Last week I visited a friend in the Dominican Republic who is serving in the Peace Corps. After a treacherous week at work, the vacation was an opportunity to gain perspective on what little right I have to complain about my life. Stationed in Barahona, a seaside town in the southwest region of the country, my friend Dustin lives in a steamy apartment with no running water. From noon till midnight Merengue and Bachata, the dance music of the region, play at full volume from the colmado (a tiny store where people gather and drink alcohol) across the street. The apartment windows, tiny slits in the concrete walls, offer little relief from the pounding music and roaring motorbikes outside. Still, with cable television and four plastic chairs for guests, Dustin is the king of the block. A steady stream of locals drop by to watch television and lounge in front of the fan. Although I appreciated that Dustin’s standard of living was much higher than many people in his community, I was pleased to return to an apartment with a working shower and internet access. The trip yielded the result I had anticipated – a greater appreciation for American life – but also gave me something I had not expected. Thanks to an evening I spent in a Dominican English class, I learned that my life defies translation.
The students in Dustin’s English class range in age from 16 to 28, although most are in their late teens (or at least they looked that young to me). We arrived early, and four girls were already seated, chatting in rapid, abbreviated Spanish that I struggled to follow. My comprehension of Spanish is limited, and the pidgin dialect of the Dominican people sounds like a completely new language to me. I sat in a chair in the front of the room and put on my friendliest gringa smile as the students filed into class. Once everyone had arrived, Dustin introduced me as his friend visiting from New York, and invited them to ask me questions.
A 20-something boy in the back of the room quickly raised his hand. “Hi Gina,” he greeted me. “Do you have a husband?”
“No, I do not have a husband,” I replied.
A girl sitting at the table closest to me raised her hand. “Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked.
“No, I do not have a boyfriend.” A couple of the boys smiled. A girl from the back of the room raised her hand.
“How many years do you have?” she asked.
“You mean how old am I?”
“Yes, how old are you?”
“I’m thirty years old,” I said, and the students spoke to one another in Spanish. “Vieja,” I added, my smile weakening.
“How long are you in the Dominican Republic?” a boy from the front of the room asked slowly and thoughtfully.
Relieved for the change in topic, I smiled again. “I am visiting for five days. Cinco dias,” I added for punctuation. The first boy raised his hand again.
“Why do you not have a boyfriend?” he asked.
“Well,” I started, “I do not have a boyfriend because…” I looked to Dustin for help but he was suppressing a grin. Because I’m waiting for the right person to come along? Because I hang out in gay bars? Because I’ve had several boyfriends, none of whom worked out, so now I’m very picky, avoiding self-involved musicians, boys from Connecticut, and pot heads?
“Because I don’t have the time. No tengo el tiempo,” I finished. The students looked puzzled and muttered to themselves in Spanish. I shifted in my seat and drank a throatful of bottled water.
“Do you like Dominican men?” the boy seated near me asked.
“Sure, yeah, I like Dominican men. I don’t know very many, but, yes.”
Everyone laughed and the boy quickly added, “It’s not for me. It’s for my friend.” They laughed harder.
“You are very pretty,” the boy from the back said. I felt my face get hot and drank more water.
A girl seated near Dustin asked him a question in Spanish. His answer sounded a little something like this to me: “Porque… no blah blah blah… el clima.”
“What did she say?” I asked him.
“She asked why you drink so much water,” he replied. “I explained that you’re not accustomed to the climate.”
I felt like an old maid who couldn’t handle the tropics. I desperately wanted this game to end. I shot Dustin another pleading look.
“So, any more questions for Gina?” he asked, flipping the lid of his marker.
The girl who wanted to know my age raised her hand. “What is your job?”
A big pain in the ass? Once again, I struggled to find words. I work for a direct marketing company? I’m an under-appreciated email list-broker? I’m a has-been from the glamorous days of the internet and I now sit in front of an excel spreadsheet for nine hours a day?
“I sell internet advertising,” I said, but no one understood me. All I recognized in Dustin’s interpretation was “el internet.”
“Ahh,” the girl replied, staring at me blankly.
“Very good, class. Now let’s move on to this week’s lesson,” Dustin said. I was off the hook. Finalemente.
As Dustin taught the lesson, my mind wandered. I knew their questions were innocent, but couldn’t help but feel that, at least by Dominican standards, I had nothing to show for my life. No husband, no kids, and a job I couldn’t explain. Dustin had told me earlier that many of the girls in the class had husbands, children, grandparents, and houses to care for. After their day’s labor, they went to class, and then returned to their homes for more adult responsibilities. I was older than all of them and felt like the most immature person in the room.
In the break before the next set of students arrived, I confessed to Dustin that I felt like a loser. “They just asked you about what they know,” he said. “Don’t worry, they liked you.” I searched his face to see if he was humoring me. I couldn’t tell.
As the next group of students entered the room, I considered inventing a husband and a job, something that would translate a little easier. When Dustin opened the classroom to questions, a boy in front raised his hand.
LA LA LA LA Lovely – Diary of A Bitch-Sessions Vacation By GxxP
Last week, while temperatures neared freezing in New York, my trip to Los Angeles could not have come at a more perfect time. Not only was the excursion funded by my company (I met with clients on Wednesday and Thursday), but Stevie's friend Jason Mraz was playing two shows in SoCal, and Jen was anxious to show off her new pad to her NYC friends. So Stevie, Jerry, and I bought tickets, hopped on JetBlue (the friendliest airline on the planet), and within six hours traveled from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific.
