OTAS, you found it

Finding a decent job in Manhattan is no trivial task. But finding an apartment in Manhattan is just about as difficult. One has to be nimble and, most importantly, have a LOT of cash to burn on brokers, deposits, and fees of all sizes. New York, you see, is all about transaction costs.

So off I go this weekend to do battle with the rental market there. I’ve got my ammo. . . listings of no fee apartments (I’ve paid $20 to obtain), airfare, brokers, and most of all, a shitload of money in my checking account. Will I be successful? I have no idea. But BRING IT ON!

I’ve got movers lined up (albeit no apartment) the job is quit, someone has taken my season tickets to Lyric Opera, and the utilities are being turned off. In short, this move is taking on a real form.

It’s amazing how life can change in a matter of a few days. . .

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But before I leave, thankfully, I have some time to enjoy my Lyric Opera subscription with Carmen and La Cenorentola.

Last night’s production of Carmen reminded me that the Lyric Opera of Chicago is a force to be reckoned with: Though the number of production is limited, it’s productions sport some of the best casting in the world (it’s about quality, not quantity). So last night Denyce Graves was Carmen, and starred along with Neil Schicoff, and Andrea Rost (see Tribune review).

The problem is that I’ve yet to see a good Carmen. I don’t know if it’s that it’s skates a dangerous line between a melodrama and a comedy, or just the simple fact that I don’t like the opera. The other problem is that I sort of grew up with Marilyn Horne’s recording, where she sings the shit out of that role. It’s hard to beat that. Since this is the fifth Carmen I’ve seen, I can say I’ve given the opera its chance.

Despite my nit picking, Melody and I had a great time (beats, for example, spending time watching The Exorcism of Emily Rose). The production was great and who can resist that music?! The overtures are lush and familiar, the choral numbers were beautiful and – for God’s sake – it’s opera with friends. Who can beat that?

Next week, La Cenorentola staring the dashing Juan Diego Florez. Can’t wait.

I came into work today to another patronizing phone call from my ass hole client manager.

Him: Read me the first number of file 9837437
Me: Alright, I have to open it.

[a few moments pass while the file opens]

Him: You realize this is not a trick question.
Me: Can you hold on for about five minutes, I have something important to do.

[I then open the offer letter I was given, sign it to confirm my acceptance, and fax it over my next employer.]

Me: Okay, I’m back and, oh yea: I quit.

All things considered, if I didn’t work with this ass I would have taken this job anyway. They gave me exactly what I wanted pay-wise and it’s in New York, where I’ve been missing. It’s also the type of job I’m good at – working relatively independently with a lot of responsibility.

But coming in day after day and dealing with this guy has pushed me over the edge. Ordinarlly, I would have mulled it over for a couple more days and perhaps have delayed leaving for New York for a couple of months while I took some time to get an apartment. But because things have gotten so bad at work lately, I was determined to come back from New York and quit this damn job.

Mission accomplished.

So it was, again, a New York weekend. I flew over on Friday to enjoy a four-day weekend of drinking, meeting up with the parents, and going to opening night at the Metropolitan Opera as well as their first performance.

So Friday night Rob picked me up at the airport and we went down to the Village for some partying. Saturday, Mom arrived and my quarters moved from 105th street downtown to 40th street. That night it was out to an upper east side piano bar to meet up with old friends. . . What a night. . . I happened to meet new people as well, and feel somewhat homesick for the Big Apple. Sunday night was back down to the Village for a little repeat of Friday night (I also met someone, but that’s for another blog).

Sunday was also the night before the opening of the Met. My ex and his mother were also coming along, and we would also meet an old colleague of mine there as well. But Sunday was a day with more sobering news. . my ex’s father passed away that day (his parents were one among those things I missed most about that break-up).

Jeeees

I called his mother and offered her my condolences. I’d known them for about 7 years she always seemed this rational, almost stolid, person (she used to be a judge, for god’s sake). But when I called her she was weeping. I felt like weeping too, but held it together for her sake – she doesn’t need to have anyone else falling apart.

Change seemed in the air as other things gained some traction. I had been contacted to go on an interview for a job in New York and had it on Monday while I was in town: I got a job offer for a position in New York the following day. Is it back to the Big Apple? Perhaps. . .

With all of this excitement I almost forgot about the purpose of the trip: To go to the Met.

Monday night came around and the ex and his mother decided to come along despite it all. In this opening night, they did an act of Mozart’s “The Marriage of Figaro”, Puccini’s “Tosca” and “Samson et Delilah”. Starring nobody but the very finest of the opera world, the experience was astounding: Domingo, Terfel, Grahm, the names go one and on. . . they belted it out for a fantasic opening night. (See review from the New York Times)

The following day we decided to see the reigning diva, Renee Fleming, sing in Manon. The production was, of course, quite a spectacle (it’s the Met) and the third act opens with a crowd scene featuring a tightrope walker, animals, and the most beautiful French gounds imaginable. It just got better as the evening progressed and the audience became electrified yelling its “Bravos!” at the end of each act. The house was getting dangeriously excided. It was really something. (Review)

So last night it was time to wind down and force ourselves back to reality and to bed to make a 7am flight to catch this morning (it was already 1am).

So it was back to reality this week after spending about 10 days in Provincetown. The stories are too long to tell, and what goes on in p-town stays in p-town. I will say this: it was one of the best times in my life. . . relaxing, fun, exciting and – at times – emotional, and all wrapped up in 10 days of Cape Cod. Believe me when I say that someone couldn’t have written a better vacation than what we lived.

As I caught up with New York friends I couldn’t help but feel somewhat homesick for the Big Apple again. I’m seriously considering moving back there sometime in the near future, but we’ll see: I’ve got to find a job.

The only downer of the week was the hurricane. I was down there the week before to discuss the details of helping Terri and Christine start a family and it was, for lack of better words, the Big Easy that it always was. Now I find it hard to believe that same city is the ravaged metropolis seen on the news… shit like this reminds me that there are no guarantees in life. Thank God Christine and Terri are alright, though Terri, being a police officer, is still in the city battling the lawlessness that ensued in the wake of the hurricane. But all things are fine and they are anxious to get home.

And that, as they say, is that.