Salt

Coney Island: I met a German yesterday who had come to New York a few days ago truly thinking that Coney Island was an island and wondering why he couldn't find it on the map. It occurred to me that I had never thought that and I wondered why. They say it's the last year of Coney Island, that a boogey man developer is setting out to destroy the gritty and unique beauty of the constant carnival, to replace it with high rise hotels and clean it up a bit. People talk about it in a resigned way, like they've been anticipating the death of Coney Island the way one waits for an aged and ailing relative to pass on. I took the German there to see what we'd find and we met a French guy there, the 3 of us perfectly in time out of our lack of punctuality.

The neon lights themselves seemed faded and even when we walked directly between the Zipper, the Wonder Wheel and other creaking rides, it reminded me of walking past the fair grounds late at night, hearing bells and screams and metallic voices but being in another place. It was somewhere between a time warp and oblivion, almost that it had never existed at all. Even at 10pm, families aimed water guns at targets, determined to win a stiff, stuffed bear holding a heart, or a basketball. And despite the painful lurches and slams of aging thrill rides, people lined up for their chance to face..what? their fears? their childhoods?

The air coming off the sea smelled thick with salt, thicker than I'd smelled it before in that spot and I breathed in deep. The boardwalk was dark, making it impossible to walk without tripping over the countless boards that were trying to leap up out of the wooden walk way. It was like learning to walk with a limp. I got a corn muffin and a corona and we talked about subtleties in languages and culture and where everyone was on September 11th; everyone agreed that the video looked like a very bad movie, very unbelievable yet apt for a film about NYC.

Q: I've come to love the letter Q. Everytime I see it, lit up in yellow, I feel a sense of familiarity, I've got the stops memorized and I feel safe aboard. Someone in the office, reading a bottle cap, said that the letter Q is the only letter in the English alphabet that doesn't appear in any of the names of the U.S. states. To me, the Q has its own language and when I see it slowing towards me, I understand.

Movement

Tornado in Brooklyn: I wouldn’t have known at all that it was anything but a lot of lightening if I hadn’t read the staff email sent out sometime in the afternoon last Wednesday. I woke up just before six am to a very loud pop, followed by a roar, boom and a rumble. For the next hour my room was lit up by near-constant flashes of white light and my windows rattled from the snapping thunder. Rather than disturbing, the storm was soothing to me and I stayed awake to listen to it. Car alarms went off in the street, muffled slightly by a fierce and steady downpour that carried on for about an hour. When I got up for work, I imagined a soppy and cold Brooklyn morning. Instead, it was blazing hot and all the puddles that were boiling up off the sidewalk made the humidity wrap around you like a thick, damp blanket. The metro station was chaos, not a train was running in near all Brooklyn and even in the city, many were down or backed up. A harried attendant pointed us toward the Flatbush 41 bus, a few blocks down, and dozens of us grudgingly walked there together. Already about 60 folks were at the bus stop, one of many along the length of Flatbush Avenue. A bus came down the street, didn’t even slow down for all the people on it. A few minutes later, another one did the same thing. I realized there was no way I was going to get to the city by bus either, at least not in the next few hours. Plus, the bus would only take us to the Atlantic stop, still 2 stops away from where I needed to go and surely the trains would be backed up too.

I started wondering what would happen if New York was hit by a truly terrible natural disaster, instead of a slightly stronger than average thunderstorm. Here were hundreds of people stranded in the city because of the lack of public transportation, and taxis definitely couldn’t keep up with the demand. Thinking about this, I started to walk. I had no idea how long it would take, but I was going to be late for work one way or another and I’d rather be walking than standing at a bus stop watching buses pass me by for who knows how long. The walk proved to be long and probably something that shouldn’t be done in that kind of heat or if you have to be somewhere at a certain time. Luckily, it was just a straight shot pretty much to the bridge and the walk was easy. I found that I really liked walking- I spend a lot of time on the subway and rarely think about all the stuff I’m missing above ground, so it was a good change in perspective. Well, all in all, it took me about 2 hours and the Brooklyn Bridge was certainly a beautiful sight that day. By the afternoon, everything was back to normal, save the fallen tree branches and roofless homes.