Two and a half years had passed since my last visit to La La Land, and upon arriving to 80 degree weather and sunny skies, I asked myself WHY HAS IT TAKEN ME SO FRIGGIN LONG TO GET BACK HERE? As my boss and I drove to our meeting in Santa Barbara, I was flooded with fond memories of past trips to Cali. While I should have been preparing for my presentation, all I could think about was how warm is the ocean this time of year?, and, how many hours stand between me and a frothy beachside drink?
The meeting went well – the clients were happy and attentive (must be the weather), and a relaxing and scenic drive lay ahead of us on our return to LA. We opted to take the Pacific Coast Highway, which offers a stunning oceanside view. The biggest decision we needed to make was whether to look left to ogle the mansions on the hill or look right to ogle the mansions on the beach. We carried on like this for over an hour, until the PCH turned local and we jumped onto the 405 to conserve time.
I cannot tell you what a mistake that was. At 5 pm, the last place a person in the Los Angeles area should go to save time is the 405. It's a five-lane freeway and we were at a standstill. NOT MOVING AT ALL. Suddenly my admiration for palm trees gave way to the reason I never considered moving to LA. I. HATE. TRAFFIC.
After several minutes of driving at the pace of a crippled snail, my boss veered onto the first available off-ramp. Our next route took us through countless intersections, but I agreed with my boss's methods. "I don't mind stopping for a stop light," he said. "It's stopping on the highway that I can't stand." Welcome to LA. Stopping on the highway is a way of life in these parts.
Eventually we made it to Hermosa Beach and met up with Jen. Or rather someone who looked like Jen and talked like Jen, but her life seemed so different than it was in New York that I felt I was visiting her in the witness protection program. She lives in a big bright apartment with two major features that are foreign to most Manhattan homes – carpeting and a balcony. She also drives a car and knows the best shortcuts to Hollywood, and has befriended a cast member of the upcoming Survivor series, who was a really cool guy, even if he is on a reality show (which makes Jen love him even more.)
The rest of the week was a blur. On Thursday we saw Jason’s sold out show at the House of Blues in Hollywood, and the performance was truly amazing. In an attempt to say hi to Stevie, who was cavorting in the balcony, I confidently (and ignorantly) lead eight people into the VIP section. We remained there for the entire show, enjoying service with a smile from a cocktail server who probably thought we were important (we weren’t.) I mean, it was Jason’s parents, industry people, Tony Kanal from No Doubt, and… us. There I discovered something else that’s great about LA – people are so damn nice! Again, it could be the weather factor at play, but I’m more inclined to think it’s the kiss-ass factor. Who cares? We didn’t have to wait for a single drink and had a phat view of the stage. Thanks, House of Blues.
Friday we recovered from Thursday by sipping frosty, umbrella-adorned beverages by the beach. By 2 pm we were bombed and spent the remainder of the afternoon and night watching the entire second season of Sex in the City in Jen’s apartment. Sure it was a lazy bastard thing to do but we were on vacation, and watching tv two feet from a balcony and swaying palm trees adds an element that you just don't get in NYC. We took breaks to smoke cloves and watch Jen’s tanned neighbors play basketball. Friday rocked.
Saturday we hit the highway again, destination San Diego, via a pit stop at Designer Shoe Warehouse (located dangerously close to Jen’s apartment.) The drive to San Diego was beautiful and fret-free, thanks to Jen finding a short cut on MapQuest, an invaluable tool for the novice LA driver. Once we arrived in the GasLamp district, we donned our new shoes and set off to play a game of pool. After trying six bars that either weren’t open or didn’t have a pool table, we found our way into this little gem:
Star Bar had all the qualities of a good dive bar, in fact it was nominated by Stuff Magazine as one of the top 20 dive bars in the country. They weren’t kidding. With a crew of patrons ranging from young Navy boys fresh off the boat to aged pool players in need of dental work and a shave, the Star Bar was warm and inviting. Stolis were $3, pool games were 50 cents, and the only thing missing from the kitschy, tinsely, Bud Light postered décor was a thick cloud of smoke (although there was a small crowd puffing away on the sidewalk outside.) The juke was superb, and we played everything from Boz Scaggs to Nirvana. It rejected dollars, thereby making it one of the few remaining jukes that I’ve seen where a quarter can still buy you a song.
Showtime arrived and we abandoned our people-watching and cheap drinking for Spreckel’s, where we were once again treated to excellent seats. Jason’s performance was flawless, and it was cool to see him play in San Diego, which he considers the birthplace of his musical life. His songs and tales were met with adoring cheers from his fans, who by virtue of living in warm weather, were very, very happy.
We wrapped up the evening with one last round at Star Bar and trekked back to LA, giddy from our experience. After a two hour disco nap, Jen chauffeured me to the airport, where I bid her, and my lovely mini-vacation, good bye. The trip was short but sweet, filled with good music, good bars, good weather, and good friends. We even brought the LA weather back with us – today I awakened to a balmy 40 degree day in New York. Although the traffic would make me homicidal if I lived there, the weather and the people will always make LA dear to my heart. And thanks to Jet Blue, it's always a cheap, friendly flight away.
In 90 days I managed to travel the country and see every single person I have ever known in my entire life. I was in Manhattan, Miami, Boca Raton, Chicago, Los Angeles and Peoria. This was helluva lot of traveling from my home in San Francisco. The child of two devoted United travelers, I naturally grew up to be a United traveler in my own right. All of my miles are on United, all of my credit cards are in the name of United. It was only in this 90-day explosion of domestic travel that I was forced to reach out and touch other airlines. (When corporate travel books your flight, you don’t ask, you just fly.) At the end of my 90 days, I learned two very important things: 1 – I will never take a job that requires a lot of travel. 2 – I now consider myself to be some sort of expert on the personalities of different airlines. They are not, in fact, all the same. They each own their own piece of the sky. The airline you choose can and will affect your mood once your feet are back on the ground. Here are a few things to keep in mind next time you’re booking a flight.
