A very merry Christmas from Wisconsin!

By some miracle, I arrived home on Tuesday, despite a beautiful display of frozen precipitation in Milwaukee, and will be here for another three days before heading back to the East Coast. Needless to say, I am Rather Excited about being back in the Midwest. It's funny - I could have pointed out a few cultural differences between Midwest and East Coast after moving to NY, but it took being plunged back into my culture of origin for me to realize how truly different the two places are. 

For one, Midwesterners talk so much! After a relatively silent flight from LaGuardia to Detroit (I swear, the only person talking was the 6 year-old next to me, who kept looking out the window at the clouds and asking which one was God), I was downright shocked when I boarded my plane to Milwaukee and found thirty total strangers jovially conversing as though they'd known each other all their lives. What? Talk to strangers? Unheard of, at least in the city of inhuman automatons!

Then there's the bit where everyone is polite. It appears that, despite my best efforts to maintain my Midwestern manners, the New York ethos has, in fact, rubbed off on me. I think it's a survival of the fittest thing - if you politely wait your turn in Manhattan, you'll never accomplish anything. You have to push and shove your way to the front of the line. Not so in WI. A few days ago, I was doing some pre-Christmas grocery shopping, and was exasperated with a woman who was dawdling and blocking the entire aisle with her cart. So I did the logical thing - I pushed. I shoved. The woman looked up at me with total consternation - not as though she was offended, but as though she was genuinely bewildered that anyone would behave in such a brutish manner - and said, "...oh, I'm sorry...did you want me to move?" Embarassingly enough, the thought of asking hadn't even occurred to me. It was kind of a revelation. And lets not even discuss the aggressive influence the New Jerseyans have had on my driving...I am heartily ashamed. 

So, good citizens of WI, I hope that you will pardon my unknowingly acquired East Coast mannerisms during my short stay here. I am all too delighted to consume your beer, rejoice in your unique pronunciation of vowels, drink from your bubblers, and play in your snow for a few more days. Cheers, and Merry Christmas!

Christmas at Sea

For the past six weeks, the focus of my ship-visiting has undertaken a dramatic change. I've gone from exercising a ministry of presence to one of presents (I'm so sorry, I couldn't pass that one up). One of SCI's biggest operations is called Christmas at Sea. Its mission is to collect hand-knit scarves, hats, vests, etc. and distribute them (along with other things like toiletries and playing cards and shoelaces...) as individually wrapped gifts for every seafarer that comes into port between November and January. It comes to some 20,000 gifts, distributed by the five of us chaplains. It has pretty much taken over our lives. 

Every morning, we load up our vans with CAS boxes and head off to the ships as usual. After staggering across the straddle fields with an enormous stack of heavy boxes (which, as I'm sure you can imagine, only exacerbates my perpetual fear of being squashed by a gantry crane), we deposit them at the foot of the gangway and look pleadingly up at the gangway officer in the hopes that he'll take pity on us and come down to carry them for us. And then the fun begins.

"What's this, mum? Provisions?" is the inevitable question. "No, no," we reply, "something better. Christmas gifts!" The initial response is always confusion. "...for captain?" "No, for everyone! One for each crew member!" The best moment is always watching the look of dawning comprehension as they realize that, in a world where 90% of people who climb their gangway only make their lives more difficult, someone has come to bring them gifts. There is, then, much excited jabbering (in whatever their native language is; usually Tagalog) into the radios, and a subsequent flood of people coming to see the gifts and ceremonially process them into the ship's office. 

A surprising number of times they'll carefully stow them in a corner and wait until Dec. 25 to distribute them. But every once in a while, there'll be a crew that rips open the boxes and excavates the contents immediately. Since each hat/scarf set is hand-made, there's always an interesting variety of colors, and watching them argue (usually amicably, though with exceptions...) over who gets what is like watching a flock of kindergartners bicker over crayons. "Does it look good on me?" asks a squat Filipino engineer, whose neon green hat clashes vividly with his orange jumpsuit. 5 seconds later, the green hat is snatched off his head and replaced with a rainbow striped one. Hats and scarves fly through the air as the seafarers swap again and again. 

The reason we distribute for three months instead of just one is simple: most ships have 3 month long routes (and others have no route at all, but just go wherever the business is). Even with the long distribution window, there are countless thousands of seafarers who get no gifts at all. In a consumer-oriented society where Christmas decorations arrive to storefronts the day after Halloween, it's a welcome change to be able to celebrate Christmas early for a very good reason. And, while I'll be the first to tell you how tired I am of lugging around all those f***ing boxes, I'll also say without hesitation that watching the seafarers light up with joy when they discover what's inside them hasn't yet gotten old. 

Israel meets Port Newark

Firstly, my apologies for the lack of posts lately - as is wont to happen in December, my schedule has turned absolutely insane, and I rarely have time to eat and sleep, much less blog. However, I've decided that the time has come to reward your patience with a particularly exciting ship visiting story from last Monday. 

It was an exceptionally busy day in port, and I had five ships to get to by the end of it. Consequently, I wasn't expecting to spend much time on any of the ships...but my intentions were transfigured from the moment I set foot on the Zim Mediterranean. I should preface with a note about Zim shipping lines: it's an Israeli enterprise but, as is the case with most lines these days, most ships that bear the name Zim are actually charters and have nothing to do with Israel. It became abundantly clear, however, that the Mediterranean was a real Zim from the moment I entered the accommodation block: the entire interior was a vision of blue and white. The ship's office was, if possible, even more Israeli in theme, with posters of the Holy Land covering most of the wall space, and Israeli flags draped over every available surface. I set down my boxes of Christmas presents (feeling kind of awkward about bringing Christmas gifts to an Israeli crew...), and settled in to wait for the captain. 

It's worth noting that I've been making a very haphazard study of the Hebrew alphabet, with the encouragement of my seminarian boyfriend and Old Testament scholar housemate. I've made very little progress, but can fairly reliably identify aleph and lamed (a whopping two letters, what success!). As I was sitting there, waiting for the captain, I made small talk with the first mate. At some point, I pointed to the Hebrew translation of the 'No Smoking' sign on the door, and made my linguistic efforts known. The first mate went ballistic with joy. 

At that precise moment, the captain finally walked in. The first mate nearly bowled him over with excitement, pointed at me, and exclaimed "SHE SPEAKS HEBREW!" Needless to say, having to correct this embarrassing piece of misinformation wasn't exactly the best way to start out the conversation with the captain, but no matter - he appeared to be a good-humored man and everyone had a good laugh. We continued to make small talk and, at some point, it was relevant to point out that I was half-German. Right on cue, he immediately began talking about the Holocaust

I can't begin to say how humbling of an experience it was to have a conversation with a man who could say: "I am only sitting here with you today because the Nazis missed my grandfather," and then proceed to list a terrifying number of ancestors whom the Germans slaughtered. All of the things that I might have said, like, "Well, you know, not all Germans were Nazis," or "Actually, my great-grandfather harbored Jews in his home," seemed horribly inadequate. On the flip side, I couldn't really say, "Gee, I'm sorry that my ancestors killed your ancestors; that really sucks." I mean, what do you say in a situation like that?? 

Just as I was beginning to think that my attempts at being as receptive and apologetic as possible were failing miserably, and that the captain was getting ready to forcibly remove me from his ship, he changed tactics completely. Leaping out of his chair, he threw open his arms and bellowed: "Come up and have lunch with me!"

It was hardly a request, and besides - who was I to refuse? An invite to the captain's private dining room is a rare treat indeed, and this particular occasion didn't disappoint. No sooner had we sat down to table, when the captain (I kid you not), rang a bell and shouted: "Steward! Bring the wine!" I thought Christmas had come early. The wine was excellent, the 3-course meal exquisite, the conversation fascinating. It was like eating in a 4 star restaurant. After the third time I refused to let the captain refill my wine glass, he ran off to the storerooms and presented me with a bottle of Israeli red to take home. We concluded the afternoon with a VIP tour of the ship including, but not limited to: the bridge, the outdoor nav deck, and the vegetable storeroom (of which he was far prouder than the bridge). 

It was a perfectly exquisite morning, and a good reminder of how multi-faceted the ship-visiting ministry is. Certainly, it's not all about gorging myself on Israeli food and having philosophical discussions with captains, but after weeks on end of seeing literally hundreds of seafarers who are dejected because they can't go home for Christmas, it was a refreshing change.  

On a much lighter note, all this ship-visiting has radically changed my restaurant preferences: I no longer have any desire to go out for ethnic food, since I can get the real deal aboard ship just about anytime I want it. Hooray for broadening my global palette!

Biographical article from SCI's communication director!

The communications director of SCI recently interviewed me to write an article for the website, and here's his take on my life! Not that you don't get enough of it from me, but it's always nice to have a second opinion. And frankly, I thought he did a really marvelous job. Enjoy!

