I'll never be, your beast of burden

            December 28^th:

I am finally aboard Delta flight 729. An east coast blizzard has terrorized manhattan, and I’ve been in Utah for four extra days eating leftover Christmas cookies and anxiously checking the New York Times for weather updates.

I didn’t mean to cry when the ticket agent called yesterday, telling me my flight had been canceled for the 5^th time. The tears just sort of materialized without warning. I hadn’t even realize they existed until I felt them spilling over my cheeks, hurting dads feelings.

“I didn’t know you hated it here so much,”

“I’m sorry daddy. You know I don’t hate it here. I just really need to get home.”

Home.

This was the first time I had called it that, New York I mean.

For the last four months living in New York had felt like an extended holiday. Manhattan and I were a blossoming romance, in the premature, infatuation stages of our relationship, just getting to know one another.

We had finally moved past that.

This city is no longer my lover, but my companion.

Were facing east now, my direction of choice. Outside the window it is black, and all that is visible are hundreds of runway lights laid out geometrically on the pavement. It reminds me of the designs I used to make on my light bright as a child.

 The pilot puts the plane in gear, and gravity pushes me into the back of my seat as we pick up speed.

 After my plethora of delays and cancellations, I feel like the present is too good to be true. I am waiting for the plane to come to a screeching halt, or for an unwanted announcement from the cockpit.

Instead, I hear the landing gear retreat to its airborne home. I peer out the window once again, and the dim lights of Salt lake city flicker below me.   

***

Laguardia airport is full of holiday traffic and relieved passengers who have been stranded at their previous destinations.

I am anxious to get back to my apartment, but the taxi line stretches past four terminals, wrapping around the edge of the building.

I feel defeated by transportation. Someday, we will think ourselves from place to place, with the assistance of an advanced technological gadget, and I hope it’s in my lifetime.

I feel a tug at the back of my jacket.

“Car  ma’am. $35. You can skip the line?”

I spin around to find the source of the foreign voice. I glance downward, my eyes meeting a petite man who’s shorter than myself, with tussled black hair and oversized jeans.

“Sorry to bother ma’am, but I have a car. It leave into the city now. I give you a good deal and you have no wait.”

I immediately commence an inner dialogue between my capacity for common sense, and my desire to be at home. It goes something like this:

Desire: Sweet deal! $35!? You would pay thirty bucks for a yellow cab, and you’ll have to wait in this ridiculous line for two hours.

Common sense: It’s late. It’s dark. Where is his car? If this is legit, why isn’t everyone hitching rides with Ecuadorian midgets?

Desire: Because people are silly, and it’s your lucky day. What’s the worst that could happen?

Common sense: I can think of a few possibilities. What if he’s part of a South American drug ring, and he wants to kidnap you and ship you to El Salvador to work on some sort of farm?

Desire: That dude? He’s bite size! Even if that were the case, I’m sure you could take him!

Common sense: He could have a posse.

Desire: Quit being lame, and get your ass in that car.

(Why is it that desire always wins?)

“Alright sir, where’s your car?”

“ I go get it now. You wait here. Don’t go anywhere.”

I watch as he hobbles off with a not-so-subtle limp.

Desire chimes in again: Yep, you could definitely take him.

Five minutes later he returns, followed by an attractive boy, about my age or a little older with a guitar on his back. He is unkept, in a cool 90’s grunge sort of way, and is sporting a leather jacket.

“Alright desire,” I say to myself, “Now you’re just showing off.”

Together, grunge and I follow the little man around the building, behind the terminal, and across the parking lot. I am becoming distressed as I trek through piles of snow left by plows large enough to be ski slopes, but my fellow hipster passenger seems blasé about the journey. I decide I’d better play it cool.  

We reach our destination and load our guitars into the back of the suburban, climbing into the back seat.

Neither of us speak for six awkward minutes. I finally say:

“So.. You’re a musician?”

“Yep,” he replies, looking at me like I just asked John Wayne if he was a cowboy.

