Why Didn't I Take A Cab.

My stairs are steep. They are narrow. I am wearing boots with a two-inch heel. As I pull my bags out the front door I eyeball them, and then I glance down those steep stairs. I wonder for just a moment if I can manage all three bags: the colossal duffel, the dense shoulder bag and the small lunch sack. No surprise that I am running late to the airport. No time to doubt my abilities, no sherpa to assist me, I shoulder the three bags and wobble slowly down the mountain. A neighbor on the second floor comes out her front door, looks up at me and says nothing. Ok, so maybe it's early, but she doesn't offer any help, doesn't offer a grimace to commiserate with me, if only to share in the pain by a turn of her lips. She just heads down the stairs, leading the way like a helpless guide. Continuing my downward spiral, just a little behind the nameless neighbor, I get down to the ground floor and make my way through the narrow hall towards the two front doors I must maneuver next. The first door you have to turn a handle and pull towards you. The second door, once you've made it through the first, has a large red button you must push (which then emits a warning buzz, which I've never quite understood) and then you pull the door in. The neighbor has made it through both doors, without a single glance back.

Exiting the complicated 2-door entry I stop on the street, confronted by the frigid air. The cold slices through me despite the heat I've just generated from the journey out the building. I decide not to put my gloves or hat on–the effort out the building already has me huffing and I think the heat is enough to take care of my extremities. Leaning down I pick up the handle to the giant duffel bag and begin the four block journey. As I pull it along I am slightly ashamed at the largeness of it, like it shouts to everyone that I don't know how to pack light. Three minutes later, proven dramatically wrong about heat spreading, I stop to put on my gloves and hat. The three minute exposure to the early morning wind is already too much; my hands are pink and stinging.

Walking again I can feel my torso throwing off more heat. I want to unzip my jacket. Again: foolish thought. As I near the station entrance, I mentally count off the steps remaining to boarding the train: down one flight of stairs, through the turnstile, wait on platform. Three more to go. I make it down the stairs without sideswiping any humans. Approaching the turnstile I realize there's no way we can all fit through. I drop the bag that feels as heavy as a dead horse, should I have ever felt the weight of a dead horse, and I ask the subway attendant what to do. She looks at me like I'm an idiot and says, "Swipe your card at any turnstile over there (pointing left), then walk through that gate over there (pointing right)." I do exactly as she instructs and make it to the platform just in time for an M train to pull up–it's not the train I need so I stand there and try to compose myself. I am sweating profusely and I feel weak.

As the M-train pulls away I look across the tracks to the other direction to see a J-train pulling up. That's when I realize I am on the wrong side of the tracks. Not only am I missing the train I need but I have unanticipated stairs ahead of me. I heft my bags up and onto my shoulders, move down a long flight of stairs, walk over to the other side and tread (slowly) up the final two flights of stairs to the correct platform. I throw my bags down, I rip off my leather jacket and I wonder to myself for the hundredth time: why didn't I take a cab?

Celebs, they're just like (us) me.

<Superficial blog post alert>
I've been meaning to start a list of all of my celeb sightings, before I forget them! Here goes:

Chuck Close, on W. 12th Street (with his wife, I think and their dog).
Naomi Watts, with her two very blond kids, in the park on Spring Street in Soho.
Gary Shteyngart, sitting next to me on a bench in Tomkins Square.
Morgan Freeman, in a car on Rivington Street, filming a movie.
Alan Rickman, walking on Broadway in Soho. I heard his voice first, of course, then confirmed with a glance followed by a double take.
Thurston Moore, at La Colombe in Soho
Andrew Shue (Melrose Place!) walking on Spring Street
Daniel Day Lewis, walking in SoHo on Prince Street
Kyra Sedgewick, in my Bar Method class
Blake Lively, Penn Badgley & Chase Crawford, filming an episode of Gossip Girl, one block from my apartment!
Dylan McDermott, in Soho at midnight
Lisa Bonet, on Prince Street in Soho (Wearing silver lipstick, a jingle jangley vest and walking with a tall, gorgeous man I wanted to steal.)
David Byrne, sitting in front of me at a show at the NYPL
Gabriel Byrne, walking & smoking, late at night in Soho on West Broadway
Elvis Costello, maybe–I'm 70% sure, getting soup at the Whole Food on Houston
Josh Charles (The Good Wife) buying household whathaveyou at Bed, Bath & Beyond on 6th Ave
Katie Couric, in the bathroom at Jean Georges
Hope Davis, walking in Soho
John Malkovich, walking in Soho
Matthew Modine, in the audience at a Times Talk interview with Gary Oldman
Parker Posey, with her fluffy white dog at O Cafe, 6th Ave and W 12th
Roseanna Arquette, in my Bar Method class

Have I forgotten anyone?

A New Station.

I recently moved. Along with the pains and sufferings of moving away from my favorite coffee place, it also meant a change to my subway station. No big deal I thought. I've got these trains down. Little did I know. Little do I know. My new station, Delancey, home of the F, M, J and Z, is convoluted, crowded and cruddy. I don't like it. I have yet to clearly know which track is which. Which direction, which train is running, where the heck is Jamaica? There's one level for the J, M and Z and one track below that is the F. I take the F most of the time so it shouldn't really be a problem. But it is. I still find myself down there waiting for a train–in the wrong direction. My body falls into patterns and my brain forgets to overrule these patterns. I stand there, my body thinks it's going to school so I'm waiting for an Uptown train. I don't figure out I'm headed in the wrong direction until I hear the driver announce the next stop. That's when my brain kicks in and hurls me off the train and I scurry up and over to the Brooklyn side. Unless of course I need to go Uptown, in which case, everything is ok.

Getting on the right car (in the right train) is a whole nother bowl of difficult. In New York trains are so long that if you're not careful you'll get off at 17th Street when you really just need to be at 14th Street. I want to be in the right car but it means I need to know which way is the front. As a subway newbie, perhaps getting in the right car is an added layer of complexity that I don't need.

In addition to wanting to be in the right car for  my destination, I also like to exit the station so I'm closest to my house. This I have yet to accomplish. Why? Because when I go underground from the spot I'd like to come back up at, I'm taken down to the J, M, Z track. Once in I have to walk from one platform then down another level to take the F. So how do I get back up in that same way? I look at the signs, try to fix it in my brain but I haven't figured it out yet. I know my problems are in large part due to the cryptic signage that the MTA has posted around the station. Their inconsistent use of Downtown Brooklyn and Uptown leads me to be just as inconsistent with how I exit the station. It's my own little version of No Exit.

I have faith I'll figure it out, maybe in another three months?

Jean Georges (with a side of Katie Couric).

Let me set the stage. Trump tower, gleaming gold high rise at 1 Central Park West. I'm in the bathroom washing up before I go to lunch with my friend Tory. The bathroom is far from what you might expect, either in this towering tower, in something owned by "the Trump" or, last but not least, the only Ladies room for a restaurant with three Michelin stars. Ok. So I'm in the bathroom. And so is Tory, along with one other woman who has just scooted into the one and only stall. We're moving around slowly and carefully like goldfish in the tiniest of glass bowls. The door opens and in comes a small, well-dressed woman. She asks us if we're in line, a totally logical question on entry to a bathroom. Eyes downcast, like all good New Yorkers who have seen everything, Tory says something along the lines of no and she exits the room. At that point I take a close look at the woman who's just joined me in this tiny closet. It's Katie Couric. She smiles at me, her eyes simultaneously crinkling and twinkling. Her chestnut hair has that just blown flip. We trade positions and I grab my coat and jacket and as Katie (excuse me, you don't mind the first name do you?), Katie tries the door handle to the stall. I'm standing like two inches from her and say the only possible response, "There's someone in there." "Oh," Katie says, looking right at me, dazzling me with her "I'm on TV everyday" star persona, "Thank you for letting me know." We smile and I turn and leave.

