A Memorable Memorial Day: Escape to Montreal

It was 10:30 on Friday morning, the day before memorial day weekend. I had slugged into work, bug-eyed from the wear and tear of the rainy, muggy work week. I had thought about flying back to Colorado for the weekend to see all the people I missed so dearly and to run the Boulder Boulder, but tickets would have cost me a month's rent and I had just ran my fastest 10K ever at the Healthy Kidney race in Central park the weekend prior - thus my legs had still not 100% forgiven me. So I settled into the not altogether terrible prospect of another glorious New York weekend - streetside drinks, brunch, walks in the park, shopping, (shhh maybe a cupcake or two), more drinks, laundry, until, Oops, suddenly its Monday night and your munging through your cupboards (a three day weekend and you still hadnt made it to the grocery store) in search of anything remotely edible, remarking to yourself how quickly your life is passing you by.... sigh.


In my daily IM conversation with my friend Tyler (who, in the true essence of IM, sits only two rows away from me) we tired of small talk and finally landed on the topic of all the exciting trips we'd take for distraction - Colorado, Utah, New Hampshire, a tour of the South, his hometown in Georgia, San Francisco - a road trip accross the country even! Him having never been west of the Mississipi and I who wouldn't know a southern gentleman if he picked me up in a 19th century horse and buggy, we had oh so many good ideas. Its always fun getting to know a new friend--it mimics the honeymoon period of all romances within a friendship. For the first week of your friendship you never run out of fascinating things to say, you're enthralled with your similarities, small annoyances are still cute quirks and, best of all, you are completely taken by all the glamourous things you will do with said new friend - Trips to Budapest, half marathons, the opera, or drinks at this great pizza and beer bar. For the standard friendship, this cute little honeymoon phase usually wears off within a week or so of pizza and beer eating, after which you realize that most of the plans you made were happy inklings that will never to come to pass. This rule of new friendship, although generally reliable, was not the case with two dangerously whimsical and equally as stubbornly committed to being unpredicable people as we turned out to be.


Our conversation went something like this:


"Too bad we aren't going anywhere fun for memorial weekend."


"Yeah. Too bad."


"Hey. Why dont we go somewhere!"


"Ok. Where?"


"I dont know. Boston. The adarondacks. Vermont. Montreal. Virginia?"


"Montreal is awesome. Lets go there!"


"Ok. You think Im joking. But Im dead serious."


"I am too."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Do you think we will be good travel partners? I hardly know you. What if we want to kill each other after two days."

"I guess we will find out."

Five hours of scouring train tickets, plane tickets, travel websites and discount airline traps of all kinds, we were sitting in an STA Travel office in the West village giddy with excitement.


"Hello. We want to go to Montreal."


The ticket agent, hardened by years of bubbling, youthful travelers but nonetheless taken aback at our dual enthusiasm, raises an eyebrow, "Ok. When would you like to fly out?"


"Um. Tomorrow? Tomorrow morning please."


Approximately 14 hours later, we arrived at the airport, two near strangers, tired, poorly packed and absolutely thrilled. As our plane took off we turned to each other and said simultaneously, "We are SO awesome!!"


Turns out we were not only good travel partners and fast friends - but also mirror images of one another. By the time our plane touched the ground in Montreal, we had discovered that we were each other's very own dopplegangers - mannerisms, aspirations, interests, talents, histories, beliefs, you name it. Who ever thought my long lost twin would end up being a redheaded GUY from Georgia? To top off the sense of uncanniness one feels when they have met their long lost, separated at birth redheaded brother , we were born within 5 days of each other, same year. Wierd. By the end of the trip we would be giving advice as such "Well from what I know about you, and seeing that I AM you, I would suggest that you do X about this problem".


As you all know all too well about me when I meet a new friend, acquaintence or unfortunate neighbor on a train... Im not sure I shut my mouth for more than 5 minutes during the whole flight in to Montreal. My normal verbal diarreah was thus enhanced by the utterly platonic nature of our fast friendship and by the feeling that in reality I was merely talking to myself, and myself, in redheaded form, was reflecting myself back to me in his (my) responses. And it was a good thing I came equipped with my normal knee-jerk reaction distraction mechanism (words. lots of them) because I hadn't been on a puddle-jumper plane in years and now, stuck in this hot little tootpaste tube of an airplane cabin with a lot of French Canadians and no snacks, I can remember why I avoid them. Ah turbulence. So THIS is why they serve alcohol on planes.



Montreal...is...gorgeous. Quaint yet regular. Modern yet historic. Exotic and yet oh so comfortable and strangely familiar just below the surface (aka the French is fabulous and all but when you are nearly peeing in your pants to find a bathroom you can ask in English). I couldn't quite decide which city it reminded me most of - Portland in the financial districts, Seattle in the residential, Dublin in the drinking quarter and Budapest in the old district? I couldn't quite decide. But whichever it was, I was in love. And keenly intent on leaving the place with a near perfect french accent. And the men...let me just say in passing, I'm not sure Ive ever witnessed so many good bone structures walking around all at once. My "type" just took on a whole new meaning.



