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.

Pee Wee Football

New Jersey is football country. Much more so than Boston. Probably not as much as Texas, but its certainly larger here than anywhere else I've ever lived before. And the difference isn't in New Jersians love of pro or college football. Nay, the difference is most noticeable in youth football. New Jersey is home to a number of high school powerhouses, and you don't have those without a strong series of feeder programs. This means youth football thrives and people take it rather seriously. Too seriously for my tastes, but I can't deny it gets the family together. I had to take a closer look.

The field next to my house is home to pee-wee football every weekend and most weeknights. That is it's only purpose, as the gates are locked and you can't get onto the field if the team isn't there. No other sports allowed. Football Only.

Sunday afternoons the massive parking lot can't contain the cars, which begin to work their way up the street, upon nearby grassy patches, and anywhere not expressly prohibited. The stands, built on both sides of the fields, fill up and the remaining fans/parents spread all the way up and down the sidelines in folding chairs. These games are pretty clearly a big deal, what with the attendance and money devoted to resources.

Besides, the fans are more interested in the outcome of a youth sporting than I've ever seen before. They care about winning and loosing, and aren't afraid to ruffle a few feathers along the way. One gentleman, sitting far away down the sidelines either for his benefit or the teams, saw fit to remind the coach with each failed offensive play that, “you've got more than one running back”, and “you can't always use speed, you've got to use POWER”. Evidently he was not pleased with the choice of personnel on the field. I wonder what he'd say to the rules I remember from little league requiring everyone to play the infield for at least one inning. It probably didn't warm his heart that the Edison Jets were blanked 21-0 that day.

The result couldn't be blamed on the coaches lack of desire, even if it the loss could be laid at his feet for other reasons. I heard the halftime speech. And calling it a speech seem generous, because it was more of a rant. As I listened in I had hoped to catch a speech the likes of one in the movie Miracle where the coach lifts up the teams hopes and confidence. Instead my ears were greeted with the coach chewing out most units on the team with lines like, 'Offensive line raise your hand. I can't see you. I don't think you're here, because I didn't see one out there. The offensive line is supposed to block, and nobody did that.” He followed that gem by turning his back and letting the assistant coaches finish the halftime talk, not that any of it did any good. Maybe teaching the youth how to block would serve better than telling them what a poor job they're doing, but then again I'm not a football coach. And he really did look like he wanted to win.

But at what cost to the kids? Late in the game the coach took a player out, chewing him out for missing a blocking assignment. The boy walked back to the bench, threw his helmet against the fence, followed by his gloves, and sat down on the brink of tears. Confidence and sportsmanship did not seem to be the guiding principals of this team.

Have I mentioned these kids were probably about 11? Which means the psycological scaring isn't even the most dangerous part of the game. Every journal article you read on youth football these days relates how much more dangerous football is for children under 12 than it already is for grownups. The effects of brain damage, concussions and the like increase dramatically for youth because the brain casing (or skull for you non-medical types) isn't fully formed yet. Why any parent would want to subject their child to this danger is beyond me.

Yet I can't help but admire the entire institution just a little. The day was beautiful and families were out in force together to support their children. When I say children, I mean both sons and daughters, as accompanying the football team was a team of 15 or so similarly aged female cheerleaders. Usually I'd be dogging and mocking cheerleaders of any sort, but I can't this time. The girls seemed to be really happy out there, with well practiced cheers and even a halftime routine involving lifts and a throw. Plus there were older cheerleaders present in the stands, supporting the younger girls. Friends, families and football – it all sounds pretty nice in that light.

Unfortunately, I can't just see it in that light. After the 11 year old game was the 12 year old, then the 13s and 14s. I didn't stay to watch, I'd seen enough. Family time is great, but ballet, soccer and trips to the museum offer family time without the possible brain damage, even if they don't assure children will be spared psychological scaring.

The Vendy's

A little behind the times, I'm here to talk about the Vendy's. What are the Vendy's you ask? The award festival devoted to New York street carts and their food. Simply put, it's foodie heaven.

Under a beautiful, clear September sky, warm yet crisp like only September can be, 18 marvelous food carts and a few hundred eager food fans gathered on Governors Island. Sold out for weeks ahead of time, the Vendy's were accessible only by ferry, as they were situated on a small speck of land just south of Manhattan which has been a fort, a rallying point for class revolution and a prison. Once inside the gates, all the food from all the carts, as well as all the beer, wine, soda and water you could drink was gratis for 4 hours of Epicurean enjoyment. I believe everyone left heavier than they came.

The award categories were divided into 3 groups: Rookie of the Year, Desert and the Main Event. Each category had 5 nominees, with 3 extra 'guest' carts up from Philadelphia. There was a panel of expert judges, who decided who went home with the 'Vendy Cup' (yes, it's a real trophy and I can assure you it is very, very coveted by those in the industry), yet there was also a 'people's choice category on which the public voted. I'm both proud and ashamed to say I tried 16 of the 18 carts, but at least that made my vote well informed.

The Rookie Carts were, as newcomers are known to be, unpredictable. 2 of the carts were vegetarian/vegan. Shockingly, neither had a line, which isn't to say they weren't good. They were good... for vegan food, but if that isn't a backhanded compliment, then New Jersey isn't a hip place for squares. Also in category was a Taiwanese Dumpling Truck, but it didn't resonate with me. Then again, I'll admit to being a bit more snobbish about my dumplings than other laowai (or 'old outsiders' for you foreign devils). Of course there were good rookies too, like the bbq Mexican cart and Greek soulvaki truck, who won the category. These carts added nice variety, but I don't know how many will be invited back after if they have to compete with the big boys.

The main event featured 5 carts with food from five styles: Mexican, Greek, Moroccan, Venezuelan and Austrian. I'd had the Austrian style Schnitzel cart before, and I adore it. Everyone does. Schnitzel with a side of warm potato salad and a beet and feta salad? Sign me up. Yet having had them before, I felt greater need to try the other offerings. The Moroccan truck served up a chilled mixed berry soup, which was the best thing I tasted all day (and won them my vote). The Venezuelan truck had a slow-cooked pork in a fried tortilla offering, and frankly I worry about anyone whose heart doesn't go pitter-patter when the words 'slow-cooked pork' are mentioned. Then again, I'm worry about the ability of people's hearts to continue pitter-pattering when that cones up too often. The Mexican truck was either too bland or spicy for my tastes, which brings us to the Greek truck. I had passed on the King of Falafel most of the day, because Greek style street carts are a dime a dozen (or 5 bucks for a platter) in the city. By the time I tried it, all I had was a spicy, but overly unimpressive falafel. Maybe I was too full when I ate it. Maybe I ordered the wrong thing. Whatever it was, I didn't seem to agree with both the judges or the people, who both voted them champs. I guess there is no accounting for taste.