Now, how can a lunch following on the heels of Katie, a meal at Jean Georges' restaurant Nougatine, how could it possibly be bad? Granted we had a slightly rocky start with our service (as in, we had none for the first ten minutes) but after that, it was phenomenal. I had Tuna Tartare (shown above), a pan roasted skate on cauliflower and the warm chocolate cake (shown below). It's a $32 prix fix that will blow you away. Sure it's been around for years, sure we were surrounded by a businessy Upper West Sidey clientele, but the food was delicious and I savored every bite. Wrapping up the meal, sorry to see my third course come to its finale, I glanced out the windows. On that unseasonably warm day I could see Central Park, the trees changing colors, leaves gliding down to the sidewalk. I could feel New York welcoming me with all its might. Katie, I'll be back. Will you?

Apartment hunting.

I've been in Manhattan for three months and in that time I've lived in two places, soon to be three. I started off on a friends couch in Brooklyn Heights. An adorable, easy, pretty neighborhood that almost made me want to stay put. But I wanted to live in Manhattan so I hit Craigslist and I hit the streets. After seeing 13 apartments all over downtown I settled on a place in the Lower East Side. It was a 2-bedroom apartment I would be sharing with an actress. I loved the apartment and my new roommate, my first roommate in over five years. Could I live with someone again? I hoped so. I had a view from my room. I had sun. I had space. I felt lucky and blessed.

This feeling only lasted two months. Sadly I have to move. On October 1st I found out I had to either pay more rent or move. So, I've spent the last three weeks pounding the pavement and trolling Craiglist. I ran from neighborhood to neighborhood. I was on time and I was late. I was depressed, angry, sad and most of all, anxious. Would I find something I liked just as much? Would I find something with as much space? Would I find anything at all? Would I be homeless? Well, after seeing 12 apartments I'm happy to report that I found just the right place (view above). On November 1st I will be moving to a new home. My new home for the next year. No roommates! (insert image of me jumping up for joy.)

Learning new things.

In New York City, with a population of 8,175,133 people, it's no surprise that I'm learning a few new tricks. These have come from people I know, strangers on subway platforms and new friends. Here are just a few of the 'how to survive in NYC' facts I've learned:

1. On even Avenues the traffic is going Uptown. This is only true on the West side-fyi. Conversely the odd streets are going downtown. I just learned this last week. A very helpful little factoid when you're trying to get a cab going the right way.

2. On even Streets the traffic goes East. Conversely the odd streets go West. The grid system was put into place in 1811, to unite regularity and order, and has undergone very little change since that original plan. There's more to learn here, maybe this book?

3. I hop on the F-train at the East Broadway station most days and it was just pointed out to me that the Uptown train, when it's about to arrive, is preceded by wind. I always noticed the wind but what I didn't realize was that the Brooklyn bound track side doesn't have the wind, it's preceded by a screechy sound. Total truth.

4. Yesterday I was wondering what people do with their A/C units in the winter. Leave em in. Take em out. No idea. Well, apparently there are companies who will come to your house, yank the unit, take it back to their shop, refurbish it, store it for the winter and then, when you're ready, come on out with it and pop it back in. Can you believe it? I can. And I can't. You gotta love New York.

5. When your Metro card is low the turnstile makes a beeping sound, a different beep than when it's just confirming that it's subtracting your fare. I never would have picked this up.

6. I have been dropping my clothes off at the Chinese laundromat down the street. What I didn't know is that once they get to know you you can call and have them pick up. And deliver. Wow.

Well, these are just a start. I've only been here three months, let's see what I find out in the next three.

Things I don't get.