We spent the first afternoon shopping, had an accidental run in with a 40% off sale at French Connection and turned up, arms full of bags and parched, conveniently on the deck of an irish pub. The afternoon was glorious, the sun still high and the brie sandwiches, suprisingly delicious at this dank Irish dive. Getting up from a situation like that...sun, people watching, brie cheese, beer and the satisfaction of bags full of new clothing...is a bit like getting out of the bathtub when you are a kid. Nothing could be more excruciating. Luckily, a night on a new town was beckoning to us as a just reward if we could only pull ourselves from those warm wooden deck chairs and drag ourselves back to our hotel.



Just when I thought Montreal could not be more delightful...I discovered our hotel room's balcony by accident, getting out of the shower. The window was one of those floor to ceiling doors, the balcony one of those European-style terraces, a simple white fence suspended just out from the window with no room for you to step out, only enough room for you to hang out over hte street, carelessly suspended halfway inside and out of the window. Standing there alone in the room, the sun setting over the "Mont" casting late in the day shadows through the window, bringing in a breeze so warm I nearly dropped my towel and leaning out this oh so glorious terrace window 25 floors above MOntreal, I immediately began my Jackie Onassis routine...wave to the loving crowds, oh how they love my dress...oops, now Im a ravishing Italian beauty stolen from my terrace in Rome and carried away to Paris by some dark-haired Hungarian blacksmith...or maybe just a small town girl from Colorado on spontaneous holiday from very big city life, standing before all of Montreal in a towel...while three teenage boys look on from below...oops. Now Im legs in the air, toppling over the edge of the bed in a frantic scramble to get inside...

The next two days were spent in utter bliss - the most uncomplicated, unregimented vacation I have ever taken - eating, drinking, eating more, walking walking walking, buying, pointing, laughing, eating, more drinking, repeating and pointing " I love I love I love!". I loved Montreal so much, that, in fact, by the end I never even finished the sentence i.e. "I love that church"..."I'd just point and say "I Love." This was much more efficient, because I could point out more than one object of my affection at one and express my overwhelming love for it. The city is a strolling, rolling city, with all kinds of quiet charms and very few airs or in-your-face spectacles - things that keep my beloved New York forever running. Old Montreal was particularly captivating and we haunted it for 2 days solid. Narrow alleys, cobblestone streets, old stone buildings, flowerbeds hanging charmingly from stone windows, hot chocolate and brie sandwiches in small restaurant with low ceilings much like a wine cellar in an old castle except doors wide open to the street and the steaming rain from outside. Cupcakes across from an old church served by happy smiling French Canadians. 7 solid hours in the sun, eating out, walking out, hanging out...Running around desparately in search of sunscreen for our irish skin after said 7 solid hours. Ah. Heaven.

To top off an altogether perfect weekend, we missed our flight home. 50 dollars in flight change fees bought me and my newest best friend 3 more hours of wine drinking, penne eating and philosophizing at the airport until we had not a single problem, curiosity, belief, traumatic experience or hidden disappointment left unexplored. From the plane, I watched the setting sun leave pink streaks of stay clouds accross the horizon, like torn bits of a princess' dress as she runs home from her carriage, slowly turning into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight. I Cinderella, hereby leave my glass slipper in Montreal and run back to my steamy, muggy, hungry New York. Who said Cinderella needed prince at the ball?
And after 3 days of non-stop talking that you all know only I can do without taking breaths (only bites and sips) in between, I slept the whole flight home.


(Pictures coming soon)

Big Business' Brothers in Arms: Meet the Warriors of Wall Street

I've joined the ranks. The ranks of underslept, overworked, understated, over-expected, underestimated yet overachieving New Yorkers. Ghosts in suits, ties and pointy leather shoes that haunt the subways after 10pm on a weekday. Even a quiet upbringing, a balanced childhood and a limited attention span couldn't save me from being drafted and now I'm trudging along with the rest at 11:32pm on another nondescript Tuesday, thanking God for DVR.

Yes, these corporate night crawlers do indeed exist among the normal, the well rounded and the wellslept. And there are many, many of them walking quietly amongst you here in Go-Getter Gotham. They are the culprits who make the rest of us normal people feel guilty for an unanswered weekend email at 5am, who crowd the pre-made frozen food aisle, whose daily excercise consists of walking to and from the subway, supplemented by the weight-loss effects of a constant stress and sleepless night diet, and who may be single-handedly responsible for the destruction of the nuclear family (although I think that particular illustrious illusion had it coming anyway).

