Beautiful Trains

Is there a more beautiful, eye catching vehicle of transportation than a train? Cars, by and large, just aren't that pretty. Automobiles used to be nicer, but we've taken a turn towards functionality and away from luxury and lost some of their beauty. Boats surely can be beautiful, but our eye tires of them far before we tire of a train. Finally, airplanes grace the skies, and though they mar the pristine of nature no more than trains, I can't help but wish my skies blue, and occupied by nothing but birds. No, the train is the most visually stunning vehicle we have.

History bears this out too. A trip to the impressionists wing of any art museum will undoubtedly hold a few paintings of trains, wooshing through the canvas. Or watch early film, and I mean early film, and you'll movie after movie involving trains. Back in college, I endured a wacky Russian Revolutionary film by Eisenstein himself, where shot after shot (there was no plot, thus no scene) of the trams and trains of Moscow kaleidescope the screen. In all mediums of art, the train made an instant impact, becoming one of the most sought after and captivating subjects of its day.

If you spend time near a train track, its easy to see why artists have been so inspired. The tracks themselves are memorizing, stretching off until they disapear on the horizon, or turn, ever so subtly until you can't follow them any further. Parallel lines, dashing off to places unknown, and stretching in both directions, prompting a Frost-like decision about which way to look. Above these tracks, at least in the Northeast, are electrical lines strung like taught Christmas garland over the evenly spaced posts. Never wavering from perfect right angles, the uniformity of the stance these posts take, T's with arms extending like boughs over the tracks, would make a general jealous. The perfection, the lines, the dimensions stretching on and on ad infinitum make it beautiful.

Then the train comes, growling louder and louder. The old fashioned 'clackity-clack' all but a thing of the past, modern trains hum along until they pass, revealing the chop of breaking air on each passing car, like a cleaver cutting a pork shoulder. Initially a speeding caterpillar comes to mind, given the shape of a train, but the analogy doesn't hold, as the train glides effortlessly along; the connection of the wheels and rails an afterthought, no less stunning than the MagLev, though without the speed. The grace with which they pass in the distance belie the awesome power conveyed when they pass in close proximity. The passing of a train, its noise, its wind, its power, is paralyzingly fearful, yet is filled with agog inducing awesomeness.

Unfortunately for most of us, America long ago chose the car over the train. Europe has hedged its bets, but America has embraced the superhighway and the automobile. Trains are relegated to freight passage for most of the country. Even in the major cities, train travel is rare. New York may be the only city in the country with a formidable number of commuters arriving on the rails. The arguments for public transportation and the eco-friendliness of trains over cars are all valid, but I can't help but coming back to how sad it is that most people don't get to watch the beauty of trains on a regular basis.

Its the Size

Football season is over in New York. Actually, 'soccer' season is over as we would say here, but the international flavor of the game, even here in the US always makes one rethink what we call it. Yet by any name, the New York Red Bulls have been eliminated. No, they were not kicked out of the league for using their energy drink sponsor as a name, nor were they banned for playing while on an aspirin/energy drink cocktail (which isn't technically illegal, but gets the fans in a huff – just ask the Queensland, Australia AFL team). No, the Red Bulls simply lost embarrassingly at home to the San Jose Californians last Thursday. If there was one good thing they could take from that game, its this: they gained a fan, and one from Boston, no less.

Typically, you wouldn't find me cheering for anything sports related in this town. It's not even a level of apathy towards most of their teams, its actually dislike. Every team which calls Madison Square Garden, Meadowland Stadium, Citi Field or (gulp, I can hardly type the letters) Yankee Stadium brings me nothing less than joy when watching them fumble, stumble and bumble their way to defeat. In a sidebar, the New York Islanders are a hockey team reportedly from New York, but I've never actually met a fan of theirs, even now, so I'm not convinced they exist, and its harder to work up a hatred for a fictional enemy – 'Voldemort' excluded. In short, I loath all New York Teams.

