Puerto Rico: Part I -- Adopted On the Plane

Puerto Rico '06

(as promised a few weeks back)

I should have known from the start that this was not an ordinary place.

It began harmlessly enough on the plane. A late night flight, it was full of locals on their way home, and no one was speaking a word of English. Between the crying babies, impatient parents and grandmothers with too many bags, the plane was in utter chaos before taking off. Air stewards kept trying to hurry everyone along, practically shouting their pleas of "faster, faster" over the intercom.

When, finally, we were all settled in, I found myself sitting next to a nervous looking old lady. She was whispering a prayer under her breath, hands folded neatly in her lap. I felt bad for her, knowing what it's like to hate flying, and after rummaging around in my luggage, found a bag of pretzels. I smiled and offered her some -- food, after all, cuts across all language boundries and fears.

There was an immediate change in her. She smiled at me gratefully, snatching up a handful of pretzels, nodding her thanks. Not sure if she spoke only Spanish, I smiled back. And then, suddenly, it turned out my Elderly Friend not only knew a little broken English, she loved using it. My left ear was filled up with all sorts of awkward and unfinished phrases such as "Name?" and "Where from?"

The plane flight was over 3 hours from JFK, and the woman spoke almost the entire time -- despite the fact it was close to 5am by the time we landed. She occasionally patted my arm and told me I was a nice girl, and that I would, of course, love Puerto Rico.

It turned out my new friend had lived in Rochester, New York for many years, a place I had lived in for entirely too long while attending music school. We both agreed it was too damn snowy, and not very nice to live in. After that, we were officially bonded, and she decided to take my future into her own hands, telling me "not to marry too young," and make sure to "go to school."

By the time we were circling over the Ponce airport, she had already handed my mother her home address on a slip of scrap paper. We must, she insisted, look her up while in town, and then kept asking when we would.

At the airport she followed us through the airport, helpfully pointing out baggage claim and telling us what sites to go see. Although a little overwhelmed by all the madness in the airport, (people jostling, families screaming with glee at the new arrivals, babies everywhere) my mother made assurances we would come see her if possible.

All this, and we'd barely stepped foot in Puerto Rico yet. I'd already managed to be adopted by a Puerto Rican grandmother, and after stopping by the car rental booth, realized that all the appreciative smiles of the men in the airport were directed at me. (Hell yeah, I realized right then that was a place I could get used to.)

Further adventures posted later ... and they include yet another PR grandmother (who practically tried to marry me off her to her grandson), a pelican attack, and nearly being brained by a coconut.

the chinese schoolgirl battle: icq vs msn.

The scene: Downtown/Brooklyn N Train.

The time: 6:15pm.

Characters: (all Chinese-Americans between the ages of 13 - 15)
Schoolgirl #1 (aka: Ms. Mole) -- plump, plain, bland looking host to a dark brown chin mole.
Schoolgirl #2 (The Talkative One) -- loud, short, an expert slurper of juice.
Schoolgirl #3 (Shorty) -- 4'8" ... max. Doesn't talk.
Schoolgirl #4 ("I'm Nondescript and therefore hard to describe,") -- nondescript. Hard to describe. Evidently boring since I can't remember anything about her other than she was there.


Scene:
(SG#1)(loudly, in my ear) ALL CHINESE PEOPLE USE ICQ.
(SG#2) OOOH YEAH, THEY TOTALLY DO. I DON'T THOUGH. I USE MSN.
(SG#1) OHHH ME TOO. MORE CHINESE PEOPLE SHOULD USE MSN.
(SG#2) WHY DON'T MORE CHINESE USE IT? I TALK TO FRIENDS FROM HONG KONG ON IT.
(SG#4) mumblemumble ... anyone use Photoshop? ... mumblemumble.
(SG#2) PHOTOSHOP? I HAVE THAT. IT'S COOL.
(SG#1) NO WAY, HOW DO YOU GET IT?
(SG#4) blahblah ... talking about Photoshop ...

(5 minutes later ... I shit you not.)

(SG#1) SO, WHY DO ALL CHINESE PEOPLE USE ICQ?
(SG#2) I DON'T KNOW, I DON'T. I TALK TO FRIENDS FROM HONG KONG ON MSN.
(SG#4) mumblemumble ... anyone use Limewire? ... mumblemumble.

(A few more minutes later, pulling into the Atlantic Ave station.)
(SG#1) I REALLY LIKE MSN.
(SG#2) ME TOO! I TALK TO FRIENDS FROM HONG KON-

(Dialogue cut off as I beat a hasty retreat.)

End Scene.

saturday night drive

Driving into Manhattan late at night, jazz on the CD player --

lit up buildings everywhere, cars going 50 miles per hour.

The river is on my right, a black Bentley is directly ahead, and to my left, a bright neon blur of apartments and coffee shops. Traffic is pouring in from off the George Washington, that tricked-out-Halloween-happy bridge covered in spooky lights. Cars, vans, Uhauls. Gas and wheels, siphoning off into the city. Manhattan, one big set of lungs, inhaling everything that passes by.

This north part of the city is cold looking, closed off and bricked in. No one is out in their cars, on their feet, with dogs to be walked or dates to be led home. It's quiet.

In the background a tribute to Miles Davis is playing, a performer blowing out sounds in rushes of hot air. Note after note after note afternote. Kind of like this upper Manhattan landscape -- building after building after building.

Further towards Midtown, things start to feel more alive, more energetic. The road is jumping beneath the car, bumping me one way, tossing me another. A man driving with New Jersey plates rushes by, cutting off traffic, meeting the honks of others with a raised fist.

