The Orangecycle Diaries: Days 1 & 2

I strongly recommend not taking a drink for 13 years. Because if you do, it turns out your husband might knock your socks off with perhaps the most awesome present of all time: an Electra Townie Original 7D bicycle in glorious, citrus-y orange pearl. At least that's how it worked for me. (Disclaimer: This may not be true of all husbands.) Please meet my new bike, Daisy.

I should start by noting (somewhat sheepishly) that this is actually the first bicycle I've ever owned. I know how to ride one, thank goodness, and I'm not exactly sure why or how I made it this far in life without ever getting one, but there you have it. Good things do come to those who wait. I have the proof.

Since moving to Ann Arbor, a very bike-y town of exceedingly manageable size, I've been toying with becoming a bike owner, getting something used off Craig's List. From time to time, I browse what's available, realize I don't really know what I'm looking for (or, usually, at) and put it off for another season. Every once in a while, as I drive by one of A2's many, many bike shops, I think about stopping in and asking for help figuring out what I need. But the stores are full of bike-y people and their bike-y knowledge and I get intimidated, so I keep on driving past. Fortunately, I have a husband who is vastly more diligent than I, particularly when it comes to research -- and it seems he has managed to find the absolute perfect bike for someone like me. And not just because it's retro-cool and super-adorable.

Turns out the Townie is also the ideal bike for someone like me -- a novice who doesn't need a fancy racing dealio, a million gears she would never use, and who has a number of physical ailments that often render other bikes an exercise in sheer torture. The Townie's designed with flat-foot technology, meaning your feet can rest comfortably on the ground when stopped, so you don't feel like you're going to fall over. The pedals are placed further forward make for a fuller leg extension (more akin to the recumbent bike at the gym), and that's great for someone (like me) with knee pain . It also features a nifty upright riding position -- as opposed to the hunched-over posture on most regular bikes -- which reduces back, neck and arm fatigue. For someone with chronic pain issues (like moi), this is just dandy.

I got Daisy on Wednesday evening, so I didn't have time to ride around much that day. Mostly in the house, which only served to frighten the cats and didn't give me a real feel for the bike. So I had to wait until Thursday to really take her out for a spin. And by spin, I mean a relatively short 'n shaky tool around our neighborhood which, thankfully, is mostly flat. (However, not nearly as flat as you one might be fooled into thinking whilst driving around.)

Mostly, I found Daisy to be a delight right out of the gate. We had good times, she and I, sailing past cute houses and trying to avoid getting run over by various vehicles and, at one point, a pirate invasion by three young boys who looked to mean business. I did have some trouble on the hills, which was humbling, considering they're not very steep around here. I think part of that is because I was still figuring out what gears I needed when, but also because, you know, I have fibromyalgia and sometimes it feels like my thighs are on fire. There's also a remote possibility that being really out of shape played a role too, but I'm not rushing to conclusions.

In particular, taking the hills even at the lowest gear (or would it be highest? hell, I don't know. It was one. Gear 1!) was causing me a remarkable amount of knee pain. Which didn't seem right, what with all of the hoity-toity design features that went into this bike. I was also a little discouraged that I wasn't instantly able to effortlessly ride for tens of hundreds of miles at a stretch and not feel the least bit of effort. And, in the interest of full disclosure, my butt hurt a bit but not nearly as much as it does on the upright bike at the Y.

All of that aside, oh, how I was thrilled to have an orange bike! I couldn't sleep last night for thinking of all the things I'd need -- a decent lock so I could actually ride it to the gym or to Kroger or into town for coffee, a water bottle cage, a basket or bag for holding crap, a bell. Would I need a light for riding at night? So many questions! Turns out that you have to order some of these accessories directly from Electra as a lot of aftermarket equipment doesn't fit this bike. For example, most water bottle cages don't fit, so you have to order an Electra water cage mount adapter  and then buy a cage to put on that. The mount adapter is $9.99, which isn't that steep, but shipping is the same again, so that's where it starts to look a little annoying.