So I've been here a few months and I've started compiling a list of things that I just don't get. Or things I just don't understand why someone hasn't come up with a better solution. Here goes:

1. For the love of A/C. Why must air conditioners drip water when they're in use? Invariably they're above a door, namely my front door and other front doors. Hasn't someone figured out a better way for the A/C to cool us off?

2. Parks and recreation. Why is every park gate locked save for the one that is farthest from me. Why are all the entrances locked up? Why do we all have to go in through one little gate when there are lots of gates to open up?

3. Trash Bins. When I first got here I kept noticing all the trash bags just thrown onto the sidewalk. I finally got it, that that was how they picked it up, but why? Can't someone come up with a better way? It's so dirty here and no one seems to care, or maybe it's that people don't notice. Why aren't there more recycling bins around? Even the streets are dirty. Whywhywhy.

4. Men. How come the workers (and men) on the streets are always complimenting me but the guys I go on dates with aren't. Well, one gave me one compliment, once.

5. Subways. Why are there letters *and numbers? Why aren't the Express trains just labeled with an E or even an Ex after the number? Why must it be so complicated?

Well, that's all for now, keep checking my list, it's bound to grow.

Looking up.

The first thing I noticed in New York were the clouds. Not the supermodels or the grit or the heat. Walking along streets filled with high rises I had never seen I couldn’t stop craning my neck to look up. Looking up I couldn’t help but fall in love with the big, curvy, luscious clouds. If ever a cloud looked heavenly these were them. They were brilliant white cut outs set sharply against a bright blue sky. San Francisco didn’t have clouds. We had fog, we had wind, we had cold blustery breezes. We never had air still enough or hot enough to create those heavenly creatures. The second thing I noticed were the planes. Everywhere I looked there was a plane flying somewhere. I imagined its destination and its passengers. Were they going somewhere far? I have to admit, it also brought to mind 9/11. The fact that seeing planes in the sky was an everyday event for New Yorkers and that the people who saw those fated planes may have, for just a brief moment, thought everything was just ok. I missed those two twin buildings. I missed them for their grounding nature. I missed them for their place South in the city. I had been to the very top a few years before 9/11. Knowing I had been on that roof made me know those buildings in a way I knew few others.

Recently a friend, a new friend, mentioned how blue the sky looked on that morning. And knowing other people noticed how blue the sky could be made me think that it should be a blue all it's own. A new color memorialized into a crayola box, a way for us to remember in a whole new way. This post wasn't supposed to be about 9/11, it was supposed to be about my first impressions of New York. But here I am...seeing and remembering, possibly for the first time.

Spicy & Tasty.

A few weeks ago I journeyed out to Arthur Ashe Stadium for day two of the US Open. But that's not what I really want to write about today. What I want to write about is a restaurant in Flushing called Spicy & Tasty. It may as well be called Great & Awesome or Amazing & Incredible. Really.

After a long day of sitting in the sun, my eyes shot from watching furry yellow balls fly to and fro, I was extremely ready to sit in a cool restaurant, drink a cold beer and eat some spicy food. Taking the 7 one stop further east, deeper into the heart of Flushing I was looking forward to the unknown. I think the unknown is actually my favorite part of going to a Chinese restaurant that isn't for English speakers. Part of the fun was not really knowing what I was going to get.

As we walked in I glanced at the glass food display case on my right. There was a man standing there, we looked at each other, and I looked at my friend who I was with, thankfully a Chinese friend. I hoped she lent us a bit of "we know that of which we eat" cred. The display case confused me, I worried that it was only a take-out place. I wanted to sit, I wanted to be served. Possibly a bit of sunstroke talking here. That and I didn't want to ride the subway an hour home, looking at my plastic bags, and not getting to eat what was in the bags. Thankfully, continuing my survey of the room, I saw dozens of tables to sit at.

As we were led to our table I did my best to look at what everyone else had, for me this is the best way to pick out something I might want. Since the descriptions in Chinese menus are rather, um, opaque. I much prefer finding something at another table, asking about it and ordering it that way. It's even more fun than using the plastic food sitting outside a Japanese restaurant.

