Learned

Things that may just prove I'm on my way to being a certified New Yorker:

- I keep a fair pace when walking to the subway, but lately, my pace has been increasing dramatically as soon as I reach the stairs descending into the station. It's like a trigger in my brain goes off once I see the turnstile. All inner monologues cease and I am overwhelmed by the fear of possibly missing the train by a mere second. My body goes into flight mode. I take off in a mad dash for the platform (only to be underwhelmed to find the train is nowhere in sight).

- I've become masterful at running in heels. (See above.)

- I stop at the corner bodega at least once a day for something. But I couldn't tell you the last thing I bought.

- Several nights ago, I wore ear plugs to bed.

Things that prove I'm still an Oregonian:

- When I was walking down the street the other day, a guy in front of me threw a soda bottle in the vicinity of a trash can and missed. I zigzagged into the street to pick it up and throw it away.

Other things I didn't know before moving to NY:

- It's hard to pull up skinny jeans over footless tights. Much bunching ensues.

- Like the rest of the country, people stay inside when it snows. Schools and government buildings shut down. Streets, stores and restaurants are fairly empty. It's becomes a good excuse to slow down.

- Do not go into Williamsburg when you are PMSing. You will be very annoyed by the obnoxiously fuzzy earmuffs, oversized plastic-rimmed reading glasses and see-thru tights worn by hipstaburglers on a 32-degree day.

Gumption

New York is the land of overachievers.

Case in point: If a New Yorker wants to indulge in mindless entertainment, she'll watch The Daily Show, listen to NPR's "This American Life" and read, well, The New Yorker.

Last night, I caught the finale of Jersey Shore. Then after contemplating picking up a book, I decided instead to watch old episodes of The Real World: Hollywood online. Which prompted me think of my time in LaLaLand (and therefore, make judgmental comparisons between my new home and my former home).

When I lived in LA and used to eavesdrop on coffee shop conversations, I'd usually hear people talk about wanting to produce something, or the possibility of writing a script, or the search for searching for an agent. Sometimes, I'd hear friends compliment each other's headshots.

In New York, I've sat next to a woman who produced Def Poetry Jam, a playwright who's working on her third off-Broadway show, and an editor for a fashion magazine who just got back from France.

In other words, in New York, if you make time (note: not "have" time) to go to a coffee shop in the middle of the day, you're conducting business, not writing blog entries with the hope that a publisher will stumble across said blog entries and give said blogger a book deal.

Whine

Spend any amount of time in a gym locker room and you'll realize this: Women like to complain.

It's as though bitching is a form of bonding.

- Why is the temperature of the pool never consistent?

- Yeah, it's so cold today. I mean it's freezing! Freeeezing!

- I'm so tired. I just can't get enough sleep lately. I think I'm going to go home and take a nap.

- I wish I could take a nap. I have to go the restaurant at three today. Ugh.

Complaining is the go-to common ground women use to fill the silence in an awkward situation. I prefer food (discussing it, eating it, judging people based on it, whatever). Nutella, candied pecans, thinly sliced prosciutto, chocolate chip cookies with a hint of sea salt--it's the stuff of happiness.

Dopey

I, Jessica Machado, fan of pre-marital sex, alcohol and caffeine, spent Thanksgiving with 30 Mormons.

As far as setup goes, I need not say much more, except that my Mormon aunt and uncle were sweet enough to offer me a full turkey spread at their friends' house, and I spent the night prior to T-day drinking wine until 2:30 in the morning, putting me in a next-day social haze and further adding to an already awkward situation. In other words, I was a little slow when I shook hands with 27 strangers and tried to explain what I do for a living (freelance writer for a dying paper; long-term grad student; income scrounger) and why I'm moving to NY in a month (No, I don't have a job lined up or a place to live). Although I can usually find common ground with most people, my state at the time, coupled with excessive stuffing and spoonfuls of green bean casserole, made it a little challenging to animatedly explain my existence to a room full of parents, grandparents and charitable folk who give 10 percent of their income to God.

