published at 10:11am on 11/26/12, with No Comments
Let’s talk about Times Square for a moment.
Let’s talk about the lights and the tourists. Let’s talk about the standing and the gawking and the looking up and the pointing and the noise and the traffic. Let’s talk about the billboards and the terrible food and the chain stores. Let’s talk about the fact that most sane New Yorkers would say that this is the worst of the city. It’s the part of the city that they would go hours out of their way to avoid.
And let’s talk about the fact that I love Times Square.
No, really, I do.
Forgetting everything else there is to know about Times Square, what I love about it is that it is in my backyard. To many, this strip of Broadway is why they come to New York City to visit. It is the epitome of the big city, the anti-town-they-came-from, the anti-every-place-else-in-the-world. It really does never, ever sleep. And once you step foot in there, you know that you’ve made it to the Big Apple.
What I love about Times Square is that I never actually have to be there. Unlike those just passing through, for whom that one visit to Times Square may be the only change they have to stand smack dab in the middle of the greatest city in the world (the East Coast equivalent of, say, standing with one foot on either side of the prime meridian), for me, it is just another neighborhood in this city that I love so dearly.
Sometimes I stop. Sometimes, as I ride my bike through that mess, I stop just north of 42nd Street and I look uptown at all of the people, at all of the lights. The tourists come through Times Square because they need to be there, because they want to know that they’ve been to New York and they’ve seen Times Square. They come because to them, this is New York City. I love that they’re happy, and I love that at any time I can turn right around, leave it all behind, and head back into the real New York.
My New York.
published at 2:09pm on 09/24/12, with No Comments
I had the most wonderful art-filled day on Saturday.
I started with an exhibit imagining the proposed Lower East Side Lowline, followed by a trip to Greenpoint to drive some of the boats in the Newtown Creek Armada, then joining up with my friends Kelli and Daniel to visit Tatzu Nishi’s Discovering Columbus installation in Columbus Circle and ending the day at the Marlborough Chelsea to explore Jonah Freeman & Justin Lowe’s Stray Light Grey.
The answer to the first question is “by bike” (the question being, “how did you get from the Lower East Side to Greenpoint to Midtown to Chelsea in one afternoon?”).
The second thing that was so great about my day of art was how everything I did encouraged me to play, in one way or another. From driving a toy boat around a polluted creek to sitting in a living room next to a giant statue, these things all took my normal perspectives on the world and tweaked them just a little bit. And nothing did that more than the Stray Light Grey exhibit. Kelli and Daniel, who had seen the exhibit before, shoved me into the gallery ahead of them. “Go ahead,” they said, “look around. You lead the way.” In the back corner of the room, a broom closet, with its door open, and inside, another room, and beyond that, a hole in the wall, broken through the sheetrock. And from there we walked through room after room, exploring this space in a space, this constructed world inside the gallery. Beyond whatever grander vision the artists were conveying, at its very basic level, it was permission to wander around a space that we felt like we weren’t actually supposed to be in.
It’s rare that we get to do things like that much any more, as adults. As we get older, we’re supposed to know better, whatever that means. Even at Newtown Creek, in order to pilot the toy boats I had to sign a waiver stating that I would not touch the water, for touching the water in a Superfund site can lead to death.
On the way out of the gallery, we passed a group in formalwear, heading to a party upstairs. “Check out this exhibit,” we told them. “Go into the back room. It doesn’t look like you’re allowed in there, but you are.” Excitedly, they walked into the outer gallery. It was the youngest of the group, just a teenager, who first ran into the broom closet, gesturing for the others to follow her. Tentatively, they stepped through the door, one at a time.
I hope they had fun.
published at 12:09pm on 09/21/12, with 2 Comments
I’ve been spending a lot of time in Washington Square Park lately.
It’s a really nice park, recently renovated and not ruined the way we had all feared it was going to be. There is a nice fountain in the middle, there are benches around the fountain, and there are a good number of people always sitting, eating, reading, singing and dancing in that center area around the fountain. And yesterday, there was a balloon. Sitting on the edge of the fountain, I watched as the giant green balloon dipped up and down, brushing past trees and the arch leading to Fifth Avenue, grazing past the flagpole and just gently slipping past the lamp posts. The balloon was attached to a string, and the string was attached to a young man who was deftly maneuvering the balloon around the park. Suspended under the balloon was a cradle, and in the cradle, what looked like a digital camera.
A mapping project.
Speaking to the two students who were responsible for the balloon, I learned that it was a project for a class at Parsons, in conjunction with Intel and IBM. I’m curious to see the footage that they gathered, and to see the results of the project and how it relates to Grassroots Mapping (which I know about through my involvement with the Awesome Foundation, which recently funded a related project).
But the most remarkable thing about the balloon, was just how unremarkable the rest of the visitors to the park found it. Though they did gather a small crowd who took an active interest in the path of the balloon, gasping as it dove down toward the fountain and cheering as it cleared the trees, the rest of the New York paid it no mind at all, stepping over or under the string as it blocked their paths, and simply ignoring the two kids running around the park chasing the big, green balloon.
Nothing is remarkable in New York City, which is, in itself, remarkable.
published at 12:08pm on 08/31/12, with No Comments
“If you’re tired of a High Line that is full of tourists then stop acting like a fucking tourist.”