The first dish we ordered, spied at someone else's table, were the cold jelly Chengdu style noodles, shown above. When we pointed to it the waitress said "Jelly noodles", in a heavy Mandarin accent. Jelly to me can only sound sweet and grape. She said it again, "Cold jelly". Again, this didn't do me any better. Something cold and something jelly sounds so unappealing it repels. But, I looked over at my friend Tara, with my huge trusting eyes, the eyes that said, Yes, I can eat anything, once. And we ordered it.

The dish turned out to be the most unique thing I've eaten in years. Covered in spicy oil, coated in spicy peppercorns, bathed in heat, with a sprinkling of green onions and peanuts, the noodles look like no noodle you have ever seen. Misshapen and white, kind of clear but kind of not, long, medium and short. They nestled in a bowl filled with chilis, soy sauce and lord knows what else. Too impatient to serve from the bowl to my plate, I snatched up a bite and put it right in my mouth. At that moment I felt everything. Tang from acids, heat from chills and tingle from peppercorns. It was cold, savory, spicy and delicious. I kept eating more until the tingling sensation said to stop. That's when we raised our hands up for beer.

We shared three other dishes: spicy lamb, sweet and sour cabbage and a tofu dish. The tofu and the sweet and sour cabbage were the other two highlights. The lamb lost a little for me because it was too fatty. But the sweet and sour cabbage dish was wonderful, it was a really nice compliment to the other main dishes, crunchy and soft at the same time. As I ate it I tried to dissect what the flavors were: vinegar, sugar, peanut oil, salt, pepper...I knew there was more, but what? "Lots of frying in Sichuan food," Tara said. Oh yeah, that.


We ended the meal with a little bit left of all four dishes and, since we both desperately wanted leftovers, we attempted a point and gesture conversation with no less than two waitresses and one waiter in hopes that they would bring plastic to-go containers and let us do the divvying up. It took a good ten minutes of back and forth before we got where we wanted but in the end we both happily walked out of the restaurant with our own plastic bag full of Spicy & Tasty.

My first slice.

Stepping out from the High Street subway stop I looked up and saw the Brooklyn Bridge, a bridge as impressive up close as well as it is from afar. I loved being close up to the bridge, no matter the din. So big and classic, it reminded me of the Golden Gate Bridge back home. I felt like it was a protector of New York and I was happy to be one of its citizens.

I'd been to DUMBO before but never to this stretch of Old Fulton Road. It was adorable. I could see the East River, the financial district skyline, and a stretch of shops that looked like they belonged in the Iowa. Small town quaint. Tonight I was heading to the most famous location on that stretch: Grimaldi's. I'd been in New York for almost two months and the only time I'd had pizza it was bad. As in don't-finish-it-toss-it-in-the-trash bad. I needed to rectify the "Pizza Situation" asap. So I joined my friend Meg for a virginal trip to Grimaldi's. As an experienced New Yorker, Meg said we should get there before 6pm. After that she mentioned something about crazy long lines. No problem.

I made sure to eat light that day so I would be ready to split a whole pizza. And, before I left my apartment, I made sure to turn my I'm-on-a-diet button off. One of the few days it was off, I was going to dive in with my whole stomach. No sooner had I walked up and hugged Meg but a gentle looking white-haired man walked out and asked me where I'd been all this time. Grabbing my hand he pulled me in, shook it and held onto it for a second longer, I felt like a regular, like a favorite customer. I loved it. He pointed us to a red-checked table, "Take the deuce over there".

As we settled in I was excited to catch up with Meg and you know, to eat pizza. We quickly put in our order and then, because of the timing, oven cleaning or something like that, we would have to wait about 25 minutes. We opted for a bottle of Valpolicella, a nice italian red, to while away the time. As I looked around, taking it all in, hearing the music and seeing other tourists, I noticed the kitchen. I leapt up, phone in hand, to grab some pictures. Standing by the worktable, I asked the expeditor if he minded, "Nope".