However, in the end, I think I pulled off a fair amount of sociability, and they were none the wiser about my subtle hangover. (The fact that they may have no understanding of such a concept also helps. However, I did give one woman my business card, so she could be reading this right now and busting me.) And yet I didn't necessarily pull off not being a general douchebag.

On the drive home, my uncle made the comment that it was interesting to see me talking to so-and-so, a very nice woman dressed in J Crew, who's about the same age as I am. "It's weird because she has three kids, a house and a family," he said. I joked how she's "so adult" compared to me, to which my aunt innocently replied, "Well, Jessica, some of us are just late bloomers."

I was too dazed to come up with snarky retort.

Props

Portland: The City that Accommodates

Served

I probably have no reason to admit this now that it's behind me but here it goes:

For the last month I've waited tables at a Hawaiian fast food restaurant.

Unfortunately, when I say "behind me," I don't mean that it was of my choosing to leave, but instead, I was taken off the schedule. My boss said she gave away my two shifts a week to servers who want to make scooping rice and mac salad "their careers." I hope they all live happily ever after in delusion.

Anywhoo, now that it's over we can all laugh about it, right? Many lifetimes ago I vowed never to wait another table, let alone do so for $25 a night, wearing a bright orange T-shirt and serving soda out of a can. It seems absurd that at 32, I was being bossed around by my 23-year-old coworkers, these same coworkers who'd ask me where I'd previously worked, ones I tried to tell without sounding arrogant or like a pathological liar that I write for the state paper and that I'll be soon graduating with my MFA. I could justify why I took the job (it's the recession, we're all taking crappy jobs to pay the bills; it was temporary until I move; I'd just come back from Hawaii and was nostalgic; I knew I wouldn't run into a single soul I knew there), but ultimately, the whole thing was a lesson in humility.

Here's what else I learned while serving salty meat products for $8 a plate:

1. I still hate haoles. Sure, I'm haole (or white) but when white people are juxtaposed against local Hawaiian people, it becomes very obvious why locals hate whities. Haoles think they know everything, especially haoles in their twenties, whereas locals never assume to know a damn thing. They're from an island for chrissakes. They know they don't know shit. Half of my former coworkers grew up in the islands and had humble positions at the restaurant like cooking and dishwashing. They smiled and showed me where things were; they treated me how they'd want to be treated. My haole coworkers were the servers who told me it was my turn to mop the floors and how I'd sprinkled coconut on the haupia pie the wrong way. This could obviously be a metaphor for how whites end up dominating indigenous people and getting ahead. But when it comes to making the perfect riceball, their ambition is being wasted. Haoles simply need to relax.

2. The perfect scoop of rice is all in the firm touchdown--when the scooper meets the plate or to-go container--before the release of the handle.

3. Free food shuts people up.

4. As much as I'd hate to admit it, mindless work from the hours of 5-9 is kinda the perfect break for someone who sits in front of her laptop, mulling over her life every other hour of the day.

5. Eating Kahula pig never gets old. Neither does mac salad. (Reason #3 also applies to grumpy servers who get shift meals.)

6. Every once in a while, you need to feel rejected by something you never really wanted. Puts into perspective who you think you are.

7. This will surely make great fodder for an essay one day.

Retrograde

After spending the summer documenting my observations of the East Coast, I now see my own Portland, Oregon, neighborhood with fresh eyes.

I live in an area of the city dubbed Nob Hill. It is in the Northwest quadrant, known to most as the uppety and probably the most expensive of the five quadrants (in Pdx, a quad = 5). My apartment is a skip away from the posh condo pocket called the Pearl, and minutes away from the fancy, centuries-old mansions in Hillside above the glorious rose gardens at Forest Park. Where I live on 21st Avenue, there are probably more bars and restaurants within an 8-block stretch than any other area in Portland. Two streets up from me is 23rd, or "Trendy Third," which was once Portland's premiere shopping district.

Once is the operative word.

