We, my husband and I, are in the process of applying for Kindergarten for our 4, almost five year old. Since he has a late fall birthday, we are of the belief that a boy needs a wee bit, try years, more time to mature compared to their female counterparts. It is still amazing to me most of our world is run by men when I see my son and his cohorts in action. We are, in essence, holding him back a year by having him repeat kindergarten at a new school. Yes, we're part of the annoying trend of parents, who do all they can to insure our child will succeed in a life, something increasingly difficult given the early age at which competition starts. The stigma of being held back is no longer such a big deal as parents, even with kids whose birthdays aren't in fall months, are holding their little ones back--to insure they will succeed, of course.
This application process has been illuminating in the monumental differences of quality and quantity of educational opportunities between New York and Los Angeles. The two cities mirrors one another in certain neuroses of the upwardly mobile class. Everyone is out to insure their progeny can get as many advantages in education and enrichment--to churn out the future titans of business. In our present culture, there is a serious disengagement of upwardly parents from the much thwarted public school system. Los Angeles was, by far, the worst I'd seen of parents having completely abandoned a school system so entirely. Most middle class parents, those not wealthy enough to afford the escalating costs of private schools, found themselves truly in the lurch as the idea of a neighborhood school became another casualty of urban life.
True, Los Angeles suffers from the devastating affects of Prop 13, and the unforeseen surge of the immigration population, whether legal or not. This has created whole swaths of public schools in dire need of so much that the middle class citizenry has decided is not worth putting the effort into changing. With the grim situation of public schools, you would think the private institutions would be competitive with their counterparts throughout the country.
Let's just say that when we were going through the application process for Pre-K programs, there were so few schools that were options. In fact, the one truly noted school--noted as in it is ranked nationally, although not in the top ten or anything--was a school started by psychologists. How this institution became the most prestigious place to send a child still baffles me. This school, overrun with celebrities and the Hollywood elite, is the place that everyone in the city tries to get their little one into. The rest of the schools are supposedly second tier compared to this one school. Whether a child is better off because he or she attends this uber-privileged school is still to be determined. What's ironic is this 'prestigious' school in Los Angeles is not recognized one iota here in New York. If you were to tell people your child had attended this school X, most people look at you with not the faintest glimmer of recognition. It's not as if you had told them your kid had gone to Exeter, Andover, or even Hotchkiss. Even Harvard Westlake, the most difficult school in Los Angeles, is not recognized here. This may have something to do with the East Coast snobbishness about all educational institutions not within their borders, or it may truly be indicative of the gulf in quality between LA and the East Coast.
So, here we go again in New York, a city so vastly different in tone and anxiety in this arena of determining our child's future--as if such a thing was possible. We have applied to ten schools, most with stellar reputations. This large number is what amazes us, that we would have so many options, whittled down from an even larger list. What's also vastly different is the number of good, decent public schools available in the city, if we decided that was the way we should go with our son.
But for an island so small, it is astounding to see so many schools, elementary to colleges and universities here, period. It feels like every other block has another school or university, its banner blowing in the wind. All of the emphasis on schools makes me think there is something real and tangible in how and why Los Angeles differs so greatly from its East Coast counterpart. What is in that Los Angeles water, actually derived from Colorado, that makes education such an afterthought? It makes sense that Villaraigosa is the mayor of Los Angeles, a man who barely finished high school, attended a community college before finally making it to UCLA. His law degree came from an uncredited law school, perhaps explaining why he never passed the bar exam, and is therefore not licensed to practice law. His counterpart in New York, Mayor Bloomberg, has an educational resume far different: Johns Hopkins, Harvard Business School. This isn't to dissect their backgrounds, but really to dissect the citizenry that voted these two people into office. The question, one that begs to be answered, is would either candidate stand a chance if they were to switch cities?
Would the staid, geeky demeanor of Bloomberg be enticing enough for the people of LA to vote him into office? And would the flashy, quick grinning Villaraigosa be enough to get New Yorkers to vote for him as their mayor? An interesting thought, if you think about it.