Except the Red Bulls. Half of it is I never built up enough love to really, truly care for the New England Revolution, our beloved Foxbourough based soccer squadron. Not that I couldn't be convinced to go back to cheering for New England, and I don't doubt that if it came to a head to head game, I'd end up supporting the ol' Red, White and Blue. I just can't believe that my excitement for New York making the playoffs was matched by my apathy of New England not! There must be a reason.

There is. The stadium. The New York team has built itself a brand new stadium in New Jersey for its team. The stadium has about 25,000 seats and was built with one main purpose: to be the home of the New York Red Bulls. Pro football stadiums are 4 times bigger, holding 60,000 more seats, which is perfect for football, but when used for a fledgling little soccer league, the place feels empty when 20,000 people show up. Games at Red Bulls stadium feel more exciting than their counterparts up I95 in New England because the fans are closer, and fill out the place more. In a cavernous football stadium the fans get lost, their voices fade and fail them; but in appropriately sized soccer stadiums, when the place is rocking, the noise builds and the game feels all the more tense, all the more exciting. Admittedly I've never visited a New England soccer game, but given how empty the stadium always looked on TV, going never seemed enticing the way it does in New York.

So there you have it, I'm a fan of a New York team. A team which blundered away a lead in their first home playoff game in years, but a team I'm a fan of none the less. Could I be convinced to cheer for New England again? Probably, but the answer becomes definitely if they ever build that soccer stadium in Somerville.

Stuff

I used to collect Key Chains; there is a box of my former purchases tucked away under my bed at my parents house, with none of its occupants likely to ever see use. I would buy one at every place I visited, as a token of my visit, or at least that was how it started. Then it evolved, and I began to buy multiple key chains from the same place for no better reason than they were 3 for $5. I most assuredly did not need 7 Las Vegas key chains (including a giant penny, a dice, a plastic strip that said Las Vegas, and a model Elvis Head), but because they were cheap and key chains were what I did, I purchased them. Today, I can tell you I haven't purchased a key chain in over 5 years. Does this make me a recovering Key Chain addict? How about we just label me a recovering materialist addict.

Unable to throw things away, my collection of property grew and grew. My childhood room was like a strange museum of precious treasures, rocks from the Nature Store, replica batting helmets, sports team pennants and of course those key chains. Even today, I struggle to throw things away – evidenced by the 6 pack of Coca-Cola commemorating the Red Sox 2004 World Series Victory sitting in my bedroom at my parents house. Yet by and large I feel I've stemmed the tide, or I had, and things were no longer coming in.

The change from pack-rat to accumulatory nihilist was gradual, starting with my travels in Europe, growing stronger in my domestic roaming, but likely peaked in Shanghai. China, after all, is where cheap stuff comes from. If I was going to accumulate cheap stuff anywhere, it was there. I could have bought a gazillion little Chinese trinkets, lanterns, pictures, tea cups, replica weapons, and just about anything else, but I simply purchased clothing, which has a functionality not inherent in the static display pieces of my youth. The thought of sending all my stuff home wasn't particularly appealing, and my meager salary seemed better spent on food and travel. What good was a 3rd tea mug? Did I really need a Mao action figure? I was shocked to discover that although I'd arrived in the manufacturing capital of the world, I'd weened myself off purchasing.

Back in the US, nothing much changed for the first year, as I had no job or money to shop with. Then suddenly I've become fully employed, at a bank no less. I have disposable cash for the first time in my life. And I see the things beginning to accumulate again. I bought a Wii. I bought a suit jacket. I bought shoes. I bought a new messenger bag (well, actually my parents bought that one... but I eagerly did the shopping). Previously I would contemplate a simple purchase as a new pair of dockers for weeks on end, scouting the coupons and newspaper ads, but now I buy pants on a whim! I feel myself slipping back into childhood Dan. Dan the purchaser of crap. I wish it not to be so, but the hold of the materialistic American lifestyle is strong, and I fear I can't fight it much longer. I'm regressing. There is no way out. We cannot get out. Drums, drums in the deep. They are coming.