Now, the Desert category, is always to everyone's taste. With 2 ice cream offerings, a slushy offering and an asian delight. The winner, a high end slushy cart with gourmet flavorings had a line over 75 people long! The line at 'The Big Gay Ice Cream Truck' was nearly as long, but I couldn't stomach waiting for a full cone of soft serve ice cream, even if the toppings were brilliantly unique (wasabi dust or mulled strawberry compote). The Asian Dragon Beard Candy was a nice change; they pulled palm sugar until it was like a recently torn apart silk cocoon, then wrapped it around a spoonful of peanuts and coconut. Most unique taste thing I ate all day, and delicious to boot! Getting my vote for king of desserts was Guerrilla Ice Cream for one reason – they made a chocolate ice cream I loved. Not being a chocolate ice cream fan, I couldn't resist the %72 cocao with port wine flavored ice cream topped with cashews and a bruleed banana. Strangely I wasn't super-fussed by their lemongrass-ginger ice cream topped with coconut shavings and disliked the massala chai ice cream topped with candied fennel seeds. Yet the chocolate ice cream was so good it carried the day. Actually all the deserts carried the day. Then again, they usually do.

If I could have one do over it would be this – I had to go alone, but if ever there was a social event, this is it. Next year I want to bring 3 friends and a blanket. Nobody should eat a full portion of all the food they serve, it should be shared with friends, relaxing on a blanket on a beautiful day with a glass of wine or beer. The event is perfect. The food is perfect. Now I just need to bring some friends. Any volunteers?

Signs

The average Chinese person sees 10 times more advertisements than the average American. Or maybe it was the Japanese see more. Either way, as much as we think we're an ad based culture, we pale in comparison to our eastern brothers, who refuse to let vacant wall space go unsold. Maybe its because Americans are more concerned with a uniform sense of aesthetics, or we feel more strongly about where ads should and shouldn't go, or maybe we're just not as creative at coming up with ways to advertise, but the result is that our culture is less 'in-your-face' with product promotion than other cultures (believe it or not). Ne w York, however, may be the exception, or as close as we have to one. We all know that if capitalism had an address, it would be somewhere in New York, so its no wonder that the city of business is full of advertisements.

Midtown beats you over the head with advertisements. I remember from my earliest trips to New York being amazed at the glitz, the glamor and the ubiquity of dazzling, flashing billboards. Times Square is the root of a vine of billboards, stretching down every street and avenue in the area. Every surface reminds you to buy, drink, and watch.

Mostly watch. I've been surprised by how many of the billboards are for entertainment. The area above the Broadway Ticket office is covered with signs for every show with a curtain, usually promising a 'foot stomping good time', 'an unforgeable experience' or a show 'not quite as good as the movie'. Then over there are a collection of ABC screens, which makes sense because it is their flagship location for Good Morning America. Then there are signs for NBC. For the baseball post season on TBS, for HBO's Dexter, for Nurse Betty, for channels I haven't even heard of. What is it about Times Square that makes for such good TV advertising?

Near my office are two massive billboards which in the past 4 months have shown nothing but TV and movie advertisements, yet have rotated every 3 weeks or so. That isn't even the impressive part. What's most amazing is that they take down the advertisement a week before the movie is actually released. They don't wait until the movie is out to move on to the next big thing, they're already pushing the next big thing before they even had a big thing in the first place. The spot hosted ads for The Sorcerer Apprentice, Charlie St. Cloud, Scott Pilgrim, Devil, and most recently The Event, which I need to give some credit to for actually still being up when the show premiered, unlike the other names on the list.

The Event advertising has been memorable in other ways. Last week as I walked through the square, I noticed a man in a white shirt and black tie on a soap box shouting warnings of the end of the world, or so I thought. As I got closer, I realized he was simply warning everyone of 'The Event, on Monday Night.' I felt cheated, that New York now needed to pay people to act crazy, rather than utilize its ample supply of naturally crazy citizens. In the end NBC had the last laugh, I watched the first half of the show Monday, before realizing I just didn't care. Score that one for the advertisers. Thank goodness they're not 10 times more powerful than they already are.

A Glimpse

I don't live in New York. I work there, and I try to see what I can, but I don't live in New York, not even in spirit. A fact most plainly exemplified by the reactions of New Yorkers upon learning where I live: either their eyes open wide and their mouths form donuts in shock at how far away I live, or they continue to look dumbfounded, unsure where Edison, NJ even is. This past weekend, I caught a glimpse of how the other half, the true New Yorkers live, and it has allowed me to dream.

Coming in Saturday just after lunch, I met some college friends visiting the city for the weekend. We rented bikes and coasted along the Hudson, riding from 56th st all the way to The Battery. We passed cruise ships and air craft carriers, party piers and parks. To our left whizzed landmark after landmark. First the Empire State Building, next the Chelsea Highline, then the World Trade Center sight. Finally Lady Liberty came into view, and if we'd continued, we'd have seen the Brooklyn Bridge. Quite a nice day, but hardly the part that makes me jealous.
We returned to a friends apartment on the upper east side, blocks from the subway, but miles closer than I am. From there we walked around the corner to a BBQ shop for dinner, which is rumored to be owned by Justin Timberlake himself (he wasn't there, so I couldn't ask him). Completing our dinner, we hoped in a cap, whipped through Central Park to Hell's Kitchen, and another friends apartment, for drinks and a visit to a hip basement bar nearby. I eventually retreated to the safety and comfort of my own bed in the suburbs, but couldn't help feel jealous of people who could walk to and from work without needing a 60 gallon pack.