Days off: The heat from the storm wore off by Thursday, withering away to cold and rainy and pretty dismal if you ask me. On Friday I forced myself out of the house to meet a perfect stranger and I ended up very happy that I did. We hopped a train to West Harlem to the Hispanic Society of the Americas after a much-needed hot coffee and a break from the rain. The Hispanic Society is a combination of archives and museum and on a wet, freezing day way up in Harlem, was pretty empty. Mostly 17th century religious artifacts from Spain and a few things from Puebla, Mexico were on display. The true enjoyment was in our poking fun at the silliness and creepiness of all things Catholic (a turkey-shaped incense burner? eyeless saints? flying baby heads?).

After the departure of my new Bostonian friend (who left me with a Red Sox shot glass, commemorating her unplanned trip to a baseball game which resulted in her actually beginning to like baseball), I went to the Museum of American Folk Art. It was small and the art was very kitsch and mostly neat, especially the weathervane collection. Yet, I do think that whoever said that the museum mainly serves as an excuse for a gift shop is probably right. Or maybe they thought to try and create some idea of an American culture so that people don't have to actually try to seek it out themselves and instead find comfort in complex quilt patterns and wooden dolls. After the museum, I caught the tail end of an Indian music performance by a dedicated trio in a plaza outside of the Lincoln Center. Yasser arrived just as I got back down to downtown, we meandered through Littly Italy a bit but the cold and long day encouraged us to go home pretty quickly.

On Saturday, I finally visited the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, a serene expanse of green and colored shapes and buzzing wings. I smelled more than a dozen types of roses, made Yasser nervous as I teetered over the lily pad pond, hugged a great and huge weeping willow and followed all types of flying insects in their pursuits. The day was beautiful with a swept-open sky and finally a tolerable temperature and oh, the sun that I’d been missing. We left the gardens in search of halal food and found a West Indian halal buffet on Flatbush. My, sweet potatoes, yams, and fried plantains are really all I need to be satisfied. But the black-eyed peas, salty greens, and corn made me grin ear to ear. Yum.

Balance

Highway strangers: Yasser & I gratefully caught a rideshare off of Craigslist headed for Chicago. To meet our car host, we took a Metro North train way, way up and out of the city to the Katonah stop. Luckily, the 4th rider also missed the earliest train and we all met up on time. Our driver was headed to the DailyKos Convention in Chicago to see the Democratic candidates. A chatty and lively woman, she reminded me of my mom in many ways (and she also turned out to be descendant from Italian immigrants). The other rider was a tango dancer/teacher/extraordinaire, en route to creating a tango dance network that will span the nation. We all alternated with stories and sleeping and made good time to Toledo, Ohio where my mom was waiting to pick Yasser and I up. The U.S. really needs more ridesharing of this sort if we're gonna love cars so much. Heck, even I, environmentalist and activist that I am, romanticize the American Road Trip.

Michigan: A bizarre landscape when compared to New York. Slow-moving things, green, fields of crops, thick sweet-smelling air, dirt roads, empty streets, quiet. I felt restless and content at the same time. In NYC the constant bustle and noise and colors compel me to seek out action, life, people, music, anything. In Michigan, the calm eased me into accepting that I can be content taking a long walk, sitting in the cool air of the library, biking with neither destination or companion, sitting on the couch and reading a book. I was happy to see old friends, I really felt good in Kalamazoo. I was moving on my own time, accepting who I saw or what I did as they came and understanding the limits of my time there. I also got to spend some nice time with my mom, on her birthday and also for a few hours when we first arrived to Ohio and Michigan. And I was happy to see the rest of my family, I just never have enough time there. Returning to NYC after Michigan, I had that familiar feeling of not being sure whether places are changing or if it's just me.