“Awesome.” I say, feeling a little embarrassed and lost for words, a phenomenon which doesn’t happen all too often.

Five more minutes pass.

He breaks the second span of silence with a question.

“How long have you been delayed for?”

“ Umm.. a few days. I had 5 canceled flights, you?”

“I had four. It sucked ass. I offered to give the lady behind the ticket counter a grand to get me back. She wouldn’t take it.”

“Wow, pretty desperate to be back in New York, huh?”

“Yeah, I have too much going on right now to be stuck at home.”

“I hear you,” I agree, nodding my head, “It’s nice to be with family, but any longer and I would have snow shoed, or hired sled dogs to get me here.”

“Yikes, that bad at home? Where are you from?”

Utah, I respond.

He laughs and says that explains a lot

The next 10 minutes are a standard get to know you session, where I determine the following:

My hunky, new friend is Ron Pope. He is a professional musician and New Yorker who just finished a tour, and a contract with universal records. He has a large fan base, especially in the city, and just started a new band and produced a hit single.

I have heard of him and his music before, but pretend I havent.
He asks what I do and I become nervous, the word professional, or even profession, isn’t in my autobiography. I consider lying for a split second, then opt for the truth,

“ I just finished school this year, and moved out here simply because I wanted to. Right now I am in transit, trying to figure things out. I am hoping to save, and travel, and write. We’ll see what happens.”

Ron is an artist, and he can sense my apprehension.
I wait for the guidance I know he’s about to give me, like some great kung fu master, or yoda

“You don’t have to be nervous about that you know. Doing what you love is all that matters in this life. It’s cliché, but you can’t buy happiness. When I was your age, I was playing music on the subway every day. My parents used to chastise me, and be like, “Ron, what the hell are you doing? You’re a fuckin’ street bum.” But, I just knew that music was my life, and I had to do that, you know? Then one day, somebody appreciated what I did, and things changed. But, even if that hadn’t happened it wouldn’t have mattered. This is my life, and I want to live it passionately.”

I don’t respond. I just smile. We both know that he is right, and that life is an experience, not a mountain we climb. We cannot conquer it, we can only live it to our satisfaction.

The driver pulls up to my apartment too soon, and I tell Ron thanks for the advice and promise I’ll come see a show sometime. As I walk up the steps I am happy to be back, and revived from my encounter, which reinforced every reason why I love this place.
It feels good to be home.

***
January 7th, 2011

I am already in Manhattan with no plane to catch, so I am embracing the incoming storm and bone numbing chill as it stings my face and creeps through my jacket.
Ashley and I enter the cornerstone tavern for some relief from the weather.
The bartender is Irish, and I can tell by his accent that he is from Dublin.
I begin chatting to him about the place I miss so much, and we reminisce about our favorite pubs and Irish sausage.
The band on stage is playing covers of 90’s rock songs and asking for requests.
“Third Eye Blind” I yell audibly.
“I think we can do that”, says the lead guitarist, “but, only on one condition. You have to let me wear your awesome vest while I play.”

My vest, which was a gift from my mother, is loud fashion at best. Lengthy faux fur envelops the entirety of it. It’s apparent that no animal could have produced such a thing, except for, according to my younger brother, The abominable snowman.

I absolutely adore it.

I tell him that it’s not a problem, and climb on stage assisting him with one sleeve while he stretches his arm into the other.

“Thank you dear.”

They begin strumming the three chords which make up one of Third Eye Blinds yesteryear hits. Ashley and I dance and since loudly while onlookers mock. We really don’t care. We never do.
“I’ll never let you go, I’ll never let you go…………”

***

Outside, the city is blanketed in a fresh coat of fluff, and we stop to admire the pristine, cleanliness of it. As we glance around us at the white lampposts and mailboxes, we realize that the streets are empty, except for us. All is silent in sound and in sight.
“This looks so strange, doesn’t it?” I say
“It really does,” replies ash.
Quiet and solitude are things you never experience in a place that always exhibits life. By 7am, Fifth Avenue will be bursting with men in suits, public busses, delivery guys, and flashing lights.

