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I also found time to go to the beach, where I properly walked past the public section and pretended I was a member o the Four Seasons Resort.  I was happily equipped with a cushioned recliner, hors d’oeurves, a bar with discounted cocktails, and an empty beach.  It wasn’t until the bill came and I had to “simply” sign my room # that I realized I would be caught.  I smiled and asked if I could pay cash, and ran out of there as fast as I could.

With my free time (which was sure a plenty) I managed to read 1 1/2 books, take on the heat with a couple of runs, and become one shade closer to becoming African. One day.  Until then, remember to call your Grandmothers, revel in the fact that you’re young and spry, and please, just don’t retire in Florida.

I love you, G.

The other day, I woke up in my brother’s apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.  When I went outside, I realized what a beautiful day it was.  A silky blue blanket wrapped itself around the city skyscapers, the sun warmed the sidewalk, and a slight breeze kept me comfortable.

And at that moment, I was relieved that I was leaving the city and going home.

There is this ongoing battle in my mind as to whether or not I love New York City.  My appreciation for it comes in waves; some days I am enamored by the architecture, the people, the culture (you wont find African masks in Northport).  And other days the smells, the concrete, and the crowds overwhelm me, and I wonder why does anyone want to live here?  

I do have fun in the city. The day before I took the train over to the East Village and grabbed lunch with my best friend Danielle. She’s getting her Master’s at NYU, so we met at Union Square, walked south toward her campus, and enjoyed some sandwhiches and great conversation along the way. It was a beautiful day, and I took a pleasant stroll around Washington Square Park before heading back to Brooklyn after she left for class. I wrote at the dog park in McCarren Park, laid in the grass while watching a mean game of kickball, and discovered one of Williamsburg’s best-kept secrets: $3 falafal sandwhiches. Big Tree had its first show at Pete’s Candy Store on Lorimer that evening, so the rest of my night involved friends, music, and a lot of whiskey. Yet I woke up that next morning in Greenpoint, and I felt weird. Blame it on the hangover, but I began wondering what I really enjoy so much about the city.

I usually find myself resorting to its parks, because that’s the closest thing I’ll get to real nature.  Yet the parks (to me, atleast) are just a great way for the city to convince its patrons that you’re not actually stuck in a sea of concrete.  The nature in NYC isn’t natural, and while I appreciate its existence, I’d chose The Adirondack Park over McCarren any single day.


Would Central Park be as loved if it was plopped in the middle of the Colorado Rockies?  Or does its appreciation only exist because of relation?  (Thank God I can escape the shops on Madison and Lex and retreat to the Reservoir; hoooray for patches of green so I can picnic with my $7 wheatgrass smoothie and $3 hotdog).  Am I being unfair for scoffing at every tree and bush that is strategically planted in the parks? Perhaps. And maybe then its hypocritcal to have such profound resepect for our national parks, which have only been succumed to tree cutting and human pollution for the creation of roads and an outpour of tourism.


Or maybe I’m just not a city girl.  I walked out of Jim’s apartment in Greenpoint and couldn’t wait to seize the day on Long Island (I know, right?)  But I went home, put on my sneakers, and ran for an hour.  I ran past the sailboats bobbing in the harbor and the lawnmowers humming on their lawns.  I looked up and saw that same silky blue blanket which looked remarkably larger–finally free to stretch itself over the surface of the earth.

After day two of work, which also happened to be day two of Lobster Night, I’ve realized this: you are what you eat.

Even though there are a million places to get lobster in the summer months on Long Island, people still somehow find their way to fancy Italian restaurants where lobster gets fumbled around with fine sicilian meats, foccacia bread, and an overabundance of oil and vinegar.  Still, these obese, sunburned Floridians that escape the southern heat and retreat to the Northeast still expect seafood perfection…… wherever they go.  This fact is coupled with a fancy Italian restaurant (which shall remain nameless) trying to up its sales any way possible, even if it means executing something that in the end will fall on its face.


Results? Obese, sunburned Floridian Pescavors that grumpily eat their lobster at said upscale Italian restaurant.  


Yet, these guys kept coming, and coming, and coming; soon, the place was completely filled with lobsters, both human and crustacean.

