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 :)