New York Gem #2: The Strand

New York Gem #2 comes to you as part of an effort to cheer myself up. It's Friday, which means Rush Hour Hell (it took me over 2 hours to get from work to home today, which is outrageous, plus there was nearly a riot at the Rockefeller Center subway station when there was no more room in the train), plus it's raining (and, while March rain may smell fresh and springy in nice  places like Wisconsin, in Harlem it only serves to bring out the stench of urine even more than usual), PLUS I've been sick for over a week now and still have no voice to speak of (or with). Okay, rant over. Allow me to enlighten you about another New York favorite: the world's greatest bookstore. Otherwise known as The Strand. 

You may have seen the tote bags that advertise 18 miles of books (the bags, by the way, are über trendy in the Midwest, but toting one around Manhattan is one of the single biggest fashion faux pas you can make -unless, of course, you're carrying books you've just bought from the Strand!), but you probably won't believe that stat unless you actually see it for yourself. It is, hands down, the most overwhelming book shopping experience I've ever encountered. Half the times I've been there, it was an acrobatics feat just getting in the door - the inside of the store is almost always a solid mass of books and people.  Why the wild popularity? Simple: it's ridiculously cheap. And unlike other bargain book stores, where the selection is completely random,  you can actually (usually) find what you're looking for at the Strand. If you're the kind of person who enjoys sorting through piles of dusty, obscure, old tomes, fear not - there are about 50 carts of pure randomness outside on the street for even cheaper than what's inside.

Next to the official Oxford Press bookstore in...Oxford (and let's face it, there can be no competition there), the Strand has the best religion section I've ever seen. Needless to say, I have established very strict rules when it comes to my going there. The unbreakable one is: Never go to the children's section and the religion section in the same visit (as these are on 2 different floors, this is, fortuitously, possible). Rule #2, which I'm not nearly as good about, is: Never go to the Strand with credit cards in your wallet. When I do obey #2 and only bring cash, I spend surprisingly little time in the stacks: I exhaust my allowance within 10 minutes flat, no problem. Rule #3, you will not be surprised to learn is simply: Don't go more than once a month. Guess who hasn't been since February 18th...?

Should you find yourself in lower Manhattan and in need of a good read, I highly encourage you to check it out. I also highly encourage you to abide by at least rules #2 and 3 (I realize that #1 may not pertain to as large a subset of the population as I might like it to). Unless you have like $3000 in spending money or a great deal more self restraint than I do. 

New York Gem #1

Now that I've officially come out on the blogosphere about my lack of infatuation with New York, I feel like I've regained some motivation to seek out its redeeming qualities. I do, after all, have to live here for another 5 and a half months, and I had better have a hell of a good time while I'm at it, right? Added to that, my forgotten-about New Year's resolution was "Give New York a Chance" - perhaps it's time to dust that one off? 

Aaaanyway. Especially since I've run out of whimsical or otherwise engaging work/neighborhood/church stories to post here, I thought I'd try to do a mini-series about the things about New York that actually make me glad I live here. I need to encourage myself to think more positively about NYC, and so you (lucky, lucky!) get to come along for the ride. 

So: New York Gem #1. 

It's really not that interesting. And yet, it consistently makes my day. It's an under-appreciated thing of great beauty called WQXR. Also known as NYC's classical radio station. As someone who spends an appreciable amount of my workday driving around (or, to put a finer point on it, sitting around in a car: port traffic can be horrendous), I get to spend a lot of time listening to the radio. Very few things can redeem a nasty traffic jam like a rousing rendition of the Hallelujah chorus or a Mozart horn concerto, let me tell you. Better yet, the selection is incredible! Considering that I grew up in a city where the classical station (which was never particularly good to begin with) went under sometime during my teenage years, the fact there's a station that plays everything from plainchant to postmodern is nothing short of mind-boggling to me. 