11:34pm, the late night train finally arrives, freckled with sleeping bums and stiff red ties wrinkled only slightly from another day at the office. The bums, passed out, discussing racism with the voice in their head or sleeping, look 10 times as lively as these suited soldiers, whose bleary-eyes have the cloudy, fixed appearance of a 2-day old dead person left undisturbed. This is the ugly underworld of the corporate world and these are its creatures. It is truly disturbing and more than slightly eerie to see them arrayed and upright in their pressed Kenneth Cole heather grey at such an ungodly, lightless, soulless hour - collared, corporate vampires marching up a gruelling corporate ladder, ambition's very own army of indentured servants who simultaneously rule the New York class system and slave for it as both lords and serfs of modern commerce. How unperterbed they look, how unmoved and mechanical, normal and untired as if a 11pm commute was as normal and regular as brushing your teeth before bed. If you see any glimpse of these reclusive creatures during their prime commuting hours, then chances are you yourself are one of them.
I slump on to the train, my head heavy and my posture dissolved into a puddle. The painful act of moving my eyelids over my parched eyeballs in order to keep them open, feels like peeling a bandaid slowly off of unwashed skin. I am consumed by all of the things my body desparately wants -social interaction, unlimited sleep, simple carbohydrates, visual stimulation, circulation to my immobile limbs. But my fellow soldiers march on, stare unseeingly at the passing platforms out the train window, holding their briefcases as if they were an extra appendage they'd been born with much like a third nipple, never checking their watches and even feigning to cast me a look that clearly says 'dont worry newbie, you'll get used to it. The hunger pangs and the dizzy spells both subside after your first promotion.' The more lively ones are blankly thumbing their blackberries like a kid fixed in front of a video game theyve been playing for 8 hours straight but havent beaten.
No one is slumped, leaning, shuteyed, drooling, raving from sleep deprivation or even making anything that even resembles a facial expression. They don't even look anxious to get home because this IS home - the uptown apartments that they work this hard to afford are like time shares for the rare but occasional vacation of an extra 2 hours of sleep on the weekends or dinner with their girlfriends, who are either enlisted as well or filling the hole with nail salons and the sweet-smelling dressing rooms of Bloomingdales.

My stop arrives and I drag myself up to the street as the rest of my commerce comrades pass me robotically on the stairs. Welcome to corporate New York - Has my number really come up?

KinderCorporate: Employed Again and not a moment too soon

Oh first days. They never get easier. You pass all the tests required of you to officially make it into adulthood. You get yourself, a job, a life, a wardrobe, a bank account and even a 401K, and you think you are in the clear. Its a contract - turn in your high metabolism, all the fun in birthdays and finally your innocence to seal the deal in exchange for taxes, electricity bills, this thing called champagne, relationships that should work out but don't, high heel shoes that finally fit and (hallelluia) the end of your never ending awkward phase. To the outside world you look like a perfect grown up. But alas, you've been fooled. Inside you are still a kindergartener waiting for another first day to bring out your true self. The visible end of the awkward phase was only a temporary concession. You should have read the fine print.

My first day outfit was perfect. Something between postmodern sophistication with a to-hell-with-it twist, and, you guessed it, cowboy boots. And yes I had it laid out the night before. Last minute second guesses - a belt so no one would think I was fat and green tights so no one would think I was boring. Its all about first impressions right? My boss had kindly emailed me the night before to let me know I didn't have to come in until late morning when she'd have more time, which of course, gave me more time to obsess over whether or not I could really do this job, let alone figure out how to use the elevators with no floor selection buttons, without falling flat on my face. On my way to the subway I realized too late that I may have overlooked one important detail in the choice of my first day outfit. I hadnt thought that the belt would make my skirt a tad bit shorter - a little shorter than I would have liked on a first day, but hey, it could be worse. At least its not see-through, right? Right??

Ok, so Ive made it through the subway at rush hour. Only slightly dishevelled and unnerved, I emerge from the subway into a bright new New York morning. Sun glinting off of every window, the grind of ground zero construction, swarms of rabid tourists obstructing corporate foot traffic and looking at us as if we were part of some mad museum exhibit called Financial District 101. Step One. Starbucks. There is one on the corner (of course). Excellent. Step two. Fight your way to the office through the obstacle course of tourists without spilling your Starbucks beverage or breaking your New York stride. This, however, is more of a challenge then you;d think. Step three. Put on your new york game face. 'Excuse me, could you please get out of my way, Im on my way to close a very big acquisition, meet with a very important C-Level executive over breakfast and then meet with my team to plan for our very high profile trip to Mumbai next week.' Game face - check. Despite my nervousness, Im now starting to feel pretty good. Arriving at the spaceship that was now the doorstep to my office building, I found myself reaching for my camera, catching a glimpse of myself in the glass doors and saying to myself...well I'll be damned. I mean I said I'd do it, come here on a whim and build a life, and hell, here I am, Mary Tyler friggin Moore, although visibly more awkward, frightened and...early. Damnit. What kind of geek arrives 30 minutes early for her first day at work? Why didnt I just bring a brown paper sack lunch and a thermos while Im at it, maybe a copy of Grapes of Wrath to recite at my first staff meeting? Ok, I'll just putz around the fountain in the courtyard and look like I belong here.