Parks: I very quickly got back into the pace of things in NYC, subways, work, hurrying to wait and all. Chad came to town for a brief minute before his flight back to Cali and we wandered around Park Slope with a friend before getting Thai food. It was good that he arrived just as my roommate was going crazy or I would have thought it was me. Tuesday I saw some nice spoken word and singing in Tompkins Square Park. There was this little kid, maybe 4 years old, dancing like wild to the beats and dancing really well. It was impressive and it was very disappointing to me when a woman came over and grabbed him by the arm, leading him to a chair to try to get him to sit still. Being taught to sit still is one of the great tragedies of growing up, especially when it negates such a beautiful expenditure of energy like dancing.

Yesterday I saw a great outdoor theatre performance by the Bread and Puppets Theatre group from Vermont. When I walked up, I saw the flapping of large, steel-grey wings. Enormous metallic birds were circling the stage, making such a beautiful noise as their heavy wings rose and fell in clangs. They swooped around and behind the stage and soon smaller, more tinny-sounding birds hopped out and squawked a bit before disappearing. The show was very political and brought up a lot of points about accountability, autonomy, and personal responsibility. I really enjoyed the working class folks who wore great masks and plaid, overalls, and long, patched skirts. There was also a nice skit about the death (and rebirth) of agriculture. Gunny sack turkeys and a wild swaying cow fought side by side with the peasant farmer and his pitchfork-wielding wife against the suits for a triumphant victory in the name of small farmers everywhere. In a different skit, a terrifying computer-faced bird-monster screamed at complacent humans who also later put on computers for faces and screamed back at the monster, scaring it clear off the stage. I really liked that one a lot too. The band was great too, TWO banjos, an accordion and a buncha brass.

DN!: Time at Democracy Now! is winding down. One intern left yesterday, others are leaving soon. I have thoroughly enjoyed my time there, though I'm still unsure whether office work is for me or not. I just can't imagine working an office that's not just like the DN! office or the Peace Center. I also want to work with all my friends and be able to come and go as I please. Away with the self-exploitative work ethic, I say.

East River 2: Today the East River looked like a dull, dented silver cup. A day of full rain churned all the colors out and even the sky was left a ghastly grey-white. Because it’s warm, it isn’t easy to notice the lack of a clear, blue sky. But because I looked for it, I was able to appreciate the softness of a grey and white day that was neither too hot nor too cold. At the beach yesterday, though, it was very easy to notice the after-rain chill, being more accustomed to sandy places that are hot and muggy.

Banana Juice: I had two couchsurfers last week, from France, though they came from Montreal. Manon and Cédric. They were both young and happy and we all tried to not let the language barrier come between us. Cédric would speak quickly and often, stumbling rapidly over strange syllables and sounds, while Manon would speak slowly, and carefully, after periods of thinking. Both are very sweet people who I offered floor space to on a whim via the couchsurfing website. Not being the most familiar with this city, I took them to a part of Brooklyn that I vaguely know. It was after another long, rainy day and by then the rain had become no more than a consistent mist, which dampened our hair but caused no harm. We walked through Williamsburg, chasing the river, through many an abandoned building and crumbling sidewalk, before we found a hole cut in the fence. Ducking through, we came upon a whale-grey river bordered on its far side by a foggy Manhattan skyline, with buildings occasionally appearing among the dense clouds. Everything was very quiet except for the wind that would sometimes pick up and splash the water up onto the cement ledges and walls around where we stood. The landscape was very surreal and looking down we read, spray-painted in white under our feet, “Am I dreaming?” Climbing back through the fence brought us closer to the reality of the city, of people, of noise and bars and coffee shops. Hungry and cold, we found a place where pizza came with free beer. The live music ended up being a disappointment but Cédric asking the bartender for banana juice was not. After wandering the streets some more, coming across bars and studios in the most unlikely places, we headed for Pete’s Candy Store, sure to find free live music there any day of the week. The music here was much better and another beer made the night lively and silly, though I didn’t worry too much about having to work the next morning.

