Sunday
Saturday
Wednesday, April 29th (The Bronx)
Attendees: Robert Aguilar, Four or five of Robert's (Bobby's) friends whose names are vague because I am old
A summary:
Zoo!
Fat boys and tigers and aging homosexuals
Cappuccinos are better with cinnamon
Wednesday... I got on the train and headed to the Bronx Zoo.
Now, after reading The Life of Pi, I'd decided that zoos were not the depressing, necessarily cruel and oppressive places I'd always suspected them to be. The argument being that animals only increase the size of their habitats and travel long distances out of necessity - to gather the nutrients needed to survive. Maybe the water is a mile west of the antelope... but if it were all in one place a tiger could... you know, get his sleep on.
And then I met Sasha. The fat tiger.
At 11:30, 1:30 and 3:30 each day one can witness the 'tiger enrichment program' at Tiger Mountain on the NE side of the Bronx zoo. What this means is that a bored, khaki-clad woman with some alarming scarring on her arms and neck that looks distinctly like the result of an animal attack shows up with an old feed bag, a chunk of horse meat and a few new bottles of perfume from the gift shop. She puts the meat in the bag, sprays it with the new scents the tiger has never experienced, opens a gate and hucks the bag at the tiger. Sasha takes the bag to his favorite corner, bullies it a bit with some petulant nudging, tears the shit out of it with some business-meaning teeth, swallows the meat without pause or ceremony, pisses on the whole mess with a faraway look in his eye.... and then...
he lies down again to get some more sleep.
He sleeps, the khaki woman says, at least 20 hours a day. And he's a fatty.
Depressing.
Before the 'enrichment', Sasha has made a little showing of his flanks, his impressive claws, his fangs - which we only see because he is yawning- while he has a lazy stroll around his pen. He clearly knows the horsemeat is nigh. There's a moment when he walks up to the glass and displays himself- all these dangerous elements made innocuous by the tiger flab and the the insuperable barrier between us. He's doing what he can to look majestically off into the 'distance' (no more than 20 yards in any direction). His teeth are dangerous, his claws are bared, but you look down and his tail is tucked between his hind legs and I catch him surreptitiously glancing toward the crowd. "Is anybody looking?" "Am I still me?"
The monkeys cheered me up a bit, the World of Birds was kind of magical, and the lemurs! Man, I love a lemur.
I said my goodbyes and walked out by myself on the West side near the Children's Zoo. East on 183rd, about 7 or 8 blocks (of old black men sharing beers on front stoops and children running you down on kick scooters) you intersect with Arthur Avenue, where, if you head north, you find yourself in this anomalous wonderland called Little Italy in the Bronx. Bakeries, restaurants, meat shops, delis, pastry shops, pasta shops, gelato shops, all things Italian you could possibly desire. I haggled with a street vendor, claiming I only had $4 cash (a lie I'm happy to claim) and bought the wallet I've been meaning to replace since I got robbed some weeks back. I wandered through bakeries and pastry shops inhaling deeply and then I found Tino's - between 187th and 188th on Arthur Ave. This place is gorgeous, full of specialty Italian foods. They make fresh sandwiches and deli goods. It's a family business and when I went to pay for my coffee, the man behind the counter nodded to his son in a gesture of 'you take this one'. The boy was nervous and pudgy fingered and charged me $3.52 instead of $3.25 with adorable dyslexia. I sat down at a table outside with a fantastic cappuccino, sprinkled with cinnamon to watch old Italian women with scarves on their heads greet smiling old men with canes. Little Tino- aka. pudgy fingers at the register- came out with a soccer ball and kicked it around with an older fellow in a shiny jumpsuit and a lanyard. Coach? Uncle? Little Tino looked a lot like JT (Tony Soprano Jr.) on the season where he was kind of a chunker... but boy could do some fancy footwork with a soccer ball.
