Day 17- Someone you would want to switch lives with for one day and why
Oh, man. This one’s tough. On the one hand, I want to say someone really spectacularly awesome, but then I realize coming back to my own life might end up sucking, whereas if I chose someone with a terrible life, maybe I would end up appreciating my own much more? This all sounds terrible out loud, er, in writing. I’d probably switch lives with a bird or something, and just fly around for a day and see what that’s like. Maybe i’ll come back to this one at a later date… Day 18- Plans/dreams/goals you have
Hrm. Guessing this is long term? I’d say that ultimately, I want to be able to support myself with my writing/editing skills, working remotely while I travel the world. A lofty goal, but I don’t think it’s impossible since others are doing it. I’d also like to publish a few books and do some book tours. That’d be pretty fantastic. Essentially, i’d love to meet someone to travel around with. As much as I enjoy the single life (and believe me, I do), i’ve got a soft side too and wouldn’t mind (eventually) meeting someone I can hang out with for long periods of time, who actually gets me and who I actually get, who digs traveling as much as I do, who’s very much a constantly evolving work in progress, who I can have insanely awesome sex with but can also have incredible conversations with. So far, this person either a) does not exist, b) never lives anywhere near me, c) doesn’t know i’m alive, d) I don’t know. Maybe i’m just picky. But this would be nice to have eventually. I’d also like to live abroad for a few years, maybe in different countries. Hell, maybe even a year on every continent. I’d also at some point like to own a bar, just for the fuck of it. I think that’d be a whole lot of fun. Oh, and I want to eventually hitchhike someplace, just not alone. Am I missing anything?
Ah, okay, so I haven’t been doing this daily but at least i’m keeping up more or less! Here’s the past few days. Another post to come soon..
Day 07- A picture of someone/something that has the biggest impact on you
Out in California, heading out of Sequoia National Park. 2006.
Travel. I spend most of my time thinking about the adventures i’ve gone on, the ones others are going on, the ones I’m planning, etc. I would go insane having to stay in one place all of the time.
_________________________________________________________________ Day 08- Short term goals for this month and why
Write more (blogging, short stories, poetry, everything. This is an ongoing goal from now until I die, basically.)
Take better care of myself (I’ve been without fast food for about a month and i’ve been incorporating lots more fruits/veggies in my diet. Slowly starting to develop better habits, except maybe i’ve had one too many ciggs recently. I want to establish some kind of work out regimen before the month ends but we’ll see of course.)
Make fun plans for the rest of the year (Travel plans, study/work abroad plans for potentially next year, mini road trip plans – basically anything travel related!)
_________________________________________________________________ Day 09- Something you’re proud of in the past few days
I think i’m doing well at my new job. Uhm. I’ve had the discipline not to go out as much during the week? I suppose i’m half proud of that.
_________________________________________________________________ Day 10- Songs you listen to when you are Happy, Sad, Bored, Hyped, Mad
I can’t really pick one main song for each of these, so i’m just going to post one video for each randomly.
Happy:
This one always reminds me of good times.
Sad:
(honestly, ANYTHING by Elliott Smith…)
Bored:
Who doesn’t Da Da Da…?
Hyped:
This song is too much fun. Highway driving, anyone?
Welcome to the roof of the City Museum, located in St. Louis, MO., and officially one of my favorite places on earth. When I made it to STL last year during my trip around the states, the first thing everyone I met there told me was that I absolutely HAD to go to the City Museum. It was my 2nd to last day in the city when I finally decided I would make the trip out, and my god was it worth it. Seriously one of the funnest places i’ve ever been to. There were tons of kids around and I went by myself so I instantly felt somewhat creeper-ish but then I got lost in the mazes and going down the slides and climbing up everything and realized that it’s the kind of place that turns everyone into a big kid. The place is made from found items recycled and put to good use by artists and sculptors who have transformed old buses and planes and cars and other scraps into full on jungle gyms and playgrounds. Words really can’t do this place justice. Do yourself a favor and head to the Midwest if only for this.