Pass me a square

Palm cards: One of the ways my job at DN! and my exploration of NYC coincide this summer is through handing out palm cards at a variety of events around town. A palm card is a small, thick piece of paper with some info about DN! on it, how to listen to the show and such. Amy encourages us to pass them out at any and all events where there'll be a lot of people, and so, we do.

After doing this at several events now, I do have to say that when some hipster hits a card out of my hand, it affects me far less than when folks come up to me thanking me for being a part of the best show on tv and radio. Some people just shout, "Yeah! Amy Goodman!" That's rewarding, too. I try not to think about how many palm cards will be swept up at the night's end and try to remember what it was like for me to discover independent media for the first time and the whole torrent of consciousness and information that followed.

Freegans: I went on a trash tour with these folks last week, ended up with some good salsa and beets. NYC dumpstering is different. First, because there's no dumpster. Second, because it's right out in the open and on the street. Just opening garbage bags as you see them and trying to stay out of the way of people on the sidewalk. And, well, then there are the rats. We didn't see any (thanks God) but if you don't get to the trash quick enough, they will. Today a tiny mouse jumped out of my suitcase at me and I screamed like a child- a rat would probably paralyze me. I also went to a free (really free, they emphasized over and over) market in the East Village. At first, I thought I would only look for something I really needed, like sandals. 3 pairs of pants, 1 skirt, 2 pairs of sandals, a sweater and an armload of books later, I knew what I really needed was to get out of there (especially because I felt bad for not having anything but a lone book to donate). But the folks, from a group called In our Hearts, were more than generous and I even got some iced tea from the Freegans. It was a nice little quadrangle of people, although at events such as this in Kalamazoo, I would know most of them and here's not the case. I also didn't have time to stay and chat with many people because I had to go to Coney Island to pass out palm cards.

The Strand: Miles, miles, miles of books. I don't know how they measure it but what it amounts to in my mind is endless. I wove through shelves, scanned frantically, struggled to remember the names of various authors and books, climbed ladders and stairs, dreamed up stacks of books for my future bookshelves. I finally left after many hours with a portable Ingles-espanol diccionario, some Arabic lessons, and a Saadi Youssef poetry book. Love books, love the Strand.

Speed

Sometimes trains move at the speed of a funeral procession. When they are going very fast they shake and jolt into the darkness and I get anxious. When it is very late, the train slows in tandem with my waning energy. If I'm late for work, the train can miraculously make me on time. Other times stops come quicker when absurdity finds itself in one of the cars. A practicing preacher, a maniacal isolated dancer, a family of musicians, story tellers, avengers. Passed out passengers and explosions don't really seem to slow the trains down much. Watching a train pull out as you come down the stairs sure does.

East River to Moss

East River. Nearly every day I cross the East River on the Q. As the train approaches the Manhattan Bridge, I find myself wondering what color the river will be today, pulling my guess from the sun and time of day and musings about the city's feelings. Sometimes it is liquidy cement, like the edge of Manhattan finally couldn't stand up to the summer sun and slid down into the river bed. Other times it's a seaweedy green and the boats are thin silver fish skipping over a pond. And then there are the days where it hints at a deep blue, a faint reminder of the river's past and the islands' history, in the days where things were not made of steel or glass, but of thick forests and clear waterways. The river is always different, not one day the same, and I appreciate it for this. I like to see it daily, how it interacts with the bridges, how people look up from their books and papers to watch it glide underneath us, how it reminds me (us) that the city is so shaped by water and we so easily forget it.