Thus, the quality of my day is usually in direct proportion to the quality of the daily WQXR selection. If it's heavy on Brahms and Mahler...steer clear. If, on the other hand, I've had the unexpected thrill of catching a rare Beethoven symphony (I have a long-standing infatuation with dear old Ludwig. I may or may not be, um, flying home to Wisconsin this weekend specifically to hear my favorite orchestra perform my favorite piece of music EVER), my mood is automatically dialed up about ten notches. My coworkers all hate driving with me, because they know the radio choice (and volume...) is non-negotiable, and God only knows what the poor seafarers I shepherd around think. I console myself with the certain knowledge that I'm making a valuable contribution to their cultural education. 

But the whole reason I'm boring you with an entire blog post about my radio listening preferences is to announce that the glory of WQXR can be yours whether or not you have the privilege of living and working in the NY metropolitan area! Friends, prepare yourselves: it is possible to listen ONLINE! Check it out and appreciate the awesomeness for yourselves. You can thank me later :)

Faces in the crowd

Unlike my roommates, who work in schools and nursing homes, I have a job job that doesn't really let me get to know or build relationships with a fixed group of people. If it's a busy day in port, I may see upwards of 80 seafarers, but almost all of those encounters will be brief and banal ("Can I have a phone card!" "Take me to the mall!" "Will you marry me?"). Because the average shipping route is a 3 month circuit (with a whole lot of variation, mind you) and the average shipping contract is 9 months, it's not like I get to see the same people again very often, even if I do visit the same ship more than once. And, because I see so many people without any relevant context, it's incredibly difficult to keep names and faces straight. It's also near impossible to keep track of which ships I've been on in the past, because they're all named maddeningly similar things, and they all look a lot alike. As you can tell, there are a lot of factors conspiring against me.

Now that I've been working with SCI for about 6 months (oh my GOD! has it already been that long!?), it's becoming more and more common for people to say, "Welcome back! Good to see you again! Don't you remember me?" To which the honest answer is usually no (another non-helpful factor: Filipino men all tend to have one of about 10 different names. Not a terribly creative naming culture, from what I can tell).  It's especially awkward now that my coworkers are starting to bring back reports of seafarers who have asked about me...and I usually have no idea who they're talking about. It makes me feel terrible, but what can I do?

It was a very nice change, then, that in today's sloppy, sleety, and altogether disgusting weather, I got to visit THREE ships, each for the second time. On each vessel, I got a hero's welcome (always a nice ego boost, especially when you're drenched in filthy slush) and an awful lot of food. And I even held up my end of the deal by recognizing people - three for three! I was particularly excited because the MSC Luisa, possibly my favorite ship ever, was in, and I had begun fantasizing about my lunch there from the minute I saw its name printed on the ship list. The cook of the Luisa does not belong on a container ship. He belongs in a 5-star Manhattan kitchen. This man is a culinary magician. He's from Madagascar. He speaks French (to this day, the only francophone seafarer I've met). And he's awesome. We are, needless to say, good friends. 

I really don't know how to impress on you how nice it is to be able to walk into a galley and embrace someone you recognize, remember, and actually want to see after months on end of incredibly superficial encounters. I love my job, but it's so draining to have to be the person that everyone remembers and esteems (being a young woman in a port of mostly men helps a lot) when I, in turn, simply see too many people to remember many of them. It makes the meaningful encounters, like my friendship with the Malagasy cook, stand out all the more. 

It'll be interesting to see how the next 6 months play out - whether I continue to embarrass myself with the same frequency, or whether more and more faces will start to stand out in the crowd. I'm certainly hoping for the latter outcome. 

Breaking News: Connecticut!

I break my long silence on the blogosphere to share amazing news: in late August, I will be leaving New York City and moving a few hours northeast to New Haven, Connecticut! No, I'm not starting grad school at Yale (not yet, anyway...!); I have accepted a spot in the first class of interns at Saint Hilda's House, a brand new Episcopal Service Corps program co-sponsored by Christ Church, New Haven and Berkeley-Yale Divinity School. I could ramble on forever about how psyched I am, but it's probably far more efficient just to point you toward their gorgeous website.