UNITED
Come fly the angry skies. From first-class to us slobs in economy, ticketing agents to stewards, no one is getting enough – not enough food, not enough space, not enough ass-kissing, not enough information, not enough salary – frankly, from the scowls I’ve seen, it seems not enough sex, either. Everyone is just plain pissy. Growing up on United, I just assumed this was the way of the world. Airlines are places where travelers and employees come together to hate their current state of existence. It’s nothing more than a means to an end; get me where I need to go, or get me a lousy paycheck. Either way, thank you very little.
My theory on the angry skies is simple: The employees are pissed off that their company is going down the shit-tubes and the passengers are either A) pissy that there is such a ridiculous division of class in every aspect of this airline, or B) pissy that they have to ride on the same plane as those commoners in coach.
After being scolded for having my seat-back in the reclined position during landing (some bitchy steward actually said to me “You would have KNOWN this if you hadn’t SLEPT through my safety presentation before take-off”), I decided I officially hate United. I also decided that bitch of a steward had best not step in front of my car. Ever.
AMERICAN
There really IS something special in the air. It’s called legroom! In a stroke of absolute genius, American actually was able to break through the whole division of class crap by offering more legroom in coach. This isn’t some silly marketing ploy – it’s real. And it’s brilliant. Whereas most travelers used to view United and American as essentially one and the same, those that have come over from the dark side are suddenly amidst friendly, polite, happy people. Just like on the ground! It’s amazing what a little space can do for morale. Those in first class are not nearly as aloof. In fact, more than once I saw first-classers checking out the leg room in coach and asking themselves why in the hell anyone would waste dollars/miles on an upgrade. That’s right – those coachers are suddenly the smarter and more savvy travelers. The playing ground is even, the stewards know it, and everybody’s happy.
NORTHWEST
Ever wondered why no one with green hair, tats or multiple piercings traveled? Then you’ve never been on Northwest Airlines. Hands down, the people-watching on Northwest is amazing. I never realized how terribly white the big two airlines really are. I didn’t see a single business suit on my Northwest trip. Rather, I got to watch two of the strangest human beings I have ever seen for four uninterrupted hours. (The guy actually ate an entire head of romaine lettuce in ten minutes. When I say entire – I mean ENTIRE – root and all. Did I mention he ate it like an apple? Bizarre.) The experience was sensational. Diversity. Just like on the ground! Amazing!
The diversity doesn’t end with the travelers. The stewards are equally pierced, overweight and flamboyantly gay. It’s FABULOUS. There is nothing corporate or big business about the employees of Northwest. They get it – I’m not asking for a pedicure, I’m just asking for another pillow. I don’t want to be ostracized for my high maintenance two-pillow-preferring ass.
JET BLUE
And then there’s Jet Blue. Good God they must be pumping laughing gas through the ventilation system. NEVER will you find friendlier, happier stewards. And why not? These people are making money hand-over fist. Their CEO flies at least once a week to ask travelers what they like and don’t like. Then, in a strange and rare act of selflessness, he actually makes changes based upon the feedback! OMIGOD – has hell frozen over????
Jet Blue has NO, I repeat, NO division of class. Everyone gets a big fat leather chair. Everyone gets Direct TV. Everyone gets friendly stewards who can tell you what’s on for the duration of your flight. I got to see a horse, a cow, a goat and twelve puppies being born! I ask you – what better way to spend your time in flight than witnessing the miracle of birth on the Animal channel? But travelers beware – you must execute self-control. By the time I got off the 6-hour flight to NYC, I was afraid I was growing antennae. Direct TV two feet in front of your face for six hours can be a little much. I did much better on my way home. (Then again, there was a cute boy sitting next to me, so I focused on watching smart programs start to finish instead of surfing the Game Show Network, Home Improvement Channel and E!.)
So what have we learned? Always ask yourself what kind of trip you’re embarking upon before booking your flight. United is a great airline if you’re, say, flying to hell. When you don’t want the vacation to end, book a flight on Jet Blue – squeeze every last drop out of your trip. If you’re planning to be on a flight for more than eight hours, Jet Blue may not be the best thing for your brain – take the legroom on American instead. And if you’re looking for material to submit to bitch-sessions, by all means book your next trip on Northwest.
Christmas in Peoria is a time-honored tradition in my family, one we continue to celebrate even though all of the members of our clan under the age of 33 now live elsewhere. We strap ourselves into airplanes and behind the wheels of cars and get there, one way or another. The journey is a great test of my patience, as the only airline to have ever flown directly to Peoria from NYC went bankrupt within six months of its inception. Now, because too few people wanted to fly from New York to Peoria (and vice versa) to sustain a profitable business, I have to take at least one (delayed) jet and one (delayed) propeller plane to get there. For my brother and sister-in-law, the trip entails twenty hours of driving across the plains states in their mega-truck with two dogs, a macaw, and dozens of presents in tow. Our journeys are frustrating and long, but we soon forget about them when we step into our childhood home.
Immediately upon arriving last week I began behaving like molecules moving into a big box, something that I saw demonstrated in a science video in elementary school. The molecules get excited and bounce around the larger space -- exactly as I do when I move from my cracker box apartment to my parents’ two-story home. I run up and down stairs, in and out of each room, leaving a trail of personal items in my wake. For some reason once I'm in the home I lived in as a messy teenager, I begin to act like one again. Every corner that wasn’t already hosting a smiling Santa figurine or holly wreath was soon a place of refuge for my hats, gloves, books, and shopping bags.
