the heart because the arteries cant pump the blood fast enough to allow New York to breathe. Without any stints or a prospect of bi-pass or open heart surgery, New York City's ticker gives up causing massive heart failure on those days just before the start of the holiday weekend.
I have a really good solution to this problem. Do what I do. Go nowhere. Be a stay at home family. Gather in large amounts of food and drink from New York's finest grocery stores, lock the doors and relax in good air conditioning, thus avoiding the pandemonium below. Take a stroll on the 4th of July and watch the fireworks and then stroll home again. You therefore don't ever have to deal with the utter insanity of getting away. Don't forget that those who have left have to come back and repeat this painful exercise on Monday night, many of whom scramble to get back while I am gazing into the sky at the bright lights and loud sounds celebrating the fact that 235 years ago they kicked my lot out of here.
Monday, June 27, 2011
SUNDAY NIGHT VACATION.
There is nothing better than avoiding all of those who leave Manhattan for the weekends and head off to the beach. It’s not that I don’t like my 8 months of the year fellow city dwellers. I just prefer it when they are gone because then I can enjoy this truly wonderful city without having to lie and beg for reservations at some of New York’s finer eating establishments.
I pray every Sunday that good weather hits the tri-state shores and stays all Sunday afternoon allowing those on the beach to stay where they are until the very last minute. I then focus on creating as much traffic as is feasibly possible on all approach roads to the city during Sunday late afternoon and early evening, preventing the weekend away crew from getting back in time for dinner. With this strategy in place, my wife and I venture off downtown to New York’s finest without a reservation and get greeted with smiles and a happy to see you and we will provide excellent service to you look from MaitreD’s that until we arrive, have been staring at empty tables.
I enjoy these Sunday night escapes. Last night we ate downtown at Aquagrill. It was fabulous. We felt like we were on vacation. We drove there. We found a free parking space on the street and we could walk the sidewalks hand in hand after without having to step into the streets and avoid the crowds. It was sheer bliss.
All was going swimmingly well until we arrived home to find three beach families returning, blocking the driveway to our garage and fighting over which family got the only luggage cart first. It developed into a full blown argument with the three Dads out of the car yelling incomprehensible stuff at each other and the Mothers hurling catty insults though open car windows. I was very calm, considering I had just arrived back from my dinner vacation and so I just waited in the car for the hullabaloo to die down. I was pleased to see that my city peers had enjoyed a thoroughly relaxing weekend and that the benefits of being away at the beach had worn off after five minutes of being home. I had spent one hundred and fifty bucks on a tremendous evening out. They had spent that on gas alone getting to and from their weekend retreat and were none the more relaxed for all their escapades. Long live Sunday nights in Manhattan. I choose being here over anywhere.
I pray every Sunday that good weather hits the tri-state shores and stays all Sunday afternoon allowing those on the beach to stay where they are until the very last minute. I then focus on creating as much traffic as is feasibly possible on all approach roads to the city during Sunday late afternoon and early evening, preventing the weekend away crew from getting back in time for dinner. With this strategy in place, my wife and I venture off downtown to New York’s finest without a reservation and get greeted with smiles and a happy to see you and we will provide excellent service to you look from MaitreD’s that until we arrive, have been staring at empty tables.
I enjoy these Sunday night escapes. Last night we ate downtown at Aquagrill. It was fabulous. We felt like we were on vacation. We drove there. We found a free parking space on the street and we could walk the sidewalks hand in hand after without having to step into the streets and avoid the crowds. It was sheer bliss.
All was going swimmingly well until we arrived home to find three beach families returning, blocking the driveway to our garage and fighting over which family got the only luggage cart first. It developed into a full blown argument with the three Dads out of the car yelling incomprehensible stuff at each other and the Mothers hurling catty insults though open car windows. I was very calm, considering I had just arrived back from my dinner vacation and so I just waited in the car for the hullabaloo to die down. I was pleased to see that my city peers had enjoyed a thoroughly relaxing weekend and that the benefits of being away at the beach had worn off after five minutes of being home. I had spent one hundred and fifty bucks on a tremendous evening out. They had spent that on gas alone getting to and from their weekend retreat and were none the more relaxed for all their escapades. Long live Sunday nights in Manhattan. I choose being here over anywhere.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
WALKING CHOICES FOR COMMUTING.