A New Encounter Every Time

Episcopal Service Corps intern unites with the unpredictable life of a seafarer

November 24, 2009

In August 2008, Milwaukee, WI native Kristin Saylor moved to New York to begin an internship placement with the Episcopal Service Corps, working for a year at the Seamen’s Church Institute’s International Seafarers’ Center in Port Newark. After graduating from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, Saylor said she wanted “to go out and do something practical,” so is she getting the experience she wanted?

Saylor’s daily routine consists of interacting with seafarers. Saylor gained her sea legs in August shadowing SCI Chaplains in Port Newark. Now, she visits ships daily in the busy international port. Saylor’s responsibilities also include supporting SCI’s comprehensive services for mariners, working with merchant marine veterans, the Christmas at Sea volunteer knitting program, and attorneys in the Center for Seafarers’ Rights.

Saylor enthuses about her work. She says she enjoys learning about the world, and interacting with people. Raised bilingual, Saylor brings knowledge of several languages to her work. The Rev. David M. Rider, SCI’s President and Executive Director, reports, “She speaks fluent German to ship captains, surprising and delighting them in the process.”

In addition to encountering different cultures, Saylor describes the port itself as a different culture. “Everything is enormous, industrial, and regulated, and it can be a tough reality to face.” In her work, she likes to add a friendly, smiling human face to their stay in the port and offer the opportunity to talk.

When asked about her routine of ship visiting, she explained that her secret is to start each encounter with enthusiasm no matter what has happened elsewhere. Saylor adds that most people (like longshoreman or agents) climb a ship’s gangway to conduct the perfunctory and occupational drudgery of fast-paced maritime commerce. “It’s rare,” she says, “to have someone board who’s enthusiastic about seeing them. I like being that person.”

Saylor believes the elements of the unexpected she faces in her daily work equip her for challenges beyond this internship. Although still discovering what the future holds, she sees this hands-on experience as preparation for the types of things she sees doing. “I feel like I’m really communicating with people,” Saylor discloses. From counseling to going shopping to joining seafarers in meals, she delights in her very ‘practical’ job.

About the Episcopal Service Corps

The Episcopal Service Corps is a national federation of young adult service programs in the United States. Independently managed programs vary, but all Episcopal Church-based programs provide opportunities for young adults to explore working for social justice, practice spiritual awareness and discern vocations, train to develop leadership skills, and live a simple, sustainable lifestyle (in most programs lived in intentional community). For more information, visit http://www.episcopalservicecorps.org/

On humanity, in all its glorious strangeness

If I were still operating under the delusion that there is a quota for the number of extraordinarily bizarre conversations one can have in a certain amount of time, I'd pronounce myself done for at least a month after just today. 

The first moment of utter perplexity arrived when I clambered aboard a car carrier with Filipino crew, Bulgarian officers. I was set up in the ship's office, selling phone cards to whoever stopped by. At some point, a Filipino seafarer came in, sat down next to me and, without preamble asked: "Madam, what religion are you?"

As I've said before, I very rarely talk about religion aboard ships, and when I do it's usually as part of a long, serious conversation. Slightly taken aback by his bluntness, I braced myself for the much hated task of describing the Episcopal Church to someone whose command of the English language was less than excellent. "Anglican...Church of England," I replied.

He looked highly displeased. "Oh," he grunted. "I am Roman Catholic." As though that explained everything.

"I see," I said. "Well, there are many similarities between the two...." While I abhor it when people try to equate the Anglican Communion and the Church of Rome, it is, imho, fair to say that Anglicans have more in common with Catholics than do, say, Baptists. Evidently, the Very Catholic seafarer was not of the same mind. 

"No!" He replied, aghast. "You do not recognize the authority of the Pope!" I conceded that this was true. We sat in silence for a while. After a while, he seemed to have collected his thoughts enough to move on to the next absurdly bold question: "Who is your God?" That was just about the last thing I expected him to say, and my confusion must have been quite apparent, because he followed his first question with another, highly dubious one: "You don't believe in...Jesus Christ?" 

I told him yes, I did. He looked up at me with great surprise. "And do you also believe in...God the Father?" Once again, I replied in the affirmative. At this point, he was beginning to look truly scandalized. "But you do not also believe in the Holy Spirit!?" It was almost a plea. It was as though his worldview couldn't expand enough to include the reality that there might be non-Catholic Christians in the world. As gently as I could (considering that I was walking a very fine line between bursting out laughing and being completely enraged at the Catholic Church's ability to brainwash its members), I told him that yes, Anglicans do indeed believe in all three persons of the Trinity. At this most disheartening news, he plunged back into contemplation.

Just when I was getting really scared that he was going to bust out with some ridiculously complex theological question about Trinitarian doctrine, he changed tactics. With mingled desperation and smugness, he asked: "But you don't pray the rosary? You don't pray to the Holy Mother?" I scrambled mentally to try to arrive at an answer that would represent the amazingly wide spectrum of Anglican thought on this issue without being too confusing. Sadly for the state of Anglican-Catholic dialogue, I was too slow. Taking my silence for an admission of defeat he said, triumphantly, "I thought so!"

Later, as he was escorting me back to the gangway deck in the elevator, he asked, very patronizingly: "And what do you want to be when you grow up?"

What was I to say? "A priest," I told him.

You should have seen the look on his face. "But....how can you? You are only sixteen, and besides - you are a woman!"

Well-spotted, Mr. Seafarer, well-spotted.

---

Incredibly bizarre encounter number 2 arrived on my second car ship of the day. There I was in the crew's mess, making small talk with a group of Filipino engineers, and being grateful that the visit was proceeding quite normally. I was grateful too soon. During a lull in the conversation, an earnest looking man in his mid-thirties looked up at me and said (I kid you not): "Ma'am? Maybe you would like to marry me?"

I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he was at least partially joking, but still! Could he have picked a more awkward question to ask? Needless to say, I turned him down with what I hoped was the right mixture of humor and seriousness. Apparently my tactic failed, because next thing I knew his comrade had proposed to me as well. Again, I refused the offer, now more bewildered than ever. 

"So ma'am," the rejected would-be husband said, "You have boyfriend?" I responded enthusiastically in the affirmative, hoping that the new direction of conversation would lend itself better to normality. Alas, no. "How many?" he asked.

What!? "Uh...one?" 

"But ma'am!" he replied, looking throughly disappointed. "I thought Americans were supposed to be so liberated!"

---

The third and (for the sake of keeping this blog post from getting totally out of control) final moment of true conversational strangeness came from yet another Filipino man, who was strangely fascinated by American racial dynamics. I had told him that I came from Wisconsin and he, having located it on a map, had determined that it was far enough away from any major port cities to be totally rural. He was, therefore, quite fascinated by me. "So, where you live, there are no black people, right?" Without giving me time to respond he said, wistfully, "That must be nice..." 

I honestly had no idea what to say to him, other than to correct the obvious mistake and tell him that there are actually many African-Americans living in my home state. I tried to redirect his comment and tell him that Wisconsin is indeed a nice place, because of, not in spite of its racial diversity, but I doubt I communicated the sentiment very well. It was a pretty frightening reminder of how far we still have to go...

---

I think I'm going to stop calling myself a port chaplain and start referring to myself as a myth-buster instead. First hard-core Catholics, then ultra-radical polygamists, and finally racists. Whatever will be next?

Back to normal

This morning, as my coworker and I headed into the Seamen's Center, we were greeted by a gruff, rather vexed, Eastern European seafarer. We had barely walked in the door, when he demanded: 

"Where can I find a crossbow?"

"A...what!?" Surely, we thought, we had misheard, but no. This man was hell-bent on finding a crossbow in the most expeditious manner possible. 5 minutes later, our trusty receptionist was busily phoning every sporting goods store within a half hour's driving distance, starting every conversation (as one does...) with a jaunty: "Good morning! Do you carry crossbows?" While she inquired away, the rest of us huddled together in the chaplains' office, trying not to laugh too audibly and racking our brains for what on earth  he could want it for. We had finally come to the conclusion that his ship must sail through pirate-ridden waters, and that conventional anti-piracy measures weren't enough for this dude, when Janet (on the fourth try) finally located a crossbow-carrying store. 

As we walked him outside to the cab that would take him to his much-desired weapon, my coworker finally had the nerve to ask him what he wanted it for. He shot us a contemptuous scowl, replied: "Hunting," slammed the cab door, and drove away. 

And that is how one starts the day with a bang. 

So, about this church I live in...

You all know by now that I live in a church: St. Mary's Episcopal, in West Harlem. I'm aware that I've blogged very little about this fascinating and, at times, foreign institution that has been my home for the past 2.5 months. Upon further reflection on a rather extraordinary experience I had today, perhaps that's because I myself didn't really begin to understand the full depth and breadth of what this place is until now. 