This hyper-focus on education can be a bit overwhelming. I say this as I head off to my first interview for a potential school for my son. This bit of the process is stressful, making the hours we agonized over our essay for the applications, seem innocuous in comparison.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Nanny New York Style
After much time, we have found a part time babysitter for our son. Unlike his Tia, this woman is not meant to replace me by any means. Instead she helps me to do a bit more work during two afternoons a week since she picks him up from school and takes him to his Tae Kwon Do. This city, haven or home to so many foreigners, is where nannies of every complexion can be witnessed. The West Indian women with the lilt in their words, Indian women, Filipino women, and the Latinas are the caretakers to countless children, rearing kids who may not yet understand the significance of these women to their lives.
This time out, our nanny is not another Latina, but an East Indian Guyanese. When she told me she was Guyanese, I asked how it was there were Indians in Guyana, formerly known as British Guyana, a country, ironically enough, where my husband spent some time as a child. She answered with a smile on her face, "See, my people--Indians, were slaves brought over to Guyana from India." To which, I could only say, "I see." My post-colonial theorist head was already screeching, "Those f**king Brits," but I figured such an outburst would not have helped me in getting this woman to commit to working for us.
A Hindu woman as a nanny is a first for our family. And with a Hindu in your home, there are many considerations. For instance, on the days she is here, I find myself cooking vegetarian meals or meals with chicken or fish. The whole beef brisket thing seems inappropriate since cows are sacred to them.
One forgets how many Indians live on the Eastern seaboard. With the exception of the short block on Pico where Indian shops selling saris indicates a smallish Indian community, New York and the surrounding cities is home to many, many Indians. My school, not exactly a multicultural place, did have a fair number of East Indian kids by the time I reached high school.
My son is adjusting to having this new addition to his life. There is less resistance to her when she arrives at school to pick him up. Last night, he actually asked she not leave. He, being super color conscious, did point out she was "browner" than he. The significance of his sitter being darker is something I don't understand yet. Perhaps some day I will. But most likely not. That is my greatest regret: to never fully understand his experience of being brown in color. And how that colors the way the world deals with you or not.
This time out, our nanny is not another Latina, but an East Indian Guyanese. When she told me she was Guyanese, I asked how it was there were Indians in Guyana, formerly known as British Guyana, a country, ironically enough, where my husband spent some time as a child. She answered with a smile on her face, "See, my people--Indians, were slaves brought over to Guyana from India." To which, I could only say, "I see." My post-colonial theorist head was already screeching, "Those f**king Brits," but I figured such an outburst would not have helped me in getting this woman to commit to working for us.
A Hindu woman as a nanny is a first for our family. And with a Hindu in your home, there are many considerations. For instance, on the days she is here, I find myself cooking vegetarian meals or meals with chicken or fish. The whole beef brisket thing seems inappropriate since cows are sacred to them.
One forgets how many Indians live on the Eastern seaboard. With the exception of the short block on Pico where Indian shops selling saris indicates a smallish Indian community, New York and the surrounding cities is home to many, many Indians. My school, not exactly a multicultural place, did have a fair number of East Indian kids by the time I reached high school.
My son is adjusting to having this new addition to his life. There is less resistance to her when she arrives at school to pick him up. Last night, he actually asked she not leave. He, being super color conscious, did point out she was "browner" than he. The significance of his sitter being darker is something I don't understand yet. Perhaps some day I will. But most likely not. That is my greatest regret: to never fully understand his experience of being brown in color. And how that colors the way the world deals with you or not.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Beach Towns--Southern California
Redondo Beach, Manhattan Beach, Hermosa Beach, all towns south of Los Angeles, centered around the fact they are adjacent to the Pacific Ocean. These towns are nondescript, squat--much like all of Southern California, and indistinguishable from one another other than the town markers alerting you to the fact that you have now left Hermosa and are now in Manhattan Beach, that is. With the exception of the grandiose houses built along the waterfront, blocking out the panorama of the Ocean for those who can't afford such beauty, the towns are a string of small store fronts and ugly apartment buildings with names like Windward Court. These names, and the places attached to the names, were places I'd vaguely heard mentioned, but never compelled enough to go visit. That's the irony about Southern California and its beaches.