Anyway, I decided a lock was the first order of business in case I ever made it out of the neighborhood. This morning, I went in search of one at Target, but didn't find any U-Locks, which a couple of people had mentioned was better than the cord kind you can cut through. At the bike store, their U-lock was nearly $50 and I wasn't quite ready to shell that out without doing a little look-see around to find out what's what in the field of bike locks. (It should be noted that this sort of restraint from instant gratification is highly unusual for me.)

So today it was just another day of local explorin' for me and my bike. Before I got on for Daisy: Day II in the 'Hood, I decided to register my bike with Electra. I opened the folder that Chris had given me and, lo and behold, was a manual. Huh. Who'd have thought? The very first thing they suggest is adjusting the seat height, which seems like a sensible thing to do and probably the kind of thing a person who'd previously owned a bike would know. So I adjusted the seat height, then it told me to adjust the stem tilt and handlebar tilt accordingly. Only, it didn't really say how to do those things. It looks like I need a specific kind of hex wrench and even then, I wondered if it wasn't something best left to a professional or, say, anyone who wasn't me. Thus, it seemed to me the most logical approach was to ignore the matter completely and go on about my riding.

The conclusions from Day II's rudimentary spin are as follows:

1. raising the seat completely took the pressure off my knee on the hills
2. not adjusting the stem and handlebar tilt means the new seat position makes my back hurt
3. there's a possibility I may one day become strong enough to make it to Kroger without dying
4. helmets are no friend of the head sweater

Now I need to talk to some of my more bike-y friends to find out if the new adjustments are something I can do myself or if I need to take it back to the bike store and get help with it. Either way, we're getting there, baby! We're getting there! And once we're there, I'll be everywhere! Watch out!

It's raining, it's pouring

I don't know if the old man is snoring. Who is the old man,anyway? I never stopped to ask myself that. I mean, really. The crap they sing to us as kids and wonder why we end up in therapy. And by "we," I mean "you." Not me. No way. Can you tell it's Friday and rainy and I'm trying to avoid work by rambling inanely about whatever's on my mind? Like pickles. For some reason, I've been thinking a lot about pickles lately. Making my own. I love a good pickle, the garlicky-er and sour-er the better. And when I see cute little trays of baby cukes at the farmer's market, it inspires me. It doesn't actually inspire me to do anything, just to think about doing it.

It speaks to something sort of inherent in me. I'm much more a fan of the idea of doing things than I am the actual doing of things. Pickles seem like the simplest thing, for examples, but then you start reading supply lists and recipes and how you're supposed to boil the jars and seal them for sanitary purposes and it begins to sound akin to prepping a surgical suite. Which isn't really that delicious.

Where am I going with this? No idea. Perhaps an existential reflection on what I am or am not doing with my life, now that Mad Men has started a new season and glum navel-gazing is in vogue. Or, more likely, just a diversion to see how much time I can waste before I have to get back and put in at least a couple good hours editing and rewriting. (Hint: if you are placing money on this, I would strongly suggest betting on the latter.)

Okay. Fine. You win. Back to work it is. Only because it's less hassle than boiling pickle jars.

Tomatoes

Because sometimes in life it is the simplest things that keep me going.

Onto the rainforest!

It probably surprises some people that someone as heat-adverse as me would venture to Puerto Rico in summer. Or any time, really. I understand. It surprises me, too. But one of the mitigating factors is that my favorite place in Puerto Rico is El Yunque, the rainforest in the northeastern part of the island. For years now, we've been staying at Casa Cubuy (see Chris & Denise below) , an ecolodge on the edge of the rainforest, located at the very top of the mountain on the non-touristy side. (It's the opposite side from the National Park entrance.) It's generally quite a bit cooler up there than down among mere mortals, even in summer.