And then came the beasts.
My brother and sister-in-law love their pets as children and wouldn't consider spending the holidays without them. Their dogs, although accustomed to the great outdoors of Wyoming, quickly settled into their new environs, with help from the doggie beds and toys that Greg and Beau strategically placed about the house. Roscoe, their blue and yellow macaw, resided in a cage that occupied one third of our family room. This cage was a jungle gym in every sense of the term. Watching our long-tailed, large-beaked houseguest adeptly move from perch to perch, down to the floor and back up to the top of his birdy-condominium, is like watching a well-rehearsed gymnastics routine. I was awed by the range of motion possible for a creature with no hands. Not only is Roscoe a skilled acrobat, but he also has lungs of immeasurable capacity, and is quick to scream, “Greg! Beau! Roscoe!” when starving for attention. If no humans respond, he resorts to a piercing “AWWWWWKKKKKKKK!” Roscoe would not survive one week in a NYC apartment -- his neighbors would find him, and cook him.
As for the pooches, they are a fascinating study in the domestication of animals. Although both dogs are mutts, by look and attitude they gravitate towards the breed of each of their parents. Chikotee (pronounced "Che-KO-tee"), although she appears to be a small, long-eared Doberman, behaves like her black and tan coon hound father. She is a hunter to the core and immediately upon arriving at casa de Perino sat vigil at the sliding glass doors leading to the back yard. With her nose pressed against the glass she spent hours watching for squirrels and rabbits, her body stiffening and ears perking upon discovering one. I actually found her behavior to be a bit rude and anti-social, until I realized it is her nature. Beau says that during hunting season Chikotee won’t touch her chow because she’s too revved up to eat.
Cutter, on the other hand, is a large, sweet but bumbling canine who takes after his border collie mother. More of a herder than a hunter, he is constantly shooing Beau away from the rest of us. He then guards her patiently as she eats a sandwich. Even his name comes from a shepherding term – “cutting” is the act of moving one animal away from the herd. Although not as graceful as Chikotee, Cutter's herding qualities are endearing, even though we didn’t spend enough time together to warrant him “cutting” me. Still, I felt loved, and was constantly rewarded with hugs and kisses from the quadrupeds. Chikotee is particularly affectionate (when she's not nuzzled up to the glass door, that is.) Every time I entered the room I was greeted with a vigorous pink tongue to the face. I think she liked my lipstick.
Amidst the chaos of black fur and blue feathers, the matriarchal Perino pet lingered behind the scenes. Gigi, my parents' ten year old African Grey parrot, perched on a large cage in the corner of the kitchen, from which she could watch us all. Parrots are notorious for bonding with one human for life, and I’ve heard sad tales of parrots who have outlived their human mates and fallen into a deep depression after their passing. Gigi has chosen my father as her favorite, and nestles on his shoulder while he watches television on the couch. African Greys are the smartest members of the parrot family, credited with having the intelligence of a five-year old child. This was proven by Gigi's Houdini-like skill in escaping her cage – even when it was closed – and shimmying down to the floor to stroll the house and nip at toes. The most remarkable quality of the African Grey, however, is its ability to perfectly mimic human voices. Unlike Roscoe’s mechanical monosyllabic attempts at English, Gigi speaks with perfect diction, in the voice of my mother. Many a Christmas past my brother has been summoned from his bedroom to the kitchen, thinking my mother was calling him, to find that it was only Gigi. There is nothing more surreal than watching Gigi as she preens my father during their siestas, whispering in his ear, in the voice of his wife of thirty-six years, “C’mere. Good girl. Ohhh.”
So this Christmas, a house that never hosted more than two hamsters became a location shoot for Wild Kingdom. Fur, feather, and human flesh mingled in blissful cohabitation. Occasionally we were treated to a surprise on the carpet or a parrot taking flight during dinner, but for the most part we got along well. Although I ventured out to meet friends, deliver holiday goodies, and enjoy a spell of people-watching (in the land of big hair, young moms, and cover bands the opportunities are endless), it was just as entertaining to stay home with the pets. When I woke up today in my tiny Manhattan apartment, with no dogs to lick me and no birds to request, “Want out?”, I not only missed my family, but also the animals who love them.
Cars, Bars, and Stars: A Tale of Two Cities By GxxP
I just returned from a weekend in Chicago, my third trip back to my old home since the summer. In the 6 ½ years that I’ve lived in New York, my sojourns to the Windy City have evoked a range of emotions. For years my attitude towards Chicago was a bit condescending – I felt that I had moved on to bigger and better things, and every time I visited Chicago I was quick to notice all that was inferior to NYC. (What! The bars don’t close at 2 in NEW YORK! What! The delis in NEW YORK are open 24 hours! WHAT! In NEW YORK you get your pot delivered right to your door! You call this a city?)
In time, that attitude has changed. Not because I’ve changed, or even because Chicago has changed. What’s changed is that I experience Chicago in a completely different way than I did when I was fresh out of college. Thanks to my friends who have shown me the lesser-known nuances of Chicago living, I enjoy the city more and more each time I’m there. Some of my friends have even launched a grass-roots campaign to get me to move back, which involves constantly reminding me that I’m from the midwest and HOWMUCHFUNWOULDITBEIFYOUMOVEDBACKHEREOHMYGOD.
Truth be told, I love Chicago. But I love New York more. Here are the main issues on which I base my opinion.