Despite the azure of the water lapping up to land, this body of water and the towns built around the beaches are uninviting. It might have something to do with the fact that the few truly public beaches are crowded, parking nonexistent, or worse, as expensive as a down payment on a beach property--ha. Or worse, the public beaches are not available to those who weren't lucky enough or crooked enough to have paid off some official to have a home built right on the water's edge, thereby blocking any, and all public access to this public beach. David Geffen being the worst offender of this offensive deed. This division of those with, and those without is a recurrent theme in the culture of California, particularly Southern California. The only silver lining in this inequity is those homes on the water front are subject to all of Mother Nature's fury. And I say, bring that fury on. Let those homes burn, slide, and be crushed with a true Tsunami. Yes, they're worth fantastic sums of money, but again they are built on land that is not rightfully the owners'. Let the homeowners, those complicit souls, deal with this sticky issue with their insurance carriers when trying to collect on their ten million dollar home.
My time back in LA, the city experienced behind the windshield of our compact sedan, only reinforced what I'd always thought and expressed ad nauseum--this city lacks character, and is downright ugly. There is very little real charm to the row upon row of houses, some uglier than others, and strip malls with stores for pet salons--don't get me started--and other businesses that somehow survive the fleeting loyalty of the population. What I'd noticed this time was a film of dust over the sun filled setting. It makes sense that this film of dust would be ever present since this land was once the desert despite the contrary behavior of everyone who lives there. Yes, there are enough trees and flowers, each garden an attempt to replicate regions, gallons and gallons of water wasted to keep the blooms flowering.
Perhaps the offense of the city's ugliness would be tolerable if it didn't also live up to its stereotype of vacuousness culturally, intellectually. Let's start with the Los Angeles Times, the largest paper in the city, a city that is number two in population in the United States. During my five days there, I scoured the paper for real pertinent news. The recent human rights abuses in Myannmar, formerly known as Burma, was never covered. But they did a thorough expose of the uproar of the crazy denizens of Santa Monica, their outrage about ficus trees covered assiduously as one would cover the real life threatening issue of the shortage of health care facilities in this city.
There is some equality among those who have and those who have not in one area. See, if a pandemic were to occur, a highly likely scenario given the city's porous borders, everyone, and I mean everyone, rich, poor, insured, uninsured, will all be f***ed. The dearth of hospitals, a tad bit more relevant than the dearth of public parks, would create a scenario of devastation that no one wants to discuss, other than KPCC. The fifty cent tax hike, which could have offset such a disaster, was voted down by the entire state in the last election. Yes, foresight is what the citizens of that state have in spades. But then, the state's problems, a myriad of them, are a result of its citizenry thinking, deluding themselves into believing they can legislate for the entire population. Prop 13 anyone?
A friend asked me if I missed LA. Hmmm....how can I lie? This question, posed to me on more than one occasion, is answered by a sh*t eating grin on my part, and a gleeful response of, "No!" I know, it is childish and a bit churlish for me to be so happy to have left. Despite the litany of offenses of this place, it was where friends, great friends were made. And yes, I would never go back, but it is a place that is home to some of the dearest in my life. And hence, the conundrum of it all.
Despite the azure of the water lapping up to land, this body of water and the towns built around the beaches are uninviting. It might have something to do with the fact that the few truly public beaches are crowded, parking nonexistent, or worse, as expensive as a down payment on a beach property--ha. Or worse, the public beaches are not available to those who weren't lucky enough or crooked enough to have paid off some official to have a home built right on the water's edge, thereby blocking any, and all public access to this public beach. David Geffen being the worst offender of this offensive deed. This division of those with, and those without is a recurrent theme in the culture of California, particularly Southern California. The only silver lining in this inequity is those homes on the water front are subject to all of Mother Nature's fury. And I say, bring that fury on. Let those homes burn, slide, and be crushed with a true Tsunami. Yes, they're worth fantastic sums of money, but again they are built on land that is not rightfully the owners'. Let the homeowners, those complicit souls, deal with this sticky issue with their insurance carriers when trying to collect on their ten million dollar home.