I asked the woman inside where I could go to buy fresh pasta and she directed me to Bergatti's on 187th. Also a family run place, Father and Son are behind the counter doing impressions of each other as I check out the sauces on the rack to the right. The pasta is all hand rolled and cut and the place smells fresh like flour and salt. I order a pound of the spinach fettuccine and the son cranks down this big wooden drying rack with a rope pulley tied to the wall behind the register. The pasta is laid out in long twisted loops and he untangles a pound of it easily, barely bothering to look at the scale when he weighs it, knowing he has just enough.
On the train home there's this old queen on the train. One of these toughed up, elder homosexuals with tattoos on his hands and jewelry meant to leave dents in other people's faces. He's mumbling to himself, glaring at the man opposite him... but you look down and his feet are positively dainty. Tucked jauntily under him, stacked one atop the other in tight-laced, black hightop Reeboks circa 1982. He stops twirling the skull ring on his finger for a moment and nervously tugs at one earring, glances around the train car. "Is anybody looking? Am I still me?"
Of note:
Fresh Tortilla (207 and Broadway) Very tasty black bean tacos which I made the bad choice of washing down with a red apple Snapple - like sweet, watery Robotussin
La Sala (111 Dyckman-Inwood) The 'Hot Avocado' was delicious and messy... find yourself a veteran and study his methods
The roof of my building at night. Pigeon shit aside. Beautiful.
Tino's (between 187th and 188th on Arthur Ave.) www.tinosdeli.com
Bergatti's (187th W. of Arthur Ave.) So worth the journey
Patsy's (Union Sq. area) pretty decent pizza- fresh mozzarella, basil and garlic
The Irish Brigade (4716 Broadway) Old man dive bar extraordinaire. The five people in this bar make up for the sparse clientele by Shouting at the top of their lungs to each other. The bartender, Laura, is scrappy and friendly and will introduce you to her Mom (the older version of her yelling top volume at the other end of the bar).
SEE (312 Bleecker- W.Village) Eyeglasses, exams on the cheap. The doctor looks weirdly like Sarah Silverman and I found myself chuckling inappropriately. "Which is clearer? One or Two?" " Hahahaha... oh, um One?" Unique and affordable frames. The fellow working there was very helpful... then again, I think he may have been hitting on me. I'm a little slow, but when someone says "I could sit across from you for five or six hours and look at you if you were wearing those" ... that's a pick-up line, right?
Song of the week: Ballantines: Aimee Mann
Fun discovery: Look at this fucking hipster- www.latfh.com
The image below was this bizarre moment where some mutual understanding excited all the lemurs at once and they all went tearing down to one end of their enclosure (which, by the by, is not enclosed, but open to the viewing walkway - why I don't have a lemur in my hair is a mystery). I kind of love this shot. It looks like a Michael Sowa painting, but I swear it's just a snapshot on a low light, micro setting on my little Canon Powershot (I'd been taking photographs of these bright red, leaf-shaped insects I'll have to ask my Entymologist Papa about).
Attendees: Robert Aguilar, Four or five of Robert's (Bobby's) friends whose names are vague because I am old
A summary:
Zoo!
Fat boys and tigers and aging homosexuals
Cappuccinos are better with cinnamon
Wednesday... I got on the train and headed to the Bronx Zoo.
Now, after reading The Life of Pi, I'd decided that zoos were not the depressing, necessarily cruel and oppressive places I'd always suspected them to be. The argument being that animals only increase the size of their habitats and travel long distances out of necessity - to gather the nutrients needed to survive. Maybe the water is a mile west of the antelope... but if it were all in one place a tiger could... you know, get his sleep on.
And then I met Sasha. The fat tiger.
At 11:30, 1:30 and 3:30 each day one can witness the 'tiger enrichment program' at Tiger Mountain on the NE side of the Bronx zoo. What this means is that a bored, khaki-clad woman with some alarming scarring on her arms and neck that looks distinctly like the result of an animal attack shows up with an old feed bag, a chunk of horse meat and a few new bottles of perfume from the gift shop. She puts the meat in the bag, sprays it with the new scents the tiger has never experienced, opens a gate and hucks the bag at the tiger. Sasha takes the bag to his favorite corner, bullies it a bit with some petulant nudging, tears the shit out of it with some business-meaning teeth, swallows the meat without pause or ceremony, pisses on the whole mess with a faraway look in his eye.... and then...
he lies down again to get some more sleep.