It's time to rethink these nicknames. There's a Gap, a Levi's and a Paper Source on Trendy Third. Granted 21st's restaurant row has a handful of really good, really expensive restaurants but the ones that are within the Regular Portlander's budget (i.e. tacos and Thai takeout) aren't memorable and are pathetically un-ethnic. But these days, what seems most preposterous in relation to the neighborhood's supposed shi-shiness are the residents. There's nothing snooty about them. (Btw, let me mention how ironic it is that I'm just now noticing who lives here. While I don't get paid to blog, I do get paid to write about the goings on in my neighborhood. It is actually in my job description.)

Lately, when I wander around my hood during the day, what I see are early twenty-somethings that looked like they just got off Godsmack's tour bus--the bus for roadies and crew, mind you. The one that picked up these good ol' American slackers in northern Michigan or a suburb outside of Chicago and brought them straight to the dark, sketchy Marathon Taverna here on Burnside to drink High Life and play video poker. Everyone in my neighborhood has this early-2000 rock look about them, complete with that still-slightly-awkward-in-your-own-skin trace of adolescence. They wear a selection of less offensive T-shirts from Hot Topic and jeans that are ill-fitting, held up by studded belts. They sport wavy hair (longer for guys, shorter for girls; the more coiffed chicks have chunky black-versus-blonde highlights), and they always have a cigarette in hand. Or a dog.

Your typical couple: Guy in varying fades of black, some band logo on his T-shirt, backwards cap, sneakers; girl with chunk of blue in her hair, some naughty or supposedly clever saying on her baby tee; both of them very, very white.

The alterna-sporty look circa '94: A jersey, pleated white mini skirt and knee-high socks.

But then of course, these are the people who don't have real day jobs like me. For all I know, this could just be what college kids look like these days: outdated versions of what I looked like when I was a displaced freshman. (Note: PSU is nearby and if I were moving here from a small town, I too would think the words "Nob Hill" sound exciting.)

At night, however, it's harder to judge who actually lives on 21st or 23rd. Most who frequent the bars in my hood, especially during the weekend, have come from the bridges (ghetto Gresham) and tunnels (yuppie Beaverton). They all look like they're trying too hard, which is the exact opposite of the day crowd.

Which brings me back to the reputation of the Northwest. If the westside is supposed to be more "city" (in other words, it includes downtown), then the cool kids will tell you that the east is more laid back, honest, or "real" (in other words, cheaper, somewhat bohemian and spread out). However, I realize now that what makes the east more real isn't that my westside hood is pretentious. The guys in my neighborhood haven't changed their lip piercings and Camel cigarette tastes since 1992. What makes the eastside--the region dotted with hipster plaid and retro reading glasses--more real is that having a too-cool-for-school attitude really is what Portland's all about.

Guided

When planning my first trip to New York, I was a 20-year-old novice traveller. I bought a guide book. I looked up all the restaurants and clubs I wanted to try and mapped out which day we'd go to the Statue of Liberty and which afternoons had the cheapest Broadway matinees. I even toted the bulky travel bible around in my purse.

Since then, I've gotten lazy. Now I book a ticket and show up.

I knew nothing about Baltimore before I stepped off the bus last weekend. I haven't even been able to sit through a full episode of The Wire. Luckily, I didn't need to. I had the best tour guide a culturally inquisitive drunk could ask for: a historical performance artist.

My friend Megan let me in on a few fun facts about Baltimore while I was there. Such as:

1. Marble isn't just for mausoleums. In Baltimore, it's for the working class.

Back at the turn of the 19th Century, women who lived in row houses such as these would come out on Saturday mornings and wash their marble steps. Surely, it was an excuse to gossip. Megan tries to recreate this type of community building below.

2. Natty Boh (proper name: National Bohemian) is the city's official beer.

In the 60s, Natty and PBR breweries employed much of this blue collar city, which sparked quite a feud between beer drinkers. Eventually, Natty won. Today, signs, billboards and paraphernalia stores remain at every turn. No one seems to mind that the beer is now brewed in Milwaukee.