My time back in LA, the city experienced behind the windshield of our compact sedan, only reinforced what I'd always thought and expressed ad nauseum--this city lacks character, and is downright ugly. There is very little real charm to the row upon row of houses, some uglier than others, and strip malls with stores for pet salons--don't get me started--and other businesses that somehow survive the fleeting loyalty of the population. What I'd noticed this time was a film of dust over the sun filled setting. It makes sense that this film of dust would be ever present since this land was once the desert despite the contrary behavior of everyone who lives there. Yes, there are enough trees and flowers, each garden an attempt to replicate regions, gallons and gallons of water wasted to keep the blooms flowering.
Perhaps the offense of the city's ugliness would be tolerable if it didn't also live up to its stereotype of vacuousness culturally, intellectually. Let's start with the Los Angeles Times, the largest paper in the city, a city that is number two in population in the United States. During my five days there, I scoured the paper for real pertinent news. The recent human rights abuses in Myannmar, formerly known as Burma, was never covered. But they did a thorough expose of the uproar of the crazy denizens of Santa Monica, their outrage about ficus trees covered assiduously as one would cover the real life threatening issue of the shortage of health care facilities in this city.
There is some equality among those who have and those who have not in one area. See, if a pandemic were to occur, a highly likely scenario given the city's porous borders, everyone, and I mean everyone, rich, poor, insured, uninsured, will all be f***ed. The dearth of hospitals, a tad bit more relevant than the dearth of public parks, would create a scenario of devastation that no one wants to discuss, other than KPCC. The fifty cent tax hike, which could have offset such a disaster, was voted down by the entire state in the last election. Yes, foresight is what the citizens of that state have in spades. But then, the state's problems, a myriad of them, are a result of its citizenry thinking, deluding themselves into believing they can legislate for the entire population. Prop 13 anyone?
A friend asked me if I missed LA. Hmmm....how can I lie? This question, posed to me on more than one occasion, is answered by a sh*t eating grin on my part, and a gleeful response of, "No!" I know, it is childish and a bit churlish for me to be so happy to have left. Despite the litany of offenses of this place, it was where friends, great friends were made. And yes, I would never go back, but it is a place that is home to some of the dearest in my life. And hence, the conundrum of it all.
Monday, October 8, 2007
LA Whirl
The real reason for our journey to LA was a wedding for one of my husband's LA colleagues. She is normally a very reasonable person, but then the most reasonable woman turns into something quite unreasonable when getting married. Or rather, she turns into a SheBride, the operative word being bride since once the event, a culmination of months and months of planning, ends in a few short hours. Hopefully for the groom's sake, once the bouquet has been tossed and caught by some other hapless singleton, she will return to her former reasonable self. I thought watching the groom and bride seal the deal in that long-held tradition of kissing, 'and so it begins.' See, for all the marrieds out there, the fun truly begins once your lips have touched. But so be it for any of us cynical marrieds to thwart her certainty that married life will be more than she had ever dreamed. Yes, more being the key here.
I know she had spent countless hours planning this event with painstaking details. And since we're in Southern California, she had planned with the reassurance the wedding day would arrive with the sun rising at its usual hour and setting at another expected hour. It seemed Mother Nature had something else in mind as the hundred or so guests shivered in our various states of undress or dress of evening attire. Gale force winds,which felt like a Hurricane on the precipice we were perched, were making the waves of the Pacific resemble a tsunami. The rest of the event like all weddings had normal reasonable people drinking too heavily, the barely edible meal gobbled up in a wine or hard liquor fog.
What struck me about this wedding was the hodge podge of religious symbols the couple along with their Minister had decided upon. There was a reading from Rainer Maria Rilke's, "Letters to a Young Poet," which the officiant erroneously referred to as a poem. Yes, Rilke was a poet, but this little tome, much beloved by those seeking artistic freedom--usually devoured and read as religion for those who are seeking validation to pursue whatever 'artistic' pursuit--was read along with the expected poem from Pablo Neruda, whose poems are all a meditation on love, and St. Paul's Letter to the Corinthians. This non-denominational, religious potpourri was capped off with an American Indian blessing. Neither the bride or groom are Indian, that any of us had ever known. This service is much like most California outdoor weddings where religious symbols are chosen and discarded to fit some homogenized religious smörgåsbord. With that said, this service leaned a bit more toward the Christian half, which I'm assuming was the religious background of both groom and bride. If they were of the truly United Nations approach to religion, I'm sure a Hindu or Sanskrit reading would have been included. But alas, this service's only nod toward the non-traditional--signaling a wee bit of Liberalism for the couple--was that strange Indian blessing.