St. Mary's is unlike any other Episcopal Church I've ever been to. Affectionately known as the "I am not afraid church," it has always been a  den of community activism, communism, pacifism, and a vibrant culture of protesting whatever its congregants perceive as the social ills of the day. Among its current projects are: an ongoing clothing bank, a Monday night food pantry, a free, no-questions-asked medical clinic, street outreach to the homeless, and a residential HIV/AIDS treatment program across the street (where one of my housemates works). Partly because of its commitment to social justice, and partly because it's situated in a highly diverse neighborhood, St. Mary's attracts an interesting mélange of parishioners: Columbia professors, seminarians, disillusioned communists, the 5 of us interns, and, above all, people who are benefitting and have benefitted from its many outreach ministries. 

The church is constantly active, and I mean constantly. I can hardly ever walk from my apartment to the front door without having to plough my way through some kind of meeting, whether it be a choir rehearsal, a feminist/communist Bible study, a campaign to end the death penalty, or a rock concert (currently going on). The problem is, when you live amidst that kind of relentless activity, you have to erect boundaries between yourself and the community just to stay sane. And that is how, despite living above the church, having dinner in the rectory 3 times a week, and semi-regularly participating in the worship and outreach of St. Mary's, I (and I think I can say the same of my 4 housemates) know astonishingly few of the people who make this their spiritual home.

To remedy this sad disconnect, St. Mary's and the New York Intern Program have collaborated on a grant proposal so that these 2 groups can come to know each other better. The end product is a monthly meeting of interns, parishioners, and any community members who want to come called "Peace of Pizza," the idea being to have a meal and discussion for everyone's enrichment. The trial run was today and, I'll admit, I was less than enthusiastic about having yet another item on my weekend agenda. But I was absolutely floored by some of the insights that emerged from our conversation, and truly inspired by the incredible stories that I heard.

Our discussion prompt was deceptively simple: "What brought you to St. Mary's?" My small group insisted that I and the other intern present share first. We both stumbled through a similar story about wanting to get hands-on experience after 4 years of academic study, wanting to broaden our horizons, wanting to actually do something about the injustice in the world, etc, etc. Our group members were unbelievably gracious and supportive, commenting again and again on how hard it must be to be thrust into a totally different way of living, to be confronted with some of the most appalling human conditions in this city. And then, one by one, they proceeded to tell their own stories of how they had come to this church. 

One man came when he was first diagnosed as HIV positive, over 30 years ago. He was deeply into street drugs, and all around in bad shape. St. Mary's was - and has continued to be - the place that gives him meaning in a life built around repeating cycles of addiction and recovery. When he's not in prison or the hospital, he's a loyal member of the St. Mary's Gospel choir. He spoke freely of all that the parish community had taught him, chiefly: not to despair.

Another woman - 23 years old - cited the wishes of a dying family member as her reason for coming to St. Mary's. As she told her story, she revealed that she, too, had spent years both using and selling drugs. She is now clean, in college, and...homeless. After spending a year in school by day and sleeping in the subway at night, she finally had the courage to get herself into a shelter, swallowing her pride in service of a greater good (her words, not mine). She, too, is a devoted choir member, and it was clear by listening to her that the opportunity to "give her voice to the Lord" has made an enormous difference in her life. 

As I sat there, mesmerized by story after incredible story, I became aware of a pattern of receiving and giving back. Everyone present had been touched profoundly by some facet of this worshipping community and had translated that gift into a ministry of their own. It's no coincidence that those who run the Saturday hunger outreach were once the recipients of the bag lunches that we hand out. Who better to know where the homeless hang out than those who were once homeless themselves? St. Mary's is a perfect model of a community committed to helping itself, drawing on its many strengths and its insider's knowledge to reach out to those who are paralyzed by hunger, homelessness, drug addiction, and domestic violence. 

I apologize if I've been preachy in these last couple of blog posts. I can only write about what's on my mind at a given moment, and as I've been in a prolonged reflective mood lately, that's what you get. The experiences of the past week or so, both in the port and at St. Mary's have been both humbling and inspiring. The key, I think, to not becoming bogged down by the tremendous amount of suffering and oppression there is in our world is not just to act, but to act in community. I am incredibly fortunate to be supported by several overlapping communities - my fellow interns, my coworkers at SCI, and the St. Mary's congregation - as I stumble my way through this year. 

A Seafarer's Life

As I'm sure you've gathered by now most ship visits are pretty enjoyable, if not downright fun. I spend an appreciable amount of time eating, laughing, conversing, and generally enjoying the fellowship of whichever crew I happen to be visiting. But every once in a while, I'll come crashing into the reality that I work with an exploited group of people. An attitude of pity for the 'poor seafarer' gets you nowhere as a port chaplain, but it's easy to forget that the several million invisible seafarers in the world make enormous sacrifices so that we, the upper-middle classes of the West, can have our goods when and where we want them. 

The average seafarer has a 9 month contract, usually followed by 1-2 months of time off. Officers usually have 6 month contracts, captains get 4. If they're on a ship that frequently stops in the US, the shipping company will generally invest in US visas for them, so that they can take shore leave. If the ship only docks in the US sporadically, they won't bother. But even US visa-holders have a horrendous time getting ashore. Because the process of unloading and loading cargo has gotten so speedy in recent years, many ships are only in port for a few hours. Between cargo operations, fueling, and loading provisions, the average seafarer is damn lucky if he has the time to leave ship. To add to all those complicating factors, the seafarer can't just descend the gangway and walk to wherever he wants to go: he needs to be escorted by someone with a TWIC (Transportation Worker Identification Credential) card anywhere within the terminal. This is where SCI comes in (we're all TWIC holders and authorized escorts), but if a crew wants to go out after our center closes (or is in a port other than Newark), they're out of luck. Point being, we see a lot of seafarers who haven't had shore leave in weeks, or even months. 

All of these everyday, run of the mill, complicating factors are exacerbated if you come from Myanmar. Several years back, a few Burmese seafarers jumped ship in the US. So, as logic would dictate, the affected shipping companies  responded by revoking shore leave privileges for ALL Myanmar crew. They have visas, but can't use them. It's racial discrimination and, the worst part is, it's perfectly legal. The economy of Myanmar is so awful that hundreds of Burmese citizens knowingly contract with the racist shipping companies because it's the only way they have of getting a paycheck and supporting their families. 

Today, I was on a container ship with 17 Burmese crew - all unbelievably generous, warm-hearted people, who gave me a royal welcome. As I sat in the crew's mess, eating the strawberry ice cream that they had insisted I accept, I made a horrifying discovery: each and every one of them has a TWELVE month contract. That's one year of being confined to a ship, without ever being allowed to set foot on dry land. If no port chaplain or businessman comes aboard with phone cards and SIM cards, they have no means of contacting their families (there are equivalents of SCI in many major ports, but not all). And, to add to the miserable situation, your average, $5 international calling card gets you a whopping 20 minutes to Myanmar. If you're lucky. Several of the seafarers I met today were so desperate to speak with their wives and children that they spent upwards of $100 on phone cards.

Take 30 seconds and imagine your life being swapped for that one. I'm not soliciting pity, just awareness. It's amazing and saddening, both, what lies hidden behind the commercial façade that US marketers present to us. Just think about it. 

Vermont!

If I were Michael Bloomberg, I would enact a citywide law requiring all New Yorkers to get the hell out of the city at least every two months. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate NY and consider myself a thoroughly urban person, but you know the city has you in its grips when you forget that there are places where there is no smog and where you can't always hear the roar of traffic. It was an absolute joy to get out for a few days. 

Vermont is gorgeous. I mean, take-your-breath-away beautiful. I hadn't been in New England since my family went camping in Maine over ten years ago, and I had quite forgotten how incredible it is. I can very much see myself living there someday (oh, I am a northerner at heart, aren't I?). You know a place is spectacular when it makes you gasp and point even in the pouring rain - which was the case for the 2/3 of our retreat. Most of the time, the fog up in the hills (we were almost in the Green Mountains) was so thick that you could hardly see past the tip of your nose - it was very Wuthering Heights-esque. 

The point of the retreat, if you will, was to do theological profiling, but mostly we just sat around and relaxed (exactly as a retreat should be, in my opinion). We were staying in a truly marvelous house, which was once a barn, with lofted bedrooms in each of the four corners. Wood burning stove, lots of comfortable chairs, stacks upon stacks of books... frankly, I was so enchanted by it that I had a hard time coaxing myself to go outdoors (though the trouble of putting on a ton of rain gear might have had something to do with that as well). We ate well, we drank well (for those of you harboring any doubts that my churchy ambitions will stop me from having fun, know that it was the priest's idea to buy a case of beer at a rest stop, not ours), we took lots of long walks in the woods, we read, and, best of all, we paid off our sleep debts. Just what the doctor ordered.

An additional bonus for you, my deprived readers: photographic inspiration struck me at last, and I have boatloads of pictures up on facebook! If anyone really wants them on flickr, let me know and I'll work on it (they take forever to upload). 