He sleeps, the khaki woman says, at least 20 hours a day. And he's a fatty.
Depressing.
Before the 'enrichment', Sasha has made a little showing of his flanks, his impressive claws, his fangs - which we only see because he is yawning- while he has a lazy stroll around his pen. He clearly knows the horsemeat is nigh. There's a moment when he walks up to the glass and displays himself- all these dangerous elements made innocuous by the tiger flab and the the insuperable barrier between us. He's doing what he can to look majestically off into the 'distance' (no more than 20 yards in any direction). His teeth are dangerous, his claws are bared, but you look down and his tail is tucked between his hind legs and I catch him surreptitiously glancing toward the crowd. "Is anybody looking?" "Am I still me?"
The monkeys cheered me up a bit, the World of Birds was kind of magical, and the lemurs! Man, I love a lemur.
I said my goodbyes and walked out by myself on the West side near the Children's Zoo. East on 183rd, about 7 or 8 blocks (of old black men sharing beers on front stoops and children running you down on kick scooters) you intersect with Arthur Avenue, where, if you head north, you find yourself in this anomalous wonderland called Little Italy in the Bronx. Bakeries, restaurants, meat shops, delis, pastry shops, pasta shops, gelato shops, all things Italian you could possibly desire. I haggled with a street vendor, claiming I only had $4 cash (a lie I'm happy to claim) and bought the wallet I've been meaning to replace since I got robbed some weeks back. I wandered through bakeries and pastry shops inhaling deeply and then I found Tino's - between 187th and 188th on Arthur Ave. This place is gorgeous, full of specialty Italian foods. They make fresh sandwiches and deli goods. It's a family business and when I went to pay for my coffee, the man behind the counter nodded to his son in a gesture of 'you take this one'. The boy was nervous and pudgy fingered and charged me $3.52 instead of $3.25 with adorable dyslexia. I sat down at a table outside with a fantastic cappuccino, sprinkled with cinnamon to watch old Italian women with scarves on their heads greet smiling old men with canes. Little Tino- aka. pudgy fingers at the register- came out with a soccer ball and kicked it around with an older fellow in a shiny jumpsuit and a lanyard. Coach? Uncle? Little Tino looked a lot like JT (Tony Soprano Jr.) on the season where he was kind of a chunker... but boy could do some fancy footwork with a soccer ball.
I asked the woman inside where I could go to buy fresh pasta and she directed me to Bergatti's on 187th. Also a family run place, Father and Son are behind the counter doing impressions of each other as I check out the sauces on the rack to the right. The pasta is all hand rolled and cut and the place smells fresh like flour and salt. I order a pound of the spinach fettuccine and the son cranks down this big wooden drying rack with a rope pulley tied to the wall behind the register. The pasta is laid out in long twisted loops and he untangles a pound of it easily, barely bothering to look at the scale when he weighs it, knowing he has just enough.
On the train home there's this old queen on the train. One of these toughed up, elder homosexuals with tattoos on his hands and jewelry meant to leave dents in other people's faces. He's mumbling to himself, glaring at the man opposite him... but you look down and his feet are positively dainty. Tucked jauntily under him, stacked one atop the other in tight-laced, black hightop Reeboks circa 1982. He stops twirling the skull ring on his finger for a moment and nervously tugs at one earring, glances around the train car. "Is anybody looking? Am I still me?"
Of note:
Fresh Tortilla (207 and Broadway) Very tasty black bean tacos which I made the bad choice of washing down with a red apple Snapple - like sweet, watery Robotussin
La Sala (111 Dyckman-Inwood) The 'Hot Avocado' was delicious and messy... find yourself a veteran and study his methods
The roof of my building at night. Pigeon shit aside. Beautiful.