You Never Know

You never know with New York. Specifically you never know with Times Square. Every night I get off work and trudge the twenty blocks from my office to Penn Station, straight down 7th ave and straight through Times Square; and every night I approach it wondering what I'm going to find. How can a place offer such different opportunities each and every night? By being a super tourist magnet with thousands of people passing through each day. It's a marketers bonanza.

Sometimes the set up requires morning preparation, which ruins the evenings surpirse. One day I walked to work and suddenly towering 7 stories above me in the heart of the square was a replica statue of 'the kiss' between a US sailor and a young woman at the close of WWII. Another day I discovered a rocket car with wings paid for by the US Navy. Glad to see my tax dollars are being put to good use! On a duller note, Mazda once filled the walking plazas with cars to look at and video games to test drive. Compared to rocket cars, it was quite the snoozer. Besides, I prefer stumbling across something in the evening completely unaware.

Food based events are my favorite, naturally. Dove chocolate had a series of booths set up one day, with people handing out fistfuls of all types of chocolates, while others distributed chocolate chip cookies with a Dove Chocolate baked on top. I took 3. In early summer a giant food tasting fair popped up. Restaurants from all over the city were preparing small sample plates for 2-3 dollars a plate. I never learned if there was an associated charitable cause, other than giving tourists a break from the boiled hot dogs. Ever since these events I've held my breath every day I approached, hoping to snag a free chocolate, free sample, free taste of anything!

Naturally there are other events in Times Square too. Such as 'The Event'. The NBC TV show premier was shown live on giant video screens in Times Square. Or there are always people who think 'the event' is coming, like the surprisingly aggressive Jesus proponents with oversized sail-like signs preaching out there today. Then there is the 'Naked Cowboy', who, and I know this might shock you, I never, ever stop for. (Apparently he's running for political office I hear, but from what I hear his campaign advisors are struggling to keep him briefed.) Yes, you can usually count on Times Square to find someone who is a little further out there than the rest of the populous.

You never know what you'll find in Times Square, which is just another reason why its so famous. It's the New York dream – Anything Can Happen. Its wild and untamed, or at least as wild and untamed as a few city blocks with more Police per meter than anywhere outside of the Dunkin' Doughnuts Tasting Center. You might get fed, you might get entertained, you might get chastised. You just never know.

Port Authority

Thankfully I no longer take the bus to the city. The train is more reliable, relaxing and stylish than it's 4 wheeled cousin. No commute, short of walking or the subway (another type of train) could make me happier. Well, nothing except a boat, but I'm guessing the Staten Islanders might have something to say about that. If there was one downside to this rail based commute it is this: I no longer get to see the Port Authority Bus Terminal, which is one of the most amazing buildings I've ever seen.

Port Authority, as it is lovingly called, isn't much to look at. 6 stories tall, mostly concrete with exposed steel beams, the hulking space is bigger on top than it is on the bottom, hanging out over the sidewalks which surround it. Situated on 2 full city blocks, the size is so large that 43rd street runs through the middle of it. Although one side faces the New York Times building on 8th ave and 41st street, the other side abuts a dirty part of town, strangled by the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel, neglected by the affluent neighborhoods to the north and south. Make no mistake, Port Authority is an ugly hulk of construction.

Yet I love it; it fascinates me. Public spaces and their construction fascinate me. How do the buildings reflect the values of the culture that constructed the Coliseum in Rome, Notre Dame in Paris, the Pyramids in Mexico, Dallas Stadium and the Beijing Airport? What does it say about New York that they built Port Authority? What is it that makes me so excited?