Here's the short version: St. Hilda's is like a super-Episcopalian version of the program I'm doing right now. The basic structure is the same: community living and a 10 month-long stint at a local social service agency (I don't know yet where exactly they'll put me, but the options sound very intriguing!). The difference is that it's a lot more intentionally churchy - it's designed for people who are discerning vocations within the Church, corporate prayer is very much emphasized, and our work schedules are slightly shortened so that we can participate in what looks like a truly ingenious theological curriculum. Yeah, I know: you probably didn't think my life could get any churchier. Allow me to prove you wrong :)

Most of my excitement stems from the sheer relief of having guaranteed housing and employment for another year in this terrible economy. But another huge part of it comes from knowing that my time in New York City has a definite end date. As much as I enjoy certain aspects of New York, and as much as I'm deeply grateful for the opportunity to have spent 12 months here, the reality that has become more and more apparent over the course of my time in Manhattan is that I do not want to live here forever. In fact, I am rather looking forward to getting out of here in August. Manhattan may be cool and exciting on the rare days when I'm well-rested and have some free time, but on the far more frequent days when I'm sleep-deprived, rushed, or annoyed, it is crazy and exhausting. While I have no illusions about New Haven being as idyllic as the name suggests (well, okay - maybe a few illusions...), I am pretty stoked about living in a place where there are no rush-hour subway stampedes (can you tell how much I'm not looking forward to my Friday commute home?).

So, esteemed readers! Rejoice in the good news along with me, and keep following for further exciting updates about life in New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut!

The best New York has to offer

Seriously, people: if you come to New York hoping to see interesting things, don't go to the Empire State Building, don't go to any of the museums, and don't go to 5th Ave. All you need to find amusement, intellectual stimulation, and mind-blowing insanity is ride the subway.

Best commute EVER:

I entered the Chambers St. station at rush hour, like I do every day. As I stood on the platform, waiting and waiting for the unusually slow uptown A, I was approached by a disheveled looking guy who asked when the K train would be there. At first, I simply assumed I'd misheard and he was actually talking about the A train (since that was, after all, the platform we were on) - I told him I had no idea. Far be it from me to predict the inner workings of the MTA. He persisted, repeatedly asking where the K train was. At that point I realized I was talking to a lunatic, mostly because there simply is no K train. With great effort, I finally succeeded in convincing him that I was not his best travel resource. He turned away and started walking in the other direction....only to be bowled over by a man who was running along the subway platform. No, not running from something. Just...running. For exercise. In expensive running gear. In the subway. At rush hour. Why on earth anyone would choose to run in an underground tunnel that reeks of urine is utterly beyond me, to say nothing of why anyone would voluntarily run in a place where there is a very real risk of tripping over any number of objects (a banana peel, a stroller, a sleeping homeless person, the possibilities are endless) and falling onto train tracks that carry lethal amounts of electricity. Needless to say, I was more than a little alarmed.

Fortunately, at this point, the train finally rumbled into the station, and I got on it gratefully. I sat down, pulled out my iPod and my knitting, and lost myself in the angsty world of Green Day. The train filled up. I paid no attention. Around West 4th St, I became aware that the man standing in front of me was looking at me with unusual frequency. I met his gaze. He bent over until his nose was inches from mine, ROARED LIKE A LION, waggled his tongue menacingly, and then turned away. WTF? How does one even react to that? Besides getting off at the next stop and switching cars, which is exactly what I did.

I settled into my new car, resumed my knitting, and tried to push creepy lion man out of my mind. I only dimly noticed when, several stops up the line 2 school-aged girls sat down on either side of me (because, why would I?). I only dimly noticed as they squabbled about something across my lap. And then, all of a sudden, I became aware of 2 things: 1) the fighting had stopped and 2) I was very wet. I looked up from the scarf I was making and assessed the situation: the 2 increasingly red-faced girls still sat flanking me, one holding an empty beverage bottle, the other holding the severed cap. My pants were drenched in a murky brown liquid, a puddle of which pooled around my drenched feet. I was covered in chocolate milk from the waist down.