We celebrate having the city to ourselves by lying on the ground and making snow angels side by side on the snow covered pavement.


January13th

I remember seeing this same painting on an overhead projector in 8th grade. The whimsical darkness of Van Goghs starry night had me mesmerized, even at age 14.

I had strategically waited to view this masterpiece at the end of my tour inside the MOMA. I planned my visit of the museum a bit like I would a visit to an amusement park. The smaller, less thrilling rides first, working my way up to the bigger stuff so nothing would lose its thrill along the way.

13 Pollock’s, a dozen Picassos, and a few Monet’s later, and here it was. Imagination on canvas.
I stare into the paintings depth for at least ten minutes, without moving. It is vivid, yet surreal, and I become lost in every brush stroke. I feel like crying, or jumping up and down. I know that neither are socially acceptable here, so, instead I do what is. I update my facebook status. I key in:

“Next time I’m at the MOMA, I’d like to pitch a tent, and camp under Van Gogh’s starry night.”

I once read somewhere that Van Gogh, who produced over 2,000 works of art in his lifetime, didn’t even begin painting until his late twenties.
Here I am, worrying about my feats at a childish age of 23.
Van Gogh has left me feeling young and alive, and ready to live.

I'm left with this thought,
While most of us will probably never excel to the heights of Van Gogh, there is still much time for us to create our masterpiece.

We Fly by The Seat of Our Pants

 It’s January 9^th, the day of New York Cities No Pants Subway Ride. As I approach Foley Square I am impressed by the masses of people surrounding the large granite sculpture in the middle of the plaza. The crowd is more eclectic than I’d projected, and the seemingly conservative are intermixed with troubled youth, married couples, apparent goofballs, and other personalities. There is no obvious stereotype to describe this crowd.

Maybe New York isn’t all business. Maybe New York has a sense of humor after all.

                                 

I overhear a conversation between two men in gray suit jackets. They’re chatting about the interesting statue that landmarks the place.

“It’s called, ‘'Triumph of the Human Spirit,' Says a man in black rimmed glasses holding a briefcase,

“They built it in 2000 to symbolize human rights for minority groups in the city”

I find this fact ironic. While there is no formalized club or association for pantless persons, today , new Yorkers will celebrate their human rights by choosing to forgo their trousers. I wonder if this meeting place was chosen for its hidden symbolism.

I finally track down my friends John and Chase. The bright sky is deceiving, and the suns efforts to warm cannot combat the winter chill. The easterly winds are lashing against our faces, and I am glad I am not in my underwear, yet. 

A mans voice is thundering around me. I cannot find its source in the crowd. It’s as if it is pouring from the sky, and I’m being directed by Zeus or another Greek god.  For a minute I forget that I’m only part of something silly. The turnout makes me feel like I’m at a political rally, fighting for some noble cause, rather than participating in a large scale prank.

I pinpoint the speaker, standing on top of a staircase near the middle of the square.

“Who is our youngest pantless subway rider?” Shouts a bearded man behind a megaphone

I see a stroller being hoisted into the air, followed by muffled yells.

 “15 Months”, repeats the director. “Can anyone do any better?”

Behind me a young couple lifts up a chubby baby in corduroy trousers and a snow cap. He is unphased by the attention, and he wiggles his legs in a running motion.

“9 months!”

“Wow, nine months” echoes the loud speaker, “Sorry stroller, looks like we have a winner.”

Were sorted into groups and assigned train cars. Clusters of us start walking toward canal street to catch the NQR.  Like elementary students on a field trip, we march in line through chinatown to the subway station. We pass the NYPD and other curious onlookers. People selling knock of handbags and Rolexs heckle us to buy their goods.

“See my perfume! I make good deal for you..78.9 percent off!” Says a little Chinese man in broken English.