Time successfully wasted. I turn up at the security desk. Hi Im Kate - oh um Harris, I work at Mansueto and its my first day! I cant help doing that annoying little excited half jump when I introduce myself as a real live employee of this office. The security gaurd is not impressed. "You're a little late, aren't you, Harris." The way he says it its as if I should drop down and give him 20. My enthusiasm falls to my ankles. "They um told me to come late." "Well it sez hea you supposed to be here at 9." "Well they called me last night and told me to come later." "You sure, Harris? Says here 9." (No, you're right, perhaps it was some spiteful imposter calling to try and sabotage my first day. And, if you please, thats Miss Harris to you, Hammerhead), "Yes, I am quite sure." He gives me a stern stare, which fails to have its full affect because he has a bit of a lazy eye, but I am thoroughly unnerved nonetheless. After I make it through security, I spend another 10 minutes finding the correct elevator dock (Apparently its a screening process. you must have a certain IQ to figure out how to use the elevators. And they've been designed to all look the same like some house of mirrors Magic Eye. 'Haha! Say the security gaurds, lets watch Alice and Wonderland meet the Space Age.')

Ah. My new office at last. And it is GORGEOUS. Even more gorgeous than I remember. Glass from ceiling to floor, papered with bluescreen views of Manhattan...oh wait. That IS Manhattan. All my calm has dissipated and now, faced by an office of new faces, I feel if I hadn't gained that extra 7 lbs from Crumbs cupcakes then I'd start involuntarily levitating. When the first employee notices (or at least I think thats what she's looking at) my accidental Ally McBeal-esque skirt hemline, I almost loose my breakfast.

Ok two hours later. My boss is awesome. My desk, cute. My coworkers, friendly, open, funny and whip smart. I smile, I stumble over words, I laugh at their web 2 dot O jokes even though I don't know what they mean to save my life. I can do this, no big deal. Lunch time and my stomach tells me its time to eat. First my stomach complains, then my mood protests and finally my brain cells start to demand calories. I check my calendar - back to back meetings all afternoon. Ive waited to see if anyone else will go to lunch but no one moves. Not one person moves toward the door, nor does anyone seem take note that it is lunchtime. No one is snacking, fidgeting or passing out from low blood sugar. My food window closes to 20 minutes before my first staff meeting and the hope of nutritional reprieve is quickly fleeting. Those of you who know me well know this is a dire situation, very dire indeed. I should have brought the sack lunch after all. Even with the risk of breaking the mold on my first day, Im on the brink of hypoglycemic shock and so I finally succumb to bodily demand and jet down 30 floors for the nearest deli. (Who are these people, robots?) On the way back in I realize Ive left my temporary security pass upstairs and turn reluctantly to face the security counter. Why hello, Hammerhead. Its me, Alice.

Ive wolfed half my sushi in the elevator by the time I return and make it back just in time for my 1:00 staff meeting. Thank GOD I ran out to get food, that was a close one. I decide to stand through the meeting so not to accentuate the length of my skirt by sitting. Its right around then that the boxes upon boxes of pizza arrives. OH. Pizza. Haha. Of course...

All in all, it was a fantastic first day. The environment is smart, quick, innovative, friendly and casual. I love the way these people think, the waves they are making in their industry, the way they talk to each other, even argue with each other, without hierarchy or formality. I couldn't have asked for a friendlier welcome. Nor could I be more nervous about how I'll measure up. In the hopes that my motor skills, self confidence and taste in hemlines somehow return to me as more days pass, I think I'll try going back tomorrow. :)

This is Alice, Signing off.
Pictures:
The entrance to my building--


Views from my office--



I love New York in summer!

Out on the town

Forgetting Galileo: Me First and the Gimme Gimmes

If you are a New Yorker, the sun, stars and planets really do revolve around the earth. And for the inhabitants of this city, all of the earth, and thus the entire universe, revolves around Manhattan. Making you, a New Yorker in sheik bar in midtown drinking champagne at noon on a Sunday, the ONLY person on earth who matters.

Humans are naturally a bit self-focused. Its instinct. We are natural companions, pack animals, given that without others our own survivial would be comprimised and perhaps less fulfilling. But when it comes down to it, lets admit it - you want a bigger chunk of the buck's hind leg than your best friend. And you want it while its still warm. Even if he did help you take it down.