Highlights

I'm supposed to be in rural Vermont right now, on retreat with my program, but as I'm not (our trip has been postponed to have us leave at the crack of dawn tomorrow, due to storms in New England), you get another, long overdue blog post! Those of you who follow me on facebook will likely have seen that there is also an album full of long overdue photos, which hopefully at least partly make up for my lack of internet news of late. 

My life continues to progress in as wonderfully random and ridiculous fashion as ever but, as I'm lacking one good, solid story to flesh out in detail, I'm afraid you'll have to settle for a list of highlights of recent events. 

1) Being fed a 3 course Montenegran meal aboard a rather splendid ship this morning - yes, morning - they were sailing at noon, and so fed us lunch at 10:30 am. It actually happens quite frequently; I keep very strange mealtimes here on the East Coast. We thought, after the first course of pesto pasta, that we had already dined well, but the plates of food just kept coming. After we had given our best efforts at finishing our stuffed peppers (by that point, we were rather stuffed ourselves), we asked the crew if they ate like that every day. They looked at us like we were quite mad and said, "But of course! What else do we have to live for when we're aboard ship for 9 months at a time, if not food?" We had to admit, they have a point. 

2) Locking my car key - along with my phone, my wallet, and all my other possessions - in a van, while dropping some seafarers off at the mall. Having a mild panic attack, and finally begging mall security to wedge open the car door with their highly sophisticated tools: a doorstop and a coat hanger. Giving thanks for the good humor and mad skills of Chester the security guard, and feeling exceedingly stupid.

3) Attending the Seamen's Church 175th anniversary gala at - ...drumroll... - the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. Apparently, SCI could settle for nothing less than the largest church in the nation to celebrate its birthday. It was pretty spectacular - there were a frightening number of bishops in attendance, and I daresay I've never seen so much alcohol in a church before (and mind you, I lived in a church for much of my college experience). I got paid to eat goat cheese haystacks and get appropriately inebriated, thanks to the very enthusiastic and responsive caterers responsible for the wine distribution, all the while being serenaded (actually, deafened would be a better term) by the state trumpets of the Cathedral organ. Have I mentioned that I love my job?

4) Having Veterans Day off for the first time in my life! Holding a "real job" (if you can call it that...) has its drawbacks, but also its perks: federal holidays among them. I celebrated by going to the Cloisters (the Met extension in Washington Heights, dedicated to medieval art and, as you might have guessed by the name, cloisters) for the afternoon. I was so distracted by the beauty of it all that, when I became thirsty, I quite forgot where I was and asked the security guard where I might find a bubbler. Needless to say, I didn't get an answer to that question. Oh, WI, how I miss you...

The disjointedness of this post gives you a fairly accurate idea of how scattered my life has been for the past week or so. Highly enjoyable, but definitely not organized. For that, I am unspeakably glad that I'm leaving the city for a few days to profit from the seclusion of the New England Countryside - the land the cell phone towers forgot. I'll be back within communications range Monday night, hopefully bearing lots of blog-worthy stories!

How to get to the Met

There really is no good idea to get from Harlem to the Upper East Side - you either have to take a crosstown bus (rarely a good idea) or walk through Central Park. Since it was a gorgeous November afternoon, my housemates and I opted for the walk, first taking the subway down to 86th St.

The trains run woefully slowly on the weekends, so I brought entertainment. Having mastered the art of knitting at least well enough for my own standards, I have moved on to the noble discipline of crocheting - taught, as always, by my faithful housemate, Rachel. So there we were, sitting on the platform of the 1 train. Rachel was teaching me how to double crochet, and I had just finally gotten the hang of it when the train came. It was a full, standing room only train, but I was so excited about my recently acquired skill that I decided to keep going. I should have known that doing any 2-hands activity on a moving - and frequently stopping - train was destined for catastrophe, but I, in my infinite naiveté thought that I had gained enough subway expertise to give it a shot.

Alas, no. As the train lurched into the 103rd St. station, I, unsurprisingly, lurched with it, falling on top of a highly affronted Hispanic grandmother. The crochet hook flew out of my hands, hit Rachel square in the forehead (causing her to issue an impressive squeal), and richocheted to the other end of the train, out of sight. This was clearly the most interesting spectacle that most of the people in this train had seen in a long time - seemingly every person in the car began eagerly participating in the search for the missing crochet hook, in total violation of the reigning NY social norm that it is Forbidden to interact with strangers on the subway. Meanwhile, I remained completely incapacited with laughter at my own ridiculousness and both of my housemates unsuccessfully pretended not to know me. Just as I was beginning to worry that our stop would come before the elusive crochet hook would reveal its hiding spot, a triumphant 8 year-old at the other end of the car proclaimed in Spanish: "I found it, I found it!" to resultant cheering. The hook was then passed along, assembly-line fashion, to where I was standing, still doubled over with laughter.

I guess all you need to break a norm is a crochet hook and an incredible propensity for clumsiness. Needless to say, the stunning artwork at the Met was rather anticlimactic after the process of getting there.

the dark side of the port

Today, I had my first solidly awful ship visit. Most of them are, if not great, then at least comfortably ordinary, but this one came straight out of hell. A synopsis, for contrast with the ordinarily glowing blog reviews of what goes on aboard ship.

For starters, the ship in question was berthed in the most frustrating container terminal in the port. Unlike the 2 others, Container Terminal X (I've become irrationally terrified that the government will come arrest me for putting secure TSA information on my blog...) won't let visitors drive onto the straddle field - you have to wait for the security shuttle to pick you up at the gate and take you in. Which would be fine, if Romeo, the driver, actually came when you called him. As it stands, you're likely to spend anywhere from 20-90 minutes waiting for him to show up. It's particularly fun in the pouring rain, while you're standing amidst the gantry cranes and straddlers, convinced you're going to be squashed by a piece of machinery 100 times your size. The 5 of us chaplains dutifully take turns putting ourselves through that ordeal, and today the unfortunate lot fell to me. 

There were 2 ships in. The first was terribly busy, and I left after 10 minutes. The second, henceforth The Ship of Doom, welcomed me all too enthusiastically and ushered me up to the crew's day room. As I've said before, I carry $400 worth of phone cards, SIM cards, and other telephone paraphernalia. It normally lasts me for about 4 ships, and in this particular case, I had just restocked. It was nowhere near enough for the Croatian crew of the SoD. They cleaned me out within half an hour. Normally, when I run out of something, I just say "I'm sorry, I don't have any more," and that's that. Today, that response was met with:

"Well, go and get some more then! NOW!" Because all the other ships had been visited, and it was only 12:00, I acquiesced, none too happily. I waited 40 minutes for Romeo (at least it wasn't raining), went back to the center to restock, returned to Terminal X where I waited another 40 minutes for Romeo, and re-climbed the gangway of the the SoD, where the ambush recommenced. I was half terrified that they were going to clean me out AGAIN, but fortunately they contented themselves with berating me for taking too long and then skulked off. Once they were gone, the Indonesian crew contingent crept into the crew's lounge. They were much more polite, and much more receptive to the presence of a woman in their midst...a little too receptive, as it turned out. 

The tiny ship's steward, who was younger than I and on his first deep sea assignment, sidled up to me on the sofa, stared at me like I was God incarnate, and proclaimed: "You are such a beautiful woman. Maybe someday you would like to come to Bali...with me?" 

I balked. "Uh...I have no vacation time. Seamen's Church won't let me," I stuttered, probably way too fast for him to understand me. He relented for a brief while. The conversation turned to Indonesian food. I participated halfheartedly, inwardly freaking out about whether I chose the appropriate response. Just as I'd begun to think that I misinterpreted a joke, or missed an unknown cultural reference or something, the steward decided to get bolder. While his companions were bickering about who owed whom a cigarette, he said in a hushed voice:

"In my cabin, I have Indonesian noodles. Would you like to come with me...and try them?"

At this point, I truly freaked out. I'm used to being stared at aboard ships - as uncomfortable as it was at first, I've come to appreciate the reality that these men can go months without laying eyes on a woman. But this was the first time that I'd been propositioned, and I was horrified. "I have to go. Right now," I said, and bolted. To hell with being pastoral. I was so done with that godforsaken ship. I trampled down the gangway and waited on the straddle field for a full ten minutes before I realized that I'd forgotten to call for the damn security shuttle, I was that shaken.

A bit of advice, should any of you ever discover a long-lost calling for seafaring: the way to get what you want from your port chaplain is neither by yelling at her nor by hitting on her. End of story. 

Tuesdays Downtown (another embarrassingly backdated post)

Twice a month, I vary my work schedule: instead of making the trek to NJ as usual, I head to the Seamen's Church headquarters in downtown Manhattan. The purpose of this change in location is twofold: for one, it allows me to work with people in other departments and get a broader sense for what all SCI does. Two visits ago, I helped out in the 'Christmas at Sea' office, boxing up hundreds of hand-knit scarves and hats to be shipped to distribution sites around the country. Last time I compiled a database of every ship that has been hijacked by pirates in the last 18 months for the Center for Seafarers' Rights. But more importantly, my visits to Manhattan let me hang out with some of my favorite people in this city: on the first and third Tuesdays of every month, SCI hosts a luncheon for merchant marine vets. After my first encounter with these men, I begged my supervisor in Newark to let me make this ministry a part of my schedule. 