Tino's (between 187th and 188th on Arthur Ave.) www.tinosdeli.com
Bergatti's (187th W. of Arthur Ave.) So worth the journey
Patsy's (Union Sq. area) pretty decent pizza- fresh mozzarella, basil and garlic
The Irish Brigade (4716 Broadway) Old man dive bar extraordinaire. The five people in this bar make up for the sparse clientele by Shouting at the top of their lungs to each other. The bartender, Laura, is scrappy and friendly and will introduce you to her Mom (the older version of her yelling top volume at the other end of the bar).
SEE (312 Bleecker- W.Village) Eyeglasses, exams on the cheap. The doctor looks weirdly like Sarah Silverman and I found myself chuckling inappropriately. "Which is clearer? One or Two?" " Hahahaha... oh, um One?" Unique and affordable frames. The fellow working there was very helpful... then again, I think he may have been hitting on me. I'm a little slow, but when someone says "I could sit across from you for five or six hours and look at you if you were wearing those" ... that's a pick-up line, right?
Song of the week: Ballantines: Aimee Mann
Fun discovery: Look at this fucking hipster- www.latfh.com
The image below was this bizarre moment where some mutual understanding excited all the lemurs at once and they all went tearing down to one end of their enclosure (which, by the by, is not enclosed, but open to the viewing walkway - why I don't have a lemur in my hair is a mystery). I kind of love this shot. It looks like a Michael Sowa painting, but I swear it's just a snapshot on a low light, micro setting on my little Canon Powershot (I'd been taking photographs of these bright red, leaf-shaped insects I'll have to ask my Entymologist Papa about).
Wednesday
Gauntlet thrown... I have had some anxiety this week about having a suitable adventure.
I may have a few that are not for public consumption... but.
Maybe this week is just a different kind of story.
A summary:
-Saw Mary Stuart on Broadway. (really excellent, Janet McTeer is stunning)
-Went to a potluck/ discussion on the food crisis in Brooklyn (fun, delicious, informative)
-Listened to no less than 5 episodes of This American Life while 'at work' (hehe)
-Ate some ridiculous cupcake (Crumbs Bakery on University and 13th)
-Went to a great yoga class at Exhale (Central Park South)
-Saw off the soon-to-be-missed Dave and Chelsey at a going away party in the West Village
-Went to Matt Wilson's new play, The Box Man, based on the Kobo Abe. (captivating, bizarre, loved it)
-Drank beers in Riverside Park on a warm night, talked theatre, saw some stars.
-Discovered good coffee in my neighborhood alongside the fluffiest omelet. ever. at the Indian Rd. Cafe
-Explored Inwood Hill Park, took a long walk in the woods, saw the caves, forgot I was in the city
Friday afternoon, I am waiting for the R Train at 57th.
There is a young, black man lying on the train platform, convulsing, surrounded by policemen, just staring. Silent, emotionless. The other people on the platform are doing that dance of looking while trying not to look like they are looking.
The train arrives and I sit down next to an abandoned cookie, an old newspaper. A young woman gets on at 49th and sits opposite me. There's always a negotiation involved in the set up of these train cars. You're facing someone, looking at them, but you can't stare, can't examine. This woman sitting opposite me has obviously had something horrible just happen to her. She is red-faced, puffy-eyed, clutching a tissue. She is trying with everything she has not to break down.
I remember a day I had like this last summer. Standing on the platform at Gallery Place/Chinatown in DC. I was trying so hard not to show it on my face, not to lose it outright. This stranger came up to me. He had really dark skin and a crisp, pink shirt. His girlfriend had nudged him, pointed me out. He put one arm around me. "You all right, girl?"
I try to catch the woman's eye, give her a... smile? ask silently 'are you okay?'
She is trying not to look at anyone. She's looking up, down, at the wall, shuddering a little. Tiny, quiet sobs.
The train stops at 34th and a blue M&M gets on the train.
The doors open, and this bright blue, peanut M&M rolls through, takes a sharp right and stops, comfortable. Like it's found a handhold on the rail and room to set down a briefcase.
