Good Karma, and other New York City musings

When you've been away, New York City is definitely a breath of fresh air.

Not literally, for I cursed the sewers and smog on my run this morning as I crossed town from Riverside Drive to Central Park. Figuratively though, New York is the city of endless opportunity--endless activity and happenings. I'm a go-go-go type of person, and the city allows me just that. And all that happens! The stories I muster up, the daily interactions I make-- I wish I could develop a mechanism where my brain could just transcribe what I'm thinking to paper, spell check and everything.

In only a few days, I've had dinner with my brother and girlfriend in Brooklyn, had drinks with an old friend from college on the Upper West Side, and enjoyed fresh croissants and coffee with my best friend at the famous Hungarian Pastry Shop in Morningside Heights. I went for my first run in New York City (didn't like it), drunkingly stumbled uptown at 3am as I tried to figure out subway construction and travel changes while listening to Katy Perry AND Miles Davis on my ipod, and saw the Fleet Foxes at the United Palace.

I went to Nicole's graduation ceremony from Columbia, went out to eat with a cousin she's never met before and her aunt who is a judge and just HAPPENS to be named Judy, and ate plain pasta and granola for dinner while chatting about boys (what else) with our friend Melissa. We've gone for walks, layed in the park and read, and succumed to romantic comedies on netflix before bed. Both of us are banking on good karma, so we took a walk down to 90th and CP W to return a debit card we found to the owner's friend Joel's bellman; we taped it up in a couple pieces of lined paper and hand delivered it in cute dresses with the message "Joel's expecting this," which probably made the whole thing seem a bit odd.

Like I said, really banking on the good karma.

I'm losing myself in a novel, applying to countless writing, blogging, and tutoring jobs, and am stalking a restaurant on Long Island that apparently is in desparate need for help but is bad at the whole "returning calls" thing. Big Tree is playing Katy Perry covers in Brooklyn so I've also been learning pretty profound lyrics, such as do you ever feel like a plastic bag drifting through the wind? and Last Friday Night, we took too many shots, think we kissed but I forgot, Last Friday Night. I'm intrigued at how quickly neighborhoods change one avenue over (insert: Broadway and Amsterdam), am cursing the constant, steady rainfall, and am slightly entertained that Dominique Strauss-Kahn's daughter lives in Nic's building and there's a constant news team of about 50 people outside waiting for her to return home. (CBS has asked me how I feel about him moving in with his daughter and having a rapist live in the building; I responsed that the chance of Dominique Strass-Kahn moving into Columbia housing with his child was a bit absurd.

I'm biting the bullet, eager to play more shows, go for more runs, and see more of the world (when does this happen?) I want to write more, study more, and learn more. I just declined my acceptance into the Peace Corps, so my Africa send-off in October is only a faint memory. I'm trying to stay as busy as possible, but a feeling of instability, dependance, and the unknown knocks at my knees. Still! I have money in the bank, an amazing and supportive family, incredible friends, a sick band, and strong limbs.

I am beyond lucky.

The Bus Ride

I rode the bus from New York to Boston the other day and I decided to write about it

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I rise out onto the streets of Manhattan from the LIRR, and am greeted by a bounded, overcast sky. It’s barely 60 degrees—five clicks warmer and my arms would relax, rather than tense up in an effort to warm my self. I begin walking down 8^th avenue, and continue walking west once I hit 31^st street. Two avenues over and I’m on 10^th, and I stop at one of the thousand gourmet deli’s in New York City for an 85 cent coffee that will be mostly milk, three heaping spoonfuls of sugar, and a splash of java. Saying only a little milk and sugar means nothing, always.

After my morning’s thirty-minute walk to the train station, I sat patiently still for an hour as Long Island flew over my left shoulder. Now in the city, I am to walk only a few more blocks to the bus stop. I’ll sit on MegaBus for around four hours, which will take me to Boston. All of these miles, walking-sitting-standing, might seem like too much travel for one day, but I enjoy it. I love the feeling of progress, of constantly being on the go. I can never sit still, unless I’m actually moving.

I arrive at the MegaBus stop, and am surprised to see that the low-budget transportation company put up temporary fences to create actual lines for different travel destinations. I walk past Syracuse, Philadelphia, DC, and Toronto, until I find Boston. I walk to the back of the line and ask the girl in front of me is this to Boston?, soon to realize that the man behind me would ask the same question, the woman behind him the same—so on and so forth. Nobody trusts signs.