I never would have thought that I'd so enjoy spending my afternoons shooting the breeze with a room full of crotchety old men. But these are old men who've traveled the world, who have veritable treasure troves of stories from life at sea (and often from WWII as well), and many of whom still have a lively sense of adventure. One of my favorite maritime vets is Gabe, a hunchbacked man in his 70s who speaks an inseparable mix of English, French, Spanish, and Italian, as well as words and phrases from any other language he's picked up along the way. When he's not off traveling the globe - which he still does with astonishing frequency - he jumps from language to language, telling me about orphans in Mexico and pirates in the Indian Ocean, while I struggle to keep up. Needless to say, Gabe and I have become fast friends. 

We eat, we drink coffee, we fold bulletins. Sometimes we sing patriotic karaoke, which is always interesting. But mostly, we just talk. They're delighted to have a new audience for their stories, and there's no shortage of reminiscence about the glory days of the maritime world - before containerization became the new shipping norm, back when seafarers actually spent appreciable time in ports all around the world. 

While sitting around a table during my latest visit with the maritime vets, I had a particularly shocking conversation with a former navy commander and native New Yorker, who'd been in retirement for some time. "And where are you originally from, young lady?" he inquired. "From Wisconsin," I replied. His initial response was a blank, somewhat confused expression, then:

"Wisconsin...is that in France?"

At which point I died a little. 

Thank you, Commander Soto, for lending further support to my deeply held conviction that Americans need to learn their geography (especially in their own damn country), and that most New Yorkers think that the Midwest might as well be on Mars. Or in France. 

Doing laundry in Harlem

Since we don't have laundry facilities in our apartment, on a biweekly basis, I load myself down with dirty clothes and head for a local laundromat. There are 2 choices within walking distance: Ms. Bubbles (aka the sketchy one) and Miss Bubbles (aka, the insane one). Don't ask me why Harlem can't get more creative with names; it's terribly confusing. Depending on how I feel on any given laundry day, I choose whether I want to subject myself to people who look suspiciously like drug dealers at Ms. Bubbles or 700 screaming Hispanic women and their wild children at Miss Bubbles. It's about a 50/50 split.

Yesterday, having had more than enough insanity for one day, I decided to brave the crackheads and camp out at Ms. Bubbles for a few hours. For the sake of the story, it is necessary to point out that I have recently learned how to knit, and have been ecstatically making gloriously misshapen messes out of yarn for about a week now. I'm terrible, but it's unfailingly amusing, so I keep at it. So there I am, sitting on the busted open window seat at the laundromat, knitting away on a hideous, hole-ridden, egg yolk yellow "scarf" (read: unidentifiable blob of yarn). 

At some point, the door slams open, and a crowd of elementary aged children come bursting in. They settle in a few feet away from me and start doing whatever it is that children do in laundromats (it seems to involve a lot of shrieking and running around). I don't pay them much attention until, out of the blue, one of them turns to me and says: "You know how to knit!?"

"Uh, well, yeah..." I respond, confused, since that's rather obviously what I'm doing. As if some invisible switch has been flipped, all the kids stop shouting and turn to me with awestruck expressions on their faces. They all come running over to where I'm sitting, snatch the yellow blob out of my hands, and pass it around, exclaiming loudly in admiration. It comes to the hands of a petite African American girl, who can't be more than 9. She cocks her head, puts her hands on her hips, stares me straight in the eye, and says: "How much?" 

"Uh....what?" I stammer in disbelief. "How much you want for this? ...What is it, anyway?" It is all I can do not to burst out laughing. For the past few days, I've been agonizing over what I'll do with this hideous scarf once it's finished: I certainly don't want it, nor does anyone I know. I had been planning on giving it to a random homeless person. The idea that anyone would want to buy it hadn't occurred to me in my wildest dreams, and yet that was indeed what was being proposed.

"I'll tell you what," I say, "How often are y'all here?"A tiny boy, who asks to be called "Man-Man" pipes up: "We here ALL the time. When we're not dancing to raise money, that is." I decide to ignore the implications of this remark. "All right, I'll make you a deal. When I'm finished with this scarf, I'll bring it over and give it to you for free." All five children start shouting at once, arguing over who will be the recipient of this unexpected treasure. It's eventually decided that the scarf will go to Deja, the original would-be buyer. 

"But I don't want it any longer!" she protests. "Can't I have it now?" The scarf is, at present, about 8 inches long. "What are you going to do with a scarf this short?" I ask. The knitting is, once again, snatched out of my hands, as Deja and her friends demonstrate various uses for an 8-inch long blob of yarn, most of which involve stuffing it down their shirts. I concede, and summon my laundry buddy, Rachel (conveniently the one who taught me how to knit), who's been camped out on the other side of the room and has missed this whole spectacle, to show me how to cast off. 

Upon discovering that there are, not one, but two knitters on the premises, the children's joy quadruples. "Can y'all teach us!?!?!?" Michelle says, and the others chorus their enthusiasm. After a good deal of hashing out logistics, Rachel, who is one of the most kind-hearted people I have ever met, agrees to meet them at Ms. Bubbles the next day to conduct a knitting lesson. 

As it is, the planning is cut short when the matron of Ms. Bubbles, a harried looking women wielding a broom, comes bursting in, and starts chasing the children out while shouting incomprehensibly in Spanish. 

And this, friends, is proof that even something as mundane as doing laundry is an adventurous experience in Harlem. Never a dull moment. Never a mundane experience.

On why I haven't been blogging...

...because I keep having days like this:

I arrive at the Seamen's Church center at 9:00 am, grab the day's ship list, and assess the situation: a mere 2 container ships, 2 car ships, an orange juice ship, and a cement ship. By all appearances, a slow day in port. Marge and I, the only 2 chaplains on duty, construct a game plan: I'll tend to the car ships, she'll visit the containers, and we'll rendez-vous for lunch on the Orange Wave (all the orange juice ships are like the spoiled children of Seamen's Church - we love them like our own, and they return the favor by lavishing food and orange juice upon us). The cement ship, which had a crew of 21 visa-less, non-English-speaking Chinese men, was to be our afternoon project.

Needless to say, things did not go according to plan. The resultant confusion was, no doubt, exacerbated by the fact that I have been very newly released into the world of solo ship visiting, and had never actually driven to and from the car terminals. I've said it before, and I'll probably keep saying it all year: the port is a navigational nightmare. But I'm getting ahead of myself. 

I find my way to the first berth without any problems, climb the gangway of the car ship, and promptly ingratiate myself with the crew, who hail from the Philippines, Bangladesh, Myanmar, India, and China (an unusually international mix for one ship). None of them have shore passes (also unusual, though definitely not unheard of), and are thus cooped up on their ship for a month at a time whenever they complete the Eastern US portion of their route. Quite understandably, they're suffering from severe cabin fever and are somewhat alarmingly excited to have a visitor. Discovery #1 of the day: going ship visiting alone, as a young women, is a very different experience from going with another chaplain. Not only am I closer in age to many of the seafarers but, well...it's often been a long time since they've seen a woman and they can be rather flirtatious. Not anywhere near enough to inspire fear, but definitely enough to guarantee me a delicious meal, or at the very least a snack, on just about every ship I board. In this respect, I am happy to serve. 

After about an hour of delightful conversation with the crew, I disentangle myself from the chief cook, who is literally begging me to stay for lunch (which isn't for an hour), and listing off the delicacies that are, as we speak, simmering away in the galley. It's a difficult endeavour on many levels, but alas - the second car ship beckons. I hop back in the van and drive over to the Pyxis Leader, car ship #2. 

A very different experience from the start. This time, the crew is Indian and, although they all have US visas, they have no time to go ashore. They're sailing directly for Japan - a 3.5 week journey - in the afternoon. Cabin fever all over again. These fellows aren't as immediately receptive to having a young, female ship visitor, but with patience I do indeed succeed at bonding with them and - surprise, surprise - get myself invited to lunch. Score. The main course turns out to be tuna steaks in an indescribably delicious sauce. Even bigger score. While contentedly consuming a plateful of Indian delicacies, I successfully revive my dormant Hindi enough to have an entire conversation with a crew member, which makes me very happy. Buoyed by the morning's various successes, I bid farewell to the crew, promise to come back next time, climb back into the van, and start heading back to the center.