-Cars
I moved to New York after five years of moving violations and fender benders I suffered in a car that I can only describe as evil. Immediately upon leaving Chicago I sold the death trap and found that living a car-free lifestyle was a refreshing change. You can get anywhere in New York via public transportation or cab, or better yet by foot. Chicago, on the contrary, is a massive, sprawling city. Like every other city in America, its neighborhoods are divided by major streets and highways. Manhattan could have been like this too, but when Robert Moses tried to slap a highway in the center of the West Village in 1961, the neighborhood’s inhabitants protested. Jane Jacobs, a local resident and New Yorker for 30 years, wrote “The Death and Life of Great American Cities”, in which she argued that highways separate neighborhoods instead of connect them and that in order for a city to work, the car should not overpower the pedestrian. Thanks in great part to her book and activism, the neighborhood won the battle against the car, and the highway was never built. The lack of highways makes Manhattan the great walking city that it is. People are on the sidewalk, not in their cars.
As a sidewalk person, I must side with NYC on the car issue.
-Bars
In 1995 when I first moved to Chicago I spent my time in an edgy neighborhood called Wicker Park where drinks were $2 and bar floors were covered in a fine layer of filth. It was a wonderful time. Since then, MTV stuck a bunch of Real World shitheads in a house on the corner of Milwaukee, North, and Damen, which only spawned more shitheads moving to the neighborhood. Now Wicker Park is a delicate mix of hipster posers and displaced Lincoln Park yuppies. A few trips ago I was shocked to see that North Avenue was home to trendy clothing stores and Wicker Dog had become a wine store (I think it’s a hot dog joint again, or maybe I was hallucinating when I saw that.) Now that my favorite neighborhood in Chicago repulses me, where, praytell, is there to go?
I’ll tell you where. Lots of places. For every once-edgy-bar-turned-yuppie-hangout there are plenty of laid back neighborhood haunts in which you can keep it real. Lakeview Lounge, Simon’s, Tuman’s Alcohol Abuse Center, The Hideout -- all of these bars offer the type of kitsch that New York money just can’t buy. New York is constantly reinventing itself, and this applies its nightlife as much as anything. One minute a bar is a loungey local watering hole, the next minute it's selling $12 guava martinis to suits. If you’ve seen one red-lighted couch-filled one-word-named bar, you’ve seen them all. In a city where the people are so diverse I sometimes wonder why we don’t have bars to match them.
The truth is that we do – they’re just a little harder to find. Whereas every other street corner in Chicago sports a local pub with wood paneling on the walls and an Old Style sign in the window, you have to try a little harder in Manhattan to find such places. Then once you find one, everyone else finds it too, and it becomes so popular the entire mood of the place changes.
On this point, I award the prize to Chicago.
-Stars
I’m not impressed by stars. Sure I think it’s cool when I eat lunch next to Sarah Jessica Parker, but it is by no means my raison d’etre. New York is riddled with famous faces, but they seem to be living a life not unlike the rest of us. A friend from work has regular morning conversations with Michael Caine; Beth grabbed a beer with Jimmy Fallon in a westside tavern; I saw Mo Rocca from the Daily Show taking the subway. While I’m sure they are plenty of celebs that call Chicago their home, do you see them in line at the deli or rushing to make their morning train? There is something about life in New York City that levels the playing field for everyone here – while tinted-windowed limos deliver silver-slippered divas to black tie events in LA, Danny Pintauro is grabbing a slice in NYC.
But this isn't about LA. Like I said, it’s not the stars that interest me. There’s just a certain star quality to the city of New York that you don’t find in other places. From the street vendors peddling their hand-made jewelry to the punk bands playing on the Lower East Side, everywhere you turn in New York someone is creating something. And there’s something about that that makes me feel like we’re all stars here. Many times I’ve been in Chicago, watching a band play or enjoying a street fair, when suddenly some jackass in a baseball cap jumps on the mike to chant “Chicago! Chicago!” I don’t know how to explain the contrast other than by saying we don’t really do that here (with the exception of post-September 11-rallying, which bothered me a little too.) As much as I appreciate hometown pride, I don’t need to be assaulted by it. I’m more of a proponent for the show-me-don’t-tell-me style. That is the star quality I’m talking about.
With that, I must cast my vote for New York.
So that's New York 2, Chicago 1. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going back to the midwestern city I once called home. Flights to Chicago are cheaper than they've ever been and I have a welcoming network of friends who like houseguests (or at least that’s what they tell me!) This trip was definitely not my last. After all, the votes are close. You never know when I might swing in the other direction.
I had the good fortune of spending Thanksgiving in Paris for the wedding of my dear friends Shevaun and Mark. In preparation for my second trip to the cultural mecca of France, I did very little beyond packing a bag and locating my passport (I even had to borrow a wedding hat from the bride herself – thanks, Shev!) The only other time I’d been to Paris was last September for my friend John’s wedding (if it weren’t for my friends getting hitched I’d never leave the country), and that was an even shorter stay than this one. So needless to say I had very little Parisian experience to draw from this time around… and it showed.
For starters my French is absolute crap. I haven’t spoken it since high school, and since then I’ve taken Spanish lessons, which has rendered me a piss-poor speaker of not just one foreign language but two. Everything I say comes out in a bizarre blend of SpanFranglish. Nevertheless, in keeping with my belief that when traveling abroad one should avoid English if at all possible (I think it’s rude not to at least try to speak the native tongue), I spent my first few days in gay Paris trying out the French equivalents of the necessary phrases:
-Do you speak English?
-I would like cheese.
-How much does this cost?
-Marlboro Lights, please.