Tomorrow marks the 20th anniversary of the release of the Sailor Moon anime series. While the show was released in Japan in 1992, it didn’t actually make it to American television for another three years. In the summer of 1995, one of my family members was in the hospital (I can’t quite remember if it was my mom or dad) and I recall sitting in the waiting room, looking over a newspaper and finding a black and white image of this cartoon girl with gigantic eyes and unbelievably long hair. The article said that a new cartoon was going to be airing soon on UPN and to keep an eye out. As a result, I became a Sailor Moon fanatic during my 5th grade year. I spent countless hours of VHS tape recording episode after episode. I’d get excited when new episodes came out, and terribly disappointed when they would discontinue seasons only to return back to the first few episodes. I fantasized about what it would be like to become part of the Sailor Scouts (Sailor Senshi). On a slightly embarrassing note,I was even a bit delusional in my fantasies, thinking that maybe, just maybe, when I turned 14, a black cat with a crescent moon on its forehead would surely follow me home one day and tell me I was to become a “champion of justice,” just like Serena/Usagi. Over the years, I began collecting Mixx Magazine which re-printed the Sailor Moon manga and I frequented the local anime store for bootleg copies of Japanese dubbed episodes that wouldn’t air on American television because they were “too controversial.” I was indeed a true fan. Still am, really. Sailor Moon isn’t the greatest of super heroes. Not even close. She’s clumsy and lazy and cries a lot. She’s kind of obsessed with boys (especially Darien/Mamoru) and is a bit girlier than I could ever be. But she has a good heart. She cares about her friends. She fights for what she wants, for what and whom she cares for. She doesn’t always wait for the boy to save the day. Hell, most of the time she ends up having to fight the bad guys by herself while she rescues her man! Sure, there’s a lot of gender stereotypes in the fictional world of Sailor Moon, just like anywhere else. And yeah, she does fight crime in an impossibly tiny skirt and knee high boots. And of course I was never much of a fan of the whole “make up transformation” thing (if you need to ask, you obviously weren’t a fan). But at the end of the day, she was probably one of the first strong female role models I had. She was strong in the sense that she was okay being who she was. People made fun of her. Some people didn’t like her. But she always did her best, always pushed forward, didn’t let others get her down. She was okay with showing weakness sometimes, with admitting when she was wrong, or letting others know when she needed help, or owning what her feelings really were, despite the consequences. She was always honest. She made plenty of mistakes, and constantly learned from them. These were the things I admired about her. It wasn’t just about some pretty blonde girl running around in a skirt as fap-material for post-pubescent boys everywhere. It wasn’t just some popular cartoon that toy companies could bank off of, adding action figures into pink boxes for bratty little girls to get from their parents. There was more to her, more to the story. This is why she’ll always be my favorite super hero.
Woke up with a stuffy nose, and I know it’s because my room is a mess and because I keep forgetting to take my allergy medicine. The sun isn’t even up and I’m not sure how I’m still awake. Or rather, how I woke up at all. It’s the end of February, and the only thing that makes me realize is that time simply refuses to sit still.
I think i’m going to try to do a little free write like this whenever I can. Too often, I jot down ideas of what I want to write about, I open drafts that I never publish, I write but I stop myself because it’s not perfect. Except that writing is never perfect. Art in every form is constantly changing, morphing from one thing to the next. Or maybe that’s just the kind of thing you think when you’ve slept maybe 10 hours tops in 3 days. Who knows.
I started a new job on Monday. I’d been waiting to hear back from them for about a month now. So far, it’s going alright save for the whole waking up before dawn part. Living out in the suburbs certainly doesn’t help the situation.
Other random thoughts as of late?
- Sandwiches are fantastic. I got hooked on Po’ Boys this month after celebrating Mardi Gras the only way I knew how (with food, although we had some Abita too. Did a little Boozin Betties write up on it here.).
- I don’t mind driving far distances as long as the traffic isn’t so bad. And yet, I live in Miami, where traffic is king.