It was my father who had originally sent me the op-ed about the High Line with the comment “what did this guy expect-that the high line was built just for his personal enjoyment. probably, which is why he’s so bitter now.2” I wasn’t really on board with that assessment. While I am a beneficiary of much of the gentrification in this city (I moved here in the late 90s, post-graffiti, post-crime), I certainly appreciate that many of the reasons that people move here in the first place (the art, the culture, and that fact that all of these things are integrated into the fabric of the city instead of tucked away in some little art ghetto) are quickly moving away.
This stems from two sources: first, the city government is promoting development at any cost to anyone with a backhoe and blueprints, and second, because these things just happen in cycles. Things are pretty great in New York City right now, and in Manhattan in particular. This means that people, and more importantly businesses, are going to want to move here. And those businesses are not going to be manufacturing businesses, and those people are mostly going to have money. You’re just not going to see a lot of small belt makers and auto body shops because that’s not really how people live any more, in this city or in this country. The way to really stem the tide of big box stores is to encourage people to go shopping at their local mom-and-pop, and to pay more and to support the fabric of their community. But, you know, good luck with that.
But that’s not even the thing that bugged me so much about the op-ed. The thing that really annoyed me was this notion that the High Line is now merely a tourist trap, “another stop on the must-see list for out-of-towners.”
As the High Line’s hype grew, the tourists came clamoring. Originally meant for running freight trains, the High Line now runs people, except where those people jam together like spawning salmon crammed in a bottleneck. The park is narrow, and there are few escape routes. I’ve gotten close to a panic attack, stuck in a pool of stagnant tourists at the park’s most congested points.
Of course, this is accurate. If you go to the High Line on a beautiful weekend afternoon, you will fear for your life. But honestly, what kind of New Yorker are you that you’re just going somewhere whenever everyone else is going there? No, a real New Yorker will seek out those moments when this city peels back its exterior (gritty, shiny, whatever phase it happens to be going through at the time) and reveals just a little bit of itself just to you. As I walked along the High Line from 18th Street down to its start at Gansevoort, I stopped at one of the wide wooden recliners that line the middle of that path. And as I sat there, looking at the stars through the clouds, I watched a couple take off their shoes and shuffle their feet through the water feature that was built into the pathway. She stamped her feet and splashed water onto both of their legs and they both laughed. I watched the family, most likely tourists from another part of the city, walking along quietly. And I sat, watching absolutely nothing. Minutes, five, ten at a time would pass and nobody would walk past. Two friends were about to walk by when one stopped and suggested that they stop and sit on the recliner next to mine. Separated by trees and tall grass, they completed disappeared from view when they sat.
To live in New York is to be constantly bombarded by every possible kind of stimulation at every possible moment of the day. Or rather, it can be. To truly live in New York is to find your own pace, to understand that you can not possibly experience every facet of the city, ever, and to pick and choose those things that make you happy. I too fear a city that is built only for tourists, but at the end of the day, only those of us who can learn to navigate the insanity of daily life here are going to stay and call it home.
1. So actually, it was my Fuel Band that reminded me that I was only a quarter of the way to my already woefully low daily goal, and that if I didn’t leave the house a) I would feel really, really bad about myself and b) I would be losing the nearly two-month streak that I was on. Say what you will about the Quantified Self movement, but anything that is going to remind me to get up and move my butt is probably a good thing. The numbers, at least the way I’m using it, don’t really mean too much to me. A friend of mine recently told me that I needed to set a much higher goal, but I realized that I wasn’t wearing the band for him, I was wearing it for me, and if having this little band of rubber and circuits on my wrist was going to get me up and walking around more, then that was plenty. I didn’t have anything to prove to him (or the rest of my social graph, for that matter, so forget you, Facebook connect).
2. My father often writes emails like this, often sans punctuation or capitalization. It’s quite nice, actually. It’s like I have a constant portal open to his consciousness all day through my inbox.
published at 9:07am on 07/17/12, with 9 Comments
I recently had the misfortune of booking a Ryanair flight and discovered a secret little $20 fee hidden behind a checkbox.
First of all, if you’ve never had the pleasure of purchasing a ticket from Ryanair, especially out of London, I would highly recommend avoiding it at all costs. The problem with flying out of London is that it requires at least three different searches (for the three regional airports) which can not be combined. You then have to do the mental gymnastics involved in figuring out which airport provides the schedule you want, let alone the price that you’re comfortable paying (after all, this is a “budget” airline, so you’re certainly competing on price here). But beyond their abysmally bad web experience, Ryanair are known to charge fees on just about every part of the travel experience, from the £1.50 charge to have an SMS confirmation sent to your phone, to baggage fees for everything besides your one carry-on, to fees for checking in at the airport.
So against all better judgement, I had settled on a flight from Gatwick to Dublin. During the checkout process, however, I noticed that as I entered my credit card information, the ticket price on the web page automatically updated and was listed in both pounds and the converted dollars that I would actually be paying.
It turns out that Ryanair will quote you a ticket price in the currency of the departing country (hence the price quoted in Pounds in this case), but will actually bill you in your home currency (in my case, US Dollars). The interesting bit comes behind the “more information” link, which will show that they have taken the liberty of providing you with their own currency conversion rate which is, as you’ve probably guessed, much worse than the current rate.
At the time, this £235 ticket was quoted by Ryanair as $386, and xe.com as $368. Simply unchecking this box will bill my card in Pounds and will let my credit card company do the actual currency conversion, which should be a lot more fair than the Ryanair rate (not taking into consideration the foreign transaction fees that a lot of cards charge, but that’s another story).
You’re probably going to get screwed by flying Ryanair anyway, but at least make sure that it’s on your own terms.