Of course even if I got the words right, which I’m pretty sure I didn’t, my accent was unrecognizable. Every French person I attempted to speak to responded in nearly perfect English, making me feel like a complete nincompoop. This carried on for days until I was at a café with one of the wedding guests, who didn’t know a word of French and was, sadly, relying on my expertise to get us through lunch. Strangely, I remembered the food words quite well, proving once again that when you learn something in school that you actually care about you’re much more inclined to retain it. Suddenly I was reading the entire menu to my friend – everything from buttered green beans to ham was rolling off my tongue as if I was channeling Julia Child. It gave me the confidence I needed to speak French for the rest of the week, such that by the last day (was that only today?) people started approaching me on the streets asking for help. Of course I only responded with “Je ne parle pas Francais”, but I confidently looked the poor bastards in the eye when I said it.
Paris is an absolutely gorgeous city. The streets, people, and landmarks are all formidable eye candy. Even though the weather was gray and rainy for most of the trip, the city still sparkled with beauty. The afternoon before the wedding I visited the Musee D’Orsay with friends and marveled at the works of Renoir, Van Gogh, Monet, Manet, Seurat, and many other legendary artists. I was face to face with Starry Night and Whistler’s Mother, but got too close for comfort when, while trying to avoid a large pack of school children, I tripped and nearly fell into a Manet. Judging by my friend Tim’s expression I was theeeeees close to sending my head through a priceless work of art. Those who weren’t stunned into silence laughed at me while I limped away in shame, and the multi-colored bruise that the guardrail left on my thigh is now the size of a human fist.
That night the wedding guests met on Rue de Montmartre for dinner and drinks and I got a leeetle bit, how you say?, wasted. The possibility that I had traveled 3000 miles to nearly fall into a painting and miss my friend’s wedding crossed my mind as I clutched the toilet bowl in my hotel room an hour before the exchanging of the vows. Luckily Tim is a doctor and gave me a super strength anti-hangover pill, and I made it to the wedding sans incident. That night however I was the only guest present who spent most of the evening shoeless, as I had left my stilettos on the side of the dance floor and subsequently had them lifted by another drunken merrymaker. The shoes were finally retrieved, but not until after I had donned the only replacement footwear I had -- knee high black leather boots. They didn't really match my outfit, but fortunately it was late enough in the party that no one seemed to care.
All in all my trip to Paris was splendid, and for every near-debacle I had ten precious moments in which I didn't make an ass out of myself. I highly recommend to anyone who hasn't visited Paris yet to do so as soon as you are able. I just hope I didn't make things difficult by paving the way for any stupide American remarks when you visit. If I did, je suis desolee, mon ami. Forgive moi, s'il vous plait.
My brother and I were raised in Peoria, Illinois, but now we both live as far from there as we could manage. I call New York City my home, and my brother Greg and his wife Beau have settled in Clark, Wyoming, a small town north of Cody that can’t be found on most maps. The running joke in my family is when my parents muse, in relation to their children moving so far away from them, “Was it something we said?” I keep assuring them it was nothing they said, but something they did – they raised us in Peoria, a place we enjoyed as kids but shunned as adults. And although we go home to P-town for Christmas and other holidays, we do our best to encourage our parents to visit us, which they actually sometimes do. This week it was my bother’s turn to play host, so my parents and I headed to Wyoming to try country living on for size.
Make no mistake, Wyoming is absolutely gorgeous. It’s not difficult even for a big city dweller like me to understand why people flock to the rolling mountains of the greater Clark area. Every mile we drove in Dad’s SUV yielded a different view – gray hills like elephant toes, pine-green carpeted mountains, sagebrush-dappled flatlands, and glistening lakes awaited us with each turn. On our second day we traveled to Yellowstone National Park and quietly observed the local wildlife – and I’m not talking about the leathery, gun-totin’ cowboys neitha’. Elk, deer, buffalo, an osprey and a gray wolf were among the creatures we shared space with that day. We also visited hot springs, several waterfalls, a petrified tree, and saw rainbows in the Grand Canyon of the park. Each scene was more breathtaking than the next, and thoughts of leaving the smog-choked city for the clean mountain air seriously crossed my mind.
By day three, however, I had begun to think a little differently. Greg and Beau live miles away from civilization on a winding dirt road in the hills. The nearest town is Cody, one of the only “cities” we encountered in our travels in which the population was greater than the elevation (and not by much either – 8000 people; 7000 feet.) It’s a small miracle my bother has electricity, running water, and satellite television. Every morning and evening they embark on their “chores” (and yes, they really do call them that) – primarily keeping their five horses, five cats, two dogs, and two birds fed. In addition to feeding the quadrupeds there’s always a fence to mend, a pesky skunk to chase, a saddle to return to a neighbor ten miles away, or dirt-infused laundry to wash. Although they do not work on the land, the simple act of living is work. I really felt like I was living in that song Home on the Range, where the deer and the antelope play, at least until one of my brother's dogs tears after them, at which point they run away.
With the nearest neighbor a couple of miles down the road, one would assume that life in Clark, Wyoming carries with it the same blessed anonymity that one finds in the Big Apple. Think again. Isolated does not necessarily mean private – not only did my brother know all his neighbors, but he also knew what they paid for their houses, whether or not their children were home-schooled, and how old they were when they first rode a horse. Every time we passed a vehicle (read: big ass truck) on the road, my brother would give the nod, like the one school bus drivers or Harley riders give to each other when they pass a kindred spirit in oncoming traffic. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him too. I don't know what the person in the apartment next to me looks like, but Greg recognized someone in Yellowstone – a Wyoming neighbor who was up there bear hunting. People, this park is MILES across and MILES deep and touches three states - and my brother knew someone there. It was mind-blowing.