The flight home was interminably long. When LA was home, the flight Eastward seemed bearable since I was usually thrilled to be heading back. The return flight back to LA never felt long enough since I was usually reluctant to go back after however many days away from the sun soaked city. This time, the flight there felt quite short, but the flight home was another story. Each of us, despite having a good enough time, was anxious to get home. For my son, his impatience had less to do with home as the two suitcases crammed full of birthday toys from his LA friends. The five hours felt like ten. There is that moment when you're trapped on an airplane where you can understand those stories of people losing their sh** on a flight, having to be restrained.
As our driver headed toward the Mid-town tunnel, Manhattan in all its steel glory stood, welcoming us back home after our long journey. I could only think about that indelible image in Woody Allen's "Manhattan" where the city seemed to burst forth from the ground in all its beauty with Gershwin playing in the background. And now, this place full of so much mystery and beauty is our home.
I know she had spent countless hours planning this event with painstaking details. And since we're in Southern California, she had planned with the reassurance the wedding day would arrive with the sun rising at its usual hour and setting at another expected hour. It seemed Mother Nature had something else in mind as the hundred or so guests shivered in our various states of undress or dress of evening attire. Gale force winds,which felt like a Hurricane on the precipice we were perched, were making the waves of the Pacific resemble a tsunami. The rest of the event like all weddings had normal reasonable people drinking too heavily, the barely edible meal gobbled up in a wine or hard liquor fog.
What struck me about this wedding was the hodge podge of religious symbols the couple along with their Minister had decided upon. There was a reading from Rainer Maria Rilke's, "Letters to a Young Poet," which the officiant erroneously referred to as a poem. Yes, Rilke was a poet, but this little tome, much beloved by those seeking artistic freedom--usually devoured and read as religion for those who are seeking validation to pursue whatever 'artistic' pursuit--was read along with the expected poem from Pablo Neruda, whose poems are all a meditation on love, and St. Paul's Letter to the Corinthians. This non-denominational, religious potpourri was capped off with an American Indian blessing. Neither the bride or groom are Indian, that any of us had ever known. This service is much like most California outdoor weddings where religious symbols are chosen and discarded to fit some homogenized religious smörgåsbord. With that said, this service leaned a bit more toward the Christian half, which I'm assuming was the religious background of both groom and bride. If they were of the truly United Nations approach to religion, I'm sure a Hindu or Sanskrit reading would have been included. But alas, this service's only nod toward the non-traditional--signaling a wee bit of Liberalism for the couple--was that strange Indian blessing.
The flight home was interminably long. When LA was home, the flight Eastward seemed bearable since I was usually thrilled to be heading back. The return flight back to LA never felt long enough since I was usually reluctant to go back after however many days away from the sun soaked city. This time, the flight there felt quite short, but the flight home was another story. Each of us, despite having a good enough time, was anxious to get home. For my son, his impatience had less to do with home as the two suitcases crammed full of birthday toys from his LA friends. The five hours felt like ten. There is that moment when you're trapped on an airplane where you can understand those stories of people losing their sh** on a flight, having to be restrained.
As our driver headed toward the Mid-town tunnel, Manhattan in all its steel glory stood, welcoming us back home after our long journey. I could only think about that indelible image in Woody Allen's "Manhattan" where the city seemed to burst forth from the ground in all its beauty with Gershwin playing in the background. And now, this place full of so much mystery and beauty is our home.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
LA Life
My son and I made the five hour journey, both of us kept amused by different things: my son with his portable DVD player, me with a stack of trashy magazines. The flight while long was uneventful, the food now only available by purchase, drinks sparsely doled out during the long flight, the movie something no one had seen or ever wanted to. Air travel, unless you pay for the luxury seats up front, has become completely utilitarian. We landed, the plane descending over a squat structures, which seemed to stretch for miles. My irritation was almost instantaneous upon landing. Yes, the sun was shining, the temperature that mild, temperate 70 something degrees. The baggage claim, notoriously slow, was much faster this time, so our bags were retrieved in a timely fashion. A car was rented, one of those nondescript sedans that is only memorable if in a bright color, and soon we were headed north on the roadways of LA.