A couple of weeks ago I was complaining vigorously about the weather here in our beloved metropolis. It seemed as if we could never get a break from the precipitation that graced us on a daily basis several times a day. Now that the weather has done a complete 180 degree turn, I propose doing a Native American Indian rain dance to facilitate some rain. The humidity has become unbearable and its not even summer yet.
The weather extremes of New York city have officially eradicated two of our favorites seasons. In a few decades time kids living here will ask " what was Spring like Daddy?" They will never experience days of 65 degrees with no humidity and a refreshing cool breeze that accompanies it. We all remember with glee the endless days of shorts, t-shirts underneath and a sweatshirt draped over the shoulders just in case the temperature falls below 50 . I remember walking in central park breathing in the aromas that permeate the air from the freshly cut grass or the sprouting of spring buds. It is my favorite time of the year. Mother nature has decided to steal these fleeting moments of contentment away from the inhabitants of New York and instead punish them with rain and now humidity.
I walk to work and back each day . In the morning I chose to walk down Park Avenue because there are no buses. I include this piece of useful information not because of the fact that I agree with the no bus policy on Park Avenue. I mention this fact because I am always tempted to abandon my walks and jump on a bus when walking down Second or Lexington Avenues. I even hang around bus stops in anticipation of a bus relieving me of my exercise. On Park I cannot do this so I chose this route to work in order to complete the two mile walk without evil bus temptations.
On the way back I have many choices. I leave work around Five. The last thing I ever want to do during the afternoon rush hour is hop on a bus or a subway unless I absolutely have to. I don't like being that intimate with strangers if you can picture how close you have to stand next to someone crammed into a sausage like structure either below or above ground. I enjoy walking home. On Fifth Avenue I encounter the tourist aimlessly patrolling the retail Mecca of the world. I am often stopped for directions on Fifth Avenue and oblige with first class orienteering recommendations. It is an arduous task weaving in and out of tourist traffic congregating at all the wrong places. If I chose Fifth it adds at least five minutes to my journey, blamed squarely on the other pedestrians unfamiliar with the walking habits of New Yorkers. The one advantage of taking Fifth is I can make a slight detour and wander into Central Park at 59 th street and then walk the next mile in the park avoiding the mass of alien invaders on Fifth.
The walk on Madison Avenue is quite different. The advertising crew are out in force and are better dressed, better looking and considerably younger. This is the Avenue of gorgeous people and I often find myself walking into lampposts or other pedestrians staring at something half my age and flimsily dressed. I tend not to chose this route home often because it hurts my neck and I try and refrain from appearing to be that creepy old guy that many cross roads to ignore.
Park Avenue is a fine choice for the commute home. I tend to be the salmon swimming against the tide as the office buildings spew out their workers like clockwork at five in the afternoon and the vast majority of them trek down a few blocks to Grand Central Station hurrying to catch their trains at times past the hour only New York State Transit Authorities could come up with. Higher up on Park Avenue I witness hoards of plastic surgery patients with bandages on faces and heads and extraordinary large breasts trying to avoid eye contact with those in the know. I have counted at least fifteen plastic surgeons in the sixties and seventies on both sides of Park. Clearly those who want to be more beautiful gravitate to one of the most stunning avenues in New York to get treatment.
Lexington is nothing short of a zoo. It is a combination of office workers, construction workers, students from Hunter college, nannies with babies in strollers and lower end retail customers all jockeying for sidewalk room heading in both directions. It is impossible to cleanly navigate ones way in a straight line without bumping into several people. I try and avoid bodily contact at all times with aggressive commuters and so by-pass Lexington regularly.
Third Avenue is quite similar to Lexington in its pedestrian make up. Its sidewalks are much wider though making the journey that much easier. You do have to contend with the Bloomingdale's crowd in the low 60's but they tend to not even be on the sidewalk as they are half in the street hailing cabs with brown bags flying around as they hoist their flapping hands high above their heads. Once you have passed the shopping brigade the coast is clear and Third Avenue is a nice alternative to Park.
Second Avenue is another hustling bustling commercial street with many restaurants , bars and delis that come to life after six when happy hour is in full force. In the seventies it becomes the largest continuous construction site seen by New Yorkers as the Second Avenue subway line engulfs every aspect of avenue life. It is horrendous and should be avoided at all costs. It is the bubonic plague of the city and i pity anyone who has to deal with the noise, sights, smells and sounds of what will be for sure a complete waste of public finances.