3. These things are cool.

Megan couldn't tell me how these Hispanic rickshaws came about, just that she read in the paper recently that they weren't doing very well because people prefer their produce stationary and from a grocery store. However, she thinks the publicity may've helped because she's seen more of these on the streets as of late. This is assuming anyone else still reads the paper.

4. Finally, ethnicities do their best to blend in Baltimore. For example:

Welcome to the "Salsapolkalooza" festival (That's right salsa and polka dancing all under one tent!)

A quinceanera store...

...that doubles as 70s bridal boutique

(P.S. We got caught in a thunderstorm.)

And a bagel shop that sells sushi and bulgogi. It also plays "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and uses a string of stale bagels as window decoration.

Circus

Boardwalks are like giant runways for freaks. But I think the attraction has less to do with showboating in front of a large audience than it does with congregating in front of one. 

Compared to the likes of Southern California's flamboyant Venice Beach, the boardwalk at Coney Island--home of the original carney freak show, Barnum & Bailey Circus--was a little tame this past weekend. But a few did get into the groove. 

It's hard to tell from this photo, but the woman in the purple, near the DJ booth, likes to tear it up. (She can also do a mean windmill-haymaker combo.) See two photos below, which was taken three hours later.  

And while I'm all about a dance party, I think the DJ would have had a better turnout if he didn't play rave music.**

However, the macarena was a big hit, so what do I know. 

** Seriously, who not still trapped in 1992 or 1997, still listens to techno? And btw, it was bad back then. This is why I don't do drugs: I don't trust anything that will make infinite oonce-oonce-oonce-oonce-ing sound pleasurable. 

Therapy

It wasn't until I heard silence did I realize I'd been without it for two months. It took me an hour and three trains to find it.

On Saturday, I went to the Rockaways, aka the beach in Brooklyn. I packed my snobby Hawaiian attitude (the water will surely be polluted and cold, the sand too crowded and the culture more "street" than beachy - though I'm not sure what I meant by street - Low riders? Spandex and gold chains? Fictitious Brooklyn accents I have yet to hear? ) Anyways, I was completely wrong. If you are someone who is die hard enough to spend an hour on a train to be near the water and/or surf, then you are not pretentious or uber-urban. This is not the orange tan and zebra-striped bikini parade of Miami Beach or Malibu. At 10 in the morning, on the first bright day of the summer, the Rockaways looked like a spot for people who simply like the ocean.

Oddly, the beach culture here in this pocket of NY is one of the most similar to that of Hawaii's I've come across (mostly in terms of style). Bathing suit coverups are simple tee shirts and shorts. The scene isn't a re-creation of every spring break movie with a row of bars wrapped in hula skirts touting margarita specials. Okay, so there are newly-built vacant condos lining the beach (but at least these aren't the couture shops or behemoth villas and shopping centers of Waikiki).

But the rest of the architecture could be out of North Shore or at least near the Alawai Canal. One- and two-story storefronts look sand and sun weathered and taco and sandwich shops (not to mention a stand of the east coast equivalent of shave ice--Italian ices) are literal shacks manned by friendly stoner types and that serve fresh, honest food. There's even a guy who sells gear and rents out lockers so city folk don't have to trek their boards back and forth all summer.

Like with any beach, there's the local surf spot (i.e. the one farthest from the train and closed off by 10 to accommodate for the kiddies)...

...and the one everyone else goes to (where novices piss off locals, and locals usually steal most of their waves anyway.)

But that's as far as my surf observations go. I'm a sunbather, or at least, I use sunbathing as an excuse to act like a sloth. Whenever I get near the ocean, I just stare at it, mesmerized by the tide going in and out until I lay on my towel and pick up my book, which after a few sentences, usually leads to a nap, followed by more staring. I like to think of the ocean as Prozac for my city-obsessive disorder.

Equations

With summer prolonging its official debut here in New York, I embraced a fleeting a moment of sunshine this weekend and headed over to McCarren Park in Williamsburg to read in the grass. Except I spent more time doing what I do best, people watching, (which is actually best done hungover with friends since the only physical exertion involved is staring and letting immediate judgments dribble out your mouth without a hint of tact or remorse).