Inside the building is no better than out, aesthetically speaking. The dim yellow lights and tiled floors seem to be suggesting this area is a large restroom. The retail stores want it to be a shopping mall. Tough coffee shops predominate the selection of bars, convenience stores, clothing, music, sunglasses and retail bank office (take out a mortgage at Port Authority!), emit the inescapable feeling that some people must treat the building like a shopping mall, though I'm sure only Michael Blomberg knows who shops there. There is a bowling alley and an arcade to entertain, and I wouldn't be surprised if they tried putting in a movie theater. Signs around the building encourage guests to explore all that the building has to offer. Most guests, however are only interested in leaving.

Most of the traffic the building sees is from a devote class of commuters, who pile in in the mornings and out at night, rushing to the office or home to loved ones. With ramps leading directly to and from the Lincoln Tunnel, most commuters west of the Hudson unfortunate enough to not take the train pass through Port Authority. Nobody wants to be there, it simply is a bottleneck, much like all tunnels, which people must pass through.

Dominating the upper levels of the building, the designers streamlined the commuter experience to be as painless as possible. All morning buses arrive on the top most layer, 5 stories above the street. There, next to a series of stairs and escalators designed to clear people away as quick as possible, everyone rapidly alights the bus whenever it stops. There are no gates here. Down below on floors 3 and 4, the evening commute comes into swing as lines snake down hallways next to dozens and dozens of gates. Buses upload passengers, depart, and are replaced instantly (when things are working) to pick up more passengers and continue the mass evacuation of commuters from Manhattan. Buses above buses, hallways, gates and escalators, Port Authority busts into activity like the cleaning scene in Marry Poppins where the toys were flying in every direction at once, settling miraculously quickly with everything in its place. Commuters like that. They know the one place they want to get, and they want to get their quick.

But Port Authority isn't just for commuters. From Port Authority you could catch a bus taking you anywhere in America, or even the Americas, should a bus trip to Patagonia suit your fancy. The possibilities are endless. There are not one, but two basements to the building chocked full of buses heading to points yonder. Everyone in line here too, is eager to get out of Dodge while the getting is good. In fact, the only happy people you see are the ones getting off the long distance buses, eager to have been released from whatever tin bucket they just arrived in. At least someone is smiling at Port Authority.

Someone besides me that is. While it would be easy to weep at such a sight, a manufactured environment of stores, set there to prey upon weary travelers who want nothing more than to be somewhere else, I find it refreshing in many ways. Most bus terminals are terrible, soulless places, so why can't this one aspire to be more? The building wasn't content with being a mere bus terminal, it built itself up to be a spot for entertainment, food and shopping. It's even been gentrified recently with the inclusion of a Thursday Farmer's Market. Besides, late at night the place is a refuge - its open 24 hours, with buses leaving and arriving throughout the night (believe me, I once arrived on a bus from DC at 2am for a layover departure to Boston at 4am). Its a structure that could only exist in New York. The building never takes a holiday, never takes a break, and never shuts its doors. People are always coming, going, eating, drinking, shopping or sitting around looking homeless (some of which actually are homeless, most are just delayed Greyhound passengers). Neither overly gritty or naively pleasant, the building in many ways exemplifies America at the start of the 21st century. That's what I think about when I think of Port Authority. It makes me smile.

Kuidaore

Recently, while watching my favorite travel show, Anthony Bourdaine: No Reservations, I was introduced to the concept of Kuidaore. Well, technically it was a concept I was familiar with, but didn't know it had a name. Mr. Tony Bourdaine was in Osaka, Japan, a city known for food, revelry and good times. Osaka is also home of Kuidaore, which translates roughly to 'ruin of oneself through extravagance in food.' Now you understand why the concept is so appealing to me. A night of Kuidaore in Osaka involves traveling from bar to bar, restaurant to restaurant, eating a little bit of what the special is and moving with a beer, before moving onto the next joint until you simply can't eat any more. I love it, and have become a devote follower.