Choices are what makes New York so different from many other cities. When the weather holds up and its not too hot i encourage City folk and visitors to walk the city streets and take in the different vibes. Excluding downtown the City is built around a grid making it very difficult to get lost. I have touched on just a few Avenues that vary quite considerably. The only challenge to walking is that one has to deal with other walkers like me. New Yorkers are pretty set in their ways and plan out their walking routes well in advance. There is nothing more annoying than large families spread out hand in hand taking up the whole sidewalk. You will be harassed by the local population and will be told quite clearly how you should be walking. Buses and subways should only be used when the journey is too long or when the weather plays up. Otherwise walking is the preferred mode of transportation as nothing is worse than sausage stuffing!
The weather extremes of New York city have officially eradicated two of our favorites seasons. In a few decades time kids living here will ask " what was Spring like Daddy?" They will never experience days of 65 degrees with no humidity and a refreshing cool breeze that accompanies it. We all remember with glee the endless days of shorts, t-shirts underneath and a sweatshirt draped over the shoulders just in case the temperature falls below 50 . I remember walking in central park breathing in the aromas that permeate the air from the freshly cut grass or the sprouting of spring buds. It is my favorite time of the year. Mother nature has decided to steal these fleeting moments of contentment away from the inhabitants of New York and instead punish them with rain and now humidity.
I walk to work and back each day . In the morning I chose to walk down Park Avenue because there are no buses. I include this piece of useful information not because of the fact that I agree with the no bus policy on Park Avenue. I mention this fact because I am always tempted to abandon my walks and jump on a bus when walking down Second or Lexington Avenues. I even hang around bus stops in anticipation of a bus relieving me of my exercise. On Park I cannot do this so I chose this route to work in order to complete the two mile walk without evil bus temptations.
On the way back I have many choices. I leave work around Five. The last thing I ever want to do during the afternoon rush hour is hop on a bus or a subway unless I absolutely have to. I don't like being that intimate with strangers if you can picture how close you have to stand next to someone crammed into a sausage like structure either below or above ground. I enjoy walking home. On Fifth Avenue I encounter the tourist aimlessly patrolling the retail Mecca of the world. I am often stopped for directions on Fifth Avenue and oblige with first class orienteering recommendations. It is an arduous task weaving in and out of tourist traffic congregating at all the wrong places. If I chose Fifth it adds at least five minutes to my journey, blamed squarely on the other pedestrians unfamiliar with the walking habits of New Yorkers. The one advantage of taking Fifth is I can make a slight detour and wander into Central Park at 59 th street and then walk the next mile in the park avoiding the mass of alien invaders on Fifth.
The walk on Madison Avenue is quite different. The advertising crew are out in force and are better dressed, better looking and considerably younger. This is the Avenue of gorgeous people and I often find myself walking into lampposts or other pedestrians staring at something half my age and flimsily dressed. I tend not to chose this route home often because it hurts my neck and I try and refrain from appearing to be that creepy old guy that many cross roads to ignore.
Park Avenue is a fine choice for the commute home. I tend to be the salmon swimming against the tide as the office buildings spew out their workers like clockwork at five in the afternoon and the vast majority of them trek down a few blocks to Grand Central Station hurrying to catch their trains at times past the hour only New York State Transit Authorities could come up with. Higher up on Park Avenue I witness hoards of plastic surgery patients with bandages on faces and heads and extraordinary large breasts trying to avoid eye contact with those in the know. I have counted at least fifteen plastic surgeons in the sixties and seventies on both sides of Park. Clearly those who want to be more beautiful gravitate to one of the most stunning avenues in New York to get treatment.
Lexington is nothing short of a zoo. It is a combination of office workers, construction workers, students from Hunter college, nannies with babies in strollers and lower end retail customers all jockeying for sidewalk room heading in both directions. It is impossible to cleanly navigate ones way in a straight line without bumping into several people. I try and avoid bodily contact at all times with aggressive commuters and so by-pass Lexington regularly.
Third Avenue is quite similar to Lexington in its pedestrian make up. Its sidewalks are much wider though making the journey that much easier. You do have to contend with the Bloomingdale's crowd in the low 60's but they tend to not even be on the sidewalk as they are half in the street hailing cabs with brown bags flying around as they hoist their flapping hands high above their heads. Once you have passed the shopping brigade the coast is clear and Third Avenue is a nice alternative to Park.