Therefore, I present to you, a day in the park condensed in quick judgmental equations:

Guy with two yappy dogs = not single

Middle-aged woman slowly walking her bike on a designated bike path = mother reluctant to return home

Couple laughing while staring at guy in neon sunglasses and purple ball cap = hungover too

Guy with ponytail in black and white bowling shirt and faded black denim shorts, lying in grass with handheld device = misses early Metallica/Legend of Zelda

Girl in gingham plaid, carrying a wicker picnic basket and white fluffy dog = not Dorothy

Gay couple suspiciously carrying a Gap bag when there isn't a Gap for miles = eco-conscious lushes without any other plastic bags around the house to transport the bottle of wine they opened for dinner last night and planned to finish for lunch today

Girl putting down her notebook and glancing at the unopened novel beside her = ready for a nap

Freezerburn

New York's inflation apparently extends to vaguely-named animals and their byproducts.

Trashy

Carrie Bradshaw would never be caught dead digging... with a khaki canvas tote. 

Soda

In Atlanta, there is no soda. There's only Coke. A Sprite's a Coke. A Dr. Pepper's a Coke. A Pepsi, however, is not a Coke; it's the devil.

This is because Atlanta is Coca Cola's headquarters. In the South, Coke has the monopoly on everything.

These days, I don't drink much soda (sorry, out west this is what we call it), but I was kind of excited to try 66 Cokes on my World of Coke tour this past weekend. (Did I mention my brother works for Coke? However, he has just as much beer in his garage as he does cans of Coke.) But first, I had to endure a lot of propaganda.

At first I was skeptical of the cheerleader tour guide who made us shout our favorite Coke flavors. I even raised an eyebrow at the new slogan "Open happiness." But then, while watching their new seven-minute promotional video, I became mildly distracted from my cynicism. The commercial didn't have much of a plot, nor did it have much product placement other than Coke Classic (btw, my brother tells me they're doing away with the "Classic" part). It was surely a showcase for new, hip CGI animation. But all I saw was one sexual innuendo after another--in every movement of every round, curvy character with giant lips crossing and recrossing her legs and in every swing on the trapeze where some slimy glob with multiple nipple piercings moved back and forth, back and forth. Who knows...I could've just been horny. Still, I'm no dummy; getting me all worked up was surely part of the plan.

As I tried to shake the video, we went through a museum of memorabilia, followed by a 3D film where two researchers try to figure what makes a Coke a Coke. By this point, every time I'd hear the pop of the tab opening and the sound of fizz being poured from the can, I was ready to jump out of my seat. I needed a Coke NOW! I was horny, hot and thirsty dammit! (And awkwardly with my niece and brother.)

The tasting room ended up being 10 or so soda fountains, separated by continents. Only a few were atrocious (the Europeans suck, especially stogy old "Beverly"), while most were pretty good (the Latin Americans know what kind of sweet, fruity goodness can quench a thirst). I walked away with a slight buzz and surprisingly, not sugared out.

About an hour after we left, I felt an itch in the back of my throat. I was, again, craving some fizz. Next thing I knew, I had ordered a giant Diet Coke to go with my sushi over lunch.

Sure, I have an addictive personality (give me one shortbread cookie at Christmas, and I'll be needing one every hour by New Years.) But it's no mystery why one person can't name a single bad memory associated with Coke and why the Coca Cola logo practically sings off of signs and the back of delivery trucks. Marketing genius, I say. All they needed was to start piping in "It's a Small World," maybe give me a cigarette once I satisfied my Coke fix, and I'd almost buy into this "open happiness" crap.

Congestion

Congestion is the quintessential picture of Manhattan. Elbows to ribs. Purses to chest. Hopscotching to potholes and train vents, around strollers and hand-holders. The melding of tourists, Manhattanites and Manhattan migrants. Their eyes diverted from where they are--ahead, away, in their maps or at their handheld devices--ignoring each other. Ignoring their symbiosis.

The most obvious hub for tourist-native meltdown is Times Square.