Manhattan is like all the world's hunting grounds condensed onto one island, with an abundance of fat, nice-looking deer but many, many more wolves. The result of which is that New Yorkers are totally, completely, inescapably, excessively, visibly and eternally self absorbed. To those of us who inhabit this city, everything and everyone we could ever want, desire, need and not need, is right here on our little island Manhattan. No matter where you are in New York City, the nearest deli, laundromat, bar, grocery store, gym, taco joint, sushi hot spot, clothing store, drugstore, Starbucks, loanshark, tailor, hitman, cupcake bakery...(I could of course go on) is no more than one mile away at any given moment. Gauranteed. My favorite sight in Manhattan is seeing all the people on the subway in the late afternoon on a Saturday, myself included, their hands stock full of bags -- lunch leftovers, shoes, groceries, Burberry's newest raincoat, toiletries, cupcakes, wine, chinese takeout, internationally acclaimed political novels, designer fragrance--looking at each other saying "WHAT a day that was! I do say, I'm exhausted!" And it IS exhausting, attempting to consume ALL that there is available to us at any given time, without leaving a single sock, blueberry muffin or lip plumper unconsumed, no designer sample sale or brunch place unexplored. And we are all, of course, on our way home to put away our things, digest for an hour, and then squeeze into those new shoes in order to fashionably inquire about the opposite sex over $25 martinis in a posh downtown bar. So much to be HAD, so little time. Any addiction you might have - drinking, eating, shopping, working, romancing, one night stands, fraternizing--whatever it may be, this city can give you your fix to the 9th degree and fast (Did you know that apparently there is a legitimate industry here called the "fetish industry"? Not stripper per say, not prostitute, just fetish worker. This kind of thing still blows my silly-little-Boulder-girl mind.) A friend of mine said the other day "If a girl can't find a man here, then you won't be able to find one anywhere. And here he is sure to be better dressed." How is that for a can't-sleep-at-night kind of thought? If romance is dead then I know who killed it. I'm not sure how, but I do know that Christian Dior and Manhattan were in on it together. Its as if we are all voluntarily stranded on a tropical island in paradise with absolutely everything (and everyone) at our disposal, left to either live in peace and slowly eat ourselves to death on coconuts and bootleg rum, or rapidly destroy ourselves a la Lord of the Flies.

Not only is there 24/7 access to our wildest and most whimsical desires, but we also feel we are the epicenter of all that is good, trendy, fun, important, impactful, exciting, meaningful, hip, and worthwhile. In New York City, it seems that all of the world's media, music, art, movies, shows, famous love stories, etc etc ...are made by us, for us and about us. If globalization is the future, then baby, we Manhattanites have already put first man on the moon - (and the reality show airs next fall). Apparently, we've got the whole world watching and talking about us - and its our job to keep doing things worth watching. So we will- and we will look good doing it. And can you blame us? We dont mean to be self-absorbed, its just easy to forget what life looks like if you ever get "off the island".

I realize how bad this sounds. After all, you are reading MY blog about MY experience in New York, MY perceptions of the New york that is just so good at being percieved. And for all of you fellow Boulderites who have ever lived in Manhattan, I KNOW you understand. ("Bubblehopping", verb--the act of hopping from one bubble to another, small to big, big to small.) But this is not the whole story. There is absolutely a choice involved. The pursuit of happiness in the land of plenty was never designed to be mindless, or easy for that matter. And evidence of this, of people making or not making the choice, is everywhere. Its not the choice to be happy, persay. Its the choice around what exactly you allow to make you happy. Tell me, New York, when is enough enough?

If New York were a person, it could be Paris Hilton and the Dalai Lama, all at once. More specifically it would be Paris Hilton leading a meditation retreat in the Himalayas (now that I think about it, this analogy would actually be a good PR stunt and a good excuse to film her in her underwear) AND the Dalai Lama promoting his new fragrance (I can see it now - it would be called "Silence" and the tagline would be "To reach Nirvana, you must smell like it"). My point, made in bad taste here, is that this bubble is a really big and alive one... and along with the senseless indulgences you have 24/7 access to, you also have access to many different very real experiences, very interesting people and very meaningful human work. There are so many remarkable people here, some of the most remarkable in the world - people who have larger views of the world than anyone anywhere. People who have titles, success, achievements and primetime slots on Oprah... and people who don't. People who make an impact on everyone they come accross. People who are the best educated and people who help educate others. People who are always looking to help those islanders who have been lost or misplaced in the mad rush for not only survival but prosperity. People who can walk in the park alone, take in a museum exhibit, buy something nice, drink an exceptionally good cappuccino or just share dinner with a good friend and say "This is enough. This is just enough for me." People who could have everything (money, beauty, love, sex, etc) but choose to have just enough instead and give the rest to someone else. The unfulfillment and haunting despair that comes with chronic overconsumption of things and people just can't take hold in the heart of one of these people, who not only ask for just enough, but also recognize something good when it arrives on their doorstop... That cupcake could have tasted a lot better if I wasn't already thinking about my next bigger, better but miraculously less fattening cupcake. With all the overindulgence here, there are also these other more humble qualities, mixed into a throng of loud and quiet, feux and genuine, seen and unseen.

One of the reasons I came here is because the city is screaming in your ear to succeed - with the resources, support and training that I have been lucky to have had so far, there is no excuse not to. But in the mad rush to get, have and do everything, I hadn't thought about what I would do once I did succeed or once I did actually buy, eat and ensnare everything available to me. I suppose I'm glad I have not succeeded at much at all since I got here, save finding a place to sleep, good food to eat and good friends to eat it with. But maybe that is success enough for the moment, depending on what my requirements are for success. Self-diagnosed with a raging case of the Gimme Gimme's, I'm now given pause to remember--its absolutely crucial that a brand new New Yorker never gets "ambitious" mixed up with "insatiable".