First thing the next morning I was back on the train into the city, meeting other friends for brunch by Union Square. On the walk from Penn Station to the restaurant, I stumbled upon a great Tea Store, a delicious looking Fried Chicken Joint, a hip Plate and Glassware store, a public exhibition of sculptures by leading architects, and the colorful characters of the lower fashion district. Although I had to return home after brunch, others went to a beer garden in Queens. A Beer garden in New York, is there anything this city doesn't have? And that's just what I found in a few hours before lunch!

Yet the largest draw is likely the people. Everyone dreams of visiting New York. People from other countries come here, my Irish cousins came here, my Spanish exchange student in High School came here, my girlfriends classmates from Australia came here. New York is where the action is. It's happening, its where people want to be.

New Jersey is not. Nobody wants to go to Jersey. If it wasn't for my lovely girlfriend and my comfortable apartment (both of which could someday move to the city) I wouldn't want to go to Jersey. Thankfully my girlfriends company (coupled with Netflix and a Wii) make life good. Just not as exciting as New York. So for now, I'll have to make do with the glimpses that I get,

Trains

Commuting Sucks. It has since Joseph returned to Bethlehem, since Frodo brought the Ring back to Mordor, since Dick van Dyke swept Chimneys. And it still does. But that is not to say that all commutes are equally bad. Based on length of time, distance and method, some commutes at times seem a gift! Though my commute is an untantilizing hour and a half long – its better than it could be!

When I first came to New Jersey, my commute was by bus. Depending on your take, you could say commuting by bus is like (a) a box of chocolates or (b) russian roulette – you never know what you're going to get. Some days the commute is swift, and quick, other days a well placed fender bender can back traffic up for miles. Admittedly on the bus, I didn't really care because I was seated, warm, etc. It's just annoying to not know when you would actually get to work, and how late you'd be. I believe most people would agree consistency is a good thing with a commute, which makes the bus far from ideal. Yet I will give credit where its due; the bus could be faster than the train, and I am personally enamored with the Port Authority Bus Terminal, but thats a different post. Thats as much credit as I'm willing to give. The train is way better.
Every morning I wake up, walk to the train, which takes me into the city before completing my commute to the office. We live a leisurely 10 minute stroll from the train station, or a diligent 8 minute walk, or a desperate 5 minute sprint. The goal is to arrive at the station at exactly the same time as the train. There are 3 trains which come within 10 minutes of each other each morning. I aim for the second because its less crowded (the early birds catch the first one, the sleepy heads catch the last). Once we've arrived in New York, everyone stumbles out, and I walk the last 20 blocks to my office. Aside from my obsessive interest in the second train, it isn't actually that unique of a routine.

My interest in the empty second train is not rooted in the fact that I'm anti-social in the morning, which my girlfriend will attest I most certainly am, but in the process of seat selection. I'm extremely particular in the mornings, and not so much in the afternoons. In my mind, the golden seats are the seats on the left side of the front car where there is wall, instead of window. There are only 3 seats that fit this description on any train, so you can see why I prefer the empty train. The advantages are numerous – the front car is closest to the stairs at Penn Station in New York, the left side faces north west, so the sun doesn't shine in my eyes, and the wall-less seats offer better head support for sleeping. See, that's what it's all about. If I've got 50 extra minutes to sleep on the train, suddenly the commute starts to look like a gift! I drag my tired butt out of bed early just to be sure I make that train. It's the height future gratification, cutting bed sleep short for extra train sleep!

In many ways, surviving a commute is about mindset. I try to see the positives, like the extra sleep, the chance to read or write a blog on the ride home in the evenings, the monthly pass which lets me ride in on the weekends for free. Plus now I know when I'm getting into the office. So really, my commute is a gift! I can hear you shaking your head sadly and asking, “but what if you just lived closer and had more time to sleep in your own bed and be at home in the evenings?” And I say I'd rather my cheering section be an optimist – just like Samwise and the Marys.

Ghanan Sellers

Though many-a-traveler seeks to blend in to the scene and appear a local, rarely are tourists success in this task judged as effectively as in Times Square. Seeking to capitalize on the tourists drawn to the shiny heart of the city, not one, but two rival open-air double-decker tour buses have stationed salespeople to cover every possible entry and exit to the square. Surprisingly seasoned, these salespeople are exceedingly efficient at picking out the tourists from the locals. They are, in a sense, professional tourist spotters.

Though initially irritating, these salespeople make up an integral layer of the city in my mind now. Hailing largely from African countries (predominantly Ghana, which I learned during the World Cup), these jobs support what must be a rather extensive immigrant population. They're as much a part of the New York story as any other immigrant class. Plus, once I'd learned who they profiled (and how to avoid it), the realization that they were just trying to make a living like everyone else led me to a peaceful, even jealous, understanding of these men and women who stand around Times Square and pester tourists all day.

As salespeople, they're success hinges on pitching their bus company to those most likely to purchase it, which means tourists. So what do they look for? I've heard tourists from all over the world, from Australians to Oklahomans, exclaim with surprise, “do we really look like tourists?”. And the simple answer is almost always yes. The first tip-off is clothing. At 9am there are 2 types of people in the square, businessmen and women scuttling off to work, and tourists. The businessfolk wear suits, or shirts and slacks at the least. The tourists wear anything else, so just because you're not wearing shorts, sneakers and an Ohio State Jersey, doesn't mean you don't look like a tourist. It's a winless battle for out-of-towners, largely because if you're in Times Square and not going to an office, especially at 9am, you must be a tourist.

The other difference between tourists and non tourists in Times Square is how they interact with their environment. Tourists often have a lost, overwhelmed look about them. They linger longer, without deadline or agenda, free to take in all the blinking signs, characters, landmarks, and buildings which assault the senses on Broadway between 42nd and 48th streets. Most blatantly of all, tourists look up at the buildings. They actually look up and study the buildings. I confess, I do too, they're wondrous and amazing structures which, though they seem sturdy and established as mountains or canyons, didn't exist 100 years ago.

And really, if you can't be labeled a tourist in Times Square, where can you be? Being called out as a tourist isn't all bad. Besides, lots of tourists sign up for these buses and seem to genuinely enjoy them, so everyone wins. Just remember 'locals' wear business attire and don't look at the buildings. I however, encourage everyone to spend time studying the skyscrapers and dazzling signs of Times Square. But if the salespeople catch you looking up at them, and you're not in a suit, you're getting a sales pitch.