- I’m still stuck between trying to figure out if I should try to TEFL abroad next year, or just move to New York, or apply to grad schools and see where they take me, or pack up all my stuff and move to California, land of milk and honey and lax laws about some favored personal items. Or maybe become a rubbertramp, pack my stuff in my car, and travel around. Except my car is unreliable. You see where I’m going with this…
And on that note, time for work. My 10 minutes are up.
Disclaimer: This part of the travelogue doesn’t have much about the travel aspect. It’s about a moment during the trip that needs documenting. There’ll be more travel-related destination banter in the next one. So there you go.
The next day, I woke up in the Bronx with a pounding headache, lying next to a near comatose Italian* chef from Detroit. This man was NOT the DJ; this man was not who I was supposed to end up going home with. So what the hell happened?
I wish that I’d taken pictures that night, because my memory is not quite as sharp as I wish it were…
When Lisa and I got to the DJ’s gig, the first thing the DJ did was take us inside and make sure his bartender friend Neela took care of us. We sat at the bar and got comfortable with the plethora of shots that began making their way to the bar, into our hands, and down our throats. The DJ was in good form. He was always in good form. He’s one of those people who always maintain the perfect amount of positive energy. You know when people say “your smile could light up a room”? He’s one of those people you’d say that about. And boy did he like to keep those dark rooms bright.
Throughout the night, we saw the crowds come and go, mixed bags of yuppies and out-of-towners and aging hipsters and people just looking for a night cap. The DJ played on, and took cigarette breaks as often as possible, and then began taking dance breaks as often as possible; his tall, lanky self pulling Lisa and Neela and I out on to the dance floor, smiles aplenty. And the drinks, and the drinks, and the dancing and the drinks until my head was swimming and I wanted to grab him and kiss him and tell him that he still meant something to me, that he always had. The streets of Manhattan were quiet outside while the noise in my head was only muffled slightly by the alcohol.
The hours went on and the party did too. I would sneak over to the DJ while he worked sometimes, and I held his hand, and he squeezed his fingers in mine, and I would get sad because I knew that it might be years before I got to see him again, and how long would this go on? More drinks, more smokes. And then another man walked in, and this one knew the DJ well, so much so that he and the DJ began to dance. Then the DJ introduced us, flinging me into the strangers arms as he made his way back to the DJ booth. This is how I met Parker.
Parker hit me like a ton of bricks. That’s not the right way to say that. He didn’t hit me. But something about him hit me. He had another one of those smiles, though nowhere near as endearing as the DJ’s. But still, he had a good one, and I’ve always been a sucker for a nice smile. Parker was working overtime that night. The way he’d look at me. The way he’d do anything to force me to stare back into his eyes. And my god, did he lay it on thick. “Beautiful.” “Baby.” “Gorgeous.” I would tell him he really didn’t have to, but then he’d spew another “I’m not a player or anything, I’m being serious,” and i’d laugh it off because there really wasn’t anything else to say or do. Lisa began sitting out more dances, buying us more drinks. Parker kept on, and on and on. Until he’d invaded every inch of my personal space, and with his finger tips lifting my chin up, he kissed me. It hit me. Like a ton of confused, awkward bricks that have landed everywhere after an explosion. It was fantastic and awful and i’m pretty sure the only thing I said or thought for a good while afterward was, “Oh, fuck.”
The DJ saw everything. The DJ kept playing music. The DJ kept drinking and smoking. The DJ, the DJ. Hang the DJ, hang the DJ, hang the DJ…
I ran to him like some scared little girl, unsure of what to do next. The DJ was still my friend. I felt terrible about Parker, and worse about what I knew would happen next. I grabbed the DJ and asked him what he knew about Parker, what he thought.
“He’s a good guy.. I like him. You should go for it.”