Fear is not the apt word to describe how I feel when driving here. It is much more complicated than that, which has been, unfortunately for the readers, exhaustively detailed and chronicled on this blog site. Needless to say, many cars whizzed past us, their annoyance so noticeable in how close they were to our slow moving vehicle when they passed.
My son was beyond excited to see his Tia. And she equally excited. There were phone calls exchanged, plans for pick up as I realized how fruitless it would be to stand in his way of spending time with this woman who had figured so prominently in his little life. My feelings were a bit hurt to see his anxiousness, something I had assumed children only reserved for their mothers and fathers. I know all of this was irrational, but then the emotional avalanche of being here was making me less sanguine about any of this.
My friend, who is graciously putting us up, and I caught up effortlessly. It felt seamless how easily we fell into conversation, as if these last three or so months since I departed was a mere blip. There are many more reunions planned for today. Many more opportunities for me to feel the observer, watching all of it unfold without me really present.
Fear is not the apt word to describe how I feel when driving here. It is much more complicated than that, which has been, unfortunately for the readers, exhaustively detailed and chronicled on this blog site. Needless to say, many cars whizzed past us, their annoyance so noticeable in how close they were to our slow moving vehicle when they passed.
My son was beyond excited to see his Tia. And she equally excited. There were phone calls exchanged, plans for pick up as I realized how fruitless it would be to stand in his way of spending time with this woman who had figured so prominently in his little life. My feelings were a bit hurt to see his anxiousness, something I had assumed children only reserved for their mothers and fathers. I know all of this was irrational, but then the emotional avalanche of being here was making me less sanguine about any of this.
My friend, who is graciously putting us up, and I caught up effortlessly. It felt seamless how easily we fell into conversation, as if these last three or so months since I departed was a mere blip. There are many more reunions planned for today. Many more opportunities for me to feel the observer, watching all of it unfold without me really present.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
LA Bound Again
We are heading to LA for a wedding and to see friends, who are not yet 'old,' but simply friends. I have a calendar full of coffees, lunches, therapy, and dinners. In the midst of all the social whirl, we are throwing my son his 5th birthday party with friends from his preschool. It has been a trip on our calendar since finding out we were relocating to New York. How I feel about going back is still something I'm contemplating. There's no doubt I'm thrilled to see friends, to catch up, and to see my son happy to have a birthday party attended by friends he's missed.
However, I've not yet nostalgic about the city, its environs, by any means. There hasn't been enough emotional distance or time to eviscerate my general antipathy about this place I had grudgingly called home for so long. Yet, I can't seem to fully remove the tentacles of my former life as I meet friends of friends from LA, the ties between East and West becoming significant for other reasons.
So, we will leave this island, something we haven't done since arriving that early Sunday morning from the Vineyard. A jet plane will take us three hours backwards to a land full of sunshine and palm trees. My son is undoubtedly excited about seeing his Tia, his nanny. She is equally excited, having cleared her calendar for our entire trip. This reunion is sure to be a happy one. Our four days will zoom by, my days spent behind a car wheel, muttering about having to drive once again. Then the day will arrive when we will be picked up my our usual driver to take us back to the airport.
For some of our friends, they will convince themselves our move was merely temporary since we have come back so shortly. For others, they may realize how fruitless such delusions as they say 'goodbye' to us yet again. This farewell will, for me, feel more like the real one since I will know it will be a long while before I head westward again.
The quiet of the phone will again signal the end for most of these relationships. Most of the people in LA will now regard us as another family that had lived there but now live in New York. We, our family, will take a place in the New York mythology, a way for people to grapple with the many symbols of this place so familiar to us through the loving homages of Woody Allen movies, yet so unfamiliar and scary for those that have no intimate experience with it.
I hold my breath now as I ready my son for our long journey back. Sleep, such an elusive thing, has been even more elusive the last four days, an appropriate preparation for the emotional stirrings this trip is having on me. I know all of this will settle into a muted strain as I get our bags, our rental car, and drive to my girlfriend's house for a loving reunion. And a loving reunion it will be with so many. I pray it will be so.