Coney Island

Though it's star is faded and it's best days are behind it, Coney Island's legend of thrill rides and cut-loose fun drew me. I've seen the archival footage of the old rides. I've watched the 4th of July hot dog eating competition on TV. The place is as American as apple pie, baseball and... well hot dogs. I had to see it.

What struck me first was what I'd somehow expected least: the vastness of the beach. The stories of the Coney Island Boardwalk surely hint that there must be surf there, yet I wasn't prepared for the sheer size of the beach. Easily 75 yards wide at high tide, the beach stretches a good mile or more down the seashore. The day we visited the masses congregated along the waters edge, which left the beach feeling empty due to the wide empty stretch from the boardwalk to the people, but then quite dense once the towels, umbrellas and coolers were reached. Given the startling lack of shade, and the summer heat, I can't blame everyone for wanting to be in the water.

The best part of this beach, however, is the people watching. Rare is the city with a true beach on its subway lines, or at least a city so big and vibrant as New York. This leaves the sand and boardwalk littered with all shapes, sizes and nationalities of people. You can see hipsters sporting jeans, vests and fedoras laying next to a large hairy New York Italian next to a young Asian couple out sight seeing. Poor and more well off, they're all there, which makes sitting on a bench in the shade even more rewarding.

Of course the beach is great, Coney Islands great boardwalk rides are what made it famous. Retooled with modern games and rides, the waterside parks are still a good time, even if the luster has wained with America's access to rides has increased with mega theme parks like 6 Flags, Bush Gardens and Cedar Point (my favorite). Set up more like a summer carnival than a theme park, the rides are all pay-as-you-ride, so if walking around watching others ride is your thing, it won't cost you a dime, but what's the fun in that? Riding one seemed like a requirement for visiting, and why ride anything but the granddaddy of them all: the rickety wooden roller coaster.

Named the Cyclone, and having been operating for over 75 years, the roller coaster is the oldest ride on the boardwalk still in use, easily the most terrifying. Though less high than modern coasters, even modern wooden ones, the allure of riding such a historic structure seems. Strapped in and climbing to the top of the first hill, there is a sweeping realization that this isn't a slow ride, as the chain clicks double time up the hill, and the sweeping view must be enjoyed because its gone in a blink. At the peak most of the cart puts their hands up for that first hill, then the beating starts. Plunging and twisting down the first hill, the wood, the lack of shoulder support, the gap between knees and the restraining bar give a feeling of falling unlike that on other coasters. Crashing to the bottom of the first hill, then up and around the second, every muscle strains to keep to keep body within the cart, and not somewhere among the broken, abandoned sunglasses below. A few brave souls keep their hands up for the second hill, but by the third hill survival is foremost on everyones minds, and hands stay down, gripping to the safety bar, muttering last minute prayers, begging the roller coaster spare their lives. In a flash, the ride is done, though en route the duration seemed startlingly prolonged. Nothing like unbridled terror to make time slow down. My knees were wobbly afterwards. I loved it.

Really, I quite liked Coney Island. Were it not so far my home, I'd return more often. Sure you could nitpick its negatives: no shade, the 'landmark' discontinued old rides boarder on eyesores for want of paint, the food stores price gouge like you were at a ballpark. The biggest negative surprise is the lack of seaside restaurants and bars to enjoy a cool, shady drink. Yet, the prestige, the outrageous mixing of people, the rides, the atmosphere and the classic food make up for everything (for those scoring at home, we enjoyed hot dogs, corn dogs and a funnel cake). There most certainly are better, more entertaining places to visit in New York, but how bad can a trip to Coney Island be if it's like a day at the beach?

Pleasent Diversion

Last night I ventured forth to the borough of Queens, setting foot on Terra Reginae for the first time. The purpose of my call was my need to satisfy a cultural itch; I needed to see a baseball game in New York. And because I've yet to receive my share of the TARP bailouts, I cannot afford Yankee Stadium, which left me at Citi Field watching the Mets, a team whose season has gone from bad to worse and who is all but mathematically eliminated from the post season. Which is why my visit wasn't so focused on the quality of the game, but more so on the stadium, the experience and the feel. All in all, it was a pleasant diversion.

Replacing old Shea Stadium, which was built in the 60's, was generically round, and was by most accounts charmless, the new Citi Field cost a whopping $750 million to build. Yet, like the team that plays there, the stadium can't seem to outshine the Yankees $1.5 billion dollar cathedral which opened the same year. Seeking to be the voice of all non-Yankee New Yorkers, the Mets have embraced fan bases whose teams have been exiled to the west: The Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants. To that end, the stadium's exterior is a nod to the Dodger's old Ebbit's Field, and its grand foyer (yes, the stadium has a foyer) is an extensive tribute to Jackie Robinson, the color-barrier breaking Dodger. It was a bit strange to see so much tribute paid to another teams heroes, but then again the last time the Mets won the World Series I was 2, and half that team's stars went on to get busted for drugs. Maybe it is best they use other teams heroes.

The stadium itself is quite pleasant. Broad concourses wrap around the field, allowing an easy pregame stroll to take in the field from all angles. In right field there is a mini replica Queensborough Bridge crossing over the bullpens, and every seat seems to have a good view. And a hungry man wont be begging for options – Hot Dogs, Italian Sandwiches, BBQ, with specialties like fried dough and kettle cooked popcorn. There is even a killer smelling Mexican taqureia and a 'world market' which serves Japanese sushi, Chinese and Korean dishes and even fresh fruit! And what is a ballgame without beer? Well, I've never seen a selection of beer at a stadium like this before. There is a myriad of imported brews, smaller domestic breweries, local favorites and of course your major American players, so if you can't find a beer you like there, you must not like beer!

As I settled into my seat $25 upper deck seat behind home plate I'd walked up an purchased at the stadium that evening, with my Hoegarden and Italian Sausage, I looked out over a green field basking in the warm light of a late summer evening. Behind the massive video board I could see traffic shuffling across the George Washington Bridge. Throughout the game airplanes veered off course, swerving around the stadium beyond the right field wall as they approached the landing runway at Laguardia. Baseball game or not, the view was peaceful and relaxing.