Second Avenue is another hustling bustling commercial street with many restaurants , bars and delis that come to life after six when happy hour is in full force. In the seventies it becomes the largest continuous construction site seen by New Yorkers as the Second Avenue subway line engulfs every aspect of avenue life. It is horrendous and should be avoided at all costs. It is the bubonic plague of the city and i pity anyone who has to deal with the noise, sights, smells and sounds of what will be for sure a complete waste of public finances.
Choices are what makes New York so different from many other cities. When the weather holds up and its not too hot i encourage City folk and visitors to walk the city streets and take in the different vibes. Excluding downtown the City is built around a grid making it very difficult to get lost. I have touched on just a few Avenues that vary quite considerably. The only challenge to walking is that one has to deal with other walkers like me. New Yorkers are pretty set in their ways and plan out their walking routes well in advance. There is nothing more annoying than large families spread out hand in hand taking up the whole sidewalk. You will be harassed by the local population and will be told quite clearly how you should be walking. Buses and subways should only be used when the journey is too long or when the weather plays up. Otherwise walking is the preferred mode of transportation as nothing is worse than sausage stuffing!
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
THEY DON'T MAKE THEM LIKE THIS ANYMORE.
New York has many distinctive neighborhoods. There is Little Italy, Chinatown, German-town and Spanish Harlem to name a few. In the old days pre- the 1970's when everyone moved out because of an escalation in crime, New Yorkers generally conducted their business within a very short distance from their homes and spoke whatever language they had used back in the old country. Life was a lot simpler then and definitely more community based . New York has changed and with the exception of Chinatown , there is a lack of distinct neighborhoods with their own language and culture. All other sections of Manhattan seem to blend into one.
My Great Aunt Katche was a holocaust survivor from Nazi Germany. She fled her homeland in December 1938 a few days after Krystalnacht and managed to secure a visa to what was then then British Mandate Palestine , now better known as Israel. She settled in Jerusalem in a neighborhood called Rehavia. It was 99 per cent German. Just like the Old Italian, Jewish and Asian nationals of lower Manhattan she kept to her own. Her lawyer was German. Her accountant was German. Her banker was German and the candy store her and Uncle Alfred owned and ran catered to German immigrants . She lived in Rehavia from 1938 until 1993 when she passed on. For fifty five years she never spoke a word of Hebrew, which is the National language of Israel. Every thing she did was in German including the reading of newspapers, the listening to the wireless and the once a week German news program on the television that she watched religiously.
All Aunt Katsche's friends were German and they all seemed to live in the same cocooned life, refusing to assimilate with the general population. It reminds me very much of what i see in Chinatown here in New York. Thousands of elderly folk go about their business shopping at Chinese grocery stores, buying the same foods they used to purchase back in the old country. They all appear to know one another and live their lives as if they have never left the Mainland. It is a wonderful thing to witness. Adopting this type of lifestyle, traditions are maintained and thank goodness we live in a free society where immigrants can exist within worlds they are accustomed to supplanted far away from their birth place without the added pressure of assimilation. That is left to offspring to fulfill.
This trait of being stuck in their ways and refusing to comply with unfamiliar surroundings has a direct affect on the way certain immigrants deal with situations that challenge this whole way of living. An example of this occurred in the late
1980s with my Aunt and her Great Niece Michelle who was studying in Israel for a whole school year. She was in her late teens and was extremely considerate to my Aunt and Uncle. Michelle visited them every Thursday at 4pm for a cup of tea and a piece of cake. She couldn't show up at 3.45pm because they were both napping. She also could not turn up at 4.15pm because they were German and being late for a scheduled appointment was punishable by the death penalty just after a phone call to the missing persons bureau. So Michelle every Thursday would take the number 28 bus to their neighborhood and wait until her watch showed 4pm and visit for a couple of hours. Michelle was from New York City. With Anutie Katsche and Uncle Alfred she spoke perfect broken German. She barely understood the conversations and tended to smile a lot and agree with whatever they were saying. Friends of the old couple visited regularly and Michelle found herself nodding profusely to the assortment of questions that came her way.