The first thing I notice is that my gas tank is almost completely empty. I call my coworker to consult. Not to worry, she says - there's a gas station on the way to the seamen's center. I keep going, confident that I know where I'm going...and then, somehow, everything turns into pure chaos. I miss the turn to get back into the main part of the port, and suddenly find myself...on the interstate. Please bear in mind that I know nothing, nothing at all about greater New Jersey geography. I've never driven outside the port. I have no idea what any of the highway numbers are, or what destinations they correspond to. But there I am, with 2 lanes of traffic on either side of me, and 5 exit choices in front of me, so I do what anyone would have done in my place: I panic. 

I pick a random lane and hope to God it provides an opportunity to pull over soon. It doesn't. I have inadvertently chosen the highway that goes to the airport. I utter several choice words and figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do next. The gas light on the dashboard starts blinking. I swear some more, at increased volume. After taking several more random forks, and losing any inkling of where on earth I might be, I finally make it to an exit by an airline cargo garage, pull over, and call Marge. "You're WHERE!?" she shrieks. If I hadn't clearly been on the verge of tears, she probably would have laughed. Instead, she directs me to a gas station which, by some miracle, I manage to find without too much difficulty. I utter a silent prayer of thanksgiving that it's illegal to pump your own gas in NJ (due to an unfortunate pumping accident at the age of 16, I have a paranoid fear of getting gas), and breathe deeply for a few minutes while the needle on the gas meter totters back towards full. 

I call Marge again, and ask her to direct me back to port. Unfortunately, Marge is standing in the middle of the straddle field in one of the container terminals, trying to sort out a seafarer transportation dilemma, and can neither hear nor concentrate very well. Due to a tragic communication error, I miss the turn that would get me back to port, and wind up on the interstate...again. Only this time there are lots of signs saying "NEW YORK: Holland Tunnel. Express Only." And now I really panic. The thought of going through the Holland Tunnel and winding up in Manhattan rush hour traffic on a Friday, of all days, is enough to make my heart stop with dread. Ignoring Marge's voice in my ear, I swerve across 4 lanes of traffic to the only other available exit, hoping the fact that I'm driving a church van will miraculously preserve me from getting squashed by a semi. Anything but the Holland Tunnel. 

Of course, in my moment of sheer terror, I forget to note which exit I took, and wind up more completely lost than ever. At this point, even Marge, who's a native New Jerseyan, is getting out of her geographical comfort zone and is having trouble providing directions. It's another 10 minutes before I see an exit, but believe you me, I take it gratefully. I pull over into a White Castle parking lot, and assess my surroundings. I appear to be in a seedy exurb. Other than that, I have absolutely no idea where I am. I cruise around some more, reading off street names to the now very bewildered Marge, until she recognizes something. When she finally does, I get so excited that I promptly turn the wrong way on a one way street. Shit. As I scramble to rectify my mistake, Marge informs me that I've landed myself some 8 miles west of Port Newark, in the none too desirable town of Irvington, NJ. Wonderful. Just wonderful. 

By some stroke of mind-boggling luck, I manage to find a place to get back on I-78, the right way this time. Although I'm convinced the luck will run out at any moment, and the terrifying, video game-like race will recommence (resulting in my imminent death, no doubt), I manage to successfully carry out Marge's directions, until I hear her most welcome proclamation: "...and, now, if you look on your right, you should see the gantry crains at Maher terminal." 

"YAYYYYYYYY!" I shriek, and accidentally toss the phone across the van in my outburst of joyous relief. Never, ever have I been so glad to be back in port. I stagger back to the center, collapse into a chair, and will my heart to stop pounding, as it has been doing for the past hour and a half. Once I've regained the ability to utter intelligent human speech, I totter dazedly out to the front desk and recount my story to Janet, the receptionist. 

"You were WHERE!?" she echoes increduously. "Wait, wait, let's map this out." We pull up google maps and, between the two of us, we reconstruct my course. With each reconstructed panic-inspired turn, we laugh harder and harder. I somehow managed to drive almost a complete loop around the greater Newark metro area. I was on almost every interstate, highway, and expressway around - except for the dreaded NJ turnpike which, whether by the grace of God or my own fortuitous stupidity, I managed to avoid. "How on earth did you manage to do this?" Janet inquires. "Everyone gets lost in New Jersey, but this? This is downright masterful!" 

Just my luck - I would be masterful at getting lost, of all things. I may never drive again.

For the visually inclined: a vague map of where I started and where I finally ended up (though not, by any means, how I got from point A to point B). It appears as though you need to click 'view larger map' to actually see it. Due to the traumatic nature of the situation, I cannot fill in any more details. But you get the idea :)

View Larger Map

Run for your life

            I haven’t had much luck with running since I moved here (since before that really) – my right Achilles tendon has been refusing to play nice. Frankly, it’s sucked – not only have I been deprived of my regular endorphin fixes, but it’s also particularly maddening to be out of commission in a city that offers such exciting running venues.

            When I first came here, I thought I’d found heaven on earth at Riverbank State Park, some 12 blocks away. Located directly on the Hudson, Riverbank is built on top of a water treatment plant – at some point, the city decided it was usable land, but the state intervened, and designated it a park before it could be snatched up by developers. It has, among other things, basketball courts, a skating rink, a fitness center, indoor and outdoor pools, a football field, and a gorgeous outdoor running track. Harlem has little to offer in the way of park space, and so its residents flock to Riverbank in droves.  As soon as I discovered its existence, I flocked right along behind them.

            I’ve always turned up my nose at track running, because it just seems so boring – who’d want to run around in circles when you could be out exploring the city? But, especially during my first few weeks here, I found it to be a godsend. Alluring as street running in the city was, it was too much for me to handle as a newbie New Yorker – the first time I tried, I both got desperately lost somewhere in the W. 130s and crashed headlong into a livid Harlem granny’s shopping cart. It was an utterly terrifying experience. So I resigned myself to the much safer track, where I contentedly ran in hamster-like circles (for the few times my faulty tendon would put up with it) and observed the West Harlem-ites in their native habitat. Very often, I would be the only person actually running on the track – I would jog by countless walkers (often entire families, strollers and all), lollygagging teenagers, and ball-chasing toddlers. On some evenings, there would be peewee football practice on the field that the track surrounded, and every so often an awkwardly-padded 10 year-old would tumble into my path. It was something of an obstacle course, but I loved it, thanks both to the fabulous view of downtown and the amusement provided by the pursuits of my peers.

            The Riverbank track, as it turned out, functioned as a sort of runners’ preschool for me. It taught me the basics of how to navigate all sorts of urban obstacles, while serving as a safe haven from the chaotic NY traffic. Eventually, inevitably, I got bored there, and graduated to more thrilling pursuits. One of my housemates, also a runner, likens street running here to playing a video game – not only do you have to dodge countless people, strollers, dogs, mounds of trash bags, random mattresses that litter the sidewalks, and puddles of suspiciously yellow liquids, but the risk of being squashed dead by an oncoming bus is terrifyingly real. I like her analogy, and whenever I don my gym shorts and take to the streets, I pray that this won’t be the run that ends in a flashing “GAME OVER” sign. So far, so good.

            Truth be told, I love street running now, and eagerly await my full recovery so that I can enjoy it more often. I hardly notice how out of breath I am, because there’s so much else I need to be paying attention to: timing the stoplights, making sure I’m going the right way, plotting a course around that slow moving dude in front of me. Running through Harlem and Morningside Heights is like seeing the city on fast forward, and believe me when I say that there’s never a dull moment. If I haven’t yet been run over, it’s because NY pedestrians make Madisonians look calm, predictable, and utterly law-abiding. Consequently, NY drivers are used to people charging out in front of them, even if they have a green light, and despite having made several very dangerous street crossings (in the death-flashing-before-my-eyes kind of way), I have yet to hear anyone even honk at me.

            But by far the most delightful part of street running is sprint training. There’s nothing in the world like zooming down Amsterdam Ave. at top speed – racing past flocks of uniformed schoolchildren, Columbia students hovered over their laptops at MaxCafé, hospital workers still in their scrubs; stirring up clouds of fallen leaves as I go; and truly feeling like I’m flying. 

How to ride the subway

You have no doubt realized by now that I am rather obsessed with the NY public transportation system. It’s an extremely fortunate obsession to have, since I spend an appreciable amount of time each day in transit. By now, I am a reasonably experienced subway rider – somewhere in between the natives, who have the entire 5 borough map memorized, and the tourists, who don’t know the difference between uptown and downtown. I like the intricacies of the system, yes (I can amuse myself for ages by scrutinizing a subway map), but what interests me far more is the anthropology of riding the train. It didn’t take me long to realize that riding the subway isn’t just a fact of daily life; it’s an art. And, as with all arts, this one requires practice.

