Monday, March 27, 2006
New Yorkers will like to tell you that you can get ANYTHING here. As the center of the world’s Arts, Business, Finance, Publishing, you name it, the biggest and the best are here. But to get a dose of, say, a slower pace or life, friendly, sensitive people, and just some plain old comfort food, New York is more like the anti-world. It’s not just that they don’t exist here, their antitheses exist here: rushed, pushy, indifferent, and uncomfortable seem to be the law of the land. No wonder there exist people in the rest of the country and in places like Louisville, KY, where my friend Ryan lives.
Having lived in Washington for quite some time now, and hating it, he managed a transfer to our Louisville office recently. I went to visit over this past weekend. And the difference in culture was evident on the plane trip in when I sat down and the person next to me said, “Hello”. I almost didn’t know how to react. So I stuttered out: “Um. Hi. Yes, hello. Do you need money or something?” Thus began my transition to what I though was the civilized world to an uncivilized world – I was beginning to think it was the other way around.
The rest of the weekend was pretty debauched. And I couldn’t help but be impressed with all the niceties extended to us by complete strangers. It was sort of like their skyline. . . striking, omnipresent, and part of what made the city beautiful.
The hospitality came to a crescendo on Saturday night when we went to an Italian restaurant called, creatively, Little Italy. Walking in the display item at the bar was a machine gun in a violin case – I guess it was supposed to be homage, I assume, to Italian-Americans association with the Mob. How flattering (I’m sure the Italians were thrilled with that). We are then sat at our table where I look on the wall to what is perhaps the ugliest wall covering I’d ever seen: a rug made of skunk hides. Yes, this is the same Italian restaurant.
It gets better. Ryan asked the waiter, matrodee (Ms. Virginia) and what seemed like half the restaurant what he should order. He finally settled on none of their recommendations. Throughout all this, we were serenaded by a violinist. First she was playing Musetta’s Waltz, then Blue Grass, some Broadway shows. . . all off key. Finally she comes by our table and asked us what we want to hear. Ryan picks out a song and I tip here. She then starts to try to convince us to go to a church dance on Monday nights and explains that we can even play in the band. At this point it is clear that this woman is mildly retarded, but genuinely trying to help us out. She begins to play, the half through says “oops” (she’d made a mistake) and started over again.
Thank God, the waiter came by with more wine. I’m getting a little intoxicated. Finally the violin ends and we nearly run out of Little Italy.
It was like the twilight zone.
Having lived in Washington for quite some time now, and hating it, he managed a transfer to our Louisville office recently. I went to visit over this past weekend. And the difference in culture was evident on the plane trip in when I sat down and the person next to me said, “Hello”. I almost didn’t know how to react. So I stuttered out: “Um. Hi. Yes, hello. Do you need money or something?” Thus began my transition to what I though was the civilized world to an uncivilized world – I was beginning to think it was the other way around.
The rest of the weekend was pretty debauched. And I couldn’t help but be impressed with all the niceties extended to us by complete strangers. It was sort of like their skyline. . . striking, omnipresent, and part of what made the city beautiful.
The hospitality came to a crescendo on Saturday night when we went to an Italian restaurant called, creatively, Little Italy. Walking in the display item at the bar was a machine gun in a violin case – I guess it was supposed to be homage, I assume, to Italian-Americans association with the Mob. How flattering (I’m sure the Italians were thrilled with that). We are then sat at our table where I look on the wall to what is perhaps the ugliest wall covering I’d ever seen: a rug made of skunk hides. Yes, this is the same Italian restaurant.
It gets better. Ryan asked the waiter, matrodee (Ms. Virginia) and what seemed like half the restaurant what he should order. He finally settled on none of their recommendations. Throughout all this, we were serenaded by a violinist. First she was playing Musetta’s Waltz, then Blue Grass, some Broadway shows. . . all off key. Finally she comes by our table and asked us what we want to hear. Ryan picks out a song and I tip here. She then starts to try to convince us to go to a church dance on Monday nights and explains that we can even play in the band. At this point it is clear that this woman is mildly retarded, but genuinely trying to help us out. She begins to play, the half through says “oops” (she’d made a mistake) and started over again.
Thank God, the waiter came by with more wine. I’m getting a little intoxicated. Finally the violin ends and we nearly run out of Little Italy.
It was like the twilight zone.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Last weekend the ex’s mother invited me over to her swank new Manhattan apartment for dinner prior to going to see Verdi’s La Forza del Destino (The Force of Destiny). She found herself a beautiful place on the East River in the 50s. We had a civilized dinner with Max before heading over to the Met.
The opera was good. Nothing great. . . though, to be fair, its cast was fantastic. But, as the name implies, the opera was about destiny, and the almost ludicrous coincidences that condemn two lovers and a family.
Verdi, you see, never cared much for the religious establishment. Having had a number of bad experiences growing up with priests, and in his adult live with his faith – he lost all his children and wife to disease over the span of less than two years – he didn’t much believe people had control over their circumstances. Destiny – indifferent, cold, and unavoidable – ruled the lives of men. In fact, the first ending of the opera all the characters die. This was apparently too disturbing to the audiences and he later revised the ending to be more hopeful (he left one character alive that committed suicide in the original).
Needless to say, the opera is difficult to pull off. Ironically, Verdi wrote some of the most beautiful religious music for the opera and the last hymn of the condemned Leonora – Pace, Pace, Pace Mio Dio (peace, peace, peace, God) – is enough to rip your heart open. But with the opera lasting until midnight, it was a punishing evening at the opera as we were sung through all the twists of fate of our two lovers.
Act III of the Metropolitan Opera's dark production of "La Forza del Destino".
The opera was good. Nothing great. . . though, to be fair, its cast was fantastic. But, as the name implies, the opera was about destiny, and the almost ludicrous coincidences that condemn two lovers and a family.
Verdi, you see, never cared much for the religious establishment. Having had a number of bad experiences growing up with priests, and in his adult live with his faith – he lost all his children and wife to disease over the span of less than two years – he didn’t much believe people had control over their circumstances. Destiny – indifferent, cold, and unavoidable – ruled the lives of men. In fact, the first ending of the opera all the characters die. This was apparently too disturbing to the audiences and he later revised the ending to be more hopeful (he left one character alive that committed suicide in the original).
Needless to say, the opera is difficult to pull off. Ironically, Verdi wrote some of the most beautiful religious music for the opera and the last hymn of the condemned Leonora – Pace, Pace, Pace Mio Dio (peace, peace, peace, God) – is enough to rip your heart open. But with the opera lasting until midnight, it was a punishing evening at the opera as we were sung through all the twists of fate of our two lovers.
Act III of the Metropolitan Opera's dark production of "La Forza del Destino".
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
The houseguests keep rolling in. Anthony, in search of the urbane New York experience, arranged to come here with a friend from Chicago and meet some friends of his from Montreal. So he and Monique stayed with me while some the remainder stayed in a hotel.
It was my responsibility to arrange some fairly significant details for the eight of us around dinner clubs, brunch, etc. So I booked us into dinner in Chelsea and brunch in the trendy Meat Packing District and some dancing in clubs nearby.
The Canadians arrived on Friday at my apartment to wait for Anthony and Monique’s flight to get in. For some reason having five French Canadians show up at my doorstep threw me off guard -I was nervous. (I’m not the self-confident person I like to think I am, after all.) And after three of them entered the apartment I closed the door.
Effie: Where are the rest of them?
Me: Their flight has not gotten in yet.
Effie: What are you talking about?
Me: Their flight hasn’t gotten in yet!
Effie: No. Eftehita and John!
Horrified, I opened the door to find them on the other side looking stunned. Let the social atrocities begin.
And the rest of the weekend as a bit of a blur. Not that it’s so different than what I usually do hanging out here, but I had the responsibility of coordinating eight people, finding stuff to do in the daytime, and not being able to sleep in all day contributed to sheer exhaustion.
Nonetheless the weekend was a lot of fun. Anthony’s friends were gracious and fun-loving. Monique, an aspiring model who never passed a billboard without saying “It’s going to be me on that, just wait!” seemed infatuated with the city. I hadn’t the heart to dilute her dreams by explaining that she’s one of thousands that come here only to end up waiting tables in the Upper East Side or temping in a payroll department. (Who and I to be so jaded?)
So after great meals, shopping in SoHo, trips to museums and to the ER (don’t ask), the weekend ended. I was exhausted.
On another note, I saw Traviata again. God, it was good. You see there are those that enjoy the trendy nightlife, dancing and drinking of this city. Then there are people like me who simply want to enjoy its culture. Trendy and cool I am not. . . I’m out of my element booking trendy restaurants and clubs. Cultural experiences are more my shtick.
It was my responsibility to arrange some fairly significant details for the eight of us around dinner clubs, brunch, etc. So I booked us into dinner in Chelsea and brunch in the trendy Meat Packing District and some dancing in clubs nearby.
The Canadians arrived on Friday at my apartment to wait for Anthony and Monique’s flight to get in. For some reason having five French Canadians show up at my doorstep threw me off guard -I was nervous. (I’m not the self-confident person I like to think I am, after all.) And after three of them entered the apartment I closed the door.
Effie: Where are the rest of them?
Me: Their flight has not gotten in yet.
Effie: What are you talking about?
Me: Their flight hasn’t gotten in yet!
Effie: No. Eftehita and John!
Horrified, I opened the door to find them on the other side looking stunned. Let the social atrocities begin.
And the rest of the weekend as a bit of a blur. Not that it’s so different than what I usually do hanging out here, but I had the responsibility of coordinating eight people, finding stuff to do in the daytime, and not being able to sleep in all day contributed to sheer exhaustion.
Nonetheless the weekend was a lot of fun. Anthony’s friends were gracious and fun-loving. Monique, an aspiring model who never passed a billboard without saying “It’s going to be me on that, just wait!” seemed infatuated with the city. I hadn’t the heart to dilute her dreams by explaining that she’s one of thousands that come here only to end up waiting tables in the Upper East Side or temping in a payroll department. (Who and I to be so jaded?)
So after great meals, shopping in SoHo, trips to museums and to the ER (don’t ask), the weekend ended. I was exhausted.
On another note, I saw Traviata again. God, it was good. You see there are those that enjoy the trendy nightlife, dancing and drinking of this city. Then there are people like me who simply want to enjoy its culture. Trendy and cool I am not. . . I’m out of my element booking trendy restaurants and clubs. Cultural experiences are more my shtick.