When the visit was over Auntie Katsche and Uncle Alfred escorted Michelle to the bus stop and insisted that she got on the number 9 bus back to her dorm. The problem was only the number 28 bus went to her dorm and not the number 9 but Auntie Katsche and Uncle Alfred could not have possibly known that since they never left their German neighborhood. Michelle often tried arguing with them about which bus she should be taking but they were incapable of listening and changing their incorrect viewpoint. So every Thursday late afternoon at 6.05pm Michelle stood at the bus stop and watched the bus she needed stop and leave without her. Five minutes later like clockwork the number 9 bus arrived. She begrudgingly boarded the wrong bus and waved goodbye to her relatives. She then turned around and pressed the stop button and got off at the next bus stop . She then walked back to the previous stop and waited for the next number 28 bus to take her home.
Michelle claimed that this was a small price to pay for keeping the old couple sane and content. She always told them that they need not accompany her to the bus stop at all but as she was a female they felt obliged to make sure she got home safely. Michelle inconvenienced herself for the sake of allowing two very nervous people to feel good about their actions in looking after what they believed to be a lost visitor to their city who they assumed knew nothing about how to navigate correctly aroundit. This scenario continued for several months. Auntie Katsche and Uncle Alfred always went straight home after making sure Michelle was on the bus. Only once did they spontaneously, out of character, decide to do some shopping in the hood. When they returned from their grocery run they were dismayed and somewhat startled to find Michelle sitting at the same bus stop. They had literally just put her on the number 9 bus, not ten minutes ago. She had gotten off at the next stop and as per normal walked back to the bus stop awaiting the next number 28. It duly came. She tried to get on it. Aunt Katsche wouldn't hear of it. Another number 9 arrived and so for the second time in twenty minutes, Michelle boarded the wrong bus . The old couple quizzed Michelle why she had reapperaed at the bus stop and when she told them the truth they disassociated themselves from her answer claiming that she was being irrational and quite stubborn. This time Michelle got off two bus stops away and jumped into a taxi. I guess she couldn't risk going back again.
The funny twist about this story is that some Immigrant New Yorkers behave in a somewhat similar fashion. They love their newly adopted home and claim to know every nook and cranny in this hustling and bustling city. The truth is they never learn the native language, cant read the street signs and rarely if ever leave their own neighborhoods. Two months after Michelle boarded two wrong number 9s within a very short period of time , it was time for her to return to New York City. She invited Aunt Katsche and Uncle Alfred over to her dorm for them to meet her friends and some of her teachers at a farewell bash. They duly accepted her invitation. They didn't drive and wouldn't get in a taxi because of language constraints. So they took the bus from their place to Michelle. They were 40 minutes late. They were German. Germans are never late. Michelle wasn't worried. When they finally showed up the two of them weren't talking to each other and looked very flustered. Michelle kissed them both on the cheek and they sat down on a sofa resting their walking sticks on their laps and she asked them if they had found the dorm without any problems. Auntie Katsche looked at Uncle Alfred and gave him a nasty glare and he kindly returned it. Michelle sheepishly asked them if they had taken the number 9 bus the 6 miles to her dorm knowing full well it didn't go any where near her temporary home. Aunt Katsche smiled at Michelle and responded, clearly lying,
" No .We walked . We needed the exercise." They certainly don't make them like that any more!
My Great Aunt Katche was a holocaust survivor from Nazi Germany. She fled her homeland in December 1938 a few days after Krystalnacht and managed to secure a visa to what was then then British Mandate Palestine , now better known as Israel. She settled in Jerusalem in a neighborhood called Rehavia. It was 99 per cent German. Just like the Old Italian, Jewish and Asian nationals of lower Manhattan she kept to her own. Her lawyer was German. Her accountant was German. Her banker was German and the candy store her and Uncle Alfred owned and ran catered to German immigrants . She lived in Rehavia from 1938 until 1993 when she passed on. For fifty five years she never spoke a word of Hebrew, which is the National language of Israel. Every thing she did was in German including the reading of newspapers, the listening to the wireless and the once a week German news program on the television that she watched religiously.
All Aunt Katsche's friends were German and they all seemed to live in the same cocooned life, refusing to assimilate with the general population. It reminds me very much of what i see in Chinatown here in New York. Thousands of elderly folk go about their business shopping at Chinese grocery stores, buying the same foods they used to purchase back in the old country. They all appear to know one another and live their lives as if they have never left the Mainland. It is a wonderful thing to witness. Adopting this type of lifestyle, traditions are maintained and thank goodness we live in a free society where immigrants can exist within worlds they are accustomed to supplanted far away from their birth place without the added pressure of assimilation. That is left to offspring to fulfill.