Easing our way through the game, there was action and excitement, but not a forced freneticism like some stadiums try to produce. The fans at the game were easy going as the evening slipped into night, where the sky's stars failed to appear, a subtle reminder that even at it's parks and fields, New York is as urban as it gets. I got personal satisfaction from the stars on the field, when each team's biggest star hit a home run. The Mets lost, the crowed groaned knowingly as their early lead slipped away, as if they half expected it. After the game, everyone got up and went home, smiles abounded and I don't think it was just the beer. People seemed to have had a good time. It had been a pleasant diversions.

Beneath a Statue

Street performing has taken a dive in recent years, what with cities recent crackdowns on buskers, clowns and stunt men. Nowadays stumbling upon a great street performer is harder and harder. Sure, Boston's Harvard Sq. and Fanuel Hall have a few good acts, and you never know what you'll find in New York's Union Square, but gone are the fledgling musicians and more diminutive showmen. Instead we're forced to deal with “a serious blight on society”, as the movie Hot Fuzz calls them: moving statues. I wish I could say they're the lowest man on the street performer totem-pole, but they're not. Not by a long shot.

In my youth, street performing was a wondrous art. Tightrope walkers, jugglers and break dancers wowed me, while I turned up my nose at street musicians for reasons I don't fully understand. I'd hate to think my nose-thumbing has caused the disappearance of most of the street musicians. More likely the police crackdowns on busking, the limiting of permits and such has led to the silent street corners and subway tunnels. You'd think during a recession there would be more out of work musicians turning to the streets, but nearest I can see that hasn't happened.

It seems the only proliferating strata of performer is the moving statue. Once a novelty, and occasionally skilled beyond belief with tremendous body control, all too often these 'artists' act less and less like statues and more and more like outrageously dressed mutes. More constant motion machine than statue or robot, the performers wheeze, whistle and beckon, drawing attention to themselves in any way possible. Too many hacks have hijacked what I once considered a noble art, moving their kind to near the bottom of the list.

Near the bottom is not the bottom. I'd never though there could be anyone exhibiting less skill than the guy in silver paint who blows on a whistle to passerbys. At least, I never though there could be before now.

There are 'street performers', if you can stomach calling them that, who's gimmick is that they're dressed up as either Elmo or Sponge Bob Square Pants. That's it. No tricks, no songs, no jokes. They bought a lifesize Muppet costume and wear it on the street corner, waiting for people to take a picture with them and put money in their stocking – yes, like the one you'd hang on the chimney with care for St. Nick. I mean, what says the Big Apple more than Sponge Bob Square Pants? If I gave them any credit it's this: those costumes must have been mighty hot this past summer. But still, these guys make the moving statues look like genius Kubricks of the street art world.

As the mastery of street performances slowly erodes, perhaps we have no one but ourselves to blame. In a world too often ruled by the lowest common denominator, it's little wonder our lack of support for busking has given way to men in Elmo costumes. I'm pleased to have a job in this economy, lease of all because I fear I'll soon need to begin paying for entertainment. The horror.

Eating Crow

Just over a week ago I lambasted the Fashion District for being shockingly unfashionable. I am sorry and would like to repent, and offer this as an apology to the Fashionista Mafia. I could delete the post, but I think it still has some valid points. Plus I'm lazy. What I've learned, however, changes my opinion of the districts credibility as a fashion hot-spot, which I now realize I was overly smug about. It's there, just hidden under the mindless New York grime.
The day after I published my post, I saw a fashion shoot on my way to work. The next day I saw another. Then I stumbled upon, not one, but three schools of design or fashion. Then the myriad of fabric shops, tucked away on second stories, began to appear once I looked hard. All the necessary tools that would seem to support an industry of textile based creation.

Then I started walking the other direction. I walked away from Times Square, away from the ritzy glitter and Whopper Bar (where you can soon grab a Budweiser with your Whopper). Down the side streets I trod, discovering all I had neglected in my previous post. Suddenly, block after block produced stores and haunts that could only exist in the fashion district.

Yet the most curious thing about it was that each block specialized in one area. I walked down wholesale Handbag Street, which likely explains where all the handbag carts around Times Square get supplied. I saw Sportswear Street, with nameless, logo-less jerseys hinted at your ol' hometown team. Fabric Street I mentioned before near the Port Authority Terminal. All similar in concentration to Diamond Street near Rockefeller Center. How strange it is to find streets where every vendor specializes in the same goods.

Stranger still to think that this developed naturally in our free-market Capitalist economy, while the only other place I've seen with such a curious concentration of similar shops is the Socialistic economy of Shanghai, China. To think that both systems, seemingly as diverse as could be, arrive at the same conclusion is remarkable, if indeed I've interpreted correctly.

Capitalist or not (but it most certainly is), the fashion district deserves more credit than I've given it. I walk its 10 dreariest, over commercialized block everyday, which has no doubt soured and blinded me to it's merits. Its still grimy, and unless you're curious to see Handbag Street, and I can name more than a few who would be, I wouldn't recommend it. But at least now I don't need to look over my shoulder for the Fashionista Mafia.

Food of the People

As a lover of food, and a lover of travel, I am of the opinion that generally the best food is 'the food of the people'. And by that, I mean the food that is ubiquitous, fresh, and inexpensive. This ideal has rarely failed me in my quest for international gastronomic sustenance (with Vietnamese Pho being the most glaring exception - don't get it on the street). We all know 'wanna be like the local' creed: Find the Italian's pizza joint in Rome, the Nepalese streetcart samosa, the Chinese restaurant with all the smiling Chinese inside. And usually that place isn't inside hotels or swank restaurants; its the street side stalls, the no frills restaurants, the 'dives' that you always see, smell and, depending on who you are, think either "gosh that smells great" or "everyone who eats there gets sick, its a fact". You can bet I'm in the former category - I love the food of the people.