From the looks of it the cooks were all Latino. These guys made it look easy and fun. They wouldn't look me in the eye, just kept their focus and grabbed dough, stretched and flattened it out with their hands, throwing tomato sauce, cheese, basil, all kinds of toppings on it. There was one guy who was clearly in charge of the pizza oven. When he opened it up I could see the flames coming out, orangey and purple, like the flames on a duraflame log. The oven was so deep he needed a pizza paddle with a four foot long extension. When he threw the pizzas in they went all the way to the back. I wanted to get in there, throw on an apron and help out. No chance of that I'm sure.

Back to the table to wait for the pie. Ours came with ricotta, black cured olives, italian sausage and red pepper. When it arrived, steaming from the oven, I just smiled. And I took the picture up top. Had to. The pizza is thin but not too thin, crunchy. The dough has a nice tang to it and a nice bite, a little tough. If pizza could be al dente, this was it. The ricotta added a nice rich texture to the mozzarella and the black cured olives added the perfect salty pucker. I won't tell you how much I ate, I'm a little embarrassed. But, let's just say I went for a run this morning. You can see more pics here.

Sprouts in September.

Years of living in San Francisco, decades of eating produce planted and picked in the fertile ground of California, well, you can imagine how I was going through a bit of a transition moving all the way to the other side of the country. I'd seen what Chinatown had to offer, giant tasteless Fuji apples, limp cabbage and dull oranges. I'd been to Whole Foods, and yes, it's a completely reasonable place to shop organic. But, I am a California girl who loves her produce and I wanted to meet the people who worked the farms.

Yesterday I made it over to the Union Square Farmers Market. And it was wonderful. I sampled beer bread, just picked apples, goat cheese, sprouts, kale salad, ginger tea, and watermelon. There was no shortage of variety. Walking up the crowded main isle of the market I felt a few different things: like I was in a movie set, that I was lucky to live here and relishing all that was new. Smiling and happy I zigzagged left and right making sure I hit every stand. It started to rain and I didn't have an umbrella and I didn't care. I loved the people watching, the sampling, the browsing. Wandering slowly, sample in my hand, chatting with my friend, the rain felt cool and refreshing.

One of my favorite stops was at the Unconventional Produce Stand also known as Windfall Farms. The stand was full of bins with every kind of sprout imaginable: sunflower, daikon, radish, adzuki and more. They had lettuce that looked like an artist had painted each leaf by hand, in green hues that existed outside of nature, unimaginable colors, not even known by Crayola.

The most unusual thing I found was a bin full of green bullet shaped something or others. Flecked green, it looked like what you'd get if you mated a watermelon with a midget cucumber. Tiny and adorable, about an inch long, it looked like the worlds smallest watermelon. I bit into it. It had a soft crunch to it, a tangy taste and a gel like coating around its interior seeds. I was smitten but at a loss as to what I might do with it. Other than tossing it in the air. Standing next to a tall, thin, tattooed man who was shoveling them into a bag by the dozens I asked him what he was planning to do with them. "They're in a recipe on our menu tonight." "Oh really? Where do you cook?" I asked. "Eleven Madison West," he replied. I had never heard of it and I didn't know what to say next. Ok, and he was cute. Ok, and I was tongue tied. After a little online research I found an article that called them a sour mexican gherkin. I wonder if I can lobby for a better name. In fact if there was a job to be a person in charge of naming things, I would apply. But I digress.

I didn't end up buying any 'gherkins', but maybe I should pop by that cute chefs restaurant? In the meantime I did buy some fancy lettuce and a handful of gorgeous purple wax beans. It cost me $10.75, which made me pause in reaching for my wallet but really, what was I going to do? Put it back?