This trait of being stuck in their ways and refusing to comply with unfamiliar surroundings has a direct affect on the way certain immigrants deal with situations that challenge this whole way of living. An example of this occurred in the late
1980s with my Aunt and her Great Niece Michelle who was studying in Israel for a whole school year. She was in her late teens and was extremely considerate to my Aunt and Uncle. Michelle visited them every Thursday at 4pm for a cup of tea and a piece of cake. She couldn't show up at 3.45pm because they were both napping. She also could not turn up at 4.15pm because they were German and being late for a scheduled appointment was punishable by the death penalty just after a phone call to the missing persons bureau. So Michelle every Thursday would take the number 28 bus to their neighborhood and wait until her watch showed 4pm and visit for a couple of hours. Michelle was from New York City. With Anutie Katsche and Uncle Alfred she spoke perfect broken German. She barely understood the conversations and tended to smile a lot and agree with whatever they were saying. Friends of the old couple visited regularly and Michelle found herself nodding profusely to the assortment of questions that came her way.
When the visit was over Auntie Katsche and Uncle Alfred escorted Michelle to the bus stop and insisted that she got on the number 9 bus back to her dorm. The problem was only the number 28 bus went to her dorm and not the number 9 but Auntie Katsche and Uncle Alfred could not have possibly known that since they never left their German neighborhood. Michelle often tried arguing with them about which bus she should be taking but they were incapable of listening and changing their incorrect viewpoint. So every Thursday late afternoon at 6.05pm Michelle stood at the bus stop and watched the bus she needed stop and leave without her. Five minutes later like clockwork the number 9 bus arrived. She begrudgingly boarded the wrong bus and waved goodbye to her relatives. She then turned around and pressed the stop button and got off at the next bus stop . She then walked back to the previous stop and waited for the next number 28 bus to take her home.
Michelle claimed that this was a small price to pay for keeping the old couple sane and content. She always told them that they need not accompany her to the bus stop at all but as she was a female they felt obliged to make sure she got home safely. Michelle inconvenienced herself for the sake of allowing two very nervous people to feel good about their actions in looking after what they believed to be a lost visitor to their city who they assumed knew nothing about how to navigate correctly aroundit. This scenario continued for several months. Auntie Katsche and Uncle Alfred always went straight home after making sure Michelle was on the bus. Only once did they spontaneously, out of character, decide to do some shopping in the hood. When they returned from their grocery run they were dismayed and somewhat startled to find Michelle sitting at the same bus stop. They had literally just put her on the number 9 bus, not ten minutes ago. She had gotten off at the next stop and as per normal walked back to the bus stop awaiting the next number 28. It duly came. She tried to get on it. Aunt Katsche wouldn't hear of it. Another number 9 arrived and so for the second time in twenty minutes, Michelle boarded the wrong bus . The old couple quizzed Michelle why she had reapperaed at the bus stop and when she told them the truth they disassociated themselves from her answer claiming that she was being irrational and quite stubborn. This time Michelle got off two bus stops away and jumped into a taxi. I guess she couldn't risk going back again.
The funny twist about this story is that some Immigrant New Yorkers behave in a somewhat similar fashion. They love their newly adopted home and claim to know every nook and cranny in this hustling and bustling city. The truth is they never learn the native language, cant read the street signs and rarely if ever leave their own neighborhoods. Two months after Michelle boarded two wrong number 9s within a very short period of time , it was time for her to return to New York City. She invited Aunt Katsche and Uncle Alfred over to her dorm for them to meet her friends and some of her teachers at a farewell bash. They duly accepted her invitation. They didn't drive and wouldn't get in a taxi because of language constraints. So they took the bus from their place to Michelle. They were 40 minutes late. They were German. Germans are never late. Michelle wasn't worried. When they finally showed up the two of them weren't talking to each other and looked very flustered. Michelle kissed them both on the cheek and they sat down on a sofa resting their walking sticks on their laps and she asked them if they had found the dorm without any problems. Auntie Katsche looked at Uncle Alfred and gave him a nasty glare and he kindly returned it. Michelle sheepishly asked them if they had taken the number 9 bus the 6 miles to her dorm knowing full well it didn't go any where near her temporary home. Aunt Katsche smiled at Michelle and responded, clearly lying,
" No .We walked . We needed the exercise." They certainly don't make them like that any more!