Hiiii
So, it looks like spring decided to just, well, not happen this year, as we’ve gone from chilly, unforcomfortable gray days to hot, humid, and SUNNY conditions.  I don’t really mind the skip over spring, since it’s my least favorite season. Give me apple picking, pumpkins and changing leaves in the fall, and skiing, tea and fireplaces in the winter.  Yes–spring is the season of rebirth, but I’d much rather  experience the climax of new life:  hot, sweaty messes in the summer where the consumption of sangria, day trips to the beach, and daylight till 9PM is in full force. 


                      
                                       Sunken Meadow Beach, late February

                                                                               Sunken Meadow beach, late May

Life slowed down for a bit which bothered me, but things are finally getting back into motion.  There are more rehearsals, shows, and music to be practiced and played, I am once again a server at some fancy-shmansy restaurant (although I vowed never to return to the “business,”) and I’m filling in the gaps with six-mile runs, novels from the public library, trips to the beach, and time in the city where I tell myself I’m not going to spend all my money…and then I do. .

I’d continue typing, but my front wrist is really out of shape from holding up trays of wine, martinis, and soco old fashions (seriously–there is a muscle there). Moreover, I’ve had a bad cold for over a week now, and I think I must finally admit that I too, have allergies.  Apparently EVERYONE is getting hit hard this season; Mayor Bloomberg has planted mostly male trees this year, since female trees are full of seeds (us fertile beings) which end up being messy and ugly. Male trees are prettier and cleaner, but they also have more pollen. Hence, more sneezey people. Is there any irony to male trees being the reason behind sick, grumpy people?

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Many moons ago when I lived in Maryland for a month before moving into the District, I decided to go free Yoga classes on Sundays in DC.

>When you’ve been away, New York City is definitely a breath of fresh air.

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I rode the bus from New York to Boston the other day and I decided to write about it

————-

I rise out onto the streets of Manhattan from the LIRR, and am greeted by a bounded, overcast sky. It’s barely 60 degrees—five clicks warmer and my arms would relax, rather than tense up in an effort to warm my self. I begin walking down 8^th avenue, and continue walking west once I hit 31^st street. Two avenues over and I’m on 10^th, and I stop at one of the thousand gourmet deli’s in New York City for an 85 cent coffee that will be mostly milk, three heaping spoonfuls of sugar, and a splash of java. Saying only a little milk and sugar means nothing, always.

After my morning’s thirty-minute walk to the train station, I sat patiently still for an hour as Long Island flew over my left shoulder. Now in the city, I am to walk only a few more blocks to the bus stop. I’ll sit on MegaBus for around four hours, which will take me to Boston. All of these miles, walking-sitting-standing, might seem like too much travel for one day, but I enjoy it. I love the feeling of progress, of constantly being on the go. I can never sit still, unless I’m actually moving.

I arrive at the MegaBus stop, and am surprised to see that the low-budget transportation company put up temporary fences to create actual lines for different travel destinations. I walk past Syracuse, Philadelphia, DC, and Toronto, until I find Boston. I walk to the back of the line and ask the girl in front of me is this to Boston?, soon to realize that the man behind me would ask the same question, the woman behind him the same—so on and so forth. Nobody trusts signs.

I check my watch and realize my bus isn’t scheduled to leave for another 25 minutes. As I fumble for my headphones, a girl in the Philadelphia line comments on my scarf: I really like your scarf. It’s beautiful. I thank her and tell her it’s from the Rubin Museum in Chelsea. Miss. Philly studies my lips and gets out her iphone to store this information, and then we continue to have a superficial, yet pleasurable enough conversation about scarves. They really do spice up an outfit. I wear mostly black, but scarves really add another element to personal style. They make you pop. This is a great springtime scarf. How do you spell “Rubin”?

I’m enjoying talking to Miss. Philly, but before I know it, her line starts moving and now she is permanently gone from my life.

I watch with limited patience as the Toronto and DC lines disappear, and then revert my attention to three fearless pigeons that are inches away from my feet. They are fighting over two Pringle crumbs, and I find myself almost too entertained by watching these Pringle pigeons peck at the crumbs while their little necks bob forward and backward, unaware of anything around them but their salty snack.