At the end of day I walked home with a huge bag full of New Yorks finest. A bounty I had been skeptical I could find: kale, apples, fresh eggs, mixed greens, sprouts and purple beans. I walked home with a skip. Excited to make a kale salad, scramble some eggs and, most of all, to get back there next Saturday.

A Cook's Tour of Chinatown.

Walking up to the intersection of Grand and Elizabeth I surveyed the group. They were mostly older, wearing rain jackets and clutching paper and pens. One woman, standing quietly off to the side was Chinese, wearing a big floppy white hat and wearing enough concealer she looked like a mime. I wondered if she was hiding from friends, too ashamed to admit to them she didn't know where to get ginseng or maybe just hiding from the sun. Even though it was going to rain. One couple was visiting from Australia, the husband wore a hat with a spinny propeller on it and a shirt that said Santa Cruz. I thought, well, maybe he'll be fun. It was 10am on a Thursday, so the random group was not a surprise. Standing there we passed around a bag of sweet buns from a local bakery, buns I had never tried. They were round like a dinner roll. and the top was crusty with yellow crackly stuff. Knowing the Chinese put pork in everything I was a little hesitant. I sniffed it and looked up at the lady with the bag. "Think there's pork in them?" She shrugged, "Don't know." I gambled and, thankfully, pork free.

"Hey everyone. Thanks for coming," Ross said, introducing himself as the head chef for the 92Y, "I'm not an expert on Chinatown. I certainly can't tell you about everything we're going to see but I come here often and can show you the things I like. I mean," he continued in further evidence of his non-expertness, "I have friends who are Chinese and we cook together sometimes." Sometimes. His intro was so bad I wanted to step forward and say, "Hey guys, I've lived near Chinatown for the last 4 weeks and I have never eaten here, but I used to work near Chinatown in San Francisco, how 'bout I show you around." I resisted my urge to give him a few helpful pointers and have him start again.

A few weeks ago, in a flurry of making new-in-New York plans, I booked a tour with the Tribeca 92Y to walk around Chinatown with a chef and had been looking forward to it all week. I expected the motley group of older people, but, I hate to even admit it, I also had an eensy hope that the chef would be some cool, hot guy I could flirt with. This guy was a mix of my dad and Louis CK. Not exactly what I was looking for.

As we set off I quickly sidestepped the old ladies with carts and did my best to keep up with Ross. He pointed out places we could buy tofu, Chinese sausage, dried mushrooms and ginseng. All individual store fronts that specialized in one thing. That's what I love about Chinatown, small stores with the expertise of just one thing. I had been looking for a tofu shop and quickly jotted down it's location so I could make it back there. Then we walked over to a jerky place. We went inside and Ross told us a little bit about how they made jerky. Apparently it's ground up (whatever different "it" type meats that is) like sausage, then pounded out flat. They add sugar, spices and something that makes it bright pinkish orangeish plus a dash of something chemical sounding that's supposed to ensure we don't get sick. I can't wait. It was a spectacularly non-meat, non-nature occurring pink color. Ross bought some, had her heat them up over a grill and we dug in. It was good. Chewy and sticky with a hint of a rubbery meat feel to it. Hot doggy. If I knew what Spam tasted like I might say it tasted like that.

Eventually we made our way into a huge supermarket. Walking around Ross pointed out the different greens and vegetables and how we could work with them. "This is Kabocha," Ross said, picking up a large dark green squash, "what I like to do is peel it and steam it till it's soft, then I mash it between my fingers, put it into a mold. Then you chill it for several hours and later, slice it and serve it for dessert. It's really delicious. We would do this in Japan." A fan of all things Kabocha, I couldn't wait to try it.

The array of sauces, noodles, fish stuff and green things was overwhelming. I got antsy to leave. Before we walked out of the market Ross bought some salted squid for us to try. When we get out to the sidewalk we broke into the bag. It tasted like cardboard that had been wet, liberally coated in kosher salt, and doused with a splash of chili peppers and fish sauce. Normally these are all things I like, but I couldn't get beyond the feeling that I was eating a salty box.