The "Empire" Strikes Back: An Affair to Forget

Yesterday =The first day of real spring in New York City. The sun is out, along with the big designer sunglasses and open toed summer flats, and the people of new york are smoking an extra pack of cigarettes in order to get out on a break from work into the sunshine. It appears the days of bitter snows are behind us forever. Halleluiah.

Finding myself on the corner of 43rd and 5th avenue on such an exceptionally nice day, an idea strikes me...A free afternoon on the top of the Empire State Building! Sure its cheesy and touristy. But on a great day such as this, an official trip to the top for a small town girl could be delightfully picturesque and memorable, if not slightly cheeky. An image of myself in my fabulous sunglasses, my arms in the air draped over the top of the world, throwing my barrett in the air Mary-Tyler-Moore-style into a blue sky flashes through my mind and suddenly I'm marching up to the line for the ticket counter. There is a lot of empty rope and very little line to buy tickets, so I figure, given that its a Thursday afternoon, I'm in good shape as far as lines go. The wave of nausea that comes over me when the ticket costs 20 dollars passes quickly and I am happily on my way toward what I think is the elevator to the 80th floor.

If you are going to design a tourist trap, be sure to design it with lots of hidden rooms, blind passageways and no windows- kind of like a jail. Take it from the Empire State building. I find myself in the first winding line where all the people I thought stayed at home today are hidden. No big deal, its not a huge line and I already bought a ticket for 20 dollars so there is no way I'm going to bail now - that is enough for 6 big cupcakes from Crumbs and one Martini from the Upper West Side! I get through the first line, leading mysteriously around a sharp corner. bringing me into a hallway, where at the other end I see people getting into the elevators. Hooray! I am so Sleepless in Seattle right now. All I need is a true love and a curling iron! I'm getting really excited now too, because the line seems to be moving pretty fast, so Im strutting toward my place in the elevator. This is where the hidden room comes into play. Mid-strut, I turn the corner to discover that there is a screening room on the way- a whole room full of a winding line- and this one is NOT moving fast at all. Its hot, humid, the few windows that exist are covered in paper and, worst yet, they humiliate you for being stupid enough to stand in a line of this length by forcing you to take a photo against a blue screen as you cross the threshold out of the room 45 minutes later. Some post-modern torture tactic, no doubt. At this point I'm pretty much stuck. I'd really like to bail but the line is so windy and packed, it would be harder to try and make it out through all the non-english speaking tourists (i.e. "Excuse my I believe I am on the brink of an anxiety attack, and I wondered if by any chance I could make it through here to throw up please?" won't do the trick) than to practice stand-up meditation and wait it out. Plus I did pay TWENTY dollars for this.

45 minutes later I am finally at the front, burned out the battery on my ipod and have been fully briefed on the love, work and social lives of every Minnesotan family in line with me, and Im thinking its possible that I have contracted every strain of the common cold out there, with 100+ respiratory systems being shoved up against one another and allowed to ferment. Being by myself and without musical relief I am forced to listen, check my cell phone repeatedly and feel inexcusably sorry for myself. Not only that, but under such mental duress, I find myself increasingly grounchy, orniry and self absorbed--Will this woman back OFF and give me some air space? These people may be stupid enough to wait in line but how did someone like ME end up like this? I LIVE here, after all. When I get to the top I am going to take this great picture of ME and it will all be worth it...

I finally make it to the photo station where they will no doubt not only subject me to walk up there alone with my headphones on, following the japanese family giving each other bunny ears, but then they will ask me to pay 30 dollars for it, with a backdrop of new york superimposed behind me. I decide my dignity must stay in tact. I will not submit to the photo, no indeed. My disobedience causes quite a stir. Evidently the photo coordinator has been instructed not to let any of his captors go without taking a photo. What begins as a "no thanks, I'd rather not" soon turns to "No I do NOT WANT TO", struggling to get by him toward my hard earned freedom in another line. I finally escape after it nearly comes to blows and the entire room is watching me wondering, why wont she just let him take her photo??

The elevators are finally in sight. After another line (which doesnt seem so long or so bad given the photo detention room) I finally make it onto the elevator, packed with other tourists, up to the 80th floor for a 6 minute elevator ride. I end up in the front, and cant wait to be the first to the edge of the observation deck. The elevator doors open (gasp for breath) into ANOTHER room and another line. Turns out we wait here for yet another elevator to take us the remaining 5 floors, and Im surrounded by, suprise suprise, the same minnesotans who just watched me stage a coup d'etat in the photo detention room. And guess what- now I get no cell phone signal. At this point I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I would have paid another 20 dollars just for them to let me down- but no doubt there is another line to get out just as there is to get in- and no space to walk there anyway (the whole room is filled with the line) - the place might be the biggest health hazard in the US and most definately the most uncompliant with fire codes. I start counting backwards, imagining all my happy places, even my back up one which isnt even all THAT happy, and making a list of all the people in line I would sucker punch if I wasnt stuck here in between their elbows, looking up their noses AGAIN.