As I mentioned, the food of the people is cheap and no frills, which is why I'm so fascinated by New York's culinary scene. If 'the food of the people' is usually served from streetcarts, then New York, as you may know, is one amazingly diverse place. Having gradually evolved culinarily from the dirty hot dog and salty pretzel capital of the world (not to be confused with Bavaria, the sausage and awesome capital of the world), New York now finds itself blessed with streetcarts as diverse as the summer is hot. Next to my office is a Jamaican cart, selling jerk, stewed, and curried chicken with beans, rice and fried plantains. Not your style? What about southern BBQ at a cart 2 blocks over? Or Mexican? Not feeling well, try some spicy chicken ramen, from one of 3 ramen carts nearby. Or go to the organic fresh cart for a vegetable and mozzarella crepe. I could go on endlessly, Indian curry, Korean bbq, Chinese dumplings, German schnitzel and don't even try to count the number of gyro carts there are. And the selections aren't just limited to entrees - there is even a Belgian waffle cart. Of course this is in addition to the myriad of sushi and pizza places the city already boasts of.

All the carts have their own personality. Some return to the same place every day, staking a claim to their turf. Others rotate, in a different location around the city each day, requiring you to cross reference the day of the week, the time and a tidal chart for the Mediterranean, just to be sure your food will be there when you are. There is even a yearly event, The Vendies, where the top street carts come together to be judged, with a champion being crowned "best in the city".

With all this diversity in street food, I can't help but marvel at what it means for the diversity of the city. The immigrant story rings true, "with the people come their food". And most of their food has been embedded and put on the street, making it "our food". What luck to live in a city with a diversity of people and culinary traditions to service whatever craving I could have. It's a far cry from the old hot dog and pretzel days for this city. Well, unless you go to the Bavarian cart because there, yup, you can get an awesome sausage.

The Steakhouse

So far I haven't written much about food in New York. Well, really, I haven't written much about anything in New York, but it's time to start. It there is one thing I love, its food. Now, working in New York allows me to eat plenty of food every day for lunch, but if I'm going to start with New York Food, I feel I should start at the top. This past week I went out with my work group to Peter Luger's Steak House - one of the finest steak houses in the city.

Located in Brooklyn under the shadow of the Willamsburgh, Peter Luger is a New York institution. Famous for great steak and bad service, they've been rated Zagat's best steakhouse in New York for who knows how many years. This place is a notorious haunt for the Wall St. types, in part because it isn't easy to get to. The interior has that startlingly plane decor you find in places not trying to obscure its food - white walls, wood floors, plain white linen and dozens of plane, yet beautiful, chandeliers. This place is all about the food.

And the food is terrific. Going out with my high-earning co-workers, or at least co-workers who earn more than I, afforded us the opportunity to order practically half the menu. Admittedly, steak is the word, the star, the alpha and omega, but Luger's other offerings aren't slouches either. The shrimp in the shrimp cocktail are massive, the cream spinach is... well it was the only vegetable on the table and was probably 50% butter, so needless to say it was delicious. And I can see some people shaking their heads thinking that's disgraceful, one measly pseudo-vegetable in a rich red-meat meal, but I didn't go to New York's premiere steakhouse to eat salad, so hesh-up.

I could tell you the steak was sublime -a massive plate of meat cooked perfectly medium rare and served family style with its own juices drizzled over the top - but I'd rather mention the shockingly good bacon. Thickly cut and bursting with flavor, it was so good I forgot it cost $3 a strip while I ate it.

Make no mistake, this meal wasn't cheap. In fact, it was the most expensive meal I've ever eaten, tipping the scales at just under $100. Yet, when I compare the taste of the food, the quality of the wine and the experience of it all, I can't help but feel it was worth it. Another tick mark in the great restaurant list.

Would I go again? Maybe - but probably just as an excuse to cross over the Williamsburgh bridge again. Man, what a view!

Theater in the Park

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” - Ancient Visgoth Proverb

Finer advice may have never been given, even if it isn't Visgoth. Any seasoned traveler knows local food, customs and experiences will enliven any trip. The same is true with anyone moving to a new place; by integrating into the local scene, a new community converts from a foreign land to home. So where do a young couple go in Edison, NJ to see and be seen? Overwhelming responses pointed to the summer 'theater in the park' series. Overwhelming, I no longer trust my sources. Have you ever watched one of Wes Anderson movies in a room full of stiffs? The Royal Tennemabaums? The Darjeeling Limited? No? Well, the movies are full of gut-wrenching ironic humor, which is only funnier when nobody around you gets it. That was theater in the park.

When my sister, girlfriend and I showed up at the park, nobody expected Shakespeare, least of all because the scheduled play was “The Wedding Singer.” Let New York and Boston perform Shakespeare under the cool evening air – Edison has a musical based on an Adam Sandler movie! Yet we arrived hopeful, after all the movie had been funny and the music classic. What we discovered is that for copyright reasons, all those popular 80's songs had been stripped for newly written show tunes, which most certainly lacked the same omph as their original counterparts. However, the play had been on Broadway (not with this cast, I'm guessing), so I'll cut short any further rebuke on music.

The production itself tried mightily, and even had some sleek choreography at times, but couldn't overcome it's one fatal flaw – neither the actors nor director was very good. The male lead, saddled with the unenviable task of being Adam Sandler, fell below our diminutive expectations, and most of the rest of the cast simply delivered line after line, rarely putting much feeling behind them but you don't need a critics review. The run is over and you've been mercifully spared.

What you likely can't understand, was how surreal the audience was. They didn't laugh, they didn't clap, but would erupt into wild applause at the end of each act. It was as if nobody told them it was a comedy. The actors would deliver a funny line, and you would hear crickets. The actors would unintentionally deliver a funny line, and again, crickets. Well, crickets and the hyena-like laughs of my party. The only other sound the audience made was the woman behind me who would affirm our laughter at the comic bits (intentional only) by muttering to her friend, “oh, that's funny”, which I thought was a pretty funny way to enjoy comedy. Aside from funny lady, the audience sat in their butterfly chairs, munching on popcorn, riveted by the tragedy on stage. Did I say tragedy? I meant comedy. They sat silently enjoying the comedy on stage.

All of this leads me back to our Visgoth quote. Perhaps there are certain local customs best left alone, like French nude beaches and Chinese stinky tofu. Or maybe we've extrapolated out too far. Do as the Romans do, not the Edisonians.

When Fashion Ruled the World

You may have heard the old musing, “I don't get French Fashion.” Well, I'd like to report that I don't get the New York Fashion District. Snuggled between Port Authority, Penn Station and Times Square, the district is a shell of an attraction, growing seedier and seedier the further you get from Times Square. Despite it's attempts to lure tourists, the district remains cold, impersonal and out of touch. I fear it's heyday has passed, gone with the 80's and the days we saw catwalks on the evening news. Now the district is left with an antiquated idea of itself and it's decaying monuments, like the statue of Ozymindias.