His proposition for such an odd discount has us laughing.

“Do you only get the discount if you can calculate the math correctly?” Chase jokes.

Two stops on the train, and I am standing in the car wearing my winter coat, scarf, leather boots, and underwear.  Half of my fellow passengers are in participation. An older man with heart patterned  boxers is reading the New York Times on the bench, and a young women in boy shorts is standing while gripping the overhead pole, bobbing her head to the beat of her ipod. Chase, John and I battle to keep a straight face, as two women enter and raise their eyebrows in confusion.

We’ve been instructed to not break the fourth wall, and “Ride the train as we would any other day,”

I really lose it when the boy next to me wearing boxer briefs is questioned by another fully clothed passenger.

“Can I ask you why you are in your underwear?”

“Oh, I just didn’t feel like wearing pants today.” He says nonchalantly.

An elderly couple with shar pei  like wrinkles and gray hair are holding hands. They are wearing smiles of contentment, knit sweaters, and not much else.

I decide to play Tetris on my phone in order to distract myself from the hilarious circumstance.

We get off at 14^th street, Union Square, and scale the platform where were greeted by the gusty January air and thousands of people without pants.

Surrounded by bare legs adorned in whitie tighties, polka dotted boxer shorts, and silky bottoms , it feels like I’m in an episode of the twilight zone, or a member of some free spirited colony from the 60’s.

A bystander is handing out yellow pamphlets entitled, “The history of pants”

Chase opens one and reads us the first paragraph:

“In early times peoples used ferns  and leaves to uphold modesty. They later switched to cloth and hide due to outbreaks of poison oak and Ivy.”

“Thank goodness for that!” Chuckles John.

My favorite pub, ‘Lilies’ is only a block away from Union Square. We walk to 17^th street and dress on the sidewalk.
Inside we sit at a candlelit table drinking imported beer. Our goose bumps finally dissipate after bowls of soup and finished pints.  

I am riding the high of spontaneity and playfulness.

I will fly by the seat of my pants more often, or… no pants, if I must.

No matter how great her dress is, a girl will never never look pretty doing the robot on the dance floor...

The diner is full of its usual patrons. There is an older lady with an over sized mink coat and too much rouge in the corner booth, and two construction workers in orange vests exchanging jokes with harsh, long island consonants.

The place is my favorite of its kind. The grandmotherly pink interior and lack of tourists make it an authentic, hidden gem in the city. I am happy to share it with my friends, who are visiting from out of town. To me, the place embodies New York City.
Were are retelling stories about our adventures together in Ireland, and laughing until our cheeks hurt.
Suddenly there is a pause, and the conversation takes a turn for the serious,
"Jess, what do you want to be when you grow up," Sara asks.
I sigh a little at the question which has been pressed far too often in the last few weeks.
"Well, the answer is: I don't know. Luckily, I'm nowhere near being a grown up."
I explain to my friends Sara, Erica, and Jenna how this was the main topic of discussion during my trip home for Christmas break, which came to no conclusion. After 9 days of dad's prodding, and me insisting that I was content with life's mysteries (I didn't convince him) I'd never been more ready to get back to the city.
Everybody keeps silent, and continues eating their breakfast.
I know that no one at the table is judging my response, but with all the recent interrogation I feel self conscious anyway. Maybe everyone's right. Maybe living in the moment is to be reckless with your future?

The N train puts us at central park where we walk through snowy gardens and pass people getting their portraits drawn by sidewalk artists. I don't remember the city being this frigid when I left. My boots have been defeated by the slushy sidewalks and my feet are wet and icy.
"This is nothing compared to Montreal right now," my friends tell me.
I begin to make a mental note to never visit Montreal between December through March.