Moving along we explored a once mysterious set of tunnels off Doyers Street. Underground is a small enclave of business offices: a dentist, an acupuncturist, a tour operator, a chiropractor, and so on. What would it be like to work somewhere with no natural light? I tried to imagine coming down here for work in the morning. There's not enough coffee in the world that could get me through that mental image. And, just as quickly, we were back up to Mott Street, right back to where we started.

At the end of the tour Ross bid us farewell and the group just as quickly dissolved into thin air. I, of course, wanted to have lunch. I tapped the Australians on the shoulder, "Hey, I'm going to go for lunch at Great NY Noodletown. Want to join?" The husband looked at me like he didn't speak English and mumbled something about wanting to go to the courthouse. This made no sense and he didn't offer an explanation so I said goodbye feeling weirdly embarrassed for being friendly. Before I could wander off, the wife quickly said she'd like to join me and later she explained that her husband used to practice law and he liked to go into the courthouse and watch trials. Ah-hah. And off we went, in search of our next meal.

Hello Coney.

Friends visiting means I get to go to places I've never been. Like Coney Island. Steph and I met in the darkroom at UCSD and going on photo safaris was always something we enjoyed doing together. Everything I read online about Coney Island said to ride the Cyclone, eat a hotdog and avoid the bathrooms. (Foreshadowing: I only managed doing one of those things.) I surfed online trying to find the hidden gems we could eat at. I thought there was a rule: all towns have at least ONE hidden gem. I guess that's a no. We settled on leaving early thinking we'd get some beautiful early morning skies for our photos.

We walked out the door at 8:30am on Sunday, making a few key stops: coffee from the Roasting Plant and the Sunday Times. Integral items for a happy journey. Hopping on the D-train at Grand Street I was all ready for the 45-minute ride. While Steph read the NYT I focused on slogging my way through The Metamorphoses by Ovid, a little 'light' reading for grad school. The train was slow and quiet, it actually went along nicely with my Greek mythology.

Arriving at Coney Island at 9:30am we were greeted by locals doing their early morning walks, closed hot dog stands and an already blistering sun. Rarely have I been to a beach where I wasn't drawn to the coastline, this will have to stand out as the lone example. We walked up and down the wooden slatted boardwalk. I could smell the history of the place, I could feel the fact that my Grandma had told me she used to come here and that she met my Grandfather here. I noticed there was no shade and I worried I would get tan. Funny how these days I worry about things like that.

Dozens of older men walked past us in pairs. Mostly shirtless and speaking Russian. They walked by, heads bent down in serious conversation. I couldn't help but wonder what they were conniving about. After noticing the men I noticed the women. Older, wider women using beach towels to squeeze and shimmy out of their bathing suits. They were adorable. I wonder why I thought the men were up to something sneaky but the women were cute and simple. There were lots of bikers out, even one guy on a bike that was a half rowing machine, half bicycle. It was like seeing something from my book: part man, part machine, a 21st century version of Pan. My mouth dropped open and I stared.

We finally made it over to Nathan's for the obligatory hotdog and lemonade. There was nowhere to sit so we promised Ruby's, the stand next door, that we would buy something from them if we could please just sit. So, because I prefer sitting to standing, french fries rounded out our lunch. They were all good, but not something I need (again) anytime soon. After the bad nutrition and the omnipresent sun we slowed down to a snails pace. It was like we had aged enough to join the surrounding demographic. We walked by the rides and glanced over, shrugged our shoulders and kept on moving. "Yeah, I think I'm done," Steph said. "Yep, me too."

Slowly we made our way back to the subway station and settled into the train for the ride home. Opening my book I tried to focus on the Greek gods but instead I heard the babies screaming and the men speaking loudly in Chinese. Using my finger as a bookmark and the seat pole as a headrest I closed my eyes. Tired from the Coney Island adventure I leaned back and fell asleep.