People have asked me in the past what there is to do on "our" side of the mountain. The answer is a very calculated "nothing." There are no TVs or phones in the rooms and, until recently, no internet access. (Although on this last trip, service was spotty enough to dissuade us from using it too much.) The reason I go is to plant myself in a chair on the balcony of an upstairs room and stare out at El Yunque, listening to the roar of the waterfall below and the chorus of the coqui frogs, and watching the rain clouds approach and burst open in front of me. Some books get read, a little hiking gets done, especially the easy hike down to the waterfall and swimming hole in Casa Cubuy's backyard.

If you'll forgive the foray into cheesiness, the truth is that I tend to feel at peace and calm in the rainforest. In a way I don't anywhere else. Casa Cubuy is not a luxury resort and, as much as I hate to admit it, has probably seen better days -- although it deserves mention that it's difficult to keep any place rust- and mold-free in that climate. The furniture is simple and mismatched. The sheets and bedding are nothing to write home about. But if you go there knowing that the place is merely a backdrop for the rainforest, then you probably won't mind a bit.

Puerto Rico's native Indians, the Tainos, believed that the peak of El Yunque was where their god of creation, Yuquiyu, dwelled and even today it's not hard to see why. When you watch the rain clouds approach, traveling without rhyme or reason across thousands of acres of rainforest, and open up and release a thunderous burst of rain, it's pretty apparent that something bigger than me is going on. Maybe not Yuquiyu, but something that keeps me feeling right-sized and humbled in the best of ways.

We spent four nights in El Yunque this time around, doing a little hiking, a lot of reading (see if you can spot Denise, reading in a hammock by the waterfall in the photo above), a fair amount of napping. We headed down to Fajardo one evening and took a kayaking trip into the bioluminescent bay. When Chris and I took our trip with the same tour operator a few years ago, it was just us in a two-person kayak and our guide  leading us through a narrow path of mangrove trees to the bay. This time, we were a large group, trying to wind our way in to the bay in an orderly fashion, along with a number of other groups. It was still magnificent when it got dark and our oars starting making bright green trails in the water. Just a little less peaceful and a little more hectic logistically. You should have seen us trying to find our way back out in the pitch dark as new groups were making their way in. Chaos!

It's also relatively easy to get to the beach from where we were perched in El Yunque, and we did spend one afternoon at Luquillo Beach, one of the better public beaches on that side of the island. (Although it doesn't hold a candle to the beaches on the islands of Vieques and, Denise now tells me, Culebra.) Still, we had fun, dipping in the ocean, which was the perfect temperature, hanging with the natives. It takes about 40 minutes from Casa Cubuy to the beach, but much of that is spent winding your way down off the mountain on the narrow pathway you share with chickens, dogs and fearless locals barreling up and down the mountain in their junkers.

And that was that. Five days, four nights, gone in a snap. Too little, too fast. But I think the important thing was a reminder that this is something that's been important to Chris and me over the years. For some reason, it's a place that allows us to reset ourselves and we just haven't been making that a priority. Suffice to say we're already eyeing fares for a return trip in January. By winter they'll be up to about $500 - $700 per person and right now they're hovering at an enticing book-now-or-miss-it $220 from Detroit. I'm just sayin'.

Bienvenidos a Puerto Rico!

Okay, so it's been a few weeks since we got back from Puerto Rico, but I figure since we hadn't been there in three years, it's still well within the acceptable time limit to post about it. Why it took us so long to get back to one of the places we love most on earth, I don't know. Life. It gets in the way of taking time for what's truly important. And considering we hadn't actually taken a trip of any sort that wasn't business- or family-related in all that time, we were due. We were ready. Oh so ready.

One of the great pleasures of discovering a place you love is getting the opportunity to share it with other people you love.  Of course, for a massively codependent people-pleaser like myself, it can also be nerve-wracking. Will they see the beauty that you do? Will they appreciate the non-glossy aspects of Puerto Rico as being part of the true experience? Will they like the quirks? Hell, will they like the food.