However, I've not yet nostalgic about the city, its environs, by any means. There hasn't been enough emotional distance or time to eviscerate my general antipathy about this place I had grudgingly called home for so long. Yet, I can't seem to fully remove the tentacles of my former life as I meet friends of friends from LA, the ties between East and West becoming significant for other reasons.
So, we will leave this island, something we haven't done since arriving that early Sunday morning from the Vineyard. A jet plane will take us three hours backwards to a land full of sunshine and palm trees. My son is undoubtedly excited about seeing his Tia, his nanny. She is equally excited, having cleared her calendar for our entire trip. This reunion is sure to be a happy one. Our four days will zoom by, my days spent behind a car wheel, muttering about having to drive once again. Then the day will arrive when we will be picked up my our usual driver to take us back to the airport.
For some of our friends, they will convince themselves our move was merely temporary since we have come back so shortly. For others, they may realize how fruitless such delusions as they say 'goodbye' to us yet again. This farewell will, for me, feel more like the real one since I will know it will be a long while before I head westward again.
The quiet of the phone will again signal the end for most of these relationships. Most of the people in LA will now regard us as another family that had lived there but now live in New York. We, our family, will take a place in the New York mythology, a way for people to grapple with the many symbols of this place so familiar to us through the loving homages of Woody Allen movies, yet so unfamiliar and scary for those that have no intimate experience with it.
I hold my breath now as I ready my son for our long journey back. Sleep, such an elusive thing, has been even more elusive the last four days, an appropriate preparation for the emotional stirrings this trip is having on me. I know all of this will settle into a muted strain as I get our bags, our rental car, and drive to my girlfriend's house for a loving reunion. And a loving reunion it will be with so many. I pray it will be so.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Strand Books---Died and Went to Heaven
I'd been holding back from venturing to Strand Books, knowing it would make me nostalgic for all of my books in storage, and that I would, invariably, end up lugging home more books--a big no, no in this apartment. But living so close to it, this mecca for bibliophiles, the lure finally pushed me to go there holding my breath in anticipation and fear.
Let me say for those not here in the city, the weather has been glorious, which we will undoubtedly pay for in January and February. I scheduled a Mommy Alone time for Saturday by getting a massage at a very nice place by the New School. And then I walked around, still marveling that I'm here--I know, I know, it is an annoying refrain indeed--Union Square, passing Jon Stewart talking to someone while holding his young child. If anyone is now synonymous with the quintessential witty New Yorker, it must surely be Jon Stewart. I walked eastward when I stumbled upon the greatest flea market on Broadway. It is at moments like this that I sigh in sheer happiness. How could it be that this remarkable flea market full of junk I don't need--there was one vintage clothier selling fur wraps at a very good price--would be on the very block as Strand Books? Could life be any more perfect?
Reminiscent of my time in Camden Town, London, I walked up and down gazing into stalls selling Pashmina shawls for $5, African bric a brac, the Gyros stand tantalizing you with wafts of lamb, the stall selling toys made in China, another stall chock full of hand bags of every shape and size, and more food stands. This curious browsing was an effort to stall my entrance into this very large bookstore. But the stalling had to end, so I found myself in front of Strands, starting to pore over the shelves on the sidewalk, selling books for a $1. Yup, cheaper than any cup of coffee in town. There's no point telling anyone I found a few things I had to buy. There was the old collection of John Donne's poems, the Amish cookbook--a fetish of mine, really--an absolutely unblemished old copy of Kate Chopin's "Ethan Frome," and a history book of the precolonial slave trade.
The old cliche says something about 'telling a book by its cover,' when in fact you can tell a great deal by what people read. Whenever I'm in someone's home, the first thing I find myself doing is poring over their book shelves. Quite like music collections, books reveal the quirks, obsessions, and tastes of its reader and listener. Unlike art, which is purchased and displayed for public effect, books and CDs are much more personal, intimate. It's as if you had gone into someone's lingerie drawer and were given free reign to roam about, noticing the discolored panties, the boxers with spots. Nothing warms my heart more than to walk into a house that has a nice, healthy collection of books, obviously read and not purchased for appearances. One has to be very suspect when you see a neatly lined bookcase, all the books in uniform leather bound covers of titles you're certain the purchaser had never read in the original, much less the Cliffs Notes version. It says something about this person, does it not?