The second elevator is more crowded, hotter, humid-er, louder and smellier than the first. I end up in the back corner while the attendents are literally pushing people in saying "one more, squeeze, there you go". I'm now, more or less, stark raving mad and visibly agitated, a brand new threat to society cramped up with an elevator of Denny's regulars and mini van purchasers who are cackling loudly, resting on me like I was an armchair, repeating "Well Gee this is one mighty tall building!" and fanning themselves dramatically as if they were the ONLY ones who are hot and uncomfortable right now. God bless America.

The doors open and I've been beaten into submission. Im a withered, sweaty, deflated version of my former self, limping out of my corner, falling over the threshold of the elevator red in the face from asphixiation and heat exhaustion...and I was very thoroughly sorry that I had thrown away the brown paper sack that I recieved with my bagel this morning. I drag myself out onto the observation deck, moved more by the crowd than by my own feet and fumble around blindly for my camera. YES. My picture on the top of the empire state building, AT LAST. I take a few pictures and finally identify someone to be the honorable bearer of this hard earned, expensive picture of me on the empire state building. She takes the camera and goes to shoot, then shakes her head and hands the camera back to me. "Battery exhausted" reads the screen. Superb.

I spent 6.5 minutes on the deck of the empire state building. There is indeed a line to go back down - and at this point I think it might be faster and better for all parties involved to just jump off. As Im waiting in line and passing into the elevator that will bring me back to my senses and my sanity, I hear a tour guide speaking on the microphone avertising a visual map they are selling."The average person spends over an hour to get up here and only 7 minutes on the observation deck. Dont be one of those people, ladies in gentlemen, buy this map and know what you are looking at so you can really spend quality time at the top". Damn, I came in .5 seconds short. After reaching the ground I went straight into the nearest bakery I could find, mourning for the minimum 5 years of my life that i left up on that observation deck. Beware future NY tourists - spend the 20 dollars on pizza.

Below:

My hard-earned souveniers

From 0 to 60: Ground Zero

There is a church out side the construction walls around Ground Zero - its the only place where the city still lets people mourn for 911. It seems out of place at first - this ancient church with a graveyard at its feet in the middle of tall, stocky, shiny, glassy, financial manhattan. But if you walk inside the tall black gate surrounding the old graveyard, decorated with shirts, and flowers and teddybears commemorating 911, you'll realize that this ancient churchyard is in just the right place - a soft spot in the heart of Manhattan, a knuckle of (almost) serenity inside the black iron gates that keep out the city's advances, a receptacle for blind grief among a world of unblinking (and unflinching) eyes. A literal tesimony to the saying, 'there is a time and a place'. Ground Zero itself is heroically bustling, overrun with cranes and banging construction, spitting orange construction workers and foreign tourists with shiny cameras. If you didnt stop to notice the size of the gap inside the blue constructions walls then it would look like the beginning of just another high rise. At first this seemed callous, ungrateful, sacreligious the way the construction workers and tourists tramp all over the gaping gravesite of the twin towers, carelessly and without ceremony. But then you realize - this is just so New York. Rebuild, renew, exceed. Stronger, surer, back on the old metropolitan feet -- all the while, knowing simply that, there is a place and a time for all the rest. My Dad used to tell me growing up, in the weekly spasm of never-ending grief over some silly friend or breakup- you can choose to make your own destiny, looking life (and loss) square in the face or you can be a victim. One thing is for certain, New York is no victim. The loss of that day in September will live in the very heart of Manhattan forever - literally and figuratively. The walls of the old St Paul's churchyard will be responsible for carrying the memory while the new towers go up and the gap fills back to the top. A time and a place. In the meantime - rebuild, renew, exceed...stronger, better, clearer.

Im seated in a glass conference room in the shiny new 7 World Trade Center - a building behind the twin towers, destroyed with them on 911. This is the first of the WTC construction to be finished, opening in 2006. On one side, its massive winows give an arial view of Ground Zero, a milling map of cranes, trucks, trailers and dirt. This side, the opposite side, gives a panoramic view of manhattan - the buildings of far away midtown rising out of the brown mist to meet me up here. It almost feels as though I should be gasping for breath this high above the city at the very tip of the island, clinging to the railing or flying paper airplanes off the top into the wind. But instead Im safely sealed in glass, surveying my new city from the quietest place in all manhattan - above it.
In this chair in the sky, I have all of Ground Zero behind me, and all of Manhattan ahead of me. A little nobody from Boulder, Colorado looking over the heart of the modern world, like some tiny, frightened empress surveying the masses of her new kingdom. How did I get here? What am I to do now that Im here?

