Astoria

Living in Queens is a funny thing.

If you want to feel completely out of place, devoid of any similarities to what feels like millions of people around you, it’s entirely possible. You can walk four blocks from the subway to your apartment, and never hear a single conversation in English. You can smell the restaurants that line the streets and not recognize a single scent. Brazilian, Greek, Thai, Chinese, Mexican, Spanish, Japanese. I never before realized that a scent could be both distinct and completely unfamiliar at once.

However, if you’re in need of some comfort, if you want to feel as though you are exactly where you’re meant to be, you can simply notice the overwhelming amount of twentysomethings navigating that rocky transition into adulthood. You can read on their faces the same worries and anxieties you carry on your own. You can go to yoga class and forget, if only for 90 minutes at a time, that you’re no longer living on campus in a house with 41 of your closest friends.

The beautiful thing about Astoria is that there is no pretense. It’s not Manhattan, where every night is expected to be the best of your life, or Brooklyn where one must constantly worry about looking cool without appearing as though they worry about looking cool. I almost want to go as far to say that Queens is filled with normal people, but then I remember that guy who sits on the stairs at the subway station singing reggae in pajamas, and I catch myself. It’s still New York.

It’s comforting to look around and not feel like you’re sticking out like a sore thumb, which only works here, because everyone sticks out. There is no norm. There is no cultural manifesto to fit yourself into, no checklist to ensure you’re perfectly matched to the borough in which you’ve landed.

Because sometimes, just hearing someone order a coffee and pronouncing it the way you’ve always known to be right is as much of a sign as you’ll ever need.

La Cucaracha

"Hey, something just fell down over there. What was that?"

The most extraordinary stories generally begin with something equally as ordinary as my roommate, E's question.

Upon her detailed inspection we quickly discovered that "thing" was a cockroach.

I shudder even typing the word.

We screamed as if masked intruders had carving knives to our throats. E quickly threw a bowl over it, assumed she missed, and then threw another. We continued to scream. We screamed loud and long, unwavering in our terror until neighbors from all sides began violently pounding on the walls. We composed ourselves enough to discuss how our neighbors certainly wouldn't be helpful in the event that masked intruders really did have carving knives to our throats. Then we remembered the vile prehistoric creep that was under one of two bowls. We couldn't just leave him trapped there. What if he got out and crawled into our rooms!? Our beds!?? However irrational, the thought was horrifying.

We called the boyfriends. Not pleased with their unsympathetic responses ("it's just a bug...kill it. You guys really need to calm down. Are you - is that screaming?") we called the Dads. A bit more understanding but with the same bottom line, Dad reminded me about the roach killing powder we had in the closet. We were now armed and dangerous -if only to ourselves.

Still atop chairs, we strategized. E would flip the bowls. and I would squirt the sucker with my nifty powder. The only snag in our plan was the prospect of actually having to touch a bowl the cockroach was in. So, we did what any self-respecting, mature, professional 22 year-olds would do.

We took a few shots.

Feeling a bit more courageous, we got back on the chairs. (Yes, we were still on chairs, I said a *bit* more courageous, we weren't god-damned superheroes). E palmed the bowl and with a bit of a whimper flipped it over. Nothing. Feeling more prepared, we deduced it must be in the second bowl. Before flipping the second, E had a stroke of alcohol-induced brilliance and proposed that we slide the bowl onto a magazine and carefully then slide the bowl and its inhabitant into the toilet. We did just that and to our horror, discovered nothing under the second bowl either.

Great. Not only is this disgusting thing still alive, but now we don't even know where it is.

We had hunch it was probably under the radiator. I took a shirt and wound it up boys-locker room style, and took a few shots at the radiator. Armed with a flashlight, E shined it underneath hoping to scare our friend out. Just when it was starting to look hopeless, she saw it. I doused it in powder as E ran to get a glass bowl this time, so we could be certain of our capture. She grabbed a measuring cup and set it over the mound of powder that had formed. Proud of our success, we retreated to the kitchen to both lower our heart-rates before the next phase and have a celebratory shot.

Upon our return, we both stared at the bowl in silence. E finally verbalized what we were both thinking. "He's not in there, is he?" And he wasn't. The disgusting monster had effectively outsmarted two college graduates and crawled out through the spout in the measuring cup. Luckily, wounded from my aerial powder attack, he hadn't gotten far. With wrecked nerves, exhausted by the events of the past 45 minutes, and as courageous as our BAC's would allow, we scooped the cockroach into a plastic cup, sprinted to the bathroom, and flushed him away. And then flushed once more, just to be sure.

The room was a disaster. The chairs were thrown, bowls, measuring cups and plastic cups covered the floor. Around the radiator was a layer of the blue powder a few inches deep. It looked like we killed a Smurf.

We did some damage control and headed to bed feeling pretty accomplished. It was the cheapest drinking night we'd had since moving to NYC.

Tunnel to the Towers Race: A timeline.

9:30: Registration. "Are you in the 'fast runners' category?" Ha. Oh yeah. 25,000 runners? I'm looking to win this whole thing.