We arrive at Wolman rink and rent ice skates from the vendor. My girlfriends are all Canadian and I am certain that they'll be whizzing past me like Tara Lapinski, doing double salchows and triple axels.
We step cautiously onto the ice and enter into what looks like a danger zone. The rink is packed with out-of-towners, and the scene resembles the bumper cars you find at any county fair.
Were doing our best to stick together while weaving in and out of traffic, but the amount of people is making it difficult.
I tell Erika that this is what it must feel like living in India.
"Look out!" Jenna yells as an Asian man wobbles around in front of us, his arms flailing, trying to grasp the air for balance unsuccessfully. He hits the ice and skids two feet.
We move fast and veer around him in order to avoid a 5 car pileup.
"Man down!" I shout in passing.
Were hysterical from the incident for the next two laps.

After skating we walk down 5th avenue. Erika is taking pictures of the lights and window displays. Gucci, Fendi, Tiffany's, Cartier, Chanel, Louis V, and Armani are all within eye sight.
"Alright", says Erika, (a fashion major from Toronto), "This is my favorite street in New York,"
While I'm not much of a shopper, an offense to my gender, I admit that window shopping down 5th during Christmas isn't so bad. The view is a bit commercial, but the sparkle makes it whimsical and maybe even a little breathtaking.
There are hundreds of twinkle lights and decorations. Ribbons and wreaths line the streets, and a Giant swarvoski snowflake is hanging from a highwire above 47th street.

We walk to the Rockefeller center where the large evergreen stands in the plaza, looking stirdy and festive, then wait in the que for Magnolia bakery.
"Hey guys, check this out: According to a Zagat survey, magnolia bakery has the best cupcakes in the city.", Sara reads from a plaque they have displayed on a pastel colored wall.
"I'm ready to put that to the test." I chime, my sweet tooth triggering the excited feeling I get from looking at things with frosting and sprinkles.

One vanilla cupcake and a stomache ache later and I've made my decision:
Magnolia Bakery cupcakes are not cupcakes, they're heaven in dessert form.

Since it is new years eve we have dinner reservations at a fancy restaurant in the West Village. We walk back to the house where we hurriedly get ready and call a cab. The streets are cobblestone and the winter snow from the latest blizzard still exists, making it difficult to walk in our heels.
Danielle and Ashley have joined us for dinner, and I am feeling a wave of gratitude wash over me. It's pleasant having so many people I love at the same table.
I order a glass of pinot girigio and butternut squash ravioli. It tastes divine, but I am coveting Sara's fried calamari appetizer. I know that "thou shall not covet" is one of the ten commandments, but since I'm quite agnostic, I decide this doesn't apply and ask her for a bite.

We settle the bill and taxi to Brother Jimmy's, a bar in Murray Hill. Ashley orders everyone a fishbowl, which is literally a giant glass bowl filled with some deadly booze infested concoction, 30 neon straws, and a plastic alligator. Danielle is right behind her with a round of tequila shots.
More tequila shots closely follow.
Soon Ashley and I are attempting 'the robot' on the dance floor, which probably looked more like: 'The robot with a short circuit.'
I look at the mounted TV screen where they're broadcasting the ball drop live. We talk about how strange it is that just two blocks away thousands of people stand huddled to see what should have remained in the 70's fall from the sky.

It's 11:59, one minute til midnight.
A tall boy with blue eyes and a handsome 5'oclock shadow asks if I'd like a drink. I think he's cute.
I tell him no, but that he can help me bring in the new year.
"How about both?" He replies
I agree, and I wait with him at the bar while the seconds slip from the evening,
"FIVE....FOUR...THREE...TWO....ONE:"
I kiss my stranger, which is actually kind of nice for having only met twenty seconds prior, then smile excusing myself to celebrate with my friends.

Sara asks for our attention, and raises her champagne glass in a toast,
"Here's to one person bringing so many amazing people together tonight, and to having 365 days ahead of us to make this the best year ever,"
We lift our glasses in unison and take a deep drink of chandon, laughing at the silliness in her words, but inside we know the sentiments are true. Our hearts are grateful and full of contentment from the moment, and hope for the future.