…Alright, It’s been over 6 months since this incident. It’s taken 6 months for me to say all of these things and be (almost) okay with them. But I’ll tell you this: at that moment, it was one of the worst things I’d ever heard anyone say to me. Ever. It’s tough to admit when we’re wrong about something, and even tougher still to admit when things just don’t go your way. Because I know deep down I would’ve wanted there to be some kind of jealousy, or at least a sign to say “hey, maybe this isn’t such a good idea.” Nothing. Go for it. So let’s just say this: It fucking hurt.
Why didn’t he care? This plagued me to no end. He didn’t seem thrilled about the situation, but I couldn’t tell if he cared at all. At that point in our lives, we hadn’t been talking very much. For all I know, he was seeing someone. Maybe having an affair with Neela the married bartender. Maybe he had a girlfriend that he didn’t like to talk about. Maybe he’d just finally stopped feeling that chemistry that had existed between us for so long. I couldn’t be sure. When you’re plastered at 3am in the city that never sleeps, it’s hard to be sure about anything.
What I did know was that Parker seemed to have taken a liking to me. He wasn’t the DJ. The DJ was lost to me now. Parker was real, and his arms would wrap around me, and his lips would kiss me deep, and my head would spin. So I said fuck it.
“Parker wants me to go home with him,” I said to the DJ on our final cigarette break alone.
Parker was back inside, maybe talking to Lisa or Neela, maybe drinking more, I can’t be sure. I couldn’t care less at the time. He was a man I didn’t know and the man I did know was doing everything possible to crush all the feelings I’d harbored for him for the better part of a decade. He smiled and hugged me tight. I wished with every fiber of my being that I could read his thoughts, that he would tell me something that would reassure me that I wasn’t insane. That whatever that thing was that existed between us still did indeed exist. That this would not be the last night. That he cared in some way but didn’t know how to say it, just like every other time had been, when he’d act like everything was fine only to tell me months down the line how much I’d actually been wanted and missed. For fuck’s sake, anything.
“He’s a good guy. Like I said, you should go for it.”
I’m surprised, given how drunk I was, that I didn’t cry or yell or even get angry. Maybe I knew it was coming. I could hear tires driving over the slick streets blocks away. It had rained again, just like it’d rained every day that I was in NYC. I met his gaze and gave him the saddest false smile I’ve probably ever given anyone, and I let him go.
Parker was eager to get out of Manhattan. Lisa thought I was crazy to go home with a near-stranger, but I trusted the DJ. He wouldn’t send me off with a total nut job. At least, that’s what I figured. Parker bummed a final cigg from the DJ and I said goodbye to Lisa, Neela, and the infamous Mr. DJ. Parker and I walked/stumbled down the street, searching for a cab to hail. I could see his Squee tattoo on the back of his calve and figured he couldn’t be so bad if he was a Squee fan. I grabbed his hand and decided to go with it.
In case you're not familiar with Jhonen Vasquez's Squee...
A cab ride to the Bronx. My first time in that most avoided of boroughs (aside from Staten Island, although I’m not sure which one is avoided more – any native New Yorkers wanna take a stab at it?) And then we were inside the apartment, which was by far one of the most spacious NYC apartments i’ve ever been in.
“Just one of the perks of living in the Bronx,” said Parker, who actually absolutely hated New York City, and who had plans to move back to Detroit to open up a fine dining establishment someday.
Sigh. From there, you can guess what happened next. The sex was alright, but not terribly memorable, probably for numerous reasons (we were both too drunk, I was still hurt about the DJ, we’d only just met a few hours before, etc). I spent the next morning hydrating and smoking (his very low grade) grass while he snored away, sleeping off the hangover. I felt terribly awkward about not coming back to Tyler’s for the night. Not that I owed him explanations, but all my things were there and he’d been nice enough to let me stay with him for the duration of the trip. I tried to come up with different excuses as to why I hadn’t made it back to Manhattan. I tried to forget all about the DJ.
Parker had to get to work that afternoon, so we took the train back to Manhattan that afternoon. He got off two stops before I did.