Once I finally grow tired of the pigeons, I remember my headphones, yet am once again distracted— this time by the Chinese man behind me who asked moments ago if he was in the correct line. He smiles, looks up at the clouds, and in broken English asks the clouds bring rain…. what happen before bus? I look at him quizzically for a moment, then try to rephrase his question: you mean, what happens if it starts to rain before we get on the bus? He nods with deep concern written all over his face, and I can only shrug my shoulders and answer: well, we’ll get wet. He politely smiles and musters up a nervous laugh, replying oh! only New York City. I’m still not exactly sure what he means by this; New York is unique, but I doubt it’s the only city that fails to provide proper shelter when it rains.

My 12:10 bus finally rolls in, and I find myself a window seat on the top deck. I put my backpack and scarf on the empty aisle seat, although I’m almost positive the bus will be full and someone will have to sit there. Surprisingly enough, people continue to walk up and down the aisle, yet the traffic quickly slows, the bus begins moving, and I seem to be only passenger who got away without a bus buddy. I take out my book from my purse, and just when I start to get into a rhythm with its narrative, a British couple across the aisle begin talking, disrupting me and my book’s synchrony. My mother just hates Cleveland, but we’re forced to go every summer because of her in-laws. If it were up to me I would go back to London, but I’m supposed to stay culturally steady, or something. The young man looks at the girl with secretive desire; I’m not sure if they are acquaintances, or if they both realized they were British so became so just for the bus ride. They certainly aren’t lovers. I’m wondering why she is going to Boston by herself, and when she’ll go to Cleveland, and where her mother is right now. And why did she refer to her dad’s family as in-laws? The young man unwraps a pre-made turkey sandwich and adds cream cheese to it. They both are talking extremely loud.

There is a Chinese toddler and mother sitting right in front of me, and I can see the boy’s reflection in the window as he stares out onto the streets of Manhattan. He has a medium-sized mole directly under his left eye, which I know will one day attract the attention of many beautiful women. He’s watching the road with a keen, innocent curiosity. At this moment I wish I was his age again, enamored by almost anything—satisfied by simple, strange objects.

An Indian mother and her little girl are opposite the Chinese mother and son—one row up and over from me. I’ve read two of Jhumpa Lahiri’s books; in both, she writes about Indian couples that live in Cambridge. I assume that this mother and daughter live there too, and are going back home to her husband, her father. They begin playing rock-paper-scissors, and will continue to do so for at least an hour. The husband starts calling his wife every five minutes, and her ring tone is unbearably loud, louder than the British couple’s conversation.

I will never get through the first page.

Yes, her number is 518-3454-290. I can’t help but continue to listen to the Brit’s conversation, as they are talking like they’re all alone in a noisy bar or a grocery store. I stop to think about the phone number she mentions, and grin at how she reversed the number groupings. I almost wanted to tell her it’s xxx-xxx-xxxx, and please stop talking so loudly. I realize this would be rather rude of me, and that it really doesn’t matter how you group numbers in a phone number. The phone doesn’t care; it’ll still dial correctly.

The Indian girl and mother are still playing rock-paper-scissors, and I see now that the mother isn’t even watching. She repeatedly puts down scissor, and the little girl’s eyes widen every fourth or so time she puts down rock. I give up on my book and try listening to music, when the first tinge of hunger knocks at my stomach. When I’m on busses, I always crave random things. Right now, I want a donut. A simple glazed donut. Or, a bag of honey-mustard powdered pretzels. Maybe a strawberry shortcake. Defeated, I rummage through my bag and find a restaurant mint. I gulp down some lemon-lime seltzer in hopes it’ll curb my appetite, and that we’ll be in Boston shortly.

I hear someone’s wrist watch beep behind me, and realize it must be the top of some hour. I check my phone and see it’s already three o’clock, and within the next twenty or so seconds I hear another handful of beep beep’s. I’m actually surprised at how many people still wear watches, with phones now becoming the most popular way to check the time. So many people have their phones attached to their knuckles, their faces, and this often makes me sad. Again I want to be the little Chinese boy with the cute mole, fascinated by Harlem and I-95, naive to cell phones and i-pads, 4 G’s, bbm’s, and unlimited data.