But this weekend, that all changed. The city decided to try something new, something that could be indefinite if all goes well. No more cars, no more traffic. Welcome to Times Square: The Pedestrian Mall.

A Memorial Day glimpse from The New York Times

This is an interesting sight, yes. But the larger picture, or perhaps, an aerial view, is even more interesting. Tourists are isolated in this neon mecca. Manhattan migrants are on the outskirts passing out coupons to Broadway shows. Cabs of Manhattanites are beyond the border of cones, racing to get from downtown to uptown. Divisions have been made.

Last Sunday, I wasn't aware of the city commissioner's latest public space project when on my way from Central Park to the theater (note my NY-savvy terminology, as opposed to "watch some play"), all traffic came to a standstill and was diverted in another direction. Seven blocks from the theater, my friend and I hopped out of the cab, already late, and started running in our cute summer matinee outfits, dodging tourists and peddlers and families of five. We avoided eye contact and crosswalk signals. We were on a mission. However, I still managed to take note of marquees announcing Jeremy Irons in "Impressionism" and James Gandolfini in "God of Carnage." I did a quick take at the mile-high flashing Coke billboard. I smelt the roasted nuts coming from the street vendor.

I suppose the symbiosis of New York can also happen to the person.

Bridge

bridge - (n.) a connecting, transitional, or intermediate route or phase between two adjacent elements, activities, or conditions.

Two months ago, I lived in the city of bridges (eight to be exact) and three months from now, I will live there again. That's why I thought it was odd that this weekend as I meandered through the pockets of Brooklyn, the only pictures I took were of bridges.

 

Not once did I pick up my camera when I walked down tree-lined Greenpoint, much like Portland's Mississippi Avenue, crowded with patios of young people nibbling on eggs florentine; or when I stared up at the rows of brownstones in Fort Greene, an east coast version of my Nob Hill neighborhood with mismatched walkups stretched out from the sidewalk; or when I perused the Dumbo flea market, housed in a stone archway between contemporary art galleries, like the Pearl. Instead, I never lost sight of the Brooklyn Bridge from the moment I got off the train in Brooklyn Heights to when I trotted downhill to the flea market toward the water. That was when I finally took out my camera, mesmerized by the sheer heft of its foundation, the gothic detail of its towers--confident, grandiose, storied--its suspension stringent yet dipped in feminine curve. As I turned away to head home, that's when I realized I hadn't stopped to capture anything else all day. 

After I got back on the train and navigated my way through closed stations and repaired lines, and arrived at my sublet, where I walked past my roommates who are practically strangers, I went into my room, painted the brightest of blue days, and downloaded my pictures. 

Suddenly, the bridges seemed quite fitting. 

Hasids

Several nights ago, I learned firsthand that there are two sides to my Brooklyn neighborhood of Williamsburg: Hipster and Hasidic.

To the north is hipsterville--with sprinklings of ethnic color for good measure (pricey vintage stores and all-day brunch spots alongside $5 T-shirt marts and mobile fruit stands). To my south is the home of more than 60,000 Hasidic Jews. (Yes, 60,000. Trust me. Keep reading.)

While I was aware of their existence (I mean, I've seen a number of spiraling sideburns linger on the Broadway border before), I didn't I expect to find more action in their neighborhood at 10 p.m. than I'd regularly see around the dive bars on the other side of the tracks.

Apparently, my friend and I picked the right night for a walk. On Hasidic turf, on what to us was just a regular Monday, kids were running down sidewalks screaming Yiddish, and men were popping out of synagogues and bakeries that were, for some reason, still open. Upon further inspection, I noticed all these males were coming and going from a barricaded intersection. Here, in this closed-off enclave, children and men gathered around what appeared to be a scarecrow, or a dummy constructed of sticks, hanging from 10 foot pole. A ragdoll ready for sacrifice.

My friend and I stared, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did, so we kept on walking. (Note: We were the only non-Hasids out and about.) When we got to the next intersection, we saw another sacrificial totem. Then another. This one had people dancing and singing around it. This one, suddenly, went up in flames.