I check my watch and realize my bus isn’t scheduled to leave for another 25 minutes. As I fumble for my headphones, a girl in the Philadelphia line comments on my scarf: I really like your scarf. It’s beautiful. I thank her and tell her it’s from the Rubin Museum in Chelsea. Miss. Philly studies my lips and gets out her iphone to store this information, and then we continue to have a superficial, yet pleasurable enough conversation about scarves. They really do spice up an outfit. I wear mostly black, but scarves really add another element to personal style. They make you pop. This is a great springtime scarf. How do you spell “Rubin”?

I’m enjoying talking to Miss. Philly, but before I know it, her line starts moving and now she is permanently gone from my life.

I watch with limited patience as the Toronto and DC lines disappear, and then revert my attention to three fearless pigeons that are inches away from my feet. They are fighting over two Pringle crumbs, and I find myself almost too entertained by watching these Pringle pigeons peck at the crumbs while their little necks bob forward and backward, unaware of anything around them but their salty snack.

Once I finally grow tired of the pigeons, I remember my headphones, yet am once again distracted— this time by the Chinese man behind me who asked moments ago if he was in the correct line. He smiles, looks up at the clouds, and in broken English asks the clouds bring rain…. what happen before bus? I look at him quizzically for a moment, then try to rephrase his question: you mean, what happens if it starts to rain before we get on the bus? He nods with deep concern written all over his face, and I can only shrug my shoulders and answer: well, we’ll get wet. He politely smiles and musters up a nervous laugh, replying oh! only New York City. I’m still not exactly sure what he means by this; New York is unique, but I doubt it’s the only city that fails to provide proper shelter when it rains.

My 12:10 bus finally rolls in, and I find myself a window seat on the top deck. I put my backpack and scarf on the empty aisle seat, although I’m almost positive the bus will be full and someone will have to sit there. Surprisingly enough, people continue to walk up and down the aisle, yet the traffic quickly slows, the bus begins moving, and I seem to be only passenger who got away without a bus buddy. I take out my book from my purse, and just when I start to get into a rhythm with its narrative, a British couple across the aisle begin talking, disrupting me and my book’s synchrony. My mother just hates Cleveland, but we’re forced to go every summer because of her in-laws. If it were up to me I would go back to London, but I’m supposed to stay culturally steady, or something. The young man looks at the girl with secretive desire; I’m not sure if they are acquaintances, or if they both realized they were British so became so just for the bus ride. They certainly aren’t lovers. I’m wondering why she is going to Boston by herself, and when she’ll go to Cleveland, and where her mother is right now. And why did she refer to her dad’s family as in-laws? The young man unwraps a pre-made turkey sandwich and adds cream cheese to it. They both are talking extremely loud.

There is a Chinese toddler and mother sitting right in front of me, and I can see the boy’s reflection in the window as he stares out onto the streets of Manhattan. He has a medium-sized mole directly under his left eye, which I know will one day attract the attention of many beautiful women. He’s watching the road with a keen, innocent curiosity. At this moment I wish I was his age again, enamored by almost anything—satisfied by simple, strange objects.

An Indian mother and her little girl are opposite the Chinese mother and son—one row up and over from me. I’ve read two of Jhumpa Lahiri’s books; in both, she writes about Indian couples that live in Cambridge. I assume that this mother and daughter live there too, and are going back home to her husband, her father. They begin playing rock-paper-scissors, and will continue to do so for at least an hour. The husband starts calling his wife every five minutes, and her ring tone is unbearably loud, louder than the British couple’s conversation.

I will never get through the first page.

Yes, her number is 518-3454-290. I can’t help but continue to listen to the Brit’s conversation, as they are talking like they’re all alone in a noisy bar or a grocery store. I stop to think about the phone number she mentions, and grin at how she reversed the number groupings. I almost wanted to tell her it’s xxx-xxx-xxxx, and please stop talking so loudly. I realize this would be rather rude of me, and that it really doesn’t matter how you group numbers in a phone number. The phone doesn’t care; it’ll still dial correctly.

The Indian girl and mother are still playing rock-paper-scissors, and I see now that the mother isn’t even watching. She repeatedly puts down scissor, and the little girl’s eyes widen every fourth or so time she puts down rock. I give up on my book and try listening to music, when the first tinge of hunger knocks at my stomach. When I’m on busses, I always crave random things. Right now, I want a donut. A simple glazed donut. Or, a bag of honey-mustard powdered pretzels. Maybe a strawberry shortcake. Defeated, I rummage through my bag and find a restaurant mint. I gulp down some lemon-lime seltzer in hopes it’ll curb my appetite, and that we’ll be in Boston shortly.