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
I THINK I HAVE TO MOVE
I thought I wanted to spend the rest of my life in New York City. I love it here. I never get bored, I always have a few exciting plans and sleep, work and play here for the vast majority of days in each and every year. However something has changed inside of me. I just can't take the weather any more. It's driving me completely crazy.
By my calculations it has rained for 15 of the last 22 days. It's May. Showers are supposed to occur in April. May should be the one month when it's not too hot and the sun shines every day. I have almost forgotten what the sun looks like. Every morning I wake up hoping for blue skies but when I peer out of my apartment window it is misty, and gray with a hint of moisture and the complete opposite of bright. I used to never carry an umbrella in New York City but now it is permanently attached to some part of my body. My umbrella is now my American Express card- " I don't leave home without it."
The doorman in our building is kind and considerate enough to leave a note up informing the tenants that it is raining. Many proper soakings have managed to persuade me to overcome my fear of umbrellas and I am now of the persuasion that they are indeed quite useful accessories. The note has been up for a whole week. It just doesn't stop raining. Noah from the book of Genesis would feel at home here and ducks are starting to fly in from far away places after hearing that some of the Avenues of Manhattan are prime for swimming. When is it all going to stop? I turn on the Weather Channel and all I see are dark clouds and raindrops scattered over the display showing theremaining days of this week. Apparently we won't see the sun again until Sunday.
I grew up in a climate like this. London is notorious for grim weather and miserable people. New York City is now exactly the same. I thought I had escaped the long continuous stretches of rain that accompanied my childhood and youth. The expression that " you have brought the weather with you," takes on a whole new meaning. I really feel like EE-AW from Winnie The Pooh , walking around with a dark cloud hovering above me unloading large droplets on my face every time I look up.
I really can't take it any more. Winter was harsh this past year but it was nothing compared to the miserable Spring we are living through. Summer will naturally be a scorch fest with temperatures above 100 degrees every day for weeks at a time sapping any remaining energy I have left. If things don't start improving soon I will pack my bags and stand at my front door contemplating much friendlier climates until reality bites and I unpack realizing that I can never leave this city as I am too entrenched, in spite of its bad weather.
By my calculations it has rained for 15 of the last 22 days. It's May. Showers are supposed to occur in April. May should be the one month when it's not too hot and the sun shines every day. I have almost forgotten what the sun looks like. Every morning I wake up hoping for blue skies but when I peer out of my apartment window it is misty, and gray with a hint of moisture and the complete opposite of bright. I used to never carry an umbrella in New York City but now it is permanently attached to some part of my body. My umbrella is now my American Express card- " I don't leave home without it."
The doorman in our building is kind and considerate enough to leave a note up informing the tenants that it is raining. Many proper soakings have managed to persuade me to overcome my fear of umbrellas and I am now of the persuasion that they are indeed quite useful accessories. The note has been up for a whole week. It just doesn't stop raining. Noah from the book of Genesis would feel at home here and ducks are starting to fly in from far away places after hearing that some of the Avenues of Manhattan are prime for swimming. When is it all going to stop? I turn on the Weather Channel and all I see are dark clouds and raindrops scattered over the display showing theremaining days of this week. Apparently we won't see the sun again until Sunday.
I grew up in a climate like this. London is notorious for grim weather and miserable people. New York City is now exactly the same. I thought I had escaped the long continuous stretches of rain that accompanied my childhood and youth. The expression that " you have brought the weather with you," takes on a whole new meaning. I really feel like EE-AW from Winnie The Pooh , walking around with a dark cloud hovering above me unloading large droplets on my face every time I look up.
I really can't take it any more. Winter was harsh this past year but it was nothing compared to the miserable Spring we are living through. Summer will naturally be a scorch fest with temperatures above 100 degrees every day for weeks at a time sapping any remaining energy I have left. If things don't start improving soon I will pack my bags and stand at my front door contemplating much friendlier climates until reality bites and I unpack realizing that I can never leave this city as I am too entrenched, in spite of its bad weather.