The next day I thought I'd practice Kuidaore. Initially I had been leaning towards Sushi, or Ramen or something Japanese, but as I looked over the high brow sushi offerings, I realized that I was barking up the wrong tree. The Kuidaore I saw on TV wasn't high end food, but an Asian version of 'Diners, Drive-ins and Dives'. I couldn't get high-falutin sushi; I need a food of the people, something that sticks to your ribs and feeds the masses. I needed Southern BBQ, and thankfully 2 blocks away was a cart which could supply a lip smacking beef brisket sandwich smothered in sauce. But one sandwich can hardly cause ruin, so I needed more. I needed Waffles and Dinges.

In 2010 Zagat included NYC street carts for the first time in its history, and Waffles and Dinges is the highest rated cart. Serving up authentic Belgian style waffles (with your choice of 2 styles of dough), 'The Waffle Cart' gained fame in the Food Network's 'Throwdown with Bobby Flay', when the owners went head to head with the celebrity chef and emerged victorious with the best waffle. I chose 'The Throwdown Waffle', winner of the competition, which is an authentic style Belgian waffle topped with a magical spice spread and whip cream. I cannot describe the spread, called sperkullous, in better words, for no adjective exists in the English or any tongue of man to adequately describe the cinnamon and nutmeg flavored ambrosia. Surely I'm on my way to bringing about my ruin.

Alas, had I only known then what I know now, that BBQ and waffles barely scrape the surface of Kuidaore. The very next day, in the pretext of doing good charitable work, I volunteered to help the New York City Food Bank... by helping out at the fund raising New York City Food and Wine Event. Arriving at a quarter to 9 on a Saturday morning at the 54th Street Pier in the Chealsea section of Manhattan, I pleased to discover I would be working at 'The Grand Tasting', an event where high rollers can spend hours sampling specialty food products, fine restaurant offerings and high quality booze. Oh yes, there was a lot of booze. As a volunteer, however, I was stationed just outside the tent, out of sight and smell of the food, collecting email addresses on a clipboard for a raffle. You can't win them all. Besides, obviously volunteers couldn't just parade around with ticket buyers partaking in the same delights.

Or so I thought. After working the clipboard for an hour, an organizer who shall remain nameless gave me the golden ticket to Kuidaore. I was told, 'Take a break and enjoy some samples. And this off the record, but if you take your volunteer T-shirt off, you can enjoy the non food options.”

What more could I have wanted? Leave from my post, a tent full of food and nudge-nudge-wink-wink permission to 'sample' the assorted beverages. I raced though every table, which only took about an hour, eating everything from braised short-rib (best thing I ate all day) to tuna tar-tar wrapped in a dandelion green to grilled octopus. I enjoyed and learned there are double chocolate and coconut flavored Ferrero-Rocher, but the originals taste best. I discovered lovely mustards, and delectable dark, Mayan styled chocolates. I even had pomegranate ice cream topped with pomegranate seeds. If Hades had resembled the food tent, I scarcely know how Persephone resisted so long.

If the food hadn't ensured my ruin, the drinks did. From margaritas to cachaca raspberry prosecco to apple spiked rum, I sampled what I could, while avoiding drawing attention or drinking too much. I steered clear of the wine, because all the 'paying guests' had a wine glass draped around their necks to fill, but I had none, so I was forced to accept the little cups of mixed drinks the booths passed out. The little mini bar hop reminded me of the Chumbawumba song, and reminded me to try something other than beer and wine sometimes.

But fear not, if you thought my ruin would be brought about in any sense beyond SBS (stuffed belly syndrome). Sincerely, it was not even as bad as it was at the Vendy's, but perhaps the exhilarating feeling that I wasn't really supposed to helped contribute. I wrapped up my tasting and sauntered back to the volunteer tent, where I was assigned the important task of holding up a sign saying Trisha Yearwood would be signing her cook book at 4pm. Nobody else could hold that sign like I could. Perhaps it was because I held it knowing I had archived that nirvana-like state – Kuidaore.