Signs for Lincoln center start showing up. This way, this way -- herding tourists into the right direction. Follow the arrows to Balanchine and Mahler, to the cultural mecca of the Western world.

Down in the West 60's I see a sign advertising a living messiah, a man promoted by the Jewish Women's Council. He looks down at the cars -- at me -- with heavy lidded eyes, airbrushed and happy, fifty feet high.

The cars keep passing, the jazz keeps playing, and I stay in my seat, looking out the window. At the Chelsea Piers, where a rich looking woman in bitch boots is walking a poodle. At an Asian couple looking at the water, holding hands.

Canal Street. City Hall. Brooklyn Bridge.

Turn to the left and I'm out of Manhattan again, as quickly as I entered it. Jazz still crooning, cars still rushing at 50 'per hour.

Things go quiet once again, and as I sit back in my seat to close my eyes, I think --

"and this is the way to spend a Saturday night."

Yes, it's Official.

I'm going to India and Nepal, as of May 15 '06. 3 weeks.

Yay.

snow sensationalism

Well, the weather forecasters are certainly a smug bunch today. The blizzard they've all been salivating over for a week has finally come to pass. The only thing on the local television stations here are creatively titled programs such as 'BLIZZARD WATCH '06' and 'WINTER FURY.' All I can say is that watching news anchors interview people shoveling their driveways isn't too entertaining.

I honestly wasn't expecting any snow. Actually, let me rephrase that. I was hoping there wouldn't be any snow. It would have been nice, -- so, so nice -- to have seen all those forecasts proven wrong. Then I wouldn't have had to sit through the blitz of winter coverage I've already sat through for the past several hours. It has been a day of the weathermen triumphant! It hath snowed! In Biblical proportions!

So, anyway. While there are bombs going off in Iraq and god knows what else going on in other parts of the globe, I'm stuck with coverage on pesky little snowflakes. That, and traffic reports every 7 minutes. (Thank you, ABC.) If there were a nuclear meltdown New Yorkers wouldn't even know. The news would be stuck on the traffic and weather. Seriously.

I do have to hand it to the elements, though. This is a pretty fierce storm. I went outside for about 2 minutes to throw out some trash and got blasted with arctic hell. The wind is gusting hard -- 50 mph in some places, at least according to the ever unreliable media. The worst is the fact that wind + snow = pain. (Anyone who has spent time upstate will know this very well ... and if you haven't, be grateful.)

some cash would be nice ...

Finding a job in this city is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. To do anything you have to have previous experience -- and I mean a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g. To be a waitress, employers want at least 3 years of restaurant servitude. Dog walkers are required to have previous poop scooping jobs under their belt, not to mention a license (what the hell?) and an apartment in Manhattan. (I guess people don't have dogs in Brooklyn?) Even jobs under the 'adult' section -- which I only go to in moments of desperation to reassure myself that I will never stoop so low -- demand "experienced ladies."

(um, ew.)

I've been on a few job interviews now, and discovered the 'New York Bitch' syndrome, also present on the Upper West Side and art galleries everywhere. This phenomena is found among wealthy, middle aged Caucasian females. They wear well tailored skirt suits, have faces that look like they've been pressed under an iron too long, and a no-nonsense-get-out-of-my-way attitude. Oh, and they love having power over the weakling masses. (In this case, me.)

I seem to warm and butter them up well, but apparently not enough to thaw their frozen insides. They rattle my resume in front of my face, pert and smiling through alligator teeth, letting me know with a well placed glance that my clothes are about $500 too short of being acceptable.

(got Chanel?)

Then again, when I think about it, working for malnourished socialites isn't really my thing. I think it's safe to say that the feeling of dislike between me and the New York Bitches is mutual.

So, here's an open plea to whoever reads this thing. Need an employee? I'm a fast typer, have office assistant and editorial experience, I'm good with computers, a classically trained musician, and what the hell, I'll throw in the fact that I'm pretty cute, too.

In all seriousness, the minute I get a stable job, I'm posting a long, drawn out HALLELUJAH on my blog. My entire post will go like this: HALLELUJAH!HALLELUJAH!HALLELUJAH! Only, instead of three hallelujahs, there will be about a thousand. In addition, there will be a list included of all the wonderful crap I can buy with my first paycheck.

Ah, to have a job!

hopstop's scathing reviews

I'm back again, and this time with posts from that mother of all websites, hopstop.com. They have a section where people rate the various subway lines in New York, and after browsing around some reviews on the train lines I always take, I had to post a few as proof that when I whine about the MTA, I'm not the only one!

On the R train:

"If you're travelling from Brooklyn to Manhattan late night on a weekday, take anything else. The F, a cab, a pogo stick, a stray dog. Anything."

"Worst train ever. Please pull from line."

"its so dirty i should get paid to ride."

Overall Rating: 3.2 out of 10.

On the D train:

"it's a slow moving shithole !!!"

"this train needs a serious transit makeover"

"They need a 0 for this category."

Overall Rating: 3.9 out of 10.

On the N train:

"N = not kidding, it really is this damn bad."

"sometimes, waiting for the N takes longer than a retarded child trying to solve a differential math equation."

"Waiting for an 'N' train is like experiencing time in slow motion."

Overall Rating: 3.9 out of 10.


Well ... no one else likes my train lines, either. All I can say is, at least I don't live on the G train route -- that only got a 2.2 rating. (Beware the green line!)

And to my beloved D train -- I still love you, even if no one else does!