Life is beautiful in hinterlands of Wyoming, but it can also have its downsides. Other than the Billings Gazette, the townspeople don’t have much by means of newspapers, and the best place to buy groceries is, much to my disgust, a hulking WalMart the size of Madison Square Garden just outside of Cody. In a town where the points of interest appear to be the Wild Bill Museum, the Foundation for North American Sheep, and a rodeo, the WalMart is a glaring blemish on this otherwise quaint old western town. But Greg and Beau love it, and purchase everything from vegetables to blue jeans there. (Beau said the best thing about living in Clark is that no one cares if you buy your clothes at WalMart because everyone else does too.)
By day four I’d been to WalMart three times, had spent countless hours in Dad’s SUV, had eaten one too many shitty meals in town (in a land where many people kill their dinner, there’s not much culinary selection for the vegetarian), and had listened to more country music than they probably play in hell. Right around the time my father set off to buy Greg a birthday gun, Wyoming had lost its charm. I considered moving up my departing flight but realized my family would take that rather personally, which is not how it was meant. So I sucked it up and chilled with the furballs back at the ranch, caught some televised news, and enjoyed my final hours in the land of big sky. Wyoming was great, but not for everyone – sort of like New York City. Somehow my brother and I have embraced two different extremes, but we both clearly adhere to the life philosophy “if you’re gonna do it, do it right.” No suburban or middle of the road livin’ for us. It’s urban sprawl or home schooling, but nothing in between will do. Greg rides a horse to pick up his mail, I ride a subway with thousands of other people to get to work every day. As much as we love our lifestyles, we can still appreciate what each other's world has to offer. Neither of us live anywhere near a strip mall or an Olive Garden, and we like it that way. And we both have a great place to visit when vacation time rolls around.
Orlando, Orlando, Where has our love gone? By GxxP
I present this five year old piece (the World Trade Center reference is shocking to read today, as if I’m referring to the living days of a now-deceased friend) as a reminder of how hard it was to be happy in any city other than New York, where I’d lived for only a year and two weeks at the time of this entry. I’d like to think my tolerance of other communities has improved, but it probably hasn’t. I just happen to have a job that doesn’t send me to conferences in Florida anymore.
*
June 15, 1997
The Orlando that I loved as a kid probably hasn’t changed that much - besides maybe getting a little bigger and becoming the proud home of even more ridiculous attractions. About ten years have passed since I was last here, and I think I now hate it. All of the buildings appear to have been constructed out of Lego’s, painted in bright colors with enormous signs to entice the tourist to part with his green. The ride from the airport to the hotel was grim - the shuttle bus driver took it upon himself to make unsolicited announcements the entire time. Nothing he announced interested me after his first observation - “To the left, those two buildings are the original airport terminal.” The buildings were small and desolate. “They are now used for storage,” he added. I snickered quietly to myself. About half a mile up we got our next announcement. “To the left, E.T.” I gazed blankly at an enormous billboard with the extraterrestrial of Spielberg fame groping the sign from behind. “His eyes move,” our omniscient guide added. Sure enough, E.T.’s blue eyes, the size of enormous cue balls, slowly moved downward. Fascinating.
“To your right, the Terminator. In 3-D!,” the driver's voice reached the pinnacle of excitement. I and my five fellow passengers stared at another Universal Studios billboard. I suddenly grew disappointed, and moments later, depressed, as the driver gave us yet another piece of crucial information. “To your right, the old Hyatt Hotel.” It was an enormous peach colored building set a few hundred yards back from the highway. Before it laid a stretch of flat muddy land, a future parking lot site, I presumed. “Behind the hotel is a shopping mall,” he announced with glee. “You can exit the back of the hotel and enter the mall!”
I looked at the little sign on the dashboard. Your driver is GEORGE HARTER, it read in large white print. Gratuity is not included in fare, the tiny disclaimer followed. I considered tipping him to not shed light on any mundane trivialities for the remainder of the journey, but I didn’t want to be rude. Perhaps the others were enjoying it.
Soon we exited the highway and continued our route onto International Drive, a prospect which I found exciting until I realized what a bore International Drive was. Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, a Japanese chain restaurant transplanted in Orlando, and “Amazing Animals” (See them! Pet them! Feed them!) were the highlights of this leg of the journey. I suddenly felt the urge to get a drink.
“Where is Church Street?”, I inquired, remembering the recommendation my officemate Shannon made to me before I left New York.
“Downtown,” George replied, pointing to a tiny skyline barely visible to the human eye.
“Is that where the clubs are?” I asked.
“Why, yes,” George answered, readying himself to spew more facts. “On one side of Church Street Station you have The Dixieland Jazz Club.” Oh god, I could only hope that the other side of the street held more promise for my particular tastes. “On the other side of the street is a country-western club that’s loads of fun.” I almost started to cry.
George delivered me to the Radisson, and I suddenly felt a rush of panic. Surely I was at the wrong hotel and would have to shell out another twelve bucks to meander down International Drive. “I believe I’m staying at the Radisson Twin Towers,” I corrected. The name had instilled me with World Trade Center images when I made my arrangements.
“This is the Twin Towers,” George reassured me. The Twin Towers in actuality consists of two squat buildings, no more than twenty stories high.
“Oh, I guess I missed the towers,” I said, handing George a tip and wandering into the hotel, searching painfully for information on something to do that didn’t involve Disney, killer whales, or one of the major film production companies.