“It was nice to meet you,” we both said, with the knowledge that we’d likely never speak again. I thought about how ridiculous life could be sometimes. So many years feeling one way about someone, regardless of time and distance, and now it was over. 6 months later, I still don’t know how I feel about all of it. Except maybe a little grateful.
The DJ and I discussed the matter about 2 months or so later. I told him how awkward the whole thing was, how strangely I felt about it. He was candid, telling me he just wanted me to be happy and have a good time. That he didn’t feel like he had any claim over me, and that he genuinely felt that Parker was a good guy, that he also wanted him to be happy and have a good time.
“I may be perpetually unavailable, but I’m not a bastard; you’re still a good friend, and I do care.”
…And that’s it, really. That’s the anti-climactic conclusion to the longest non-relationship i’ve ever had, all wrapped up in one New York City night. It feels strange to write about it now, but I couldn’t have written it any sooner. So much has happened since then that I’m able to be somewhat disconnected about the situation. The DJ and I have spoken very briefly online since, but for the most part he’s rarely around and it’s for the best.
By the end of the next day, I wanted nothing to do with anyone. Sometimes people need a night away from the world, to walk silently with ones’ thoughts and memories in a city of eight million people. Lonesome as can be. And that’s just what I did.
But I’ll write about that later, because that night did take me to some unexpected places, including making my first friend from Amsterdam. For now though, it’s 5am and definitely quitting time. Quitting on the past, and quitting on tonight.
Here’s a song to keep you company that’s been helping me out while writing all this.
Part 9 in this series will be up soon!
*He was Italian and a chef, not a chef of strictly Italian cuisine. There’s a difference.
Earlier this year, I began putting together a series of short stories about sex and love and debauchery and travel that I essentially plan to publish. It’s an on-going process that I’m either too busy for or not motivated enough to work on. However, I promised myself I would have all the stories completed (at least a rough draft of each) by end of year. I’ve spent the whole day trying to think of what to blog about, trying to push myself to type anything out, when I remembered that promise and finally opened up the word document that contains more than 50 pages of memories and almost-memories and heavily-fictionalized life. I worked on Virgin Territory a little (a piece I posted about once on here before) and today I was working on another piece, with the working title of “Pochomil y no Poneloya” (I need to come up with something better). Since I’ve been trying to work more on my travel stories, I figured I’d share en excerpt from this one today. Advice is much appreciated!
Photo by Jaime Buitrago
Excerpt:
Chapter 1
“The maldito mosquitoes are making a full feast of my body, I can’t stand it anymore! We need to get out of here!”
My cousin Gaby was lying on the bed with her head and arms dangling over one of the corners. I was sitting Indian style on the small cot next to her, scratching away at a million pink welts. It was my third time visiting Managua and I still wasn’t getting used to being lunchmeat for the swarm of flying parasites that followed me around incessantly. We could hear my Tia’s novellas loud and clear in our room, just like she could probably hear our conversation. The walls at my Tia’s house were incomplete; they prevented you from seeing into the next room but except for the outside walls, they didn’t connect directly with the tin roof, so privacy was exceptionally hard to find. I’d never seen anything like it. Nicaragua was full of homes with disconnected walls like this. I walked over to the white, electric fan in the corner of the room and let the artificial wind hit my face.
“What about Poneloya or Pochomil? They’re both about the same distance and I bet I could get Javier to take us!”
The prospect of a beach night got me to jump away from the fan and I began digging through my bags for a bathing suit while Gaby called her boyfriend. Javier worked the bar at a joint called Samantha’s, two blocks from Gaby’s place. I’d met him a few times and he seemed like a decent sort of guy, the kind that was always up for good times and rarely had a frown on his face. He was older than Gaby by almost a decade, which had alarmed her mother when they first began dating when she was 17, but he had stuck around for a few years and now that she was 20, her mother had begun to hope he’d end up making her his wife.
“Alright, we’re all set! It’s gonna be me, you, Javier, and Yader. You remember Yader, right?”