To even get to your local subway stop, you first need to learn how to walk in the city. It’s amazing how NY demands that its denizens relearn even the most basic skills, but it’s true – if you don’t walk like a local, you’ll never get anywhere. To function in Manhattan, you need to know how to move against a human traffic stream without getting trampled, how to bust through a clump of jabbering West Harlem-ites without being rude, how to avoid getting hit when people start beating each other up on the sidewalk. Believe you me, those are all acquired skills, and I’m only just beginning to master them. To expedite my learning process, I invent exercises for myself at times when I don’t actually happen to be in a rush: how long will it take me to cross from the A to the S at Times Square during rush hour, can I fit through that gap in the crowd without knocking someone over, can I avoid those aggressive Greenpeace recruiters by shoving my way to the other side of the sidewalk? It is endlessly fascinating to me.

Unfortunately, walking well isn’t anywhere near enough to get you where you want to go. Next on the list of skills to master: the art of the metrocard swipe. Locals (and wannabe locals…) stomp their feet and sigh with impatience if they have the distinct misfortune of being behind a subway rider who doesn’t grasp this nuanced concept. Under no circumstances do you fish around for your card while you’re already standing at the turnstile (unless you want to flaunt your identity as a tourist); you deftly do it in advance – while you’re navigating your way through the crowds in the station. I can’t overstate how tricky this is: it mandates that you both intuit where you’re going, so as not to cause a collision, and whip out your wallet discreetly enough so that you’re not asking to be mugged. And then there’s the art of actually getting through the turnstile – making sure you swipe at the right speed, making sure your bag doesn’t get stuck, and above all, making sure that you don’t commit the embarrassing faux-pas of crashing into the gate before the swipe has been registered.

Having successfully entered the station (no mean feat!), your next challenge is to find the right platform without looking too lost (the consequence of bewilderment is…trampling. A recurring theme). The difficulty factor of this greatly depends on the station – I, for instance, remain thoroughly mystified by Grand Central Station, which is particularly poorly labeled, but can navigate the 125 St. ABCD station in my sleep. But even once you’ve landed yourself in the correct location, your difficulties still aren’t over. The next step is to position yourself strategically on the platform– perhaps the most difficult part of all. Inexperienced subway riders are, I’ve discovered, inclined to wait for the train at the foot of whichever stairs they descended, therein causing a distinct clumping effect, both on the platform and within the cars. If you want a seat (and I usually do), you need to cleverly wind your way through the crowds (all the while trying not to fall onto the tracks…) to find an empty spot – preferably one that will correspond to an open train door. Easier said than done, since each platform is different, and they’re often crowded with difficult to navigate obstacles like strollers and subway musicians.

And then there’s the art of getting on the train. This essential skill demands walking the line between outward aggression and passive aggression. You don’t want to push your way into the car before people have gotten out (that violates an unspoken NY social norm , which is fascinating), but you absolutely, without any question, want to be the first person in so that you can race your way towards that lone, empty seat. You also want, as much as possible, to insist on a bubble of personal space so that the creepy people on the C train don’t have an excuse to get too friendly. If there is more than one empty seat, never, never sit immediately next to someone. They will, in all likelihood, shoot you a death stare and move to a different spot.

If you have the misfortune of being seat-less, you have a whole new set of skills to master, chief among them: how not to fall over. When the trains are at their most packed, you’re damn lucky if you even have access to a handhold, which means you need to learn the surfer-like standing position that affords you the best chance of not lurching into someone’s lap or accidentally touching a fellow passenger inappropriately.

All of these unspoken social norms are an unending source of fascination for me. On the weekends, I often experiment with different routes, even if they’re not the most efficient, just so I can get a feel for the demographics of different stations and lines (fortunately, NYIP pays for our unlimited monthly metro cards…). As for the more banal weekdays – sometimes I read or study Hindi, but more often than not I’m content to just observe the perfect microcosm of this city that exists underground.

A day in Chelsea

Because my life is insane and ridiculously adventure-ridden, I have had a highly abnormal work week. For various complicated reasons, today took me, not to New Jersey as usual, but to Holy Apostles soup kitchen in Chelsea. This feeding ministry is one of the oldest and largest in Manhattan - they serve over 1200 meals every weekday! That's not an entirely accurate reflection of how many people they serve, because, unlike in many other soup kitchens, guests are invited to go through the line as many times as they like. But then, it's not a conventional soup kitchen, any way you look at it.

For starters, it's in a church. And not just in a church basement, but in the nave itself - which is thought-provoking in a whole host of ways. Instead of pews, there are 20 or so tables scattered throughout the sanctuary, where groups of people from every imaginable demographic sit and eat. Off to the side is a station where a chiropractor offers her services, free of charge, to anyone who wants an adjustment (another highly thought-provoking way of practicing outreach ministry). In another corner, a volunteer plays background music on the piano. Above it all, a banner hanging from the choir loft proclaims: "There shall be no outcasts in the Episcopal Church." How's that for practicing what you preach?

Holy Apostles feeds people, yes. But more than that, it affirms the human dignity of every man, woman, and child who walks through its doors. As a result, the atmosphere is completely different from any other soup kitchen I've ever been to - sure, there are plenty of unhappy and unpleasant people, but for the most part, everyone I meet is surprisingly cheerful and grateful. Perhaps that's because there was no status difference between the several hundred guests and the 50+ volunteers, many of whom are homeless and/or jobless themselves. It was really an incredible opportunity for me.

And, of course, because I seem to have a knack for having ridiculous interactions with strangers, here is the take-away story of my day: there I am, serving what must be my 800th cup of lemonade, when a short, rather bug-eyed man comes over and starts staring at me.

"Do you want a refill?" I ask

Completely ignoring this, he gazes up at me and proclaims:

"Moles don't have eyes."

"Uh....really?" I stammer, completely bewildered.

"YOU have eyes," he affirms, points emphatically at my face, and then walks away. 

Really? Because somehow I wasn't clear on that one :)

All in a day's work

After a month of living in New York, I have come to the conclusion that it is truly impossible to have a boring day in this city. Stressful, chaotic, even terrible – but boring? Not unless you’re living in a cave, and even then it’s likely that some excitement will find its way to you. Below is a retelling of a typical (in a gloriously random and not at all predictable) day in the life of a culturally displaced, chronically sleep-deprived port chaplain/intern. Be forewarned, it's rather long - I wanted to put it behind a cut, but blogspot makes that absurdly difficult. Feel free to skip or skim as you please.

I wake up, as usual, not to my alarm, but to the roaring of diesel bus engines and the sound of car horns. It’s not fair to say that Harlem awakens, because that would incorrectly imply that Harlem ever sleeps. At 7:10, I leave the comparative quiet of our apartment and walk the 5 or so blocks to the 125^th St. ABCD stop. For some unknown reason, rush hour is worse than usual this morning. All this really means is that, instead of the A train being standing room only (which it almost always is anyway), there are so many people that it’s not even necessary to brace oneself as the train stops and starts – we’re all so tightly crammed together that not even I, who manage to fall over on the train with embarrassing regularity, have room to move. At Chambers St, I extricate myself from the throng with great difficulty and transfer to the much calmer PATH train to Newark.

My coworker, Jacques, who has braved the hellish Newark rush hour traffic to come pick me up, greets me at Penn Station with the news that two of our chaplains and our van driver won’t be in today. Since I still don’t have my TSA ID card, which would let me go about the port solo, that means we’re effectively down to one staff person. We fight our way through a throng of semi trucks to the Seamen’s Center, where we’re awaited by a group of burly Croatian seafarers who want to go to the mall. Preferably immediately. Meanwhile, the phone is ringing off the hook, and in the time it takes us to evaluate the daily ship list and don our attractive neon yellow safety vests, we have our day’s work cut out for us.

In the midst of all the chaos, Jacques decides that NOW is the time to teach me how to drive in the port. Granted, I have to learn sooner or later, but I’d been putting it off as long as possible because….well, frankly, the port still kind of terrifies me. The traffic is unfailingly horrendous because it consists, not only of cars, but of trucks, trains, straddle carriers, police jeeps, and any other kind of construction vehicle you can imagine. The port is also labyrinthine, and the Port Authority police are always creating and dismantling new detours as the container ship traffic ebbs and flows. All in all, you have about a 10% chance of getting where you want to go in any kind of timely fashion, especially if you’re a timid Midwesterner and not an aggressive New Jersey driver.

No matter. I shepherd the Croatians into a van, brace myself for imminent death, and head out into the fray. We arrive at Jersey Gardens Shopping Center and find 8 frantic Filipinos, who had somehow gotten left off our pickup list and were due back at their ship 10 minutes ago, awaiting us. That kind of thing happens all the time – there’s simply too much going on in port for anyone to keep track of it all. Port Rule #1: go with the flow. Port Rule #2: don’t freak out. We load them in the van and head back to port.