Fortunately, I was heading home from work, where a clean change of clothes awaited me, and besides - all my outerwear was already so covered in grease from the port that a few more stains blended in nicely. I assured the mortified girls that it was no problem, I wasn't mad, and all was well. They got off at 59th St, apologizing until the subway doors closed. I thought we were done. What I hadn't taken into account was that no one wants to sit next to the girl in the filthy coat who's sitting in the middle of a puddle of brown liquid (it never even occurred to me to move - I had a much coveted seat in a crowded rush hour train and I was already as wet as I was going to be. Why bother?). And that the A runs express from 59th to 125th St. That's over 60 uninterrupted blocks of being stared at like you're a leper, as rivulets of chocolate milk drip down your legs. And here I was embarrassed for eating a cupcake in my safety vest last week.

What I still don't understand is why I'm the only one of my roommates to have subway stories such as these. Are the crazy people only on the A/C trains between 125th and Chambers? Do my roommates just not notice the insanity that surrounds them? Or do I just attract lunatics? You be the judge.

On humiliation

It was a long day. I got next to no sleep last night because the boiler in our church/house (which, I'm convinced, must be at least 200 years old based on the alarming frequency with which it malfunctions) went out, and my room felt like an igloo. As a result, I was hardly functioning at peak capacity today.

Blessedly, I got out of work early and decided to reward myself for making it through by buying myself a cupcake at the train station (side note: the bakery in Penn Station Newark is god's greatest gift to NJ commuters. Everything tastes phenomenal, and it's CHEAP! It will be my downfall, I'm certain.). I selected an enormous monstrosity of devil's food cake, frosting, and rainbow sprinkles, plopped myself down in the PATH train, and dug in. About halfway through the cupcake, I was haunted by the uncomfortable feeling that someone was looking at me. I assessed my surroundings and confirmed that, indeed, most of the people in my car were surveying me with ill-concealed amusement. And then I realized why:

There I sat, devouring what my roommate Ellis would call a "child's confectionary wet dream," rainbow goo smeared all over my mouth and a gob of frosting on my chin, bobbing around in my seat to the music of Paul Simon, and... still wearing my grease-caked, neon yellow safety vest. Which I had conveniently forgotten to take off after work. And then, to top it all off, I was so overcome by the total ridiculousness of the picture, that I burst out laughing as well. 

What's one more lunatic in the mass transit system? 

In which the port chaplain became a money changer

I am approximately $20 richer than I was at the beginning of the day. Sadly, NYIP has not decided to increase my stipend, nor have I taken on an second job. Allow me to explain.

Today, I went on a Scandinavian car ship. This was, in itself, nothing out of the ordinary: Sweden and Norway transport an awful lot of vehicles to Newark and I, liking my job to be easy, have a penchant for finding my way to these highly self-sufficient vessels. I happened to arrive right during the morning coffee break, so I settled in with a bunch of seaman for some relaxed conversation and imported biscuits (see why I like these ships?). At one point, the chief engineer excused himself from our gathering, muttering some vague explanation about needing to get something from his cabin. Ten minutes later, he resurfaced with a gallon Ziploc bag full of coins from all over the world, which he plopped down on the table in front of me with no explanation, and sat back down. At this, three or four other seaman started proclaiming excitedly in Swedish/Norwegian and excused themselves from the table as well. Not long thereafter, there were TWO full gallon bags of international coins sitting in front of me. Needless to say, I was just a little confused. 

"What am I supposed to do with all this?" I demanded. "What are we supposed to do with it?" was the response. "Every seaman has a bag of coins like this sitting in his cabin. We're flying home in two weeks, and they're too heavy to take with us. You have them!" I kept trying to decline the currency, but they weren't having it. Finally, I decided it would be better just to leave with the stash before the other 19 seamen on board decided to bring me their change as well. 

Feeling exceedingly ridiculous (you'd think I'd have gotten used to the feeling by now, wouldn't you?), I hauled my loot back to the office, where I set to work sorting. Fortunately, it was not a busy morning. It turned out that about half the money was, indeed, American coins. After an intense inner struggle, I managed to resist the temptation to appropriate what would have surely been enough quarters to cover my laundry expenses for the rest of the year, and gave the bag to our highly confused finance guy as a donation to SCI. The rest of it, I decided, was fair game. The end totals:

- $26 Australian dollars

- $23 New Zealand dollars (both of which I gave to our receptionist who, providentially enough, knew someone who was imminently leaving for Australia and NZ)

- 11.27 Euros

- 7.20 Swiss Francs

- 2 pounds 50 pence

...and an uncounted fortune in coins from the rest of the world, including a large quantity of European currencies that are no longer in use (it had been a while since I had seen Deutsch Mark!). We put them in a jar on the desk, bearing the label: "Going overseas? Free money! Take what you need!"

Random enough for you? It was for me. 

Also, I think I sat next to a bank robber on the PATH train. But it was hard to be 100% positive.

Port Newark: Your Global Kitchen

I know, I know, I blog about food all the time (when I manage to blog at all, that is...but hey! I've been doing pretty well lately, haven't I?). But seriously: it blows my mind that most of the people in the NY metro area have no idea that some of the best ethnic food stateside lies in dirty, grungy, forgotten-about Port Newark, behind all those gantry cranes you see from the Turnpike (one of my favorite pastimes since moving here is wondering what average, non port-working East Coasties think about ports. Do they know, for instance, that Newark is the largest container port on the East Coast? Do they wonder what goes on there? Do they say to themselves, "Huh, I wonder what those are?" when they see the cranes, or do they just not notice? If anyone has any insights, I'd be delighted to hear them). Granted, your average Joe can't just hop on board the nearest car ship and indulge in Filipino delicacies, so perhaps it's understandable that ship food doesn't get more media attention. So that's why I'm here: to draw your attention to la cuisine maritime and liven your day with accounts of what I eat for lunch. I'll break it down by country.

#1. The Philippines. You've probably never had Filipino food. I hadn't, until I started this gig, and all of a sudden things like chicken adobo, pork belly soup, and dried fried fish (to be skinned and boned by the diner, of course) were added to my list of dietary staples. To be honest, I could take or leave most of it (especially the pork belly...and sometimes hooves...) - but since 2/3 of all seafarers (and I'd guess the percentage is even higher for cooks) are Filipino, I eat an awful lot of it. Filipinos are also unfailingly hospitable (bonus). Fun fact: a recent edition of Time Out New York devoted a full page to a review of a new Filipino restaurant that just opened in Brooklyn. It cracks me up that snobby New Yorkers are paying exorbitant sums to eat fancified versions of the food I eat almost every day. For free.

#2. India. Yeah, all right, you've had Indian food before. But have you ever had real Indian food, prepared by Indians for Indians - Indians who weren't expecting an American to turn up for lunch? Totally different story. Totally different spiciness factor. Needless to say, I have devoted considerable time to cultivating the art of cunningly persuading Indian crews to feed me. Speaking some pidgin Hindi helps an awful lot (Another side note: the Hindi words for song and food are maddeningly similar, and the seafarers often think I'm asking them to play Bollywood music when I'm actually asking about lunch. Clearly, I need to work my pronunciation.). New favorite Indian dish: curried pumpkin. Absolutely out of this world.