The M&M is directly between me and the crying woman. Equidistant. An ambassador. I look at her. She has seen the M&M. She looks at me. She is still teary, but her mouth is open and the corners have a little turn in them, her eyes are bright. We look at each other for a second, look back at the M&M. She tucks her tissue into her purse, decidedly.
The train pulls into 23rd Street. I get up, nod goodbye to the woman, step carefully around the M&M and off the train.
Of note.
Indian Rd. Cafe (218th and Isham Rd. - Inwood)- Great food and coffee, a nice staff of young long haired boys that look like they should be in a Peter Greenaway film, trivia nights on Wednesdays
The Noodle Bar (26 Carmine - W.Village) I got the steamed cod in black bean sauce. yum.
The Rickshaw (23rd and 5th) duck dumplings. what? I still can't say 'rickshaw' without the suspicion I'm being racist somehow
Goodwill (23rd and 6th??) bought 3 skirts for $17. yeah-huh.
Barrow St. Alehouse (22 Barrow St., West Village) Cheapish beers, male-heavy clientele and I was accused by a large, bald employee wearing a dog collar of paying for a pool game and then voluntarily breaking the pool cues before I could play. No, no I didn't do that, Mister. but yes, I know, look at me. I'm clearly out for destruction.
I may have a few that are not for public consumption... but.
Maybe this week is just a different kind of story.
A summary:
-Saw Mary Stuart on Broadway. (really excellent, Janet McTeer is stunning)
-Went to a potluck/ discussion on the food crisis in Brooklyn (fun, delicious, informative)
-Listened to no less than 5 episodes of This American Life while 'at work' (hehe)
-Ate some ridiculous cupcake (Crumbs Bakery on University and 13th)
-Went to a great yoga class at Exhale (Central Park South)
-Saw off the soon-to-be-missed Dave and Chelsey at a going away party in the West Village
-Went to Matt Wilson's new play, The Box Man, based on the Kobo Abe. (captivating, bizarre, loved it)
-Drank beers in Riverside Park on a warm night, talked theatre, saw some stars.
-Discovered good coffee in my neighborhood alongside the fluffiest omelet. ever. at the Indian Rd. Cafe
-Explored Inwood Hill Park, took a long walk in the woods, saw the caves, forgot I was in the city
Friday afternoon, I am waiting for the R Train at 57th.
There is a young, black man lying on the train platform, convulsing, surrounded by policemen, just staring. Silent, emotionless. The other people on the platform are doing that dance of looking while trying not to look like they are looking.
The train arrives and I sit down next to an abandoned cookie, an old newspaper. A young woman gets on at 49th and sits opposite me. There's always a negotiation involved in the set up of these train cars. You're facing someone, looking at them, but you can't stare, can't examine. This woman sitting opposite me has obviously had something horrible just happen to her. She is red-faced, puffy-eyed, clutching a tissue. She is trying with everything she has not to break down.
I remember a day I had like this last summer. Standing on the platform at Gallery Place/Chinatown in DC. I was trying so hard not to show it on my face, not to lose it outright. This stranger came up to me. He had really dark skin and a crisp, pink shirt. His girlfriend had nudged him, pointed me out. He put one arm around me. "You all right, girl?"
I try to catch the woman's eye, give her a... smile? ask silently 'are you okay?'
She is trying not to look at anyone. She's looking up, down, at the wall, shuddering a little. Tiny, quiet sobs.
The train stops at 34th and a blue M&M gets on the train.
The doors open, and this bright blue, peanut M&M rolls through, takes a sharp right and stops, comfortable. Like it's found a handhold on the rail and room to set down a briefcase.
The M&M is directly between me and the crying woman. Equidistant. An ambassador. I look at her. She has seen the M&M. She looks at me. She is still teary, but her mouth is open and the corners have a little turn in them, her eyes are bright. We look at each other for a second, look back at the M&M. She tucks her tissue into her purse, decidedly.
The train pulls into 23rd Street. I get up, nod goodbye to the woman, step carefully around the M&M and off the train.
Of note.
