How to Brag Like a New Yorker

People who live in New York City are smart. I hate saying this because all New Yorkers want is for non-New Yorkers to say that they are smart.

But the fact is that they are, and somehow they all make enough money to live here with liberal arts degrees from liberal arts colleges whose names you’re never confident pronouncing. Wesleyan? Wellesley? Bowdoin and Vassar? (I barely know her!) One time, my senior year of high school, I lamented to my AP English teacher about not applying to Dartmouth. I was interested in its astronomy program. Except I pronounced the name of the university like any red-blooded, God-fearing American teenager would: DART-MOUTH. Hilarious visual notwithstanding, this faux pas was perhaps an indicator that I wasn’t cut out for its astronomy program.

Here is a fun test to see whether someone in New York is richer and smarter than you: Do you know their college by its mascot? College mascots are for poor, average people. College mascots are another way of saying “The graduates of this university are not rich enough to contribute to our endowment fund, so we must rely on our football program as a source of income.”

A few weeks ago, Brock was making small talk with a young man at a water fountain in Central Park, and somehow this man’s college mascot came up: Tigers.

“Tigers! Clemson, yeah? Great football team!”

“I went to Princeton.”

Brock might as well have said “I am so average so as to assume everyone around me is average, and also to where Ivy League mascots were never topical in my life until this very moment.” (For the record, New York is the only place where Ivy League mascots are topical. Not for the sake of talking sport, as they say, but for the express purpose of making idle conversation with any given 22-year old.)

Being smart is the only way to survive in this city. If you are average, you will get suckered out of so much money that living here will be untenable and you will have to move back to whatever godforsaken flyover state you came from, or worse, north of 130th (New York’s Siberia). You will be hypnotically lured by Times Square hawkers of $10 palm readings for the psychic on 46th Street. Upon arrival, you will be told that $10 is the special for a one-palm reading, having both done costs $25. Despite the fact that this makes no mathematical (or ethical?) sense, and your palms are identical, you will get the two-palm reading. When I say that this definitely did not happen to me, what I mean is that this definitely happened to me.

See what I just did? That is a self-deprecating joke.

That is how New Yorkers brag. Normal people brag by talking about how #blessed they are. New Yorkers brag by recounting misadventures in Bergdorf (HAHA!). Normals have the decency to relegate bragging to Instagram. New Yorkers do it through memoirs. Let me give you some examples.

I recently read a memoir called You’ll Grow Out of It by Jessi Klein, a stand-up comedian and one of the executive producers of Inside Amy Schumer. The book started strong, with hilarious chapters examining things that Ladies are supposed to like, such as baths, Anthropologie, and the Bar Method. (“It costs $36 a class. Bar Method suggests that for optimal results you do the class five times a week. That’s $180 a week you’d be spending on your ASS!”)

But as chapters wore on, little things started to irk me. An eyeroll here and there, and fleeting thoughts of “Wow, this person needs to spend more time west of the land once governed by the Articles of Confederation.” In a chapter titled “The Lingerie Dilemma", Jessi remembers the first time she tried to look like a Sexy Lady. She mentions a lifetime of buying underwear in sealed three-packs from CVS. Not having a boyfriend until she was 19. Crying and sweating in the dressing room of a lingerie store in Greenwich Village. Then she casually mentions that her purchase cost $375.

Do you see what just happened! She butters you up with self-deprecation so that when you read that number, you think those digits are also normal, and thus her relatability remains intact. I’ll admit, this almost got me. I almost thought spending $375 on lingerie was a perfectly normal thing to do. But it is not.

In the next chapter (“How To Get Engaged”) the reader is taken on a journey to Big Sur, where Jessi is planning a vacation with her boyfriend. “Mike, who has a decidedly luxe notion of vacationing, gets very excited about the idea of going to the Post Ranch Inn, a hotel set on the cliffs of Northern California that has won every Most Luxurious, Most Ridiculous, Most Over the Top award from Travel & Conde Whatever magazine so many times in a row that now they’re just showboating. The beauty and drama of it is so incredible that even visiting their website feels like a trip you cannot afford.” Well, I visited the website because a paragraph like that is literally begging you to PUT DOWN THE BOOK RIGHT NOW AND GOOGLE HOW MUCH THIS RESORT COSTS!

On average, the Post Ranch Inn runs $1200 per night.

Jessi thinks she is getting engaged here, but learns this is not in the cards only after they “book spa appointments and make restaurant reservations in Napa.” She spirals into despair. “We did not get engaged in Paris. Nor did we get engaged in Turks and Caicos, nor on our trip to various quaint spas in the Northeast.” This was supposed to be a SPECIAL TRIP, not like all those other dumb ones. An argument ensues, and she and Mike strongly consider not going, forfeiting cross-country airfare and incurring the resort’s cancellation fee (one night’s stay + tax).

Normal people would never throw this kind of money away! If it was 1975 and I found out my boyfriend was Ted Bundy, I would still go on this trip. Jessi again turns to self-deprecation to make us forget how rich she is: “I was a woman sobbing in a hotel corridor, which is kind of incredible, because when I was little I thought I was going to be a senator.” (New Yorkers call hallways corridors, likes it’s 1909 and they're all aboard the Titanic.)

In a third instance, Jessi visits Miraval Spa – a Tucson wellness facility (?) beloved by Oprah Winfrey. Jessi loves Oprah. This is normal. I love Oprah. In my first act of open rebellion against the LDS Church, I loved Oprah even though my Sunday School teacher told me she was a bad person for shacking up with Stedman (a sign of the times / attack on the family). From 2003 - 2006, I watched every episode of Oprah except for the ones about sex, which my mother promptly deleted from TiVo. Never to be outwit by my mother, I biked to the library and checked out a Judy Blume novel that taught me ALL THE THINGS. Although to be honest a banana visualization courtesy of Dr. Oz would’ve been useful in any case.