9:40AM: Ready to run! Feeling supremely athletic.

9:42: And we're off. This is so cool, look at all these people. Go us.

9:43: I have to pee.

9:50: Tunnel's a bit congested. Pretty sure elbowed multiple people on my way in. Including Chuck Schumer. Oops.

9:57: ....things are starting to smell weird in here.

10:04: Has this tunnel been extended recently? I never remember it being this long.

10:07: Need. Fresh. Air.

10:09: SUNLIGHT! I SEE SUNLIGHT! it's over. Thank you, Jesus.

10:10: ...where is the finish line? Why can't I see it? It must be right around this corner.

10:12: Okay, maybe this one. It's gotta be around this one. Oh! Water cups. That seems like a great idea.

10:13: Well that was kind of a waste of water, now wasn't it? Now I look like I'm moments from certain death with a drenched shirt. Not too far from the truth.

10:15: Feeling far less athletic. Want to stop running and eat some junk food. Maybe take a nap. Anything but this, really.

10:17: Commence dry-heaving. Breakfast would have been a good idea.

10:18: Stop telling me I'm almost there. You're liars, the lot of you. Some cheerleader a half-mile back said the same thing. Doesn't look like I'm done, does it? Bastards.

10:19: Oh. finish line. Glorious, glorious line. I'll sprint to you!

10:19: Who are we fooling here? You nearly puked at 2 miles and now you're some sort of marathoner? Slow and steady.

10:30: Can I go back to bed now?

Hot Yoga.

A few weeks ago I had the brilliant idea of joining a yoga studio near my apartment. BIKRAM YOGA - screamed the sign around the block from my apartment. Hey, I took yoga at school. Heck, I even took some classes at home. This will be relaxing and great! I'm going to be so healthy! I patted myself on the back for even concepting such an awesome idea.

How wrong I was.

Anyone who knows more than me about yoga has already noticed that I signed up for hot yoga, which is exactly how it sounds. Yoga, in a hot room. A really hot room. Hotter than the depths of hell I imagine, but that's just me.

I walk into the studio on my first day, and I am instantly sweating. I've got on my stolen high school basketball shorts (sorry Coach Miller) and a 'Cuse tee shirt. Unfortunately, for my particular situation I may as well have been wearing a fur lined parka. The wiser yogi's of the room are wearing, well, not much actually. Maybe one woman had on a tank-top but that was as conservative as the apparel got. Feeling a bit insecure I vowed to cover my midsection at all times. I just graduated college people. I have 4 years of happy hour and frat parties to work off.

Class begins and I'm ready for some calming breathing, stretching, a few balance poses and just overall relaxation. Wrong again. The instructor is a drill sergeant. Her and her happy hour/frat party-less stomach. Whatever. She leads us through some breathing exercises and I'm already feeling dizzy.

22 minutes pass.

WHY, GOD? WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME?

Triangle pose? I can't even stand up straight at this point. No, I will not have my thigh make a 90 degree angle with the floor thanks, actually, what I may do is vomit if you keep me in this room any longer. Oh, really? It's normal to feel dizzy and nauseous after the camel pose, oh wise yoga instructor? Is it normal to will the ceiling tile above your head to come crashing down so I can get the hell out of here? (I get a little cranky when hot).

30 minutes pass.

'Cuse tee is a sopping wet mess in the corner. The level of physical exertion I'm feeling is embarrassing. I'm too weak to even feel insecure about the fact that I'm wearing a sports bra in a room of stick-thin women. This is new.

The concept of time has escaped me.

Attempting tree pose and my legs are slipping off each other. I'm blinded by the gallons of sweat that have dripped into my eyes. Corpse pose. Now we're talking. No movement whatsoever...and yet I'm still concerned my heart will soon shatter my ribcage from the inside.

I limp home after class and throw myself up 4 flights of stairs. I sit down and chug water. I'm still too nauseous to even consider cooking.

No wonder these women are so thin.

TGIF?

I will be the first to admit that the life of an intern is rarely glamorous. I accept my fate, punching numbers into a spreadsheet, filing papers, organizing endless backcopies of previous ads just to pay my dues.

However, I was lucky enough to have the task on babysitting last Friday. Now if you know me, you'll understand that this is the most glamorous thing I could hope to happen during my internship. There are many who would sooner spoon out their eyeballs than spend 8 hours with little children but for me, it was a gift from the heavens. At heart, I am still approximately six and a half so when Ronan, Luke and Gracie entered the office last Friday my heart skipped a beat. I immediately informed by boss (in a most professional manner) that I wouldn't be completing any work for the rest of the day unless building forts qualified.

And so it went. I made forts, played bowling with cups down the hall, read stories about soliders and drew pictures with highlighters. I was even informed by the twin three year old boys, that if they had to guess my age, they'd say I was about 60. Grace of course, older and more mature in her ways scoffed at them, pointing out that I certainly looked younger than 60. I was clearly 35.

Around 3 we decided it was time for a snack. Gracie grabbed some microwaveable popcorn, and the four of us raced to the kitchen. Ronan popped the bag in, Luke hit 2:00. Gracie hit START and as I complemented such effortless teamwork we walked back to read a bit more before our snack was ready.

It's common knowlege that cooking isn't one of my strong points. (Understatement of the century). So, when I smelled burning popcorn I can't say I was shocked. However, when the four of us ran back to the kitchen to see smoke billowing out of the microwave, we were all a little surprised.

I stood frozen as the children began coughing dramatically. I was about to jump into action when the fire alarms went off. Now, paralyzed by crippling embarassment, I could do nothing but stare as one by one employees peeked out of their cubicles to see what was going on. Finally, my boss sprang into action, opening the microwave and throwing the smoking bag of popcorn into the sink. When it became apparent that the fire alarm could not be silenced, most everyone resigned themselves to evacuating the building as was proper protocol.

I chatted it up with the firemen because as I'm part of a long family line of FDNYers I speak their lingo. They weren't nearly as mad as I expected which I'll thank dad's lieutenant status for. Can't yell at a brother's daughter. It's the rules. Not to mention the fact that my face was the same shade of the truck probably garnered some sympathy.

Monday morning my boss informed anyone who happened to miss the chaotic scene that I pulled out all the stops to make sure his kids had a great time. They got to read, draw, run around, and even climb on a firetruck!

While I try to figure out how to best phrase this experience to put on my resume (Responsible for motivating 12 floors of people to work together? Developed creative ways to solve a problem?) I can find comfort in the fact that while Zoom may never hire me as a copywriter, they'll certainly call when they need a babysitter. Assuming there's nothing flamable, of course.

'What if this is as good as it gets?"

The majority of my friends have at some point or another traveled abroad. They all talk about how unique their particular country of choice was; its culture, its people, all the life-altering lessons they learned while intoxicated and roaming foriegn cities with their equally as intoxicated friends. While this may surprise the two of you who read this, I too, am currently immersed in a culture very foriegn to most. I'm talking about a place with its own very specific rituals, a place where the people are unlike anyone else in the world, a place where the beer flows like wine..wait sorry, wrong place.



I'm talking about the LIRR.



For those of you not lucky enough to ever experience the phenomenon of the Penn Station switchboard, I mourn for your loss. Try to imagine hundreds of grown, supposedly mature adults, huddled together with their necks crained, staring at something vaguely reminiscent of the Wheel of Fortune board. Every train pops up here, along with the vital information of which track the train has arrived on. Jockeying for position is immediate and all consuming. In the ultimate NYC style, your age and gender matter not. Grandmothers will be shoved, young children tossed aside all in an effort to be in prime location. Far enough away from the board that it's still legible, yet close enough to the tracks that when your number blinks to life, you will be ahead of the stampede. No one dares to peel their eyes from the board. Stamina is tested. I've seen men break down thanks to a momentary mental lapse in judgement. After what seems like a decade at times, the number flashes on. I am in no way exaggerating when I say that total chaos ensues. Men in expensive power suits and women with $300 heels sprint to the dank tunnels of Penn station, never once looking back for those unfortunate souls who missed the signal. If you thought the Preakness was exciting, you'd be peeing your pants with glee.

Once in the tunnel, the commuters are in a dead sprint with one another. They weave around the disabled and slow with a grace usually uncommon in mere mortals. Once satisfied with their position these seemingly intelligent, once professional indviduals stand tightly clumped together inching as close as possible to the STILL CLOSED door of the train all the while "watching the gap" as is instructed every 3 and a half seconds or so by the ominous LIRR God. This uncomfortable little clusterf*ck (can you curse while blogging!?) lasts for a few awkward seconds, as everyone tries to pretend the guy behind them isnt literally trying to climb them.

The doors open, and 15 or so commuters attempt to get in a door meant for 3 at most. Men scramble to get the aisle seat, while most women lunge to be closest to the window. Though preferences may be different, the ultimate goal is the same. Do. Not. Sit. Bitch.

Remember when you were a kid, and no one wanted to sit middle? The youngest and/or smallest were generally defeated and silently resigned to the fact that they'd be wedged between two blood relatives. Well on the LIRR the fate of such a situation is far more serious. You will inevitably be stuck between a 500 pound man who appears to have sprinted to Penn while simultaneously jumping rope, and a Latina woman who is quite angry and on her cellphone "expressing" herself. Leg room is minimal. Arm space is non-existant, as is your dignity as you now wedge yourself against the sweaty vinyl and sit toe to toe with a perfect stranger whom you must stare at for the next hour and twenty minutes.

The rules from that point foward are simple. Do not talk on your cellphone, do not look at the laptop screen next to you, do not try to make conversation. Before the train hits sunlight again, a third of its passengers will be asleep. When the power clicks out and lights go off for the first time, another third will follow suit.

And sometimes, if you're really lucky, your 500 lb neighbor won't even drool when he finds comfort on your shoulder.