Friday, May 6, 2011
POTTY TRAINING
We need to go back to basics in the bathroom. I work in an office of around 100 people on a trading floor. Seventy per cent are male. Half of those males go out binge drinking every Thursday night. We have one bathroom with two urinals and two stalls. On Friday mornings you can wait for hours to get into a stall and when you finally get in you wish you hadn’t tried.
I am determined to find out who the phantom non flusher is. Time after time I open the stall door to be met with an open toilet bowl full of very unpleasant surprises. When I find out who the culprits are I will confront them over whether they do the same thing to their wives/partners/kids in their own homes. I am convinced that those responsible are not from the younger generation. Generally speaking those born after 1980 are more health conscious and into proper hygiene. They all sit at their desks with their anti bacterial lotions and don’t even touch the bathroom door handle on exiting, choosing to grab a load of bathroom paper towels to turn the infected handle. So I am on the look out for an older gentleman who is unhygienic and walks towards the bathroom area on a Friday morning. I can’t just wait outside the stall nor peer in to see who it is in there because that invites a whole host of accusations flying my way. I will though, find the person and humiliate him to such an extent that he will never non flush or block the toilet again.
To avoid blockages at home we installed a policy of single sheet or very thin double sheet toilet paper and educated the kids how to thoroughly do whatever needs to be done post usage using the smallest amount of tissue. It has worked. The plunger basically sits upright on the floor and is used maybe once a year when my youngest son purposely blocks the toilet in order to use the plunger. He has been missing it terribly and asks about it constantly. In a corporate office there is no plunger available for immediate use so when the toilet gets blocked; the reason for the clogging sits there stewing for hours until maintenance comes to fix it. Apparently when I challenged a young crew member from the building he informed me that several plungers had been stolen on different floors. I still fail to see the demand for used plungers but I guess every house needs one and it’s not normally on a wedding list or a present you bring someone for a housewarming party.
I have taken measures into my own hands now. I no longer even attempt to use the bathroom on my office floor on a Friday. Instead I head over to the Waldorf Astoria hotel armed with a newspaper. I have my favorite stall and it is so clean you could almost eat off its floor, which of course I never would. It is so civilized there. After finishing my business an attendant runs the tap, squirts liquid soap in your hands and offers towels to dry all for a non requisite dollar bill. Until the phantom is caught in my office and brought to trial I am conducting my “business” elsewhere.
I am determined to find out who the phantom non flusher is. Time after time I open the stall door to be met with an open toilet bowl full of very unpleasant surprises. When I find out who the culprits are I will confront them over whether they do the same thing to their wives/partners/kids in their own homes. I am convinced that those responsible are not from the younger generation. Generally speaking those born after 1980 are more health conscious and into proper hygiene. They all sit at their desks with their anti bacterial lotions and don’t even touch the bathroom door handle on exiting, choosing to grab a load of bathroom paper towels to turn the infected handle. So I am on the look out for an older gentleman who is unhygienic and walks towards the bathroom area on a Friday morning. I can’t just wait outside the stall nor peer in to see who it is in there because that invites a whole host of accusations flying my way. I will though, find the person and humiliate him to such an extent that he will never non flush or block the toilet again.
To avoid blockages at home we installed a policy of single sheet or very thin double sheet toilet paper and educated the kids how to thoroughly do whatever needs to be done post usage using the smallest amount of tissue. It has worked. The plunger basically sits upright on the floor and is used maybe once a year when my youngest son purposely blocks the toilet in order to use the plunger. He has been missing it terribly and asks about it constantly. In a corporate office there is no plunger available for immediate use so when the toilet gets blocked; the reason for the clogging sits there stewing for hours until maintenance comes to fix it. Apparently when I challenged a young crew member from the building he informed me that several plungers had been stolen on different floors. I still fail to see the demand for used plungers but I guess every house needs one and it’s not normally on a wedding list or a present you bring someone for a housewarming party.
I have taken measures into my own hands now. I no longer even attempt to use the bathroom on my office floor on a Friday. Instead I head over to the Waldorf Astoria hotel armed with a newspaper. I have my favorite stall and it is so clean you could almost eat off its floor, which of course I never would. It is so civilized there. After finishing my business an attendant runs the tap, squirts liquid soap in your hands and offers towels to dry all for a non requisite dollar bill. Until the phantom is caught in my office and brought to trial I am conducting my “business” elsewhere.
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