On this trip, we met up with our amazing friend Denise. In fact, she's the one who kicked off the whole affair, announcing her plans to spend 10 or so days in Puerto Rico in between leaving her fellowship here in Ann Arbor and moving to San Antonio. On a whim, we decided to join her and uncovered the adventure of seeing a familiar place through new eyes.

We met up in Old San Juan the first night of our arrival. At the risk of offending anyone, San Juan proper doesn't have a lot to offer visitors, unless you're looking for high rises and night clubs. I think it's safe to say we're not. Old San Juan, on the other hand, is the oldest settlement within the territorial United States, at least according to Wikipedia, so you know it has to be true. It's a lovely place, dating back to 1521, founded by the Spanish, teeming with 16th & 17th century colonial architecture, and surrounded by El Morro and the old city walls.

Chris, master of crazy travel bargains, managed to swing us a stellar deal for staying at El Convento, a former Carmelite convent we'vewalked past many times and coveted from afar. Let me tell you, it was charming and delightful. The rooms were comfortable and well-appointed and -- although likely  not in keeping with its historical state -- air conditioned to an icy-cold state.

Aside from such nods to modernity, the place felt steeped in history, with its wooden beam ceilings and giant carved doors. It wasn't hard at all to imagine the nuns wandering the hallways in quiet contemplation. Although it was so frickin' hot, I can't imagine that was particularly comfortable for them in their habits. I'd venture to guess at least a few of them prayed for a break in the weather. (Legend has it that the nuns still walk the hallways in silent prayer, but I tried really hard not to think about it while I was there.)

The convent was built around a central courtyard, with balconies on each level over-looking it.  The big tree in the middle of the courtyard (see photo below) is apparently hundreds of millions of years old. Okay, maybe it's actually just, like, hundreds of years old, but that's still pretty impressive.

One of my favorite things about El Convento were the nooks and crannies you could explore at every turn and had I not been close to expiring from the heat, I might have done more. We did, however, make it to the roof, which offered us some lovely views of San Juan...

...as well as a nice little saltwater dipping pool which, had the water not been the temperature of tepid bathwater, would have been very refreshing.

While I'm busy complaining about the heat in San Juan, you're probably thinking, "Duh. It's summer in Puerto Rico. What were you expecting?" I know, I know. I've certainly been there during summer before -- after all, it's when flights and hotels are often cheapest -- but we usually make a beeline straight for the rainforest, where it's much, much cooler. Besides, the last time I was there, I was still somewhat acclimated to St. Louis summers which are pretty comparable to Puerto Rico, actually. In other words, the past few years in Michigan is making me a pansy.

Anyhoo, there was no point in staying in the A/C, no matter how tempting, considering we had only part of the next day to show Denise a good ol' time in OSJ before heading off on the next leg of our adventure. So we braved the heat of our second day wandering the streets of Old San Juan, looking buildings the color of tropical fruit and, priorities well intact, stopping for breakfast at La Bombonera, our favorite old-timey bakery which has been open for more than a century. (And marveling at the old men at the counter who looked as though they might have been present on opening day.) May I just say that there is a special place in heaven for whoever invented the quesito, Puerto Rico's answer to a cheese danish. Chris and Denise also had success ordering mallorcas, toasted sandwiches filled with ham & cheese or cheese & egg and then dusted with powdered sugar. All washed down with cups of strong Puerto Rican coffee. Fantastico!

There's so much to see of Old San Juan and I took so many pictures I can't possible bore you with them all here. But I think one of the things I love most is that you can find something beautiful and interesting no matter where you look, including down. Many of the streets of Old San Juan are composed of cobblestone made from 16th century ship's ballast, which has the most beautiful blue-gray hue to it. You know, in case you were wondering. See, here:

I'm telling you, if I ever get my hands on some 16th century Spanish ship's ballast, I'm so doing a walkway outside my house like this. Then I'll paint my house the color of mangoes and we'll just see what the city of Ann Arbor has to say about that. Although, knowing Ann Arbor, the answer is probably: nothing. But I digress.