In the Canyon of Heroes

What's a parade for? I mean, we can name the big ones: Macy's Thanksgiving Day, Rose Bowl, and all the St. Patrick's Day parades. Even today there was a massive Columbus Day Parade here in New York that was more of a celebration of Italian Heritage than anything else (or so I'm told, I was at work). Just as famous, or infamous, may be the Puerto Rican Day Parade, also known as the 'don't let your daughters out unsupervised day' by some. But all these are year in, year out events, celebrating all the people and heritage of a culture, not an honorary event, as some parades are. In New York, these national day parades take place in Midtown, where as the honorary parades take place downtown in the aptly named “Canyon of Heroes”. A few weeks back I found myself walking up Whitehall towards Broadway and found myself at the start of the 'canyon' and discovered that every parade there has a sidewalk placard listing the date and the honored party. I was intrigued, what does it take to earn an honorary parade in New York?

The first recorded parade was for the centennial of Washington's inauguration. Seeing as he was inaugurated less than a block from the parade route, it seems like a fitting starting point. In addition to our great founding General/President, wartime parades dot the history of the canyon. Teddy Roosevelt, New York's native son, received one before his presidency for his efforts in the Spanish-American War. In the 1920's each of the US, UK and French commanders during The Great War received a parade. Then again after WWII, there was a glut of parades honoring leaders, soldiers and other veterans. The Vietnam Vets had to wait until 1985 for their parade, as opposed to the Persian Gulf War Vets who received a parade relatively quickly in 1991, but faster than the Korean War Vets, who also received a 1991 parade. As of yet, there has been no parade for the new wars in the Middle East, and I don't see that changing any time soon. The city has seemingly lost it's lust for military parades.

The other largest portion of parades has been for visiting foreign dignitaries. Naturally the Queen of England, Nelson Mandela and Pope John Paul II were given parades. Yet throughout the past century there have been some odd recipients: The crown prince of Sweden (do they still have a prince?) and the king of Nepal (I know they don't have one anymore). And finally some recipients that just are unbelievable; the Shah of Iran, the PM and then 10 years later the President of Pakistan. True, the last three were from '49, '50 and '61, but I can't but help wonder if we'd played our cards better then, our relationships with those countries would be better now.

Of course the parades provide insight into what the society valued at different times, what captured its imagination. In the 1920's there were multiple parades for great fliers, Charles Lindbergh and the like. The 20's also featured parades for the first woman and then again for the first mother, to swim the English Chanel. I find it hard to imagine a parade for someone like that today. The 60's had a host of astronaut related parades. Then there is my oddball favorite parades themes: the 1947 Aid to Europe Parade, and then the 1949 Thank you for the Aid from Europe Parade. Can you imagine an aid to Haiti parade? Maybe it's the impracticality of incurring massive expenses for a parade, then donating whatever is leftover to charity, but is it different than the Aid Concerts we see on TV? I guess the venue for that type of thing has changed with new technology. Parades aren't what they used to be.

Nor are they as common as they used to be. Back in the decade following WWII, the city was churning out 3-4 parades per year. In the past decade we've seen 3 total. In fact, the only thing these days that seem to generate a ticker-tape parade is a local sports team championship.
Since the Persian and Korean War Veteran Parades of 1991, there have been 9 parades, and all but one for the spaceman John Glenn have been for sports teams. Back in the earlier parts of the 20th century, parades for tennis stars, such as winners of the British Open, or Olympic medalists were rather common. Now team sports have taken the lead, and a parade to celebrate individual accomplishments aren't even discussed. Yet the first team parade wasn't until 1954, when the New York Giants (the baseball team) won the pennant. Or to think about it another way, despite Derek Jeter participating in 4 ticker-tape parades, Babe Ruth never had one, yet Eli Manning, Sammy Sosa and the President of Tunisia all have. We all know the country has changed, but sometimes its hard to see how our values have changed. Walking up Broadway helps bring the history back.