Where was I?

Loving Oprah is a normal-person thing. Booking a trip to Oprah's favorite wellness facility is not. Here is where Jessi gets sneaky. She maneuvers from self-deprecation to self-awareness: “Wasn’t this place just oozing with the worst kind of New Age bullshit? Weren’t we all indulging in the most excessive kind of privilege, paying through the nose to travel here so we could talk about our itsy-bitsy feelings in our premium spandex?” Yes. But that doesn't stop Jessi from paying $650 per night for the girls getaway package. 

A few final examples:

• On the Manolo Blahniks she wore to the Emmy’s: “I am a tourist in the land of aspirational footwear that costs as much as I used to pay in monthly rent. I have no plans to move here, but I am enjoying a vacation from my country, the land of Toms.” Don’t worry, she complains about how uncomfortable her Manolos are later. HAHA!

• On flying business class: “I can’t help but feel a pang of survivor guilt. I want the people walking past me to know that I’m one of them. My ticket is being paid for by a corporation; I could not afford it on my own. In my heart I am a coach person.” Two chapters ago she mentioned booking a massage every day she was at that wellness facility.

• On becoming a comedian: “I was 26 when I started doing stand-up, which is actually pretty old for people who start. It took me that many years of therapy to just give it a go.” New York: Where liberal arts grads from liberal arts colleges have years of therapy by age 26. (This is not a knock on therapy. I have wanted it myself. But I have not had it. Why? Because I am NORMAL! I majored in liberal arts and cannot afford it! That is the price I pay for being able to make jokes about the Articles of Confederation.)

I get it. There are a lot of things about living in New York that make it hard not to sound braggy. Saturday afternoons wiled away in Central Park, brunch in West Village, a Broadway show on Thursday because eh, why not? You must be patient with New Yorkers. We need these. We need them because rolling these benefits into the cost of rent is the only way to prevent daily nervous breakdowns.

But once you have reached a certain level of rich, you cannot pretend to be who you used to be with self-deprecating jokes about how ridiculous your new life is in which you turn down jobs writing for David Letterman. You are a different person. And that’s okay! But even if you feel like an imposter, own up to it. Because the only thing worse than Manolo Blahniks that are "excruciating to the extent that even just sitting with them on is agonizing” . . . is someone who writes that in a memoir.

Dancing in the Dark

New York is known for colorful people. And rats. And colorful rats.

I am being literal. Just three days ago, on 8th and 42nd, a man walked toward me with a live, pink rat perched atop his fedora (as if wearing a fedora wasn’t creepy enough). As he passed, I noticed two more rats sitting on his left shoulder – one purple, one blue. Sure, I could be making this up. It’s the internet, everything’s a lie. But there are some things women do not make up – sexual assault, and men in broad daylight with pastel rats on their shoulders.

All normal people are alike; each weirdo is weird in their own way. But nothing within my bounds of self-respect will ever approach Rat Whisperer, so seeing him in the flesh was like having my Pandora’s box of social graces blown to smithereens. New York City is the great equalizer. Here, it’s not a question of whether you shed pretenses, but simply how naked you get.

For all my belligerence about basically everything, I love my mother, and when she begs me not to run alone at night in Central Park, I oblige. Last night I was turning the corner to come home, listening to the Hamilton cast recording. (Spotify subway ads extol its personalized “Discover Weekly” algorithms, but I confound and defy them by listening to only ONE THING EVER. Recommend new songs for me now, robot!)

“The Room Where It Happens” started playing, and for those of you that don’t know, it’s a roof-rattling jazz number performed by Aaron Burr. I saw a trail leading to a small clearing and noticed that it was about the size and shape of the actual Hamilton stage. Even without that, it was perfect: Secluded, but open enough to have lead time over lunging rapists. Dimly lit, but close enough to the main road for passers-by to see me struggling with an attacker after a blood-curdling scream. If these thoughts seem morose, there is an 96% chance that you are a person who plans for her eventual rape and murder (AKA "a woman").

When the banjo comes in at 1:11, I know it’s over. (A banjo! In a rap musical! WHAT A TIME TO BE ALIVE.) Remember that bar scene in Top Gun when Goose is like “I’ll bet you $20 that you can’t have sex with a girl here tonight ” – an early form of the Bechdel test – and Maverick gets this little twinkle in his eye? When I heard the banjo, I was simultaneously Mav and Goose AKA Schrödinger's Top Gun. One part “This is crazy, betcha won’t do it” mixed with “Awww yeah it’s going dooooooown”.

Rhythm slithers through my body, rustling leaves look down from the mezzanine as I scuff dirt here, there, everywhere, shimmying, twisting, stomping. “This is for you, suburban living room decor! I am making you proud, for I AM DANCING LIKE NO ONE IS WATCHING.” Fireflies spark all around me, the song crescendos, and here’s the pièce de résistance: At 4:04, a rat scurries across the clearing.

Listen to 4:04 and the ten seconds of whispering and cello pluckings that follow. Pray tell, does there exist in the entirety of the Broadway canon ten seconds of music more suited for a lone rat in the twilight?

In its final minute, the song goes berserk. I am breathing and sweating so hard that I stumble trying to regain balance after an especially dizzying spin and then? The music ends. The magic vanishes. The stage – mulch. The audience – trees. I remove my headphones, leave the clearing, and cross Central Park West as if nothing in the room had happened. (The rat though. The rat knew.)

The City

'Bout time I started blogging about our recent jaunt to my favorite place! Brock had to fly out to NY for work training earlier this month and I was able to nab a cheap last-minute plane ticket. Paid hotel and a daily expense account for food? You don't say no to that, people.

I flew out a couple days early and crashed with my cousin Joy and her boyfriend Matt, who live in Bensonhurst. They've been living there for almost a year now and it was so wonderful to spend quality time with them (more on that later). My red-eye flight arrived bright and early at 5AM, but there ain't no rest for the wicked--I accepted the fact that I'd be running on two-ish hours of sleep and made my way over to Manhattan to meet up with my friend Alex.

In a serendipitous turn of events, Alex--a BYU friend who I hadn't seen since 2011--was in the city for just a couple days before flying out to London, where he now works (permission to hate him: GRANTED). We met up in Times Square and walked to Hell's Kitchen for grub. Can I just say that I have the best  friends? Alex and I picked up right where we left off in 2011, not missing a beat. Love that!

We ate Dominican food at Lali and thus began my self-directed NY eating tour ;) I had a simple plate of chicken with yellow rice and beans, but man was it good. Homemade comfort food, Latin style. Just what we needed after coming in from the drizzling rain. The ladies running the place were so warm and friendly. They let me wash up in their restroom which was LITERALLY the tiniest room I've ever been inside--rest- or otherwise!

Alex and I decided to work off those rice and beans with a long walk. We started at 10th Ave and 46th and wound our way to about Park and 70th.  Gave us lots of time to catch up! Alex had been studying at the London School of Economics for the past year-ish so I was woefully out of touch with him. He not so much with me, given my propensity for overshare on Facebook and his expert lurking skills ;) We capped off the day with hot chocolate and I made the trek back to Bensonhurst. Slept like a baby that night, tell you what.

The start of something beautiful.

These two stopped me in my tracks. I could've sworn I as them at about this exactly same time last year strolling in Gramercy Park. Check out the grainy photo below (from last year). In retrospect, it doesn't look like the, but you can see why my heart skipped a beat!

En route to catch the looong subway ride home.

A Night in Hoboken

Once upon a time, Brock and I had seat assignments on a plane that weren't located next to each other. I was looking forward to sleeping for the duration of the flight, but the guy next to me had other plans. Ever sat next to a person on a plane who won't shut up?  And pretty soon you're giving one-word answers and tired, fake laughs and you can't figure out for the life of you HOW THIS PERSON CANNOT TAKE A HINT???

This was so not  one of those times. David and I chatted and laughed like old friends, and we've kept in contact ever since. As a native of New Jersey, David gave us a grand tour of Hoboken and surrounding areas when we were living there last April. I remember Brock was so tired that night and not looking forward to going out with someone he barely knew, but David's quite the charmer. He lifts everyone up around him with his warmth, charisma, and intelligence. We had the best time!

This is in front of the nightscape made famous by Miramax Films. Look familiar? We also visited the site of the famous Aaron Burr-Alexander Hamilton duel in Weehawken!

Pardon the awful picture quality on these first few photos--they were taken with my crappy Android.

This star marks the birthplace of Frank Sinatra at 415 Monroe Street in Hoboken!Also a favorite hangout of his mobster friends.

Ridiculously huge pizza at Benny Tudino's. David was friends with the guy working there, and when we ordered this size he goes "For three people? You serious, Dave?" Needless to say, we took home leftovers.

A great cap to a great night. Also, can we just take a minute to acknowledge Brock's awkward pose/smile here???

We're excited to have Dave in our  neck of the woods this week (he flies out to volunteer at the Sundance Film Festival every year). The pizza in Park City may not be as good as Hoboken's, but we're pretty  good company so that's gotta count for something!

Also: I miss my pixie cut.

More Exploring + A Teletubby

Another twofer! Here we go.

Wednesday: The Civic Center and South Street Seaport
I started this day off with a quick trip to Midtown to see a couple buildings that I’d missed (Type A, I know). Even though it was out-of-the-way considering the rest of my day’s plans, the NY Yacht Club made it worth the trip. It’s a private club that’s been around since 1899--and with that exclusivity comes a no-visitors policy to its stunning lobby (%#@%#!!!!). No matter. The outside is just as beautiful, with carved sterns of ships sailing on sculpted sea waves.

After that detour, I headed downtown. Like Lower Manhattan, the Civic Center and South Street Seaport are areas rife with history. New York literally began here. I got off the metro at City Hall, and laughed when I read that the rear of the building—which faces north—was not clad in marble until 1954 because the architects never expected the city to develop further north. (Google Map it for some perspective.) The park surrounding City Hall is where the Declaration of Independence was read to George Washington’s troops in July 1776.

One of my favorite buildings in the area is the former AT&T Building, built in 1922. In its heyday, it was said to have had more columns than any other building in the world. Its lobby (Yes! You can actually go into the lobby! Hallelu) is a veritable forest of columns as well. Along with the nearby Equitable Building (whose immense bulk was responsible for the nation’s first skyscraper zoning regulations), the AT&T Building is a monument to excess.

The Surrogate’s Court, however, holds my heart as this area’s most beautiful building. I love love love Beaux Arts structures, so it already has a one-up on everything else. Not like it needs it. Its interior was inspired by the Paris Opera—I’ve never been, but if it looks anything like the inside of the Surrogate’s Court, it must be breathtaking. Marble staircases, ceiling mosaics and frescoes. Naturally, you can’t take picture inside the lobby (I was just happy to be allowed in there), but I’m sure you can Google image search photos for yourself.

I also loved the New York County Courthouse. The carvings and sculptures inside its outside pediment (that triangular section atop the columns) were beautiful, but my favorite part was the marble-columned rotunda inside. There were beautiful Tiffany lighting fixtures and detailed ceiling murals depicting Law and Justice through the ages. I must’ve looked so silly to the security men working nearby—I stood in the center of the rotunda for a good ten minutes just twirling around with my head arched back looking at all the murals. (Again, photography wasn’t allowed inside.)

My final stop of the day was the South Street Seaport. It’s very touristy, but still fun to see. There are shops, restaurants, cobblestone streets, rows of Federal-style houses, a fleet of 19th-century ships in the harbor, museums, and Pier 17 with sweeping views of the East River and the Brooklyn Bridge. It would be fun to go and have dinner there at the Bridge Café (opened in 1791!), but think we may have to save that for our next New York trip ;)

Thursday: Chinatown, Little Italy, East Village, and the Lower East Side

Wow, this post is getting out of control. Time for….BULLET POINTS!!!!!!!!!!!1

Chinatown

• Mott Street: Tons of fun shops with all sorts of touristy and Oriental bric-a-brac. 

• Eastern States Buddhist Temple: I’d been here before with Brock, but I love stepping inside and smelling the incense. There are offerings of fresh fruit piled high everywhere, and beautiful Buddhist decorations everywhere. They also happen to sell jade jewelry—I fell in love with a gorgeous bracelet in the display case. I texted a picture of it to Brock with the caption “$38…do you love me?” To my surprise, he said yes! I mean, I knew he loved me, but I didn’t know he $38-bracelet loved me. Little did I know what pain that bracelet would cause me . . . stay tuned for Saturday’s post! 

• Columbus Park: The only park in Chinatown, created in the late 1890’s as a way to fix what was, at the time, the city’s worst slum. (A stabbing or shooting at least once per week!) Although the “park” is definitely more concrete than grass, it serves as a great communal spot for people in the area. People play songs on traditional Chinese instruments while hordes of others flock to tables and benches for games of mah jong. 

Little Italy

• Mulberry Street: Poor Little Italy is always fighting off the encroachment of Chinatown, but once place that is strictly Italian is Mulberry Street between Canal and Broome. There are approximately four billion Italian eateries on this stretch of road, with each smelling more enticing than the one before. I picked up a piece of tiramisu for Brock at one of them to thank him for my jade bracelet.

Poor Little Italy . . . look at how Chintaown just keeps creeping up to it!

East Village

• St. Mark’s Place aka Hipster Alley: This street was once the heart of hippiedom in NYC, and by the looks of it, things haven’t changed in the past fifty years. There is definitely a counter-culture feel to St. Mark’s, what with its endless tattoo parlors, vintage boutiques, bars, and record stores.  

• St. Mark’s-in-the-Bowery Church: The second-oldest church in New York. Stands on land where Peter Stuyvesant, governor of Dutch New York in the 1600s, had his private chapel. In the 60s it was one of the city’s most politically active congregations, and it apparently continues to live on the avant-garde edge. 

• Renwick Triangle: A beautiful group of townhouses built in 1861 by James Renwich, Jr. They’re built on land that was once Peter Stuyvesant’s farm, and were developed by his descendants as stylish residences. 

Can you tell this is an artsy part of the city? :)

Lower East Side

• To-do list for next time: Lower East Side Tenement Museum. Looks fascinating! 

I loved   walking through all the streets filled with tenements. So much history in them, so many stories.

• Orchard Street: A fun area filled with cute boutiques and discount shops. came to be during the 1940s, when the mayor of New York outlawed pushcarts in the city. 

• Ludlow Street: The Lower East Side has emerged as the newest trendy area for clubs, restaurants, and shopping. Some residents are even moving into the tenement buildings that their great-grandparents fought to escape from! Ludlow Street is the perfect way to get a feel for the Lower East Side’s current scene. Personally, I thought the Lower East Side was sort of dilapidated and meh (minus Ludlow and Orchard). Then again, I didn’t spend much time wandering around to all the cute shops dotted throughout the area (no room to spare in my suitcase! I may have over-packed a teensy bit on the way here). I think I’ll need to give this area a second chance someday. 

***

Welp, leave it to me to NOT SAVE ANY TIME NOR SPACE DOING BULLET POINTS. Whatevs. Before I let you go, I have one last anecdote from Thursday

I was walking down Orchard when I hear Janis Joplin wailing down the way. It's "Cry Baby"--one of the greatest blues songs of all time. And it's playing from an actual record, so it sounds even better. 

As I approach the store it's blasting from, I notice a man at its entrance. He's chubby, about 6'2'', middle-aged, and has confidence to spare. I mean, c'mon: He's singing and swaying to Janis in the middle of the sidewalk, and the fact that he's balding hasn't prevented him from growing his hair out to his shoulders and dying it fire engine red. He looks like the purple Teletubby on crack.

I look inside the store as I pass him. Vintage clothes. Legit  vintage clothes. You know how high school hipsters buy ugly 90s crap from Goodwill and call it "vintage"? Yeah. This stuff wasn't for wannabes.

The man noticed my pausing and flashed me a grin. 

Here's the thing. When a person dancing to Janis Joplin grins, their heart is so replete with JANIS  that any smile emanating therefrom is electrifying. 

However.

When said person has the most rotted mouth you've ever seen, the resulting internal conflict--Janis smile! / AAAAAGHGHH! PIRATE TEETH!!! DISGUSTING!!!!!--is so jarring that you lose all sense of good judgment. This, perhaps, explains the reason why I said "Ahhhh what's the use in resisting! I have  to go inside!" instead of continuing my walk down Orchard Street.

"Ha-HAAAAAA honey, that's what I like to hear! Get down there!"

Being the store's lone employee, he followed me down. I felt the inside of my nostrils singe. He hadn't showered in at least  a few days (as evidenced by the grime under his long, ragged fingernails and  toenails) and hadn't brushed his teeth in . . . oh gosh, I don't even want to think about it. (Suffice it to say that the few teeth he did  have were yellow, crooked, and decaying.) His breath was the single most putrid thing I have ever smelled in my life. No hyperbole. It makes me nauseous just thinking about it.

The shop was extraordinary. Dresses, coats, furs, jewelry--it looked like someone had stolen Jackie O's closet and put it up for sale. Teletubby (I'm sorry--I forget his name!) noticed me gushing over a coat.

"OMG, if you like that, you are going to LOVE  this. Close your eyes."

He guided my arms through the sleeves of another coat and told me to open my eyes. My heart melted: A knee-length emerald green overcoat with a soft, shimmery floral pattern. If that wasn't enough, he brought over the coordinating dress and clasp purse that it went with! Incredible. Move over, Betty Draper!

I kept browsing around while he hovered over me, showing me all his favorite pieces (including a dress from the 1880s!). Each time he spoke, I held my breath for as long as I could so as not smell his words. After a mere ten minutes in the store, I couldn't take it anymore. I made up some lame excuse as to why I had to go, and bid my Janis Joplin-loving Teletubby adieu.

And exhaled.

I snapped this picture as I was leaving. He's holding the emerald dress I was talking about.

Twofer

I'm obviously waaaay  behind on blogging, but I think that's a good sign. If I had energy to blog in the evenings, it would mean I wasn't running around the city enough ;) So prepare yourself for a twofer--one post covering two days. (I'll probably do the same thing tomorrow as well.)

Monday: Midtown

Okay, have we come to accept the fact that I spend a lot  of time wandering around looking at buildings? Because that's what I did for the majority of last Monday (and the next few days...). Like I said before, it feels like walking through history. I adore it.

Before my self-guided tour of Midtown architecture, I started the day off with a concert at St. Paul's Chapel downtown (one of the oldest churches in the city--George Washington went here to pray after he was sworn in as President just down the road at Federal Hall). Each Monday, the Trinity Choir puts on a program called Bach at One where, as you might infer, they sing Bach motets at 1:00pm.

This brought me back to my high school choir days, when Mr. Cannady would make us sing similar music. I always thought it was so boring! Can we sing something composed recently? As in, during the past 200 years? Although it was a pain to trudge through the difficult Latin and German songs that Mr. Cannady insisted on, they were always worth the effort we put into them. The Trinity Choir reminded me of that as four individual parts came together in one, harmonized voice in the last few measures of "Furchte dich nicht, ich bin bei dir." Exquisite.

George Washington's pew. I wondered what he said in that prayer.

One of the first paintings of the seal of the United States. Some say Benjamin Franklin heavily influenced this work, as the eagle's head looks much more like that of a wild turkey (Franklin campaigned for the wild turkey to be our national bird).

St. Paul's Chapel

Then on to Midtown. I moseyed around Rockerfeller Center for a bit and was happy to see the ice rink still up and running! It's officially on my to-do list this week.

47th Street between Fifth and Sixth is known as the Diamond District. This area came to be after Jews from Antwerp, Belgium started settling in the area (more than 80% of Antwerp's Jews work in the diamond business).

The Diamond District is the world's largest shopping district for all sizes and shapes of diamonds--fitting, seeing as how the United States is the world's largest consumer of them. Over 90% of the diamonds that enter this country go through New York City and most of them go through the Diamond District. The whole street glitters.

I saw a lot of historic buildings in Midtown, but these were my favorites.

The 1931 General Electric Building--one of my favorite Art Deco buildings in the city (in the background, you can see another--the Chrysler Building). I love the clock whose arms grasp at lightning bolts.

Old/new.

Beautiful frieze on the 1929 Chanin Building. (Yet another Art Deco icon.)

Optical illusion.

A massive revolving globe inside the old Daily News Building.

Naturally, I took a picture of Jordan ;) Can you tell this is an old globe?! Egypt hasn't been called the U.A.R. since at least 1971.

Tuesday: Lower Manhattan

More buildings, some sculptures . . . I lead a riotous life here in the city, lemme tell ya. Actually, the best part of my day literally knocked on my door. I didn't answer at first because my hair was a mess  (there is no such thing as sexy bedhead when you have short hair). To my surprise, the door opened.

"Brock???"

"Oh, sorry! I didn't know anybody was here. I'm here to clean."

And so began my short-lived friendship with Dora from the Bronx. She didn't bat an eye at my Einstein hair (bless her heart) and we spent the next forty-five minutes together giving the apartment a good scrub-down.

Dora was the Bronx personified: No frills, all attitude. She was a stocky Puerto Rican woman in her mid-50s with a raspy voice that delivered the quintessential New York accent (she must've said "You know what I'm sayin'???" at least thirty times over the course of our conversation). It feels rude to say this, but she really was the female version of Danny DeVito. How she talked, how she carried herself, even her build.  Total legit sauce.

She carried on about her family (six kids, six grandchildren...one of whom is fourteen!), her relatives, reasons why Puerto Ricans > Dominicans (They come here thinking they're so rich, so much better than everyone! And they are, compared to the people back in the DR. But really, they poor as hell just like me. Puerto Ricans--we remember our roots!), offensive ethnic stereotypes ("Those so-and-so's feed off the system like crazy--welfare, food stamps, you name it. I only ask for one thing from the government: Housing. ONE! That's it!), and the varying levels of cleanliness in ethnic apartments she cleans (So-and-so's have no idea in the hell how to work a stove. Like they don't know they can use settings other than "high" you know what I'm sayin'? I been in their apartments after they cookin', tellin' them they better air the hell out of the place before I clean it. I got asthma, man!)

Cleaning has never been so entertaining. I was sad to see Dora go.

I officially dubbed the rest of Tuesday "Screw You, Al Qaeda" Day because safety precautions taken after 9/11 meant closed lobbies everywhere I went. It killed me to read  about the dazzling lobbies of the Woolworth Building, Cunard Building, 1 Wall Street, and so forth without being allowed to see  them. Intricate frescoes, ornate mosaics, brasswork, gold, jewels, carvings--I'm sure there are architects rolling in their graves knowing that those lobbies are cold and empty!

I have no idea what this building is but I am OBSESSED WITH IT.

For three decades, this sculpture stood in the plaza of the World Trade Center. Entitled "The Sphere," it was conceived by artist Fritz Koenig as a symbol of world peace. It was damaged during 9/11, but now stands in Battery Park as an icon of hope and the indestructible spirit of the United States.

Bowling Green Park--New York's oldest. It was here that Dutch settler Peter Minuit allegedly purchased Manhattan Island from Native Americans with a variety of goods valued at $24. The fence around the green is the original one, erected in 1771.

Group of Four Trees  by Jean Debuffet, 1972.

This is what I love about Manhattan. You can be walking along, do de do de do, and BAM!  A gorgeous Beaux Arts building IN FRONT OF YOUR FACE. This used to be the old building for the New York City Chamber of Commerce in 1901, but now houses the Mega International Commercial Bank (over-named, much?).

A Soulful Palm Sunday

The moment I woke up last Sunday, I whipped out my NYC guidebook. Mother Nature had canceled my previous plans for the day (renting a gondola in Central Park . . . probably not as fun in freezing rain), so it was time to start from scratch. I turned to page 146.

"Brock. We're going to Harlem and we have to leave now."

"Huh?" His voice was groggy.

"There's a famous African-American church in Harlem called the Abyssinian Baptist Church. It was started in 1808 by a group protesting segregation within the Baptist church. They have an amazing gospel choir and services start at 11 . . . that gives us barely an hour to get there so we need to go now."

We were out the door within fifteen minutes and arrived at the church at 11:10. There was a long line of tourists wrapping around the building. Just as we walked up to the end of it, an usher came and announced that there was no more room inside--cutting off the line right  in front of us! It was the Supreme Court all over again!

Luckily, my dogged husband doesn't give up so easily. It took him roughly eight seconds of schmoozing to get another usher to let us in the front door. Instead of being led up to the rafters with all the other tourists, we took our places on the ground level, right smack dab in the middle of the action.

I don't think my spine stopped tingling for the entire two-hour service. It began with a processional hymn called "All Glory, Laud and Honor." As we were singing, the choir filed in down the two aisles surrounding the middle section Brock and  I sat in. You could hear each individual voice as it passed. It was like listening to ocean waves on a beach--retracted stillness; a pealing soprano vibrato; stillness again; a thundering bass line; stillness; an alto; stillness; a tenor; stillness.

Reverend Turman (click on the link to be surprised) proceeded to give a heartfelt prayer, with a whooooole lot of hand-raising, amens, and thank you Lords woven in from the congregation. An organist accompanied her words, decorating them with major and minor chords as needed. When the prayer concluded nearly ten minutes later, the United Voices of Abyssinian sang a choral response.

Oh, but they weren't done. Next on the program was a spiritual arranged by Roland Carter called "Ride On, Jesus." (Perfect for Palm Sunday--think about it.) With the first note, the skin on my arms swelled with goosebumps.

Ride on, Jesus
Ride on, King Jesus
Ride on, Conquering King
I wanna go to heaven in the morning

You can find a sample of the song's mp3 here, but the choir in that recording doesn't hold a candle to the United Voices of Abyssinian. I couldn't find an mp3 of UVA singing "Ride On, Jesus", but if you want a sampling of the energy they put into it, click here and listen to the ninth track.

Next on the program were announcements and scripture from Reverend Dr. Calvin O. Butts, III. This is where things got a little weird for me because whenever the bishop in a Mormon church reads announcements, that segment of the meeting is brief and to-the-point. Not so in the Abyssinian Baptist church! Reverend Butts went on for a good twenty minutes--it was 10% announcements, 90% tangents. It felt like he was just up there shooting the breeze with everyone, rambling on about whatever came to mind. He brought up the Travyvon Martin case, his disappointment with the local district attorney, the crookedness of law enforcement in the area, etc. As he went on, a woman in front of us kept raising her hand in positive affirmation of his words. When she did, I couldn't take my eyes off the bling  she was wearing! I'd spent the previous morning inside Tiffany & Co, so the sparkle of expensive diamonds was fresh in my memory.

A few minutes later, I got my answer when Reverend Butts welcomed the mother of Amar'e Stoudemire to the congregation. Somebody's  takin' care of his momma! Takin' care of her reallll  good.

Naturally, the Reverend doesn't just welcome visiting mothers of NBA players--next on his agenda was welcoming all  visitors. "If you are visiting this congregation, please stand up!" Everybody clapped as a throng of tourists rose on the second-level balcony. Brock and I followed suit on the ground floor, looking like two cotton balls in a coal heap. Immediately, everybody  within a four-foot radius of us turned to shake our hands and introduce themselves. I felt like royalty!

The choir followed with a number called "Let Us Go Into the House of the Lord" by Edwin Hawkins. They had a soprano soloist named Mae Carrington who hit notes that astounded me . . . not just in how high they were, but in how effortlessly she sang them. With each progressive measure, her words floated up, up, up, up to the ceiling, the clouds, the stars. It was like those words, that prayer, inside her really did want to go into the House of the Lord, and she was setting it free.

Then came the sermon. It was everything I expected and more: A whole lot of fist-pounding, prrraaaaaaaaaaaise Jesus, and unbridled holy passion from Reverend Butts who, judging by the decibel level of his voice, had forgotten about the microphone in front of him. His sermon centered on Christ and the people who laid palm fronds before Him on His triumphal entry into Jerusalem. (For great historical context on this, check out this Wikipedia page and read the section titled "Biblical basis and symbolism".) He said that laying down palm fronds was a way of thanking Jesus for all that He'd done for them--healing, feeding, serving, teaching, loving. On Palm Sunday, the reverend said, we  should proverbially lay our palm fronds before Jesus. It's a day for gratitude and adoration.

His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI gave a sermon in St. Peter's Square that same day that beautifully expounds upon the meaning of Palm Sunday:

Dear brothers and sisters, may these days call forth two sentiments in particular: praise, after the example of those who welcomed Jesus into Jerusalem with their “Hosanna!”, and thanksgiving, because in this Holy Week the Lord Jesus will renew the greatest gift we could possibly imagine: he will give us his life, his body and his blood, his love.  But we must respond worthily to so great a gift, that is to say, with the gift of ourselves, our time, our prayer, our entering into a profound communion of love with Christ who suffered, died and rose for us.  The early Church Fathers saw a symbol of all this in the gesture of the people who followed Jesus on his entry into Jerusalem, the gesture of spreading out their coats before the Lord.  Before Christ – the Fathers said – we must spread out our lives, ourselves, in an attitude of gratitude and adoration.

Isn't that perfect?

In closing, Reverend Butts issued a rousing call for us all to be saints in Caesar's palace (see Philippians 4:22). I left the Abyssinian Baptist Church with a new appreciation for Palm Sunday and a heart that swelled with gratitude for my Savior. Oh, and a palm frond. I left with a palm frond, too :)

By the time church got out at 1:30, we were ravenous. (In our rush to get there, we'd skipped breakfast.) I'd heard of a great restaurant in the area that, according to Yelp reviewers, served up good home-cookin' and "shivers-up-your-spine" BBQ.

Oh, baby. Those Yelp reviewers weren't kidding. That was the best BBQ I've ever had in my life. We started out with fried green tomatoes that came with a sauce that had  to have had cocaine in it. Our waitress told us their chicken wings were a best-seller, so we ordered a small plate of just three honey barbeque wings to taste. Again: Unreal. For entrees, we each ordered sampler plates: BBQ chicken, beef brisket, sausage, pulled pork, ribs . . . we had it all. Our waitress told us that they smoke all their meets for fourteen hours--FOURTEEN HOURS! There was so much other comfort food on the menu I wanted to try (mashed potatoes, key lime pie...), but we decided to quite while we were ahead. And by "ahead" I mean "approximately four pounds heavier than we were before."

We spent the rest of the day wandering through Harlem and Morningside Heights. We visited the Riverside Church (financed by John D. Rockerfeller, has the largest carillon in the world), the Ulysses S. Grant Memorial (AKA Grant's Tomb, the largest mausoleum in the world...guess who's buried there? NOBODY), the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine (the largest cathedral in the world--600 feet long, 146 feet wide), and the beautiful campus of Columbia University. We came home exhausted and with aching feet, but that's nothing that hot cocoa and Mad Men can't fix ;)

Riverside Church

Grant's "Tomb"

Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine

Inside the above church; largest cathedral in the world. Reminds me of that hallway leading up to the Wizard of Oz!
Makes me giggle to think of a lion diving out of one of those beautiful stained glass windows :)

Day of Golightly

Well, when I get it [a case of the mean reds], the only thing that does any good is to jump in a cab and go to Tiffany's. Calms me down right away. The quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there. If I could find a real-life place that'd make me feel like Tiffany's, then - then I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name! 

***

As some of you know, I watched Breakfast at Tiffany's for the first time last month and completely adored it. (For fun, check out the original 1961 New York Times  review of the movie.) I relate to Holly Golightly on some levels, and Brock reminds me so much of Paul Varjak (he even sort of looks  like him!). As soon as I found out we were heading to New York, I knew I had to personally recreate the opening scene of the movie.

I wasn't quite  up for going all-out on this: Ms. Golightly arrives at Tiffany's at 5AM, just as the sun is coming up. For me, that would've entailed waking up at 3:30 (half-hour to get ready, hour to catch the PATH over to Manhattan and metro up to Fifth Avenue). I did, however, wear a black dress. And pearls. It was a terribly overcast and gloomy day and so we decided to forgo picture-taking, which means we'll just have to go back this  weekend and do it all over again. I'm not complaining--any chance I get to channel Audrey Hepburn, I'll take!

We went inside to browse, but what kind of Audrey Hepburn channeler would I be if I wasn't spontaneous? I took off my wedding ring and asked a saleswoman where the engagement rings were. Second floor. Brock removed his wedding band in the elevator, and we spent the next half-hour with a wonderful saleswoman named Catherine who helped us find the perfect  ring.

A 1.75-carat round diamond in an 18K yellow gold setting. The cut and quality of Tiffany diamonds are simply breathtaking--I've never seen anything sparkle so much.

Catherine sat us down and showed us all sorts of different options. A waiter offered us champagne. Instead, we sipped crisp water as Catherine talked us through varying degrees of clarity, color, and financing. Luckily for my dear fiancee, I just couldn't take my eyes off the one above--which, at $23,000--happened to be the least expensive of the lot! Well below what we told Catherine we'd budgeted for ($30,000-$35,000).

In the end, we asked if we could go discuss things over lunch. And with that, the act was over. It was fun to pretend and to be doted on. I feel badly that we led sweet Catherine on--if any of you are ever in the market for a Tiffany diamond, go to her!--but I'm pretty sure we had her fooled. We were both dressed nicely, spoke maturely, and in the era of internet millionaires and trust fund babies, who's to say that two twenty-somethings can't afford a $35,000 engagement ring?

Well, these two certainly can't. Instead, Brock swiped the napkin that his water glass had been laid on :)

Our day was only going to get better. By the time we left Tiffany & Co. we were famished,  so we popped into the first restaurant that looked appealing and reasonably priced.

It felt like stepping into an episode of "Mad Men." Counter service, waiters in white jackets, the Beach Boys playing in the background. Minus the Uggs boots on the girl across the room from me, I'd've guessed Eisenhower was still president.

Every patron was a local, and I'm fairly certain that most employees had been working there since before I was born. Our waiter was a tall, older man named Rick. He spoke with a quintessential New York accent with quintessential New York confidence to boot. In between water refills, he regaled us with tales of when he met  the Beach Boys, and when he wasn't doing that, he puttered around near the counter singing along outloud with each song that played.

The employees had great camaraderie, every person a character. I'm surprised TLC hasn't made a reality show out of them yet. As far as greasy spoon diners go, Prime Burger was the best I've ever been to. Great people, great atmosphere, and, of course, great food. In-N-Out burgers are the ugly step-sisters of the burger Brock ordered, and the French toast I ate was done right. (Trust me. I am a French toast connoisseur.) I think that's what I liked about Prime Burger--no frills, just simple food done right.

Our self-proclaimed Day of Golightly was far from over, however. Our next stop was Park Avenue at 52nd Street, which is where this scene takes place:

Again, photos coming later ;)

On our way there, we passed a sign on the street that read "SPECIAL: PALM READINGS $5" Normally I'm not one to be into psychic mumbo-jumbo, but today  I was Holly Golightly. And if anyone would jump at the chance for a $5 palm reading, it would be her. We rang the psychic on the intercom and she buzzed us up.

Her name was Valerie, and the space she worked in a was a residential apartment, but she'd set aside a room for her work. It was dimly lit. A crystal ball lay on the table next to a stack of Tarot cards; a large poster of the chakras hung on the wall to my right. Various other mystical bric-a-brac adorned the room. Brock left the room (palm readings are meant to be private, apparently) and I opened my right palm for Valerie.

She told me I have a long life-line--I'll live to be 91 or 92 years old.  She said I am very kind-hearted, but have a hot temper (ding! nailed it).

"Have you ever thought about owning your own business?" she asked.

"No, why?

"Because you're very bossy. You would be good at it."

Alright, so far this girl was spot-on, so I began listening more intently. 

"Do you have children?"

"No, not yet."

"You're going to have three. Two boys and one girl. This is the year for you to have kids."

"Really?"

"Yes. You'll find out you're pregnant in July, maybe August."

WELP, PEOPLE. THERE'S YOUR ANSWER. YOU HEARD IT FIRST FROM VALERIE THE PSYCHIC. 

"You have a black aura."

"A what?" 

"A black aura."

That didn't sound good. "What does that mean?"

"Somebody is very jealous of you, and their negative energy is hurting you. It's making your aura black, preventing you from achieving your full potential. Without this negative energy, you would have the job you're supposed to have right now. Do you know of anybody who could be jealous of you? Somebody who wants your marriage to fail?"

Wellll, I couldn't necessarily think of anybody hoping for the latter (IF YOU ARE, STOP IT) but I'm pretty sure EVERY PERSON IN AMERICA would be jealous of me right now. Living in the city rent-free, unemployed, just bumming around and exploring all day. Um, yeah. I'm sure one or two people are jealous about that.

"You are not happy. No matter what you have, no matter how reasons you have to be happy, you still feel a hole inside of you."

This is not true. I am happy. (Confused sometimes, and trying to figure my life out a little, but definitely  happy.) Despite the inner recoil I felt when she told me that, I played along and acknowledged her.

"You are also a little psychic yourself."

My entire body ticked backward as I raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Not like me. You can't read Tarot cards or anything. But you read people very well. You know when they're lying to your face. You know their true intentions."

Considered yourselves warned, guys. I'm watching you. Allllllllways watching.

Anyway, that was just about all the information my $5 bought me. Naturally, Valerie tried to sell me on $100 worth of services and potions to cleanse my black aura. Come to think of it, I wouldn't be surprised if everybody who walks in there has black auras--psychics gotta stay in business, you know ;)

WOW, this is turning into a marathon post. You guys still with me? Here. Let's take five. Run to the bathroom if you need to and grab a snack.

**INTERMISSION**

Annnnnd we're back!

The next stop on our Day of Golightly was the New York Public Library.

Aside from being an essential part of any Golightly tour, it was a great way to get out of the cold and rest our feet. We sat in the main reading room for about twenty minutes or so--Brock passing time with a book while I literally stared at the walls. This would be dreadfully boring in just about any other location, but here? 

No. Not here.

Beaux Arts perfection. I can't choose a favorite between this and Grand Central Station.

Next on our agenda was 169 East 71st Street at Lexington Avenue. The sun had come out a little bit by this point, so I do  have a picture for you.

Holly's apartment! A local woman passing by told us that it had been on the market recently, eventually selling for a cool $15 million.

As if we hadn't done enough that day, we walked across Central Park on our way to the Museum of Natural History. This museum has nothing to do with Breakfast at Tiffany's, but I've always wanted to go and Brock can get free tickets through work.

A beautiful collection of jade in the gems exhibit (I have always loved how beautifully Asian artisans work with jade); the 563-carat Star of India, the world's largest sapphire; Brock in front of his favorite dinosaur, the Allosaurus (Tyrannosaurus is such a poseur); the giant Barosaurus in the museum's rotunda; amazing display at the African mammals exhibit.

The most impressive thing about the Museum of Natural History--aside from the sheer quantity of stuff--is how beautifully all the animal exhibits are done. Everything looks so authentic! I think they should rename it to the Museum of Taxidermy, but I may be alone on that. It was terribly crowded in the museum (Saturday, duh), so we breezed through the highlights and called it good.

Finally, and I mean finally,  we ended the day with the Hunger Games  at a theater near our apartment in Jersey. Needless to say, we collapsed on our bed that night. Good thing, too, because I wasn't about to ease up the pace on Sunday ;)

***

Wow, reading over that post gives me a new appreciation for Brock. Can you believe he did all this on his day off?!  No rest for the wicked, baby. Or, apparently, for husbands who indulge their wife's need to see EVERYTHING IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.