At this point, I needed to get the scoop. One man explained to me that the ceremony is honor of Rabbi Simeon, who was born and died (by being set on fire) on the same day (yesterday).

I'm not sure how long this went on; I probably went to bed before these pre-mitzvahed kids did. But the hood creates an interesting dichotomy, and apparently a hotbed of conflict. Upon further research, I found out that Williamsburg Hasids hate hipster fashion as much as the rest of us.

From an article in last September's New York Magazine:

"I have to admit, it's a major issue, women passing through here in that dress code," Simon Weisser, a member of Community Board 1 in Williamsburg-Greenpoint, told the Post.

Indeed.

Tourist

I grew up 15 minutes away from Pearl Harbor. However, I didn't step foot on the USS Arizona until I was 28. Blame it on my lack of interest in historical guided tours, youth's fixation on the immediate present, or my taking for granted what was in my backyard, but it took moving away from Hawaii and coming back on vacation with a boyfriend before I even thought of visiting the WWII landmark. He was the one who suggested we go.

Don't get me wrong, I know it's disconcerting for me to be impassive about an event that killed or wounded nearly 4,000 people where I grew up; it happened only five years before my father was born. I can only take solace in that I'm not alone in my indifference. Many of the friends I grew up with have never been either, with the exception of maybe a third-grade field trip. 

Since I can't recall a time when the bombings have made their way into any causal or even political discussion had or overheard in Hawaii, it could be argued that now, two generations after the attack, local people think of Pearl Harbor as just another base, another exit on the freeway that they pass on their way about their daily business. The bombings happened during a time most of us have never lived through on a corner of an island we usually have no reason to visit. Its impact has been relegated to a few paragraphs in textbooks, a part of American history, which is much different than Hawaiian history and less pertinent to local culture. I believe because of its geography, Hawaii always has, and probably always will have, a strange disconnect with Mainland America. 

The other day, I ventured to Ground Zero for the first time. I have been to New York on one other occasion since 9-11, but having made the token tourist stops on a pre-9-11 visit in 1998 (Statute of Liberty, Times Square, Central Park), I didn't think to do anything but simply be on vacation (i.e. shop, eat, drink) while I was here last. Visiting Ground Zero honestly slipped my mind. (Again, the only excuse I'll offer is that murky Hawaiian/American paradox: I'm almost too familiar with the tragedy's impact because I'm a media-consuming American, but the event's distance, enormity and its aftermath has left me somewhat desensitized because I'm a self-centered West Coaster, and well, a media-consuming American. Like I said, I'm not proud of my bizarre disassociation or my priorities. I know if I were a tourist from another country, this would probably be the first place I'd go.)

Almost eight years after 9-11, if there weren't posters advertising the soon-to-open September 11th Museum stapled to the site's perimeter, a tribute center in a neighboring storefront or a staircase leading to a covered walkway for photo ops, Ground Zero, almost, almost could pass as another construction site in the city. Sure, a steady stream of people circle this block of Lower Manhattan, but a steady stream of people plow through every block of Manhattan. Ditto for the cops manning the fenced-up site; cops commonly patrol "no trespassing" zones.

In the covered overpass, I was one of several tourists taking pictures through a roped-off glass window. Behind us, businessmen in designer suits shuffled off to the World Financial Center at the other end of the walkway. 

After I took some photos, I paced the overpass for a bit, stopping at several windows, trying to look past the cranes and scaffoldings. But I felt like I couldn't strain my neck far enough to get inside this space that was now just a dock for steel, concrete and piping; I would never be close enough to walk in the dirt where those buildings once stood. After a few minutes, I joined the rest of the tourists. I took a last photo and walked away.

I wandered to the FDNY memorial wall, located off a side street. I found another handful of tourists reading several handwritten tributes. Around the dedication plaque were a few bouquets of dried flowers.

Today

When the memorial was resurrected in 2006.