6 months before, November 8th, 2007 - Its a sunny, warm day of fall in Boulder, Colorado. The people in my quaint little hometown are going about their usual business, visiting their usual coffee shops, talking with their usual neighbors, running their usual routes around wonderland lake, and yep, they are enjoying it. Life is good, usual, healthy, happy.
I'm in a ball underneath the desk of my cubicle on 1877 Broadway, Boulder Colorado. My office phone is ringing, coworkers walking past on the other side of the cube wall asking each other where I've gone, the sales team is on its way to lunch discussing which place has the best salads. I am in upright fetal position, knees to my mouth, my new dress pants absorbing the running of my nose, my hands smothering my nose and mouth to stifle the sobs. Im surveying the dark quiet cover of my desk, the only safe place in the world that I have to fall apart, in between meetings. The only time and the only place. In the dark of that tiny desk I'm surveying the ruins of my expectations, my relationship, my clear career path, my grad school aspirations, my dignity, absolutely all my plans, my life...and thinking, "I dont think I can survive this."

Back in 7 World Trade Center, chin to chin with the empire state building, watching the mach-5 construction of my life in New York City (a life that surely can;t be mine, can it?), this hustling and bustling just-who-does-she-think-she-is?? new self, the beginnings of something shiny and new while riddled with pot holes and unsightly cement mixers...I cant help but smile and think 'rebuild, renew, exceed'. 0 to 60 in six months flat.

April Showers bring May...puddles: Why I love Daffodils

My favorite flower is the daffodil.

Why, might you ask? Why not something more romantic, like red roses, more unusual like snap dragons, or more symbolic like wild flowers? Daffodils sure do seem like the middle child of all flowers - sure they are cute and all but they won't be inhereting the family estate, nor will they cause a family scandal or start a revolution out of pure angst like their youngest brother. But red roses of the world beware - nothing shines brighter than a patch of young daffodils popping through the low-hanging spring rains of New York. Nor is there any other sight more welcoming to thawing, frostbitten New Yorkers trudging through the early spring (pouring, I might add) rain, peering out from underneath colliding umbrellas swimming en-masse down the sidewalks (you can easily loose and eye if you are not careful. Best to use your own umbrella as a defense mechanism. When waiting at a crosswalk facing potential skirmishes with other umbrellas at major intersections, hold low over your head and tilt toward the advancing enemy. Never give an inch by holding your umbrella up above the others out of politeness. New York umbrellas are a cheap, sharp and pitiless species - You will get poked.) ...breath...than a patch of lippy yellow daffodils, tks tsking the puddley pavement, tugging on the skirts of the passers by and swaying in the rain. Man that was a long sentence.

I first fell in love with daffodils when I lived in England. And when I say love I mean the kind of love you feel for the woman who gives you directions to the train back to Manhattan when you've accidentally gone to Queens instead of 5th Ave at rush hour,...or the kind of love that makes you want to kiss the cahsier at the pizzaria when he hands you the first carbohydrate you've seen in 5 hours, hot and cheesy. That is how the the English feel about daffodils when they sweep accross the soppy green fields of England. Because Londoners know that when those little yellow faces first appear, they are bugle players for another another yellow visitor, banished completely from the earth for 3-4 long months by the cranky, sour English winter (duh, the sun). There was a day in March 2005 when, walking among the English daffodils and spending just two hours basking in the sun's sorely missed company, my cheeks were sunburned. There is a reason that people in the UK drink obscenely. Along with Midwesterners and Scandanavians.

New York daffodils are different than the English ones. They seem taller (perhaps in comparison to much shorter grass), more confident, and slightly less innocent. But you've got to give them this, since, instead of blooming outside a quiet english parish or a jolly english pub, they bloom alongside the fastest moving foot traffic next to Tokyo, shaded by towering high rises in three piece suites and getting peed on by ugly New York rat dogs who get fed too much people food. But I like both breeds of daffodils equally - the english daffodils charm the pants of the world as the sun's personal assistant while the New York daffodils loudly protest the rights of underprivelaged sidewalk daffodils worldwide. This is getting rediculous, I know...

In any case, the daffodils in New York are coming up in spades, in all different shades of yellow. Greying, bent over yellows and devilishly lavacious yellows. And they are just so adorable, swaying around on their long stems and yawning at everyone. They are genuinely happy, youthful flowers - so much so that when you pick them or buy them at the store, they last about 24 hours before they just flop over and expire. And what a sad sight a dead daffodil is, plucked from its twittering little patch of daffodil friends, no longer able to gawk at and gossip about people like a bunch of soccer moms. A daffodil is happiest and prettiest in its natural environment. It doesnt need a bigger bloom to get noticed, it doesn't need to stand alone in the spotlight and it is perfectly happy with its own unique shade of yellow, thank you very much. And THAT is why I love daffodils. In fact, I think I would make a good daffodil - Just resting on my laurels in the middle of all this mean, spiky grass, bobble-heading, wagging my yellow tongue and laughing loudly at the state of the world passing me by. Ok, ok, maybe I should just settle for being the world passing by.