As I’m speeding (as much as I dare) to the main container terminal (there are 3) to deposit the tardy Filipinos, we get a call from our receptionist: the APL Arabia requires phones and phone cards IMMEDIATELY. This kind of thing also happens all the time. Ship-bound crews (often from Myanmar) that don’t have US visas are desperate to contact their families, and we’re their only resource. So we drop of our passengers, and head to container terminal #2, which has the maddening policy of requiring all visitors to be driven to ships in a security van (as it happens, our chauffeur is a lovely Tunisian man, who is thrilled to have even a 3 minute opportunity to speak French to someone). We climb the treacherously wobbly gangway, and are greeted by the chief mate, a lovely young man from Germany. “She sprichest dutch!” Jacques proclaims, butchering my native tongue, and shoving me at the astonished officer like some sort of human peace offering. I sheepishly admit that, yes, I do indeed speak German (not Dutch…seriously, people), and ask how we may be of service. The chief mate lights up with evident delight (having been the only German speaker aboard ship for 7 months, he’s thrilled to find a fellow countrywoman), and ushers us into the officers' dining room for an astonishingly gourmet lunch. Again, port life is like that: a day will transition from the insanity of double-booked crew pick-ups to a relaxed, jovial luncheon and back again. All you can do is go with it.

Clutching our stomachs, and stammering our inadequate thanks, we deposit the phones and phone cards with the chief cook, and resume our rounds. By 3:00, we have been to every terminal in the port at least once, and to the mall four times. We have transported about 40 people from about 10 different countries. Waving goodbye to a vanload of I-Kiribati (Wikipedia informs me that’s what people from Kiribati are called. You learn something new every day.), we head back to the center to fill out some final paperwork and, at long last, go home.

For me, the trip home is only the beginning of the day’s adventure. Working in NJ and living in Uptown Manhattan means I have a reverse commute, so the trip on the PATH train is always blissfully easy. But the minute I get off at the World Trade Center, the madness begins. Deftly navigating my way through the hoardes of Wall Street execs and jabbering tourists trying to catch a snapshot of Ground Zero through holes in the fence, I manage to arrive at the subway station without either tripping over someone or getting tripped over (I wish I knew how to impress upon you that this is truly the most remarkable thing about my day). I swipe my metro card and wait an appalling 15 minutes before a C train comes rumbling in. And now the fun really begins.

There’s one seat left, and I run to snag it. It’s only once I’m there that I realize I’m sitting next to the requisite C Train Crazy Person. In this case, insanity is embodied by an immensely fat woman wearing a rather impressive giraffe suit (in itself, not that odd for the C), who is muttering to herself with surprising aggression. It takes me a few minutes before I realize that she’s going systematically evaluating every person in the train and devising vicious insults for each one of them. Just as I’m beginning to wonder if and when she’s going to deliver these curses, she gets off. Not to be outdone, she’s replaced by a mangy homeless man, who’s wearing an orange, plastic, pumpkin-shaped trick or treat bucket on his head. The train rattles on. A disheveled old woman carrying an enormous mop sits down on my other side, and the empty space in front of me fills up with a flock of Spanish-speaking (or rather, screaming) high-schoolers. Normal.

By the time my stop comes around, mop woman has fallen asleep on my shoulder. Shoving her away as gently as I can, I fight my way out of the train, turn on my iPod, and begin my walk home. I haven’t gone 2 blocks when an 8 year-old pulls up alongside me on her scooter and motions for me to remove my headphones. Figuring she’s lost or something (there’s no parent in sight, after all), I oblige. “I like your hairstyle!” she shouts, and zooms off. Please bear in mind that I’ve been in a windy port all day, and the only word that’s appropriate for the state of my hair is ‘messy.’ At this point, I actually have to sit down, right there on the sidewalk, so that I can adequately laugh at the total randomness of my life.

And so it is. I could go on; the evening was only slightly less ridiculous, but I think that’s more than enough normalized insanity for one blog post. My greatest fear is that I’ll eventually become jaded to the glorious expression of human diversity that is life in New York City and I hope that, by sharing it with you here, I can continue to delight in it on a day to day basis.

On my favorite place in NYC

New York is an extraordinary city, with more marvelous buildings, parks, museums, and restaurants than I could ever hope to explore in my lifetime. It is therefore ridiculous to say that I have a favorite place in the city (especially after having been here for only a month), but ridiculous or not, I've found my haven in the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. 

I know a church can't be defined only by impressive statistics, but indulge me for just a minute and let me give you a sense for the palatial grandeur of this place: even in its 2/3 completed state, the Cathedral is the largest religious edifice in the US, and the third largest in the world (after St. Peter's and some church in Nigeria). It is so tall that the Statue of Liberty could comfortably fit inside the nave. The gothic interior is breathtakingly beautiful, with stained glass windows, a stupendous organ, and, as if the main nave weren't enough, 7 fully equipped side chapels. 

I first set foot there on my very first day in NY, and have been unabashedly in love ever since. My housemates roll their eyes at my Cathedral obsession, and know that I can't go anywhere near Morningside Heights without making a detour to catch a glimpse of glory. I've even made a practice of stopping by for half an hour or so on my way home from work (now you know my other reason for switching to the C train...), just to maximize the amount of time I spend there. 

Without any doubt the best thing about the Cathedral is the music. I, who have been unhealthily obsessed with sacred music since age 12, have finally found a church whose choir meets my (unreasonably) high standards. Evensong on Sunday evenings is the kind of worship experience I've always yearned for, but never thought actually existed in the real world. The liturgy is carried out with impeccable high church pageantry. The congregation sits in the choir stalls, where the acoustics are at their best. The program changes completely from week to week, cycling through an impressive array of compositional styles.  Needless to say, I look forward to it with manic enthusiasm. But what really gets me is that the beauty of this service literally draws people from off the street - the congregation starts out sparse, but quadruples in size by the end, as tourists and passersby hear the magical singing and can't draw themselves away. 

This morning, I was finally able to make it to a Sunday morning service, and wasn't disappointed. I have never in my life seen such liturgical majesty in an Episcopal Church: not only were there 7 assisting clergy, a full choir, and a whole troop of acolytes, but there were also at least 25 UN diplomats present! The homily was given by a Muslim ambassador from Libya - a beautiful expression of the church's commitment to crossing cultural, political, and religious boundaries. I know it shouldn't take an enormous (and enormously wealthy...) cathedral to inspire this sentiment, but St. John the Divine, with its commitment to liturgy, the arts, and socio-political involvement, makes me proud to be an Episcopalian. 

And, if I needed another reason to love the Cathedral (and I think we can all agree that I didn't), I found it today as I walked out after the morning service: it has BELLS! Not a bell, not a cheap carillon, but a whole set of big, glorious, resounding bells that peal just like their European counterparts. I was so surprised and delighted by this discovery that I spilled an entire cup of coffee all over myself and stopped dead in my tracks, coffee-drenched, in the pouring rain, grinning madly until the music finally stopped. 

I have found heaven on earth. 

Don't take the A train

…take the C train instead; it’s much more interesting.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the NY subway system (a thing of great beauty, I might add), it’s important to know that, on most of the main traffic arteries in Manhattan, there are 2 overlapping train lines: a local and an express. As you might imagine, the local trains stop at all the stops, and the express trains only hit the major ones. In the case of my daily commute, I have a choice between the A (express) and the C (local). Motivated by the very understandable desire to cut back on commuting time, I usually take the A.

Or I did, until a few days ago, when, due to circumstances that are now irrelevant, I found myself in an uptown C train. There I was, innocently reading my book, when I looked up and witnessed a most extraordinary sight: without any clear reason, the woman sitting across from me (who, I might add, looked very sane and not at all suspicious by outward appearances) got up from her seat, thrust herself at one of the poles in the middle of the car, and started pole dancing with dangerous exuberance. So dangerous, in fact, that she wound up kicking a guy in the head, and nearly causing a full out fight. Needless to say, I was mesmerized. Who knew that such quality entertainment could be found merely by altering one’s commute?

Since I don’t exactly have a pressing need to hurry home after work, and since the C is considerably less crowded than the A, I decided to see what would happen if I took the C again. This time, I decided to throw in another variable by taking my Teach Yourself Hindi book along with me to pass the time. I wasn’t disappointed. Not 2 stops into my morning commute, a young Indian man got on, surveyed the relatively empty car, and decided that the logical thing to do was to sit uncomfortably close to me. He proceeded to badger me – in Hindi – for my number throughout the rest of the commute. Needless to say, my stop couldn’t come fast enough (and equally needless to say, he remains number-less).

I repeated the experiment on the commute home, and garnered attention of a far more pleasant kind. Upon seeing my Hindi book, a lovely older man from Kerala and an African-American MTA employee (both of whom were squashed up against me for completely legitimate space constraint reasons) engaged me in a fascinating discussion about linguistic and ethnic diversity in NYC. It was the first real conversation I’ve had on a train, and it renewed my faith that the inhabitants of this city, particularly those who commute at rush hour, are indeed human beings, and not manner-less boors. And then, as if I hadn’t had enough subway excitement for the day, my anthropological discussion partners were quickly replaced by a very distressed young German man, who had both accidentally been separated from his girlfriend and gotten on an uptown instead of a downtown train.

Truly, I tell you, there is never any shortage of adventure in New York.