Where were we? Ah, yes. Wandering through the crazy heat and the bright sun to take in some of Old San Juan's sites, including the aforementioned fort El Morro and the neighboring cemetery, which overlooks the Atlantic and is the final resting place of many of Puerto Rico's most notable citizens.

Since you can't get down there easily on foot, I can't exactly tell you who these famous people are, so you'll just have to take my word for it. Either way, they have an incredible view.

Next, we made our way down to the El Morro walkway which led to the Paseo de la Princesa. (Not, as Denise insisted on calling it, the Paseo de Principesa, but we let her have her fun.) Here are Denise and Chris at the Old San Juan Gate, which leads to the walkway.

Somehow we'd never been down there before and it afforded us a nice new perspective on Old San Juan. Go Denise for blazing new trails! (And by new, I mean centuries old.)

After lunch at Cafe Manolin, where we sat at a lunch counter rubbing elbows with locals and scarfing down authentic Puerto Rican fare, Chris had to dash off to do some work. (Work!) So Denise and I wore ourselves out doing a little souvenir shopping. Afterward, we seized the opportunity to pause in a plaza and shield ourselves from the sun while sipping amazingly delicious iced coffees. Quite cosmopolitan, we felt.

By that time, we were just hot, sweaty and tired enough to go and meet up with Chris, say adios to Old San Juan and head east to the El Yunque rainforest for a few days. Stay tuned for details!

I lied

No posts about Puerto Rico today. My laptop wireless card is ailing and the poor thing's in the hospital, complicating my posting options. So stay tuned! All is not forgotten! My word may still be worth something!

I am not ignoring you

Recently, I asked a very dear friend of mine -- who is suffering from some health issues -- what I could do to help her. She said, "Write something on your damn blog for a change." Which seems to be just the kick in the pants I needed to sheepishly crawl back here and make, at the very least, this good faith post. Secretly, I'd been hoping that my blog would just start updating itself. It seems the least it could do after all these years. I figured it would post some photos from our trip to Puerto Rico last month, maybe fill you in on the progress of the novel (none).

Alas, no. So I suppose I'm going to have to do all that. And I will. Starting with tomorrow, when I will post about our Puerto Rico trip with our good friend Denise. Then you won't be able to stop me! I'll be posting, you know, semi-regularly. Maybe.

Hello? Hello? Is this thing on?

Oh, man, it's been a while since I posted -- and it's probably not a great sign that half my posts this year (or so it seems) have been ruminations about how I haven't posted in a while. I know it's not interesting to write, so it can't be interesting to read. If I weren't stubborn, I might just put this blog out of its misery. But I am stubborn and I've invested years in this blog and it's just...it's just that... right now...

I don't know.

I would like to tell you that all my energy is being taken up by volunteering to work with orphans and/or working diligently on the second draft of The Novel. (I still cringe when I write the "n" word. It seems so ... so... ostentatious or something.)

But the truth is, I haven't been doing those things. The first one not at all, and the second very intermittently. It's just that going over the first draft, shyly and scared-ily showing it to people and getting their feedback, is proving a very difficult and trying process. I read whole chapters and just want to cry because it's just...not...there. Or it feels like too much, insurmountable.

I don't know.

I feel like I said that already. Sigh. But I guess my point is (if I even have one) that I'm floating out here somewhere, thinking often of this space, wondering why my brain seems to give me no inspiration to share something wise and witty here. Maybe it'll happen again soon. What I really mean is that I'm here. I'm still here.

Are you?

Knock on wood

I'm not generally a superstitious person. Except when it comes to the power of jinx and when it reinforces my deepest, most paranoid theories of impending doom. I bring this up only because I think I'm sort of in the throes of it right now. I should explain that I've always been a pretty fearful person. I spent much of my childhood, most of my adolescent and a grand chunk of my adulthood with my stomach in a knot, constantly afraid of horrible things happening to me and those around me. I had actually made good progress on my fear and anxiety (sobriety helped not a little) when my mother died in 2003. That seemