thehostelwitness

New York day 3

Eyes burning, I blinked until tears wet the contacts I had left in the night before. A cold December light filtered into the room, waking me up from my induced slumber, induced from a night out with friends - one should be careful when mixing alcohol and friendly faces. My pounding headache, like a hippo on a trampoline, informed me that I didn't heed that advice.

The day leading up to the party was a complete opposite of what I would face later that night. A quiet snowfall, a few hours spent at the Guggenheim going through the Richard Prince exhibition. Prince produced a number of simple painted canvasses with old jokes stenciled on the front. One girl barked out laughing at one of the jokes then realized that I was also in the room, then started laughing harder at her own embarrassment.

The joke was good: A man went into the Dr's to complain about his penis, which had turned orange. "What do you at home?" the Dr asked.

"Nothing. All I do all day is eat Cheeto's and watch the Playboy channel."

The joke reminded me of a friend who in his grunge days was in a band called "Big Orange Testicle". And come to think of it, Mike did have a fondness for Cheeto's...

The trip constituted my first visit to the Guggenheim museum, a great facility located in New York's Museum Mile in the upper east side. No longer a stranger to museums, I've developed a sort of museum flight plan. I prefer to start at the top and work my way down, so when I'm done I'm literally out of the building. Another one is when I enter a room, I always go to the right. Its the most efficient method for me. The Guggenheim (or "the Goog" as athenaeum-philes lovingly call it) is 6 stories high and sets its gallery along one side, spiraling downward, like a giant flushing toilet, the art pieces funneling down the drain. I loved it.

Thanks again to everyone in NY!

New York day 2

Full circle in Manhattan. It wasn't that long ago that I was in Stockholm, spending nearly 2 hours going through an exhibit on Frank Capa. It was my first introduction to his work and I was blown away by his life - the man created the profession of the combat photographer. So when I arrived to the International Center of Photography this morning, I was very happy to see an entirely different exhibit of Capa's work covering the Spanish civil war. I learned so much more of his life, including his brief marriage to Gerda Taro (featured in a separate exhibit) and her tragic death covering the same war. She would become the first female photographer ever killed in a war and sadly years later, Capa himself would be the first photographer killed covering the Vietnam war.

I realized that in just a handful of weeks, I've seen more photography exhibits than before in the entirety of my life. I've also read more books than ever before and have dedicated myself again to writing, something I hadn't touched really since high school. Last May, "This American Life" produced a show about road trips and how some people undertake them with the hope that they will learn something about themselves or change in the process. My life recently has been just a big road trip and what I have found isn't necessarily that you find the truth about your life, but rather it reaffirms that nature abhors a vacuum; you take away work, television, the Internet, friends, and family, leaving a pretty significant hole in your life and you fill it with things that come easy to you, simple things that make you happy. So while I can't say that I expect a great change in my life, I do have a much clearer idea of what makes me happy and what's important to me.

Christmas season is in full swing in NY and no where is that more apparent than in the subways. Feliz Navidad belted out to the passing roar of a train, violins singing out, momentarily silencing the mass of commuters, and one brave, very brave soul singing out covers of Madonna tunes. She was a tiny thing, dancing in the space given to her by wary onlookers, asking us to open our hearts out to her, and I could only look in bemusement at her figurative balls. The cliche is true, living here you do see something new every day and it never ceases to amaze me.

I took a couple hours to catch up on the paper and have a cappuccino. The Queens coffee shop was very nice and comfortable, but either I had a very new barista or lattes were the drink of choice. She had to look at a hint card to see what exactly went into a cappuccino. This stands in contrast to Italy, when we actually had a waiter's face shrink in disgust asking for a latte. I stop the story here as I realize ranting about lattes and cappuccinos is one of the most snobbish, lamest, annoying subjects one can ever write about.

While we are on differences though, one thing I forgot in NY was the difficulty of making plans with people. I'm convinced this is a NYC phenomena. Its like herding cats sometimes and near impossible when one doesn't have a phone. Most social engagements are left to the last minute, everyone keeping it open and afraid to set things in stone. In contrast, in just a few short emails with Seattle friends I was able to confirm parties, dinners, trips. I have a feeling that NY is different not because of the ample amount of people and places to see (as you are likely to be told), but because people become so bored with going to bars every night that they are desperate to keep things open, just in case their friend comes through with a surprise ticket to a sold out show or a guest list invite to a private party. At least, that's what I'm telling myself when I get that: Its not me, its their boring life.

Living in such a huge city is not a natural state for a human being. Little by little, things amp you up - being jostled around by a pack of unmoving tourists, trying to get on and off a packed subway train, taxis and police constantly honking and yelling at people to move - your ambient stress level is set so much higher and it makes you jumpy, tired, and testy with strangers. One of the things I wondered now that I don't live here was how I ever lived here. Its fun, but even when you are relaxed your hackles are always going to be raised a little bit living in the city. London is big too, but the buildings lower, the pace a bit more relaxed. Its no small wonder that most of the people you meet here are from out of town and that people tend to cycle in and out of the city constantly. So much life, excitement, anxiety, dread, and laughter, packed into 12 small miles of island, the civic equivalent of Manic-Depressive Disorder.

New York day 1

The day of my departure having arrived, I packed up my gear and headed out for Heathrow. Even with a week and a half of time to see the city, London still feels a bit unfinished. My hosts may disagree, but for me the time just flew by. There were so many pubs left unexplored, so many streets to see. I had walked what felt like miles and miles of the city, had gone on a fantastic Jack the Ripper tour (really, does it get better than a man in an English accent saying words like "Corpse", "Eviscerate", and "Removed her vagina"??), drank in countless pubs, and stopped in nearly every museum I came across, but still I left wanting more. This is a city I hope to come back to in the future.

The train to Heathrow was fairly uneventful, with my mind was preoccupied with what I would find at the legendary, horrible airport. Sometimes getting there 3 hours ahead was just barely enough, they said. The line could go for miles, I was told, people have died from exposure. To my relief and general happiness, the security line was clear and I shot right through mile long labyrinth of retractable cords and aluminum rail feeling much like a rat in an experiment. Is there anything more embarrassing than having to weave your way through a hundred yards worth of maze when there is no one ahead of you and the desk is only 10 feet away? I was passed through the metal detector, the highlight coming when I got to put my shoes through a much smaller x-ray machine. Why the Brits just don't put shoes in the normal scanner like in the US, I don't know, but if I thought selling shoes was a horrible job, what was I to think of the lowly soul manning the shoe xray machine? Quite possibly the job that would make me sew myself in a sack and jump into a river. My bag was held up, as always, and while I waited, I listed to a woman attempting to convince the security agent that her liquid baby formula, was not in fact, liquid.

What is it about airports that drops our collective IQ? Constantly, I'm amazed at behavior in airports that I never encountered in train stations. One man on a cell phone was reporting back to his boss about the business trip to China. Hugely successful. Millions of dollars in equipment sold. "Of course," he let on, "I also had to arrange for transfers of $100,000 to the city bureaucrats, but that's just how business is done there." So, in just 5 seconds I learned that this stranger next to me was probably rich, a colossal asshole, worked in sales, and sold his soul a long time ago. I never would have learned this in a rail station.

8 hours later, I had arrived in NY. My final hurdle was also the one I always dread upon returning to the states - US Customs. On my return from Jamaica a few years back, I was searched not once, but four times by customs agent. The only time I've ever been yelled at by customs agents has been with American ones and now, checking back into the US, I was being quizzed for of all things, why I wasn't bringing back any checked luggage with me.

"All of it is in my bag on my back."

He was doubtful. "You spent 2 months in Europe and you only had that one bag? What'd you do, wear your underwear over and over again?"

Proud chin lifted, I smiled and replied, "Yep!"

"Were you on a cruise or something?"

By the time I made it to a bed, I had been up for 24 hours. The temperature had dropped to a balmy 32 degrees (life's little pleasures #12: getting a weather report in Fahrenheit) and I was back on the streets of New York. Two months ago, I lived in this city as one of its million denizens, slumming it to work, but excited at my prospect of it being my last day in the office. I wore it all for the solemn occasion - black Hugo suit, man bag, Kenneth Cole watch, CK shirt, Joseph tie, etc. Boarding the train for the last time, I wondered where exactly I would be in two months.

Turns out, I would be back in NY. My original plan had me skipping winter completely and heading to the warmer climes of South America for December, but when my dad and sister decided to come home for Christmas, all plans changed. I was to fly back through NY anyway, so I booked an extra four days to see some friends and for the first time, see NY through the eyes of a tourist. My clothes now are the same clothes I've been wearing each day for the last sixty days. Same pants, same wool socks, same boots. Shirts rotate through a 3 day rotation, each morning with a sniff to see if I need to make a last minute substitution. I'm as dirty and unfashionably attired as I've ever been and I love it, similar to the feeling you get after camping for days straight, reeking of campfire, alcohol, sweat, and dirt - the sweet smell of victory and freedom.

The first thing I noticed was that after spending time away in Europe, much of it spent speaking very slowly and clearly, my interactions back in the city had reverted to my initial days of arriving from Seattle. I said "Please" and "Have a nice day", startling even myself just asking for a cup of coffee. Even dressed as I was, these are the sort of tells that make you as an out of towner, so I thought what the hell and ventured into Tom's Restaurant. As a resident, there's a certain uncoolness about eating at a legendary pop culture icon, places usually reserved for tourists and students. This time, I had no such baggage and helped myself to a cup of coffee and cheesecake, for just $5. Never mind that it was 10:30am.

I was surprised at how quickly the Columbia area was changing. In only 2 months, a new KFC and McDonald's opened, as well as a slew of new "healthy" restaurants. Maybe this sort of thing happened all the time and I had never noticed, but I was assured by a friend that even for New York, it was a quick change. Snow began to fall and I walked my old neighborhood, coffee in hand. I knew the streets, knew the shops, but I didn't miss any of it. Don't get me wrong, the year spent in NY was one of my best life experiences and I made great friends here. I just don't think my heart was ever really in it.

Also, I was surprised to learn that after 2 months of travel and unemployment, I actually have more money in the bank than if I had stayed in NY and worked. So in effect I made money by hitting the road. And I will do so for at least another couple months before the fulcrum finally tips the other way.

Another reason for coming back is that part of me wanted to see how I would feel once I was back in the city again. I was wondering if I would feel a pang of regret or envy those people suited up for work, with whom I rode the subway to work every morning. I felt nothing. Actually, to be more accurate I felt relief. Two months abroad have shown and taught me more than an entire year spent in the city. I'm keeping it in perspective; I had only started to come to NY for work last June, its not like I lived here for five years. Even so, while it does hold a place in my heart, I have no regrets.

As a tourist, besides seeing friends, there are just a few sights that I want to bang out before I leave on Saturday. MOMA and the International Center for Photography, as well as two sites that always managed to avoid me when I lived here: The Empire State Building and the Central Park Zoo. The penguins have become my white whale, something I genuinely tried to see while living here, but for various reasons always stayed away from my grip. Granted, I don't anticipate trying to kill them and dieing stubbornly in the process, but the allegory stays.