Indian Rd. Cafe (218th and Isham Rd. - Inwood)- Great food and coffee, a nice staff of young long haired boys that look like they should be in a Peter Greenaway film, trivia nights on Wednesdays
The Noodle Bar (26 Carmine - W.Village) I got the steamed cod in black bean sauce. yum.
The Rickshaw (23rd and 5th) duck dumplings. what? I still can't say 'rickshaw' without the suspicion I'm being racist somehow
Goodwill (23rd and 6th??) bought 3 skirts for $17. yeah-huh.
Barrow St. Alehouse (22 Barrow St., West Village) Cheapish beers, male-heavy clientele and I was accused by a large, bald employee wearing a dog collar of paying for a pool game and then voluntarily breaking the pool cues before I could play. No, no I didn't do that, Mister. but yes, I know, look at me. I'm clearly out for destruction.
I live in New York City, of which it has been said: " is the (insert hyperbole/superlative here) city in the world"
Without so much as just noticing that I'm having one... I think I can reasonably endeavor this ratio:
1 adventure/ 1 week.
One to One.
I'm going to write about these adventures and post them here because:
-I'd like some instant accountability that having made this claim, I'll actually follow up on it
-facebook/twitter has taught me that no experience is valid until shared with every single one of your friends, family, acquaintances and that guy you're pretty sure you met at that party that one time
-maybe some of these friends, family, acquaintances and party guys have suggestions for adventures I should/could go on in NYC. Maybe some of these friends, family and acquaintances... not so much the party guys... will want to accompany me on one of these adventures.
So. There it is. My adventure gauntlet. Thrown.
P.S. As a bonus I may include something I have learned in the week.
Saturday, April 18th - Brooklyn (Ft.Greene/ Brooklyn Heights/ The Promenade) Manhattan (Union Sq.)
Attendees: Gabriel Baron, Jess Smith
A summary:
Met a guy with an eye patch.
Ate some amazing dumplings, some even more amazing plantains.
Went to a "flea" market.
Got pooped on.
After a walk in the park in my neighborhood and some fantastic diner breakfast, I took an hour train ride out to Brooklyn and went to the Brooklyn Flea Market. There is no 'flea' to this market... grandpa's old cowboy shirts for $120, 'vintage' (read: "old and kind of yellowing in your sweaty places") frocks for $90, and other necessaries like broken super 8 projectors and watches you have to wind. Really, I love digging through this stuff. I feel like I'm settling the estate of some great uncle I should have taken the opportunity to get to know better while I had the chance. But I'm not going to buy any of his crap.
Walking out of the market we saw this big yellow house that looked like it had been transplanted from some salty bluff of Maine circa 1852. Those of you who have lived here know how rare it is to see a house in the city, a free standing, single occupancy structure is unheard of... much less one that looks like the set for The Lady in White. Wow, do you remember that movie? 1988. 10 yr. old Lukas Haas. And ghost mom would wander the cliffs yelling for her dead daughter, Melissa. Bad 'ghosty' graphics and all, still gives me shivers.
This older gentleman saw us looking at the house and made us cross the street so we could see the roof. Now, this guy looked like a lunatic. Eye patch, limp, ratty and toothless. With two dogs named Peggy Sue and Lola. I couldn't make this shit up. He pointed out the cupola on the roof and the tiny walkway around it. At one time you could see the harbor from this perch and the wives would know if their husbands had come home or not. "For those unfortunate ones whose men did not come home", the lunatic says, "this is called a 'widow's walk'." He also told us about a sibling rivalry that drove one brother to donate his mansion to the Masons and the other, adjacent mansion to the Catholic church, which "if you know anything, is pretty much the antithesis", the lunatic says. Now, if I learned anything today, because really, who cares about the house... it's that sometimes you have to give a likely lunatic a 2-3 minute window to demonstrate that they might just be an eccentric old man with one eye and a lot of interesting things to say.
After the flea market we headed out to Brooklyn Heights and walked down toward the promenade. We stopped on the way at Jack the Horse Tavern, which was as much 'tavern' as the market was 'flea'... but a very cute place. The bartender must part his hair with a ruler. He wore a white apron, a high collared shirt and vest... I kept expecting him to slip into sepia and shout "Extra! Extra! Read all about it!". He had an extraordinary sense of economy and showmanship and he served Gabriel's Rye over a perfect 3x3 cube of ice. Beautiful.
And then... I got pooped on.
Walking to the promenade as the sun was setting and bloop... poop. or something. I'm really not sure what, who, how. I think it best to not imagine for too long. It was dark up in that tree/ building and stinky in my hair/ hand/ and I'm sorry to report, a little face. Thankfully, and amazingly, I had a moist towlette in my purse which I put to some frantic use. It had never occurred to me to be surprised, it had never occurred to me to feel lucky to have lived as long as I have without being pooped on... but I suppose it was just a matter of time.
A great day... rounded out with some amazing dumplings and an overly sweet lychee sake at Laman (13th and University- Union Sq.)
Also of note- the sauteed fish tacos with chipotle mayo and the black bean and plantain quesadilla at Pequena (86 So. Portland Ave. Bklyn)
Jack the Horse Tavern (Hicks and Cranberry) way too swanky, but good for one drink if only to watch the newsy behind the bar crush a mint leaf like he was delivering Shakespeare.
And now... a bonus.
My mom wrote me this week to ask about the neighborhood NoHo and if that was a take-off on SoHo.
I just, very recently, realized that SoHo means SOuth of HOuston ... and NoHo of course is NOrth.
also
TriBeCa means - the triangle below Canal St.
NoLita means - North of Little Italy.
This got me wondering about the origin of "Soho" as a neighborhood in London...
According to Wikipedia:
"The area which is now Soho was grazing farmland until 1536, when it was taken by Henry VIII as a royal park for the Palace of Whitehall. The name “Soho” first appears in the 17th century. Most authorities believe that the name derives from the old “soho!” hunting call (“Soho! There goes the fox!” etc.). The Duke of Monmouth used “soho” as a rallying call for his men at the Battle of Sedgemoor, half a century after the name was first used for this area of London"
As for the Soho district in Hong Kong, it apparently means South of Hollywood Road.
There is also a Soho in Tampa, FL. and one in Pittsburgh. Who knew.
I'm planning on bringing this into my daily vernacular as a rousing greeting, no foxes required. It should be belted, full throated into the winds as kind of a Hoka Hey. What has gone before has been enough and today is a good day to die.
And on that...
SoHO!
Without so much as just noticing that I'm having one... I think I can reasonably endeavor this ratio:
1 adventure/ 1 week.
One to One.
I'm going to write about these adventures and post them here because:
-I'd like some instant accountability that having made this claim, I'll actually follow up on it
-facebook/twitter has taught me that no experience is valid until shared with every single one of your friends, family, acquaintances and that guy you're pretty sure you met at that party that one time
-maybe some of these friends, family, acquaintances and party guys have suggestions for adventures I should/could go on in NYC. Maybe some of these friends, family and acquaintances... not so much the party guys... will want to accompany me on one of these adventures.
So. There it is. My adventure gauntlet. Thrown.
P.S. As a bonus I may include something I have learned in the week.
Saturday, April 18th - Brooklyn (Ft.Greene/ Brooklyn Heights/ The Promenade) Manhattan (Union Sq.)
Attendees: Gabriel Baron, Jess Smith
A summary:
Met a guy with an eye patch.
Ate some amazing dumplings, some even more amazing plantains.
Went to a "flea" market.
Got pooped on.
After a walk in the park in my neighborhood and some fantastic diner breakfast, I took an hour train ride out to Brooklyn and went to the Brooklyn Flea Market. There is no 'flea' to this market... grandpa's old cowboy shirts for $120, 'vintage' (read: "old and kind of yellowing in your sweaty places") frocks for $90, and other necessaries like broken super 8 projectors and watches you have to wind. Really, I love digging through this stuff. I feel like I'm settling the estate of some great uncle I should have taken the opportunity to get to know better while I had the chance. But I'm not going to buy any of his crap.
Walking out of the market we saw this big yellow house that looked like it had been transplanted from some salty bluff of Maine circa 1852. Those of you who have lived here know how rare it is to see a house in the city, a free standing, single occupancy structure is unheard of... much less one that looks like the set for The Lady in White. Wow, do you remember that movie? 1988. 10 yr. old Lukas Haas. And ghost mom would wander the cliffs yelling for her dead daughter, Melissa. Bad 'ghosty' graphics and all, still gives me shivers.
This older gentleman saw us looking at the house and made us cross the street so we could see the roof. Now, this guy looked like a lunatic. Eye patch, limp, ratty and toothless. With two dogs named Peggy Sue and Lola. I couldn't make this shit up. He pointed out the cupola on the roof and the tiny walkway around it. At one time you could see the harbor from this perch and the wives would know if their husbands had come home or not. "For those unfortunate ones whose men did not come home", the lunatic says, "this is called a 'widow's walk'." He also told us about a sibling rivalry that drove one brother to donate his mansion to the Masons and the other, adjacent mansion to the Catholic church, which "if you know anything, is pretty much the antithesis", the lunatic says. Now, if I learned anything today, because really, who cares about the house... it's that sometimes you have to give a likely lunatic a 2-3 minute window to demonstrate that they might just be an eccentric old man with one eye and a lot of interesting things to say.
After the flea market we headed out to Brooklyn Heights and walked down toward the promenade. We stopped on the way at Jack the Horse Tavern, which was as much 'tavern' as the market was 'flea'... but a very cute place. The bartender must part his hair with a ruler. He wore a white apron, a high collared shirt and vest... I kept expecting him to slip into sepia and shout "Extra! Extra! Read all about it!". He had an extraordinary sense of economy and showmanship and he served Gabriel's Rye over a perfect 3x3 cube of ice. Beautiful.
And then... I got pooped on.
Walking to the promenade as the sun was setting and bloop... poop. or something. I'm really not sure what, who, how. I think it best to not imagine for too long. It was dark up in that tree/ building and stinky in my hair/ hand/ and I'm sorry to report, a little face. Thankfully, and amazingly, I had a moist towlette in my purse which I put to some frantic use. It had never occurred to me to be surprised, it had never occurred to me to feel lucky to have lived as long as I have without being pooped on... but I suppose it was just a matter of time.
A great day... rounded out with some amazing dumplings and an overly sweet lychee sake at Laman (13th and University- Union Sq.)
Also of note- the sauteed fish tacos with chipotle mayo and the black bean and plantain quesadilla at Pequena (86 So. Portland Ave. Bklyn)
Jack the Horse Tavern (Hicks and Cranberry) way too swanky, but good for one drink if only to watch the newsy behind the bar crush a mint leaf like he was delivering Shakespeare.
And now... a bonus.
My mom wrote me this week to ask about the neighborhood NoHo and if that was a take-off on SoHo.
I just, very recently, realized that SoHo means SOuth of HOuston ... and NoHo of course is NOrth.
also
TriBeCa means - the triangle below Canal St.
NoLita means - North of Little Italy.
This got me wondering about the origin of "Soho" as a neighborhood in London...
According to Wikipedia:
"The area which is now Soho was grazing farmland until 1536, when it was taken by Henry VIII as a royal park for the Palace of Whitehall. The name “Soho” first appears in the 17th century. Most authorities believe that the name derives from the old “soho!” hunting call (“Soho! There goes the fox!” etc.). The Duke of Monmouth used “soho” as a rallying call for his men at the Battle of Sedgemoor, half a century after the name was first used for this area of London"
As for the Soho district in Hong Kong, it apparently means South of Hollywood Road.
There is also a Soho in Tampa, FL. and one in Pittsburgh. Who knew.
I'm planning on bringing this into my daily vernacular as a rousing greeting, no foxes required. It should be belted, full throated into the winds as kind of a Hoka Hey. What has gone before has been enough and today is a good day to die.
And on that...
SoHO!
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