The buildings look like many buildings in New York, built during the early 20th century with the sense of architectural beauty that accompanied the era, but no long with the financial means to maintain the luxurious ideals they were constructed with. It hardly gives off a trendy air, what with multitudes of chain eateries lining the street levels. Nor does the general grubbiness of the streets add to any feeling of haute couture. Nowhere aside from Macy's could you buy anything 'fashionable' in the district, except for 40th street near Port Authority, where the last holdout of tailors shops clings to the threads of the districts past. And the fashion houses, by not advertising, only seem to promote the feeling that this gritty stretch of blocks is a has-been.

Down 7th avenue, stretching away from the seemingly always vacant Fashion District Information Kiosk, is the Fashion Walk of Fame, which may be the saddest monument of all. Seals embedded in the pavement with designers names and a short biography were designed to serve as an honor to the fashion industry and those in it, but instead of honoring something special, it feels like honoring ubiquity and mass production. The seals honor Calvin Kline, Ralph Lauren and Willi Smith, major brands, consumed by the masses and available in any mall in America. There is even a seal for Perry Ellis, a label I could have sworn is the 'house brand' at Macy's. Over marketed and over exposed these brands seem hardly worthy of the narcissistic honors heaped upon them. It's like honoring food giants Emeril Lagasse or Wolfgang Puck, who in my opinion unquestionably great chefs, but have left a bad taste in many people's mouths with commercialized items for mass consumption. The walk of fame represents an era where the fashion house was special, now it's just another global brand, like Apple, McDonald's or Nestle.

Yet the fashion industry, like the city of New York, is about constant renewal, so maybe there is hope for the district. It could revive, recapture the excitement of a bygone era. Maybe it has and I just don't see it, as my fashion knowledge begins and ends with The Devil Wears Prada. Or maybe it's time for the Fashion District to choose a new name, and stop clinging a bygone time when America cared to see super models in the flashiest new designs.

Brinkmanship

Deep down, I think most of us want to be first. First is special, memorable, honorable. Who was the second man to climb Mt. Everest? Nobody knows... and as far as I can tell, nobody really seems to care. Sure, sometimes we're nervous about being the first to try something scary (like eatting really spicy salsa), and sometimes we're gracious and let others go ahead (like at the checkout), but they're usually consciously made decisions. Unless overcome by apathy, our subconscious prefers being first over waiting. This is the only explanation I have for the brinkmanship that occurs every morning on the New York street corners.

As the thousands walk, amble and run to work from the Penn Station area each morning, crowds gather and disperse, ebb and flow at each intersection as the lights change. Cars, trucks, street carts and taxis foolheartedly try to navigate the 7th ave area while the stampede of suits and blouses clog intersections. As the turning traffic sit blocked by the masses, the pedestrians await a break in the through traffic to hurriedly cross the street and be on their way. It's here, waiting to cross the street, that people begin to forgo the pillars of order and rank on which our decent society is based.

If you wait on the curb, someone will walk from behind me and stand in front of you. If you take a step off the curb, the next guy will take two. Businessmen in suits, fashion designers, restaurant workers, all will try and edge past you and get the coveted 'first' position at the crosswalk. This doesn't mean they're actually in a hurry; plenty of overly portly types will push in front of me then proceed to cross the street like cold molasses flowing uphill. People are just drawn to being 'first' in line to cross the street.

Of course there are caveats to my observations. It's worse in the morning than the evenings. It's worse closer to Penn Station and Port Authority than in Times Square. And its as civil as Tea at the Ritz compared to getting off the subway in Shanghai. Plus I'm cranky in the mornings, having just woken up from a nap on the train, easily aggravated by the slow walkers.

The only cure I've found for this phenomenon requires a noble courage and toes of steel. In short my solution is just to walk so far forward if anyone does pass you they'll get run over, then walk really quickly when the cars stop. I find it's the only thing that works. Well, that or you could display graciousness or apathy, both of which are probably safer for your toes come to think of it.

A Nice Spot

History book after history book extols the many splendid virtues, benefits, and wonderment of New York's geography. These books tell us that when Henry Hudson came upon his most famous discovery, the fields were green, the forests lush, and fawns played lutes softly beside bubbling brooks. Most agree that the deep harbor enable the location to be a shipping magnet, before the sturdy, accessible bedrock beneath Manhattan allowed the rise of great towers to support the cities primary interest: business. I have yet to see a book which didn't credit New York's fame and good fortune to it's unique geography.

Or for a more personal view, you could talk to any of the millions people who commute into the city each day. Like candles to a flame, tourists to a gift store or Dan to a brownie sundae, cities and towns have sprung up around New York, each pulling the tentacles of New York Metropolitan transportation further and further out. Aside from commutes terminating in New York, another shared aspect of many of these cities is proximity to the sea. Perhaps you're a fan of casino's or want to still claim to be a New Englander (despite rooting for the Yankees). Well, we've got oceanfront property in Port Chester to Stamford to Norwalk. Or if the TV shows have you wearing your hair big and rockin' out to Bon Jovi, New Jersey has ample shoreline for you too. Then again, you might be a New York purist, and prefer to live and work in the same state, so Long Island, with miles of soft sand beaches could be your choice. With so much oceanfront property in the region, New York benefits again.

But I'm really here to bring up the geographic benefit I've been seeing lately; it's smack-dab in the middle of the Eastern Seaboard. Being poor, as young travelers should be, I find myself gravitating to travel by bus. It's cheap and easy, plus they have wireless Internet now so I can write dibble like this for you while moving at 65... ugh, traffic, make that 20 miles per hour. Whatever the speed, it's relatively simple to get wherever I want to go, quickly and cheaply. Two weekends ago I returned to Boston. A few weeks back I swung through Washington, DC. Pretty much any major city on the Eastern Seaboard is accessible within a few hours on the bus. How had I never realized how much better it would be to live in the middle, instead of at the end? Aside from being the destination for other travelers, it seems to be a great departure point for it's own people!