Of course I'd be silly to think I'd find New Yorkers grieving here on their lunch break. Naturally, I'm sure they avoid this crowded area as they would any crowded area. But I don't assume to know what goes through a New Yorker's mind, nor would I ever suggest that 9-11 compares to Pearl Harbor, an event that happened 67 years ago. However, time, memory and the instinct to move on--call it self-serving, human nature, or simply survival--make curious allies.

Noise

Noise comes up a lot in my writing. I seek loud, musical, buzzing distraction when I want to escape my own head; I absorb sensational disturbances to mask internal ones. For instance, I often put on my iPod to walk three blocks to a boisterous bar because I've been sitting at my desk all day, struggling to admit on the page that I've turned into my mother.

One of the things that's always attracted me to New York is, in fact, noise. But unlike the pretentious noise I succumbed to when I lived in LA--paparazzi flash, celebrity buzz, the jingle of keys given to the valet--NY noise has always seemed more authentic. I romanticized the notion that because one was surrounded by Manhattan's constant chaos--umbrellas clashing down Lexington, the stress of honking cabs, men muttering various languages in front of bodegas--one couldn't help but be aware, alive even, especially as a newcomer. In the only U.S. city that matters, every moment would be The Moment. 

Now that I'm here (okay, I'm only one week in), I have yet to concede my romantic delusions of NY, but now I believe that sometimes noise is just that. Noise.

There's one place I've grown accustomed to quiet--my home. It's my refuge. Currently, I'm staying in a loft where the JMZ trains run one story above me and the tracks block the view of my living room window. 

My view

Alright, so the cheesy part of me loves the sound of trains rushing by every four minutes. ("I am so in NY!" this cheesy part of me boasts.) But I'm also right at a train stop, convenient for traveling, but inconvenient for sleeping. Screeching tires and the recorded voice of "You are on the westbound J train. The next stop is Marcy Avenue. Watch for the closing doors, please," are constants. Although I do admit, it does get a little meditative after awhile.

In a converted loft (under the train in Brooklyn), conversions are made cheaply. I'm convinced that not only the walls in my apartment are made of plywood but so are the walls in the entire building. Apparently one neighbor has a drum set and the another just likes to play Rock Band. On one side of my bedroom wall, my neighbors always seem to either be chatting or cooking bacon, and on the other, I can hear my roommate punching the buttons on her Blackberry, which means that I can also hear every sigh she breathes into the phone and vice versa. Last night, as I lay in bed trying to read (yup, I was home and actually reading), my two roommates had a rant session about their exes after one walked through the door at midnight. "I hate her so much. If she comes back here, I will beat her," one says of the other's ex-girlfriend. About her own failed relationship she adds, "I'm realizing I can be without him. I'm working on my support system. [Phone rings.] Oh wait, I gotta take this. So-and-so just sent me this link on Facebook and maybe I can get into such-and-such for free on Friday."

Nothing against my temporary roommates; they are actually very sweet and accommodating. And living with them here in this apartment is very New York, or very young New York--in a large building with affordable rent in a hip area, surrounded by the sounds of all night partying and trains letting people off at 5 a.m. But my current living situation also serves as a reminder that I'm glad I'm no longer 25. 

Me at 25. Yikes.

Snapshots

... in NYC ...

1. From the window of a weekend rental in the Lower East Side: A sluggish parade of middle agers chanting "smoke more blunts" down St. Marks Place during lunchtime.

2. Peeking into a train car as I walked out of the subway: A man doubled over, his shoe submerged in a pool of chunky, blood orange puke.

3. In an art gallery in Greenwich Village: A svelte woman in head-to-toe black (long-sleeved silk dress, ruffly collar, tights, four-inch heels) with a matching black yorkie perched on her shoulder.

4. On Broadway in Williamsburg under the JMZ train: A police car slowly driving past three young women crossing the street. The passenger cop leers out from the window, jerks his head and grins in their direction.

5. From the showroom of Top Shop in Soho: The demise of 80s fashion. One-shoulder gold lame tunics, stretch pants with triangle cutouts and flower-embroidered acid wash short shorts.

Proof that there is nothing left to be milked from the 80s. Trendsetters, you may now move along.