I hear someone’s wrist watch beep behind me, and realize it must be the top of some hour. I check my phone and see it’s already three o’clock, and within the next twenty or so seconds I hear another handful of beep beep’s. I’m actually surprised at how many people still wear watches, with phones now becoming the most popular way to check the time. So many people have their phones attached to their knuckles, their faces, and this often makes me sad. Again I want to be the little Chinese boy with the cute mole, fascinated by Harlem and I-95, naive to cell phones and i-pads, 4 G’s, bbm’s, and unlimited data.

My hunger ceases, the Brit’s stop talking, and I can rest my eyes and listen to Elvis Costello as MegaBus exits I84 and gets on the Mass Pike. I dream about nothing, and when I wake up 40 minutes later, I see Boston’s skyline in the distance. I get up and use the restroom on the lower deck; I bring my toothbrush and realize there is no sink, so I return to my seat and put a dab of toothpaste on my tongue. I swirl it around my mouth and softy swallow. I put on an extra layer of deodorant, a hint of perfume, and sit up, surprised at how sore my lower back is from all of the sitting I’ve been doing. I call you and let you know we’re almost there, and I find myself finally able to start smiling, anxious that my day’s travels are finally coming to an end. The bus gets into South Station a little after four, and I barely look at the Brits, the Chinese, or the Indians as I exit the bus and enter your arms.

cleaning out

Whenever I make it back home in Northport for more than 48 hours, I usually do a major cleaning out of my room. Now, why I need to do one of these atleast three times a year... I dooo not know, for I don't really think I consume much these days by way of clothes shopping, trinket buying, etc. Yet somehow, no matter how many garbage bags I fill, I miraculously find ways to fill more months down the road.

For the last few days I've been working on the same project, but I'd say that this clean-out session is my most serious one yet. Last time I tried to throw out my furby (that would STILL wake up and start talking in furby-language), my mom got all wide-eyed and sentimental on me and I stored it back in my closet. This time though, the furby has made it to the trash, after I successfully screwed out all its batteries so the thing would be forever mute. I'm putting an end to 14th birthday cards from second-cousins, pick up sticks from the 5th grade, and dust-laden jewelry boxes that have been empty for years. I don't need 400 index cards, 500 business envelopes, or seven erasable-pens (remember those?) Goodbye marching band hat (and feather!), participation-award soccer certificates, and plastic bead set. So long burned cd's that have been on my computer for tens of years, racing spikes and keys, and magazine subscription from 2007.

Amidst all the throwing out and donating, I've also found some great things I intend on keeping: five sticks of winterfresh Trident gum, a $50 savings bond, and my glasses (woops). Every youth center soccer picture "professionally'' taken since 1993, a nifty purple and gray sleeping bag, and Ziggy Palffy's autograph are also on this list.

On an odder note, I managed to somehow hide three comforters, four blankets, two sleeping bags, and five pillows in the confines of my room, which have all been placed in their respective piles: donate, trash, keep. I managed to have 57 hangers in my closet and six pairs of stockings and seven belts in my drawer. I don't hang things, wear belts, or wear stockings, so this one is a real mystery.

I have a bag that weighs close to seven tons of clothes, blankets, and boots that I will be donating, so it feels good that all the stuff I've managed to hoard will hopefully go to a better place. In the mean time, I can continue to see the world with 20/20 vision, fresh breath, and fifty extra bucks in my pocket.

For Road Junky

Of beauty and serenity: life on the road.

It’s day eight on the road for Big Tree, an indie-pop band based in the Bay Area and making its way to New York for the summer. We’ve driven down the California coast, saying goodbye to the enchanting Pacific Ocean, and slowly trudged east, driving through suffocating L.A, mountainous Colorado, and desolate Gallop, New Mexico. On the 11^th of March we finally made it to Taos, excited to enter a small world tucked away in northern New Mexico that exudes a sort of magic. We had traveled by way of Santa Fe, stopping at a less-than nice hostel to fill up on grease for our veggie-oil van (that’s for another day).

The outskirts of Santa Fe depressed us; strips malls, abandoned houses, and taco bells cluttered the almost clear blue sky. Thus, when we made it to the quaint town of Taos, embedded with pueblo art, clay houses, and all things teal and periwinkle, we sighed with relief. We looked around us and saw snow-capped mountains in the distance and dust beneath our toes. In between the dust and the snow, we saw where we were staying:

Life on the road for a band is always made simpler when you know people. Quality Inn’s and Howard Johnson’s aren’t really worth the $60 stay, and nothing beats staying in a warm bed with families who welcome you with open arms. Lucky for us, this house in Taos offered not only warm beds, but a hot tub, three adorable ridgeback dogs, and a plethora of fish tacos and tequila.