*
I don’t quite believe this. I think I’m in the Peoria of the south. I’m in the “hub” of downtown and it’s completely deserted, aside from a few straggling African clothing shops that are still open past 6 pm. Cars speed down the highway overpass looming just behind me. I may as well be on an island with no boat - how the hell do people without cars get around here? And more importantly, where do they go? I find myself yet again a fish without water in my long blank tank dress and black purse - I could possibly be the only living - or non-living for that matter (if you count the gargantuan Disney characters schlepping about somewhere - I know they're out there) - entity in this city that isn’t clad in neon or Hawaiian print. Damn the airlines and their “stay for Saturday night” discount fares! I want to be in New York! I want to be around people! I want to be in a city where there are things to do at 6:30 on a Saturday night! Shit.
*
Okay. The evening is minimally progressing. For starters, I went out entirely too early, but I had to get out of tourist trap hell. So now I’m in tourist trap hell, downtown. A quick walk in the opposite direction I originally set out in led me to the “happening” section of Church Street, which still isn’t saying much. I appear to have stumbled onto the only decent bar in town, Sapphire, where a live band or two soon promise to play. The bouncer’s pretty cool - he gave me a VIP pass even though I apparently don’t need it. It was some sort of incentive to return, even though that was inevitable given the options. (I’m just not in the mood for dance clubs named after the happening districts of other cities.) I did however pass some time shopping, buying more of what I already have, at shops I’ve already visited (Express, Vicky’s Secret), just in different colors from the clothes I already own. Man. Give me some money and some free time and I’m a goner. I must not spend a lot of time shopping in New York just because I’m never this bored. Now I’m perched at the bar, pulling the writing thing, which must really annoy everyone. Whatever. The bouncer seemed to be in agreement with me - the cult’o’Disney owns this town. He’s friends with a girl who had to train intensively for two weeks for a $6-an-hour job as Disney characters. She had to master each of their individual signatures and mannerisms and swear on her life that she wouldn’t allow herself (or himself, depending on the character) to be photographed with any social deviants who may actually be smoking a cigarette. I am reminded of the Meg (college roommate) Disney days, when she returned to us and immediately began filling the apartment which such frivolous items as Mickey Mouse cutting boards. How badly I wanted to set that thing on fucking fire, I can’t even tell you. According to Nora (Peoria friend), Kira (her sister) is a member of the same cult following, adorning the walls of her daughter’s room in Mickey Mouse wallpaper and going so far as to wear clothes decorated with Disney characters in public (not the little girl, but Kira. Um...?) The government annihilates Wako but allows this travesty to continue. It just doesn’t make sense.
* * * * * * * * * * *
For a few years now, my grandparents have taken a bit of criticism from others in the family - my grandfather in particular - for dwelling on the negative. For example, my aunt thought that he was not of sound mind when he wrote his Christmas letter a few years back. I read the letter, and actually found it refreshingly straightforward, as far as holiday letters go. I think my grandfather's crime is that he's realistic - and in the tough years that have followed the accusations, a number of people in our family have adopted his realistic viewpoint. That was '97 and this is '02, and a lot has changed. Below you will find one of my first brushes with the issue.
June 16, 1997
Orlando, FL
Last night I had dinner with Grandma and Grandpa. For the most part it was great - they both looked well and were completely coherent, not bad for their 78 and 81 years respectively. I thought we might run out of fuel for the conversation but we didn’t - in fact it was almost smoother than dinner with Mom, Dad, and Greg because we had so much to catch up on, whereas with the fam we often find ourselves exchanging anecdotes about work and weather. The grandparents, on the other hand, entertained me with stories of their past travels - which I found interesting (am I getting old?) I was actually picturing what it was like for Grandma to raise Mom and Chuck while Grandpa was always gone. For example, Grandma moved back to Chicago to have Mom because Grandpa has just been relocated to Utah, or somewhere depressing, and she didn’t want to have the baby alone. And Chuck, he was born in Panama. Subsequently they moved to New Mexico, Morocco, Germany, Indianapolis... I got as far as Virginia with them before they had to visit the buffet. We lost track of the conversation when they returned with their plates piled high with roast beef and various salad items. All in all, it was cool. They gave me the skinny on their friends the Davises who finally divorced after being together for ages. Throughout nearly the entire marriage Ken was kicking it with this woman from Colombia who he hooked up with through the church. He helped put her kids through college and got them jobs and got her a job and encouraged her to drop her drunk husband, which she did. This whole time he would go over to their little shack of a house to make repairs and such and his wife is stranded at home, sometimes for entire nights on end, thinking, “I wonder why it’s taking all night to caulk the shower?” Actually, she had more of a clue than that, but refused to dump him. Now he’s dumped her, and she’s alone and overweight and she recently suffered a stroke so when she speaks she sounds like a two year old. It’s absolutely horrible. Grandma and Grandpa told a lot of uplifting stories like that. They were talking about traveling to San Antonio for Grandpa’s Air Force squadron reunion, but there’s almost no one left now. Out of 200, maybe about 50 of those old coots are alive, and half of those are invalids. How fucking horrible. Grandpa also went into a blow by blow account of Grandma’s brush with fatality last year, going so far as to mention that when the doctor “cut her open and looked at her insides” (yes, those were his exact words), he found her intestines to be purple. Had they been black, he would have “sewn her up and let her die on the table.” All the while Grandma is listening to this, and I’m feeling a touch uncomfortable for her. But miraculously, they’re alive and well, and looking remarkably good I might add. I was fearing they would be shriveled and scary but they weren’t at all. We shared kind parting words, and Grandpa alluded to possibly seeing me in New York if they ever venture out to visit some old friends in Long Island. “But they’re so crippled up there’s probably not a lot we could do with them,” he added. God I was sad. I went back up to my hotel room and smoked five cigarettes, which of course put me a few baby steps closer to being there myself. In the present, however, that just doesn’t seem to matter.