My hunger ceases, the Brit’s stop talking, and I can rest my eyes and listen to Elvis Costello as MegaBus exits I84 and gets on the Mass Pike. I dream about nothing, and when I wake up 40 minutes later, I see Boston’s skyline in the distance. I get up and use the restroom on the lower deck; I bring my toothbrush and realize there is no sink, so I return to my seat and put a dab of toothpaste on my tongue. I swirl it around my mouth and softy swallow. I put on an extra layer of deodorant, a hint of perfume, and sit up, surprised at how sore my lower back is from all of the sitting I’ve been doing. I call you and let you know we’re almost there, and I find myself finally able to start smiling, anxious that my day’s travels are finally coming to an end. The bus gets into South Station a little after four, and I barely look at the Brits, the Chinese, or the Indians as I exit the bus and enter your arms.

>Whenever I make it back home in Northport for more than 48 hours, I usually do a major cleaning out of my room. Now, why I need to do one of these atleast three times a year… I dooo not know, for I don’t really think I consume much these days by way of clothes shopping, trinket buying, etc. Yet somehow, no matter how many garbage bags I fill, I miraculously find ways to fill more months down the road.

>Of beauty and serenity: life on the road.

It’s day eight on the road for Big Tree, an indie-pop band based in the Bay Area and making its way to New York for the summer. We’ve driven down the California coast, saying goodbye to the enchanting Pacific Ocean, and slowly trudged east, driving through suffocating L.A, mountainous Colorado, and desolate Gallop, New Mexico. On the 11^th of March we finally made it to Taos, excited to enter a small world tucked away in northern New Mexico that exudes a sort of magic. We had traveled by way of Santa Fe, stopping at a less-than nice hostel to fill up on grease for our veggie-oil van (that’s for another day).

The outskirts of Santa Fe depressed us; strips malls, abandoned houses, and taco bells cluttered the almost clear blue sky. Thus, when we made it to the quaint town of Taos, embedded with pueblo art, clay houses, and all things teal and periwinkle, we sighed with relief. We looked around us and saw snow-capped mountains in the distance and dust beneath our toes. In between the dust and the snow, we saw where we were staying:

Life on the road for a band is always made simpler when you know people. Quality Inn’s and Howard Johnson’s aren’t really worth the $60 stay, and nothing beats staying in a warm bed with families who welcome you with open arms. Lucky for us, this house in Taos offered not only warm beds, but a hot tub, three adorable ridgeback dogs, and a plethora of fish tacos and tequila.

We were supposed to play a show that night at the “Taos Bar.” We had trouble getting in touch with the venue’s owner; the guy who booked our show was on an impromptu vacation in Alaska (of all places…), and our other contact was mysteriously “out of town.” We asked some locals where the Taos Bar was, and after a few failed attempts, learned that no bar by that name exists. Finally, we found the sole Taos bar: Mountain View Lodge. There we met Ralph, the extremely friendly owner who had no idea we were supposed to play a show that evening. He offered us a beer as a condolence, which we politely accepted. We learned he had no mic’s or amps, and obviously no advertising for the show had been done in town. We thanked Ralph and made our way back to our rental mansion for the night, not entirely disappointed that we would be missing out on a night of music.

Janet, a family friend and owner of the house, took us out for authentic New Mexican cuisine. We devoured fresh guacamole, rice and beans, and an absurd amount of cheese and tortilla chips before cozying up back at the house— sipping on margaritas in their hot tub until our tired eyes let us sleep. The next morning, Janet’s husband John took us out back through his blue door for a lesson in shooting a gun, which for all five band members was a never-explored, er, “hobby.”

We reveled in our surroundings, the hospitality of our friends, and kept repeating over and over “we are the luckiest people in the world.” Traveling across the country in a band is not always easy, yet we made our way across the US with relative ease as we visited old friends, made new ones, and played shows (almost) every night. Although the main purpose of the tour was the music, every now and then we let ourselves relax and take in the overwhelmingly unique pockets of America without worrying about needing to play a show. And this is exactly what Taos, New Mexico provided for us.