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.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, September 27, 2010
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?
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?
Thursday, September 2, 2010
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.
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