Sights and sounds. I have been trying to utilize my monthly metro card to the fullest (and I have to buy another tomorrow). I've deepened my appreciation for smaller galleries, finding myself bored, distracted and overly air-conditioned after more than an hour in any museum. Luckily, this city abounds in small galleries in addition to the mammoth-sized museums (or the museums with mammoths). I saw a nice Brazilian photography exhibit at the Americas Society and a mixed-media exhibit on the 2005 riots in France at the Museum of Contemporary African Diaspora Art (easier to write, and more fun to say: MoCADA). Also, despite a temporary stomachache, Chad and I saw an interesting mix of "orientalist" art at the Dahesh Museum (right near the Trump Tower, a strange thing to see, for me)- I especially liked a painting that featured fog and camels. There were a lot of architectural drawings that didn't interest me as much. Tomorrow I'll be breaking this trend by going to the mammoth of mammoths- the MET. I've also had the great luck to witness some amazing concerts. Most notably: Manu Chao (free courtesy of volunteering with Celebrate Brooklyn!), Cafe Tacuba (also free, in Central Park), Built to Spill (free AND back stage, gracias a dn!), and tonight, the woman of many guitars, Ani DiFranco (free and sangria, dn! rocks). Also saw Zoe, a Mexican rock band who was enjoyable, along with the Pinkertones, an electronic group with a lot of energy and dance-y beats. Coming up soon are Neko Case and the Siren Music Festival (though I've yet to see who's playing). Finally, I've seen a couple of films. One, 'Y, tu cuanto cuestas?' was good, had funny and poignant moments though a bit long. And the other, Wait Until Dark, was shown in Bryant Park and it was certainly a good film to watch out doors with a big crowd. It also brought back many memories of playing the role that Audrey Hepburn plays when I was in the play way back in high school.

News: Working at Democracy Now! is great, better with each week. True, the office has bizarre undercurrents and moments (what office doesn't?)- but how many people can say that they work for an organization that they truly support with all of their heart? I mean, I feel really proud to say that I'm working with DN! because I run into so many people who love the show and respect Amy very highly and support our work. It's inspiring, really. Even being a intern, low down on the post, so to speak, is a great experience. It's actually quite the lovely mix of not any actual authority, free concerts and lunch, being surrounded with wonderful, experienced, dedicated and conscious folks, and the fact that, ultimately, Amy Goodman is my boss. Highlight: Amy called yesterday personally to get Katie (another intern) and I tickets to Ani. Nice. Also, our supervisor Clara is wonderful and I'm really happy to work with her.

Moss: This city is certainly growing on me. I need to start looking at schools to see if it's really a good idea or some heat-induced, summer fantasy inspired by too much good music and art, too many great people, and too much luck in this amazing city.

Walking shoes & Miles of Museums

I don't want this to turn into a listing of things that I've done, but my, I feel like I'm doing a lot in this city. At the same time, despite my imaginative ventures where I create a jam-packed day of things to see, hear, taste, do all over the city, I usually end up doing about .5% of what I planned- which is still a lot. I mean, walking around in this city is an adventure in its own. The buildings range from modern, shiny, black walkways into the sky to crumbling, dusty, squatty-looking edifices to intricately-engraved, decorous pieces of stone art. And the people! People here seem to revel in their uniqueness and exploit it with color, fabric and attitude. Contrary to what people say, the folks in New York are some of the friendliest, most helpful people I've ever had the pleasure to share a city with. Several times already I've hesitated for a moment on a corner or in the middle of a sidewalk when someone has come up to me asking, "Do you need help?" or "Where do you need to go?" And always in a genuine way because these people LOVE their city and sharing it especially.

During my extended weekend, I made it to the MoMa, the Museum of the City of New York, the Schomburg Center and many cafes, thrift stores and (necessarily) shoe stores in between. How strange to find designer ware upon fancy brand name clothes at the Goodwill instead of ripped-up t-shirts and goofy blue jeans. But good deals, nonetheless. Unfortunately, good walking shoes aren't as economically-priced but I did end up finally with a good pair after much searching. And thank goodness, what a difference it makes!