#3. The Mediterranean Region (which here means Italy, Serbia, Montenegro, Croatia, Israel, and Greece). You find yourself a ship with a cook from one of these countries, you've hit paydirt. At least in one way. While the Mediterranean ethos lends itself fabulously to long, leisurely, and utterly delicious meals, it also lends itself (less fabulously) to ruthlessly hitting on women (nb: not trying to be racist. Having lived in Southern France for 8 months, I get that it's cultural. It still drives me CRAZY.). It's always a dilemma for me: do I eat incredible food, or do I stand up for my principles? The food usually wins. How could it not, when it's often things like homemade pasta, turkey drumsticks the size of my head, gorgeous fish, stuffed peppers, fresh donuts dripping with honey, and other things that would normally cost me more than I could afford, especially in this city? I mean, come on! Another point in food's favor: it's often accompanied by booze. Today, for instance, I was lunching on a salt ship with a Greek cook (think heaping plates of spaghetti bolognese, steak, fresh calamari and shrimp...yum.), and reached for the pitcher in front of me, assuming it was filled with water. It was not. It was filled with beer. Case closed. 

#4. The Rest of the World. The crews representing countries not mentioned above, which include but are not limited to: China, Japan, Sweden, Germany, Russia, Ukraine, and Korea are not likely to feed you. Although there are definitely exceptions, notably an all-Taiwanese ship with a female third officer who always feeds me fried rice. Even if it's 9:30 in the morning. 

Aaaand, now I'm hungry. Go figure. 

6 utterly ridiculous things that have happened this week/6 reasons I'm glad it's the weekend

1) Being asked by a seafarer if I was an NBA representative. I can only assume this was because of my height, though I really have no idea. To my knowledge, NBA reps don't routinely visit car carriers in Port Newark...

2) Riding all the way downtown on the subway with a wannabe rapper 4 year-old. 

3) Attending a public event where a woman announced her intention to commit suicide. In all sincerity. Still reeling from that one.

4) Visiting a very sick merchant marine veteran in the hospital and listening to him spout historically convoluted conspiracy theories for over an hour. Apparently, George W. Bush, JFK, Hitler, and AARP are still out to get him...

5) Witnessing a full-scale police intervention against a group of homeless women sleeping in the bathroom stalls at Penn Station Newark. Never wanting to go to the bathroom in Penn Station ever again. 

6) Watching a woman at a bank in West Harlem start viciously beating her 6 year-old child. In public. Researching the appropriate way to notify ACS in the future.

Dear life: please calm down. 

On linguistic confusion

I've been noticing lately that, while my foreign language skills are definitely improving (never have I actually spoken this much Hindi, and I even revived some very long lost Italian today!), my command of the English language has steadily declined since I began working for SCI. This is, in large part, because it's often necessary to speak very simplified English to communicate basic information with seafarers. Sentences like "What time are you sailing?" and "Do you have shore leave?" get reduced to "When sailing?" and "have shore pass?"(sometimes with accompanying hand gestures that probably confuse the poor mariners even more). It's always very embarrassing when I go back into the real world, forget where I am, and talk to adult, native English speakers like they're toddlers.

All that said, I was on a ship today that settled any doubts in my mind as to whether I need remedial English classes. I boarded the River Elegance knowing that it had an all Chinese crew and that they probably didn't have shore leave. I was armed with phones, which I was ready to leave on board for them to use, and innumberable phone cards. At the top of my gangway, I handed over my business card, proclaimed "From Seamen's Club!" (throwing in the word 'church' in those situations tends to be a bad, bad move, as causing people to think I'm there to proselytize is very near the bottom of my wish list), and waited for them to give me a visitor's pass. Which they didn't. Instead, they just looked exceedingly confused. So I tried again. "I'm here from Seamen's Club. I've come to see if you need anything." At this point, I took the phones and phone cards out of my bag, and physically handed them over to the perplexed gangway officers for inspection. No luck. They exchanged a few sentences in Chinese and puzzled over the phone cards as though I had just handed them moon rocks. I launched a new tactic. "How....many....crew?" I said, as slowly and clearly as I could manage.

The unbelievable response from the gangway officer, who was, by then, looking at me as though I myself had just landed on the deck in a spaceship: "Do...you...speak...English?" Needless to say, that was the point at which I deemed any hope of effective communication absolutely hopeless, turned around, and went right back down the gangway. What I really want to know is what the hell language he thought I was speaking! Is my Wisconsin accent really that incomprehensible?