If there are no shelves filled with even those pulpy novels you buy on the racks in airports, well, let me stop there. No need to comment further. Reading is so many different things to different people, but the most important aspect of this act is in the use of imagination, of hope, of anticipation when you open a book.
I was once at a friend's, whose bookshelves were full of self-help tomes, and not much else. It was an illuminating moment for me in this long relationship. I had to ponder how it was we were such good friends when she didn't read, it seemed, anything but those self-help books, which were obviously not doing much in curing her of the normal ills of an unhappy person. The state of her shelf made me sad really since she was someone who could do with a dose of imagination, hope, and anticipation.
I had to do the most cursory browsing of the first floor, not able to engage in a thorough inspection of each shelf. See, this new life of leisure I've created for myself meant I had to be home by a certain time to wait for the grocery delivery I had scheduled. But this quick stop at one of my most anticipated places in the city was enticing enough to last till the next time I can go fully armed with time.
Let me say for those not here in the city, the weather has been glorious, which we will undoubtedly pay for in January and February. I scheduled a Mommy Alone time for Saturday by getting a massage at a very nice place by the New School. And then I walked around, still marveling that I'm here--I know, I know, it is an annoying refrain indeed--Union Square, passing Jon Stewart talking to someone while holding his young child. If anyone is now synonymous with the quintessential witty New Yorker, it must surely be Jon Stewart. I walked eastward when I stumbled upon the greatest flea market on Broadway. It is at moments like this that I sigh in sheer happiness. How could it be that this remarkable flea market full of junk I don't need--there was one vintage clothier selling fur wraps at a very good price--would be on the very block as Strand Books? Could life be any more perfect?
Reminiscent of my time in Camden Town, London, I walked up and down gazing into stalls selling Pashmina shawls for $5, African bric a brac, the Gyros stand tantalizing you with wafts of lamb, the stall selling toys made in China, another stall chock full of hand bags of every shape and size, and more food stands. This curious browsing was an effort to stall my entrance into this very large bookstore. But the stalling had to end, so I found myself in front of Strands, starting to pore over the shelves on the sidewalk, selling books for a $1. Yup, cheaper than any cup of coffee in town. There's no point telling anyone I found a few things I had to buy. There was the old collection of John Donne's poems, the Amish cookbook--a fetish of mine, really--an absolutely unblemished old copy of Kate Chopin's "Ethan Frome," and a history book of the precolonial slave trade.
The old cliche says something about 'telling a book by its cover,' when in fact you can tell a great deal by what people read. Whenever I'm in someone's home, the first thing I find myself doing is poring over their book shelves. Quite like music collections, books reveal the quirks, obsessions, and tastes of its reader and listener. Unlike art, which is purchased and displayed for public effect, books and CDs are much more personal, intimate. It's as if you had gone into someone's lingerie drawer and were given free reign to roam about, noticing the discolored panties, the boxers with spots. Nothing warms my heart more than to walk into a house that has a nice, healthy collection of books, obviously read and not purchased for appearances. One has to be very suspect when you see a neatly lined bookcase, all the books in uniform leather bound covers of titles you're certain the purchaser had never read in the original, much less the Cliffs Notes version. It says something about this person, does it not?
If there are no shelves filled with even those pulpy novels you buy on the racks in airports, well, let me stop there. No need to comment further. Reading is so many different things to different people, but the most important aspect of this act is in the use of imagination, of hope, of anticipation when you open a book.
I was once at a friend's, whose bookshelves were full of self-help tomes, and not much else. It was an illuminating moment for me in this long relationship. I had to ponder how it was we were such good friends when she didn't read, it seemed, anything but those self-help books, which were obviously not doing much in curing her of the normal ills of an unhappy person. The state of her shelf made me sad really since she was someone who could do with a dose of imagination, hope, and anticipation.
I had to do the most cursory browsing of the first floor, not able to engage in a thorough inspection of each shelf. See, this new life of leisure I've created for myself meant I had to be home by a certain time to wait for the grocery delivery I had scheduled. But this quick stop at one of my most anticipated places in the city was enticing enough to last till the next time I can go fully armed with time.
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