We were supposed to play a show that night at the “Taos Bar.” We had trouble getting in touch with the venue’s owner; the guy who booked our show was on an impromptu vacation in Alaska (of all places…), and our other contact was mysteriously “out of town.” We asked some locals where the Taos Bar was, and after a few failed attempts, learned that no bar by that name exists. Finally, we found the sole Taos bar: Mountain View Lodge. There we met Ralph, the extremely friendly owner who had no idea we were supposed to play a show that evening. He offered us a beer as a condolence, which we politely accepted. We learned he had no mic’s or amps, and obviously no advertising for the show had been done in town. We thanked Ralph and made our way back to our rental mansion for the night, not entirely disappointed that we would be missing out on a night of music.

Janet, a family friend and owner of the house, took us out for authentic New Mexican cuisine. We devoured fresh guacamole, rice and beans, and an absurd amount of cheese and tortilla chips before cozying up back at the house— sipping on margaritas in their hot tub until our tired eyes let us sleep. The next morning, Janet’s husband John took us out back through his blue door for a lesson in shooting a gun, which for all five band members was a never-explored, er, “hobby.”

We reveled in our surroundings, the hospitality of our friends, and kept repeating over and over “we are the luckiest people in the world.” Traveling across the country in a band is not always easy, yet we made our way across the US with relative ease as we visited old friends, made new ones, and played shows (almost) every night. Although the main purpose of the tour was the music, every now and then we let ourselves relax and take in the overwhelmingly unique pockets of America without worrying about needing to play a show. And this is exactly what Taos, New Mexico provided for us.

DAY 3

March 6^th:

We woke up at Alexandra’s, where I took the most luxurious shower of my life (bathrooms with two showerheads and no curtain, surrounded by mosaic tile and prescription shampoo? Yes please). We ate day-old pastries that Muddy Waters so graciously gave us the night before, and then drove baaaack to Claremont to play at Pomona College.

Pomona is apparently the smarter hippie version of Pitzer. Unfortunately for us it was a Sunday, so even though our indie-pop-psychedelic-jazz-blues music often excites the ears of said Pomona folk, these bookworms must’ve all been in the library focusing on their studies and missing out on the best concert of their lives.

Their loss.

Still! We lured a decent sized crowd right on the campus quad, with special guests Mandy Schwecherl (my cousin!) and her friend John. It was great to have my family come and see me, and it made the show even more fun to play. After our gig we planned to meet up with Mandy and John for dinner and drinks right after we quickly stopped at the cafeteria to filter some grease for our car.

Yes, grease. I don’t know if I have explained this, but our van runs on vegetable oil. Yes. The luxury of this is two-fold: our van costs about $135 to fill up on diesel; on veg, we can go the same distance-if not further, for little to no money. Secondly, diesel emits sulfur and a bunch of other nasty stuff. It’s bad for the environment. Used vegetable oil does not contain any sulfur, and emits only 15% of the nasty stuff that diesel does. And we’re recycling.

However, the aches and pains of running a van on veg are also two-fold, if not three or four-fold. Mainly, it’s the filtering process. We can’t just throw used oil full of French fry particles and crispy bacon bits into the tank—we have to filter it. We purchased a fancy filter that collects dirty oil from a pump, but every time we tried using it on the road, our pump would blow a fuse. Fast-forward to when we were trying to meet Mandy and John for dinner, and we had a vat FILLED of grease we wanted in our van, and a broken pump that refused to let us filter the grease quickly and efficiently. We had to go back to our old-school method, which means pouring the grease into a sock-filter ourselves, and then watch the grease slowwwly drip into a bucket, which takes five times as long and can get pretty messy.

(photo cred

Di Desmond and Ian Levine)

Long-story short, we got some grease, brainstormed about other ways to fix our pump, and met Mandy and John for sushi. We devoured practically every fish in the sea while enjoying a few sake bombs, and then made a quick stop at the liquor store to pick up beer and Andre (?) before crashing at a Howard Johnson’s.

DAY 2

March 5^th:

The next morning we all woke up overheating in our sleeping bags, and quickly aroused to greet the warm southern California air we’ve been yearning for. We had been recommended a breakfast spot the night before; Kaila and I repeated the name over and over again since we knew our beer-cushioned heads would have a hard time remembering it. It was called Some Crust Bakery, and the only reason I can tell you this is because of the picture I took:

Anyways, Some Crust had egg-sliders! So delicious! So creative! You could pick your bread, your dressing, and your toppings. Sometimes I just love America. After we ate we drove to Santa Barbara to meet up with our friends Hannah and Fishman. They took us on a hike to the beach that was absolutely beautiful. We made it to the coast and swam in the ocean, sipped on beer, and expressed how relaxing and luxurious tour was so far. (Granted it was only day two, but…well whatever).

Once it started to cool off we walked back to the car and drove into town to our venue: Muddy Waters. The place was a neat medium sized coffeehouse that also offered beer and wine. We picked up about a ton and a half of Mexican food on our way over, sound checked, and ate ourselves into oblivion before our set.

Once again, the show’s energy was great. There weren’t as many drunk and hyper attendees as Pitzer, but the crowd seemed to be having a great time. We stuck around for a band that played after us, and then crashed at a friend of Kaila’s. We all had a slumber party in the living room—eating ginger snaps and gummy bears— before falling comfortably to sleep.

Day 1

March 4^th:

A little past noon on Friday, May 4^th, we gathered our duffle bags, amplifiers and instruments, pillows, sunglasses, and bourbon, and several grocery bags filled with Trader Joes snacks. We spent a good thirty minutes figuring out how to assemble our roof-bag (which was advertised as 99% waterproof; we kept our fingers crossed), and said goodbye to friends who gave us their best, along with a batch of homemade granola bars. We piled in, turned on Akron/Family, and began our journey across the country.

We also did a little shake-weight in the van to, you know...exercise.

Our first stop was to Pitzer College, one of the Claremont Colleges outside of L.A. We were leaving from Berkeley, and had about a 400-mile journey ahead of us. Oddly enough, even though 400 miles is quite far, the distance becomes deceptively brief when you are only covering one state. A car trip from Berkeley to Claremont takes about the same amount of time as driving from Portland, Maine to Trenton, New Jersey: roughly 6 hours and 46 minutes. Still, I would choose meandering through the coastline of California over the Mass Pike, the New York Thruway, and the George Washington Bridge any day.

We made it to Pitzer as the sun was setting, curious as to what we would encounter at this stereotypical hippie-school. Luke’s friend’s sibling, Emily—our contact to the school, greeted us. She was dressed in an interesting manner: a sporadically colored dress, face-paint, and dyed hair in heaped braids. We quickly learned that we were playing at an art-event that was promoting “the other-side.” We were essentially performing at a student circus.

After loading in our equipment, we did our best to fit in with the rest of the student body. Kaila and I had our faces painted and bedazzled, and we all dressed ourselves in sparkly boas and mardi gras beads.

Pitzer generously fed us veggie burgers and grilled pineapple, which fully prepped us for the free kegs of beer the school was providing. The campus police put up a fence to designate where the 21+ kids could drink, but the loose constraints to this rule reflected the whole school’s attitude about, well…rules. I grabbed my beer, walked out beyond the fence, smiled and waved to the (probably stoned) campus police, and went to finish my second veggie burger on the patio as I sipped on my free beer.

On to the show.

It was great! There were about 200 kids packed in our outdoor venue—many were literally inches away from our faces. The energy of such a compact, robust crowd was amazing, which somewhat made up for the sketchy sound system (they had all our sound running through one line, which resulted in Kaila’s keyboard and my mic to intermittently conch out…woops). Still, our performance was extremely well received, and we had a blast as the Pitzer kids danced and sung along to our hour-long set.

A highlight, for me at least, was when a fine young Pitzer gentleman felt so inclined to give me a thin mint during a song. Inclined Pitzer gentleman, if you are reading this, thank you.

After our show, we blasted Latino music in the van while we loaded out, and played some parking lot beach-ball soccer to pass the time. We packed with ease, for Colin had talked to some new fans that offered to put us up in their off campus house, providing us with a free place to sleep. With all our equipment in the van, we drove to the address we were given, which led us to a complex of apartments. Once in the apartment maze, Colin went to look for the phone number of the “friends” we met, and to his avail, learned it was never saved into his phone. As we sat in front of a row of about 100 apartment buildings, we knew we were out of luck. We drove back to the campus, ate a majority of the snacks we had bought earlier to mask any sort of stress, and indulged in a few swigs of whiskey. Danny and Colin went off to some sophomore dorm party, and Luke, Kaila and I brainstormed about places to sleep while we proceeded to finish off the homemade granola. In the end, we were able to get swiped into a nearby building, and spent the night in a luxurious all-girls dorm common room, equipped with plenty of floor space, a few couches, a nice piece of armoire, and some fake plants.

We slept with plenty of beer and burger in our bellies, along with the satisfaction of a free place to crash, and more importantly, a well-received and heavily attended first show.