I tell you I'd be positively giddy with excitement about this discovery, except that all this time on the bus has zapped most of my energy. Plus we have a long way to go before we reach Manhattan, all those cities up and down the East coast have brought traffic to a crawl. I think I'll relax and read my book about how great the New York Harbor is. Or maybe I'll gaze out the window at the passing sea. Just kidding... the Jersey turnpike goes nowhere near it's beautiful ocean.

Gotham

Before we go any further I feel I aught to step up to the lectern and try to drop some nuggets of knowledge. Maybe you've put together why I chose this title for my blog, maybe you haven't, but I wanted to talk about names and nicknames.

This will also give me a chance to reference the New York history book I've been reading for the past 3 months: Gotham, by Edwin Burrows. It weights more than a min- statuette of liberty, registering at over 1200 pages and only covers New York's history until the year 1898. Why 1898? I don't know, I made it to year 1830 and had to return it to the library. To get an idea of how complete this book is, ask yourself what you know about New York before the American Revolution? … me neither, but Mr. Burrows wrote a good 200 pages on it! He also explained a lot about names.

Gotham, New York's classier nickname, in some language or another translates to 'goat town', hardly an image that comes to mind when we think of the city today. First applied to the city by Washington Irving in A Short History of New York, the name refers to a funny little town in England, with two conflicting stories about itself. The first, is that everyone who lived in the town was crazy, nutso, off their medication – end of story, which seems a bit odd New Yorkers to accept as a namesake. The other story is that everyone in Gotham was really smart, but acted crazy so that the King wouldn't visit and claim all their beautiful land for his highway. This seems a more appropriate story for any city, let alone one that at times can seem misunderstood.

Over the years, I've heard and even dispensed a stream of disparaging statements about New York: Too dirty, too impersonal, too self centered, too many Yankee fans, too much poverty, just too much (which sounds like a lot of the complaints people have about China, except for that Yankee fan stuff). I'll admit that just 1 year ago I counted New York as a city I had no desire to live in for exactly the reasons enumerated above. Now that I'm here, and finding it quite to my liking I might add, I'm beginning to wonder about the old Gotham story. Maybe New York has convinced scores of kings (and common folk) that to live there you must be crazy, when really it's a pretty nice place.

Devious conspiracies aside, I feel learning the history of the names fills in a nice history to the places. It doesn't take a genius to realize New York is named after York, England, because the King's brother, and Duke of York, was given the charter for the city. More interesting is how the burros were names. In the 1600's Mr. Brock moved his family just across the river from the northern part of Manhattan and set up Bronk's farm, in an area now known as Da' Bronx. Brooklyn was named after something from Holland. And apparently nobody knows for certain how Manhattan got it's name, but my personal favorite is that it's Native American for 'The Drunken Place', due to a surely wild pow-wow between early explorers and footloose natives. I don't care if it's true, I just feel the name fills in a bit of the history.

Street Cart Panic

Panic. Does anyone else feel this when it comes to food? If that just makes me weird, well, that makes me weird, but occasionally I panic when it comes to food. It's almost as though my experiences have repeatedly doomed me to terrible food; time and again I order dishes with chorizo sausage in it, and time and again get overcooked ground beef. Alternatively, there are other times I can't choose between menu offerings. The fish 'n' chips? The burger? The special? Inevitably my knee-jerk reactions, high expectations and ill-informed decision making process far to often leads to heartbreak [See: Fish and Chips / Anywhere in Asia]. Throw in the slightest pressure to decide quickly and I've got bank-run levels of panic.

All of which leads me to my first lunch at work, downtown on a sunny day in the nice part of spring. The Chase Manhattan building abuts Rockefeller Center at 50th and 6th, the sight of a lovely plaza complete with fountain, seating and droves of food carts. On this maiden luncheon, I wandered the stalls, aghast at the selections, giddy at the prospect of eating them every day for lunch. Mexican? Southern BBQ? Korean BBQ? Japanese? Greek? There was even a cart with the sphinx on it... though I had never thought of hot dogs and pretzels as very Egyptian. Lost in the cloudy dreams of gastronomic possibilities, an aggressive man at an empty cart engaged me as I walked past. “What are you having?”

Panic. Instantaneously, I might add. “Chicken Gyro” I blurted back, having been robbed of my faculties which allow me to distinguish good ideas from dog food. Too late to renege my order, I awkwardly stood there, considering how I had just ordered from a cart nobody was at while the short, greasy man prepared my food. Prices weren't listed anywhere, so when I handed him a $5 bill, he stuffed it in a drawer and quickly turned away. All the other gyro carts are $4. I now have no choice but to fear for the worst, yet I hold out hope; how badly can one make a gyro?
Quite badly. I scolded myself for being so foolish. Had it been so long since I'd ventured into the world of street food that I'd forgotten the most basic principles? (1) Go where other people go, (2) Order what other people order. In New York City, it might be the easiest two rules to follow ever. Find the cart with all people in business attire (to be sure they're not ignorant tourists) and order what they're getting. I had no one to blame by myself for this disaster. I panicked and fell prey to a street vendor who honed his marketing and sales skills, while neglecting to cultivate any cooking talent.

Thankfully I've learned from my mistakes. I've done more research; I follow the suits. And if I am going to go off the beaten track, I remember what my years on the run taught me: stay calm, believe in the principles, follow the suits, and avoid the hot dog truck with the Sphinx on it.

A New Begining

It's time to move on. I don't live in Shanghai, megalopolous of Sinitic delights and mystery. I completed my mission in Shanghai, didn't I? Continuing to post there feels like trampling on the peaceful resting place of spirits past. I need to start afresh, but wow do we begin again?

Obviously we need a new place. How about New York City, home of Wall Street, Broadway, Brooklyn and (gulp) the Yankees? Sounds good at first, but then we realize the great advantage I had in Shanghai was most people haven't been there. You had no choice but to take my observations at face value. We've all been to New York, and we all have opinions. Plus, it's not like a New York City blog is unique. Well, all I can do is paraphrase the advertisements around Rockefeller Center – this will be my New York.

I began my last blog asking what better reason to have a blog than living in Shanghai. Now I ask why not New York? My girlfriend Adrienne encouraged me to start blogging about New York, and henceforth I am determined to do so with as much zeal as I can manage. I can't promise it will be informative, insightful or interesting, but I'm going to try my dardnest. New York is about to get Shanghaied!