I nodded. Yader also worked at Samantha’s. He’d bought me drinks a few times over the past week in hopes of getting to know me better, and he already knew to bring extra lime for my vodka sodas, so I guess it was working. His shaved head made him look kind of gruff until you noticed he also had these really great dimples and then you realized he was just a big puppy dog. I liked him just fine.
Gaby tossed my blue triangle top and it landed at my feet. The night was looking up.
Chapter 2
Javier honked the horn of his 91 Corolla twice and we scurried out of the apartment, happy to be free from our skeeter-ridden prison. Gaby took the passenger seat, leaving Yader and me in the back.
“Hola, mi Chinita,” he greeted me as I closed the door behind me.
We picked up two 12-packs of Tona at the last gas station before leaving town. Javier had already brought a bottle of Flor de Cana he swiped from the bar for good measure. The car’s a/c was broken so we kept the windows down and the sounds and smells of Managua wafted through the car at 88 km/h. We drove past seedy bars full of under aged girls and hungry souls kneeling inside of destitute churches and dust-covered children asking for Cordobas; past all the old drunk men sitting in the middle of the road looking for a way out of town or just plain out. We passed the skeletons of mangy dogs, small bodega’s run from people’s living rooms, large women cooking Fritanga on the street corners, and occasionally, we had to stop for emaciated horses and mustachioed street vendors on their way home from a day of yelling out “TORTILLA!” “CAJETA!” “CUAJADA!”
Soon, we were going up the sides of mountains and into the clouds, quite literally. We stopped on the side of the road to take turns pissing and you could feel the dew sticking to your skin as the billows drifted past. It was much colder in the mountains than in the mugginess of the country’s capital and I was glad to finally feel the need for a jacket again. We jumped back in to the car and drove further into the night.
Our hands greedily reached into the cardboard box for cans of beer. Click, pick-shaw. Glug and more glug. The sky was black and the road was black and the clouds were grey and turning black. Click, pick-shaw. The stars so numerous, endless like the bubbles from my can of beer, tickling my nose, keeping me intrigued. They shone down bright, and then the sky was an endless piece of black construction paper punctured a million times over by a sharp No. 2 pencil. And the glow of the stars wasn’t so many tiny sparkles so much as they were all part of one gigantic light, a luminosity hidden behind the curtain that keeps the planet from falling apart. And the further into the night we went, the brighter that light seemed to want to shine. Like it wanted to burn up the sky and take over.
It wasn’t even half way into the drive and I was already drunk.
New Orleans.The Big Easy. The City that Care Forgot. Immediately upon arriving here, you pretty much begin to understand why this place has the nicknames that it does. New Orleans is quite literally unlike any other city I’ve ever been to. It’s been over 2.5 months into my travels, and it seems appropriate that this is where they would end (at least temporarily). People talk about New York being the city that never sleeps, but I can assure you that it is just as easy to never sleep in this town. 24 hour bars and a lack of open container laws, jazz music and hustling performers on the streets, obnoxious tourists attempting to re-enact Mardi Gras on a nightly basis, thousands of folks just trying to get by, and still not a day goes by that I haven’t heard someone bring up Katrina. I’m trying to find my place here, but I know it’s going to be a bit of a challenge. The people certainly don’t move as fast as NYC, but they certainly take care of their own in the same way. Since arriving, i’ve stayed with 3 different CouchSurfing hosts, all pretty fantastic people, each with their own stories about how they got here. The people, on the whole, are genuinely nice, which is, well, nice in itself. Strangers start up conversation, and not just because they’re drunk at the bar. This is certainly not Miami. On the whole, people are more than willing to point you in the right direction of whatever you might need. And there’s a small town feel because it is inherently a small town. The city proper, which is where i’m staying, only has a bit over 300k individuals. It’s no wonder i’ve already started running into people and recognizing people, and i’ve been just shy of a week! It’s bizarre, i’ll say that.
In the past few weeks, I’ve been to 7 different cities and slept on more beds and surfaces than I care to count. I’m not sure if I’ll actually be able to sustain myself here in New Orleans, but I’ve begun to hunt for jobs and hope that something pops up. Money is of course an issue, but hopefully won’t be for much longer. This is definitely a hustling city. Jobs are hard as hell to come by, especially the kind that i’m used to, in cushy offices. Service industry seems the best route to go, or so they tell me, so i’m basically putting my eggs in as many different baskets as I can. Everyone says I should at least stay for Halloween, and fingers crossed i’ll at least achieve that. But honestly, I really wouldn’t mind sticking it out here for at least a few months, maybe through next year or even past that. There’s something so alluring about this place. It has a different energy than anywhere else I’ve been. I’m an agnostic on the whole, but it’s like there’s magic in the air. Maybe it’s all the voodoo shops and the random pagan folks I’ve met and the enchantment of the above ground cemeteries. The night air just feels different. And every day i’m here, even if it’s a bit rough hunting down employment, I fall in love with something new. The houses, the architecture. The street cars, especially at night. The music, which i’ve only yet begun to hear. The whole concept of the Second Line. Like I said, there’s just an energy here that can’t be replicated anywhere else. Some people say this is the most unique city in America, and while I haven’t seen all of America yet, I’d say they were right in my eyes. There are plenty of amazing places in this country. I’ve been surprised at the things I’ve found on my journey thus far, changing my own misconceptions about what places were “supposed” to be like, allowing myself to get lost in foreign towns and then found again. If I was in love with travel before, I am basically feeling obsessed with it now. This is definitely going to be a lifestyle to maintain for the rest of my life. But for now, I’m courting New Orleans, or she is courting me. We dance a little and flirt a lot and man, does she like to buy me drinks. And even if I end up having to go back home and reassess for just a little while until things pick up, I can definitely see myself coming back.
But for now, as the French say, laissez les bon temps rouler!
A good New York City day has to involve one or all of the following: a good (preferably free) activity, good food, good drinks, and most of all, good company. And if you’ve ever been to New York, you know that is entirely possible on any given day. July 31st was such a day. Danny wanted to hang out at least one more time before he left for med school in Albany, so I asked him to accompany me to the freeRaveonettesshow happening that afternoon. He was game. After dropping off some laundry, I met up with him just blocks from Tyler’s place.
“So what’s first on the agenda?” he asked.
“I need shorts and underwear,” I replied.
Like I said, I was doing laundry and it was another scorching hot day in the City. He took me around and we wound up at an Aeropostale where I was able to surprisingly get both items fairly cheaply. He confessed it was his first time shopping for underwear with a girl. I was happy to bring him that experience. We got back on the train and made our way toward the South Street Seaport. There were no awkward silences, only sarcastic remarks punctuated by light jokes and the occasional laugh. The kind you give when you know you could really like someone if you only let yourself.
After a quick stop at Midtown Comics (just one of the countless comic shops that dot the maps of NYC), I could see a barrage of khaki shorts and SLR cameras and knew we must be close to the South Street Seaport. Now, the Seaport is definitely for the tourists, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. There are tons of picture taking opportunities: giant ships with giants masts, a spectacular view of the East River and Brooklyn Bridge, a giant Chess set, and for the extra cheap drinkers (as we were), you can buy these gigantic plastic cups (closer to buckets than cups) of beer for about $5 in the food court. Danny and I, being a couple of cheapasses, split 2 of those and were good to go. We wandered around the inside of the shopping plaza, which was filled with your usual array of tourist shops (a Hello Kitty gift store, a candy shop, a place to get sweaters that say South Street Seaport, etc), and proceeded to feed Danny via free honey chicken samples in the food court. A note to vegetarian/vegan friends: There are very few options available to us in the food court. Basically, pizza and maybe a few sides here and there. You’re better off leaving the port for nourishment or eating beforehand! The same rules apply if you’re looking for a good meal in general. After walking the perimeter of the food court for a half hour, and with me reaching the point of rabid hunger, Danny and I hit left the port for a bit and found a nice Japanese sushi place*, where I had some of the best veggie rolls of my life (faux crispy chik’n, anyone?) Danny was not a fan of my crispy chik’n.
Finally, we made our way down in to the Beekman Beergarden (another worthwhile stop if you’re in the South Sea Port and can afford to drop a few bucks) and found the Raveonettes were already playing. I’ll be honest- I hadn’t heard too much of their stuff before going to watch them perform, at least, up until a couple days beforehand. I can safely say, though, that they’ve quickly become one of my favorites. A harmonic mix of the Jesus and Mary Chain and Cults, their songs have quickly become some of my most frequently played travel anthems. More than the music, it was nice to have someone to share the experience with and Danny was a good guy to share the moment with.
We wandered the neighborhood after that, popping into random shops, stealing frozen yogurt (alright, “fro-yo”) samples and trying to figure out what to do next. We wound up in the East Village, over at St. Mark’s Place, a hip and somewhat college-y side of town that has some interesting claims to fame (i.e. the former home of Klaus Nomi, buildings that were photographed for Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti, and a basement where Anita and Abbie Hoffman once lived), with lots of bars, smoke shops, cafes, record stores, and well, more bars. A few places boasted having nightly karaoke. It seemed like a good area to land in for the night.
Now, a few weeks before I left Miami, I became “online friends” with the co-producer of what is a pretty popular animated TV show**. And by online friends, I mean he messaged me after I tweeted about his show and then added me on Facebook. It seems really bizarre I realize, and if his accounts hadn’t been confirmed, I wouldn’t believe it either. Anyway, I told him about my travel plans and since I mentioned I would be in NYC, he immediately recommended Crif Dogs. Crif Dogs is awesome for several reasons:
They have very tasty hot dogs for a mostly reasonable price.
They also offer very tasty veggie dogs.
You can add just about anything to these dogs (three cheers for condiments!)
They have a speakeasy bar you can only access through an unassuming phone booth within the place itself (but you didn’t hear it from me!)
We grabbed our dogs and munched away and when we were done, Danny suggested going in to the bar. We stood awkwardly in the phone booth for a bit and lo and behold were let in to the opposite side where we were greeted by well-crafted cocktails, sharply dressed bartenders, and stuffed animal heads on the walls. We shared life stories, with mine being slightly longer than his. I got a Flor de Cana cocktail called Shark Week and he drank microbrews and the flirtations that began before the concert were beginning to become more apparent. There was something about this boy that just felt good to be around. Sometimes people just have a way about them. He wore these leather sandals without socks that kinda made me cringe, but he just had a rare confidence about him that nothing else seemed to matter. Part of me wished a lot of different things, like that I were younger, or that we lived in the same town, or that I didn’t care about things like that. But it wasn’t about that. We were just having one of those magical New York City days and nights, the kind that keep me coming back to the city, and there was no need to dig deeper into it than that.
Feeling warm and happy, we walked hand in hand down St. Marks to the Continental. My friend Ezra had mentioned this place to me before; the infamous 5 shots for $10. But Danny and I weren’t feeling quite so adventurous (read: foolish), so we stuck to beers. I had a conversation about Miami with the bartender, who said she’d lived down there for a little bit, and we debated which men did the majority of cat-calling: ones from Miami or ones in NYC. Danny and I did our best to enjoy eachother’s company for as long as the night allowed. And when we kissed it wasn’t anything other than being fully in a moment, something that’s almost always hard to come by.
“Can I walk you home?” he asked, but I refused. There was no need for complications, there was no need for anything. He wanted to see me again, but I knew it wouldn’t happen, that I wouldn’t let it. We hopped the train and went our separate ways.
(Part 7 soon!)
* = I have been trying so hard to remember and/or find the name of the place but unfortunately my Google searches have not yielded a favorable result. However, according to Google, there are several other Japanese places nearby and basically all of them have vegetarian/vegan options.
** = I probably shouldn’t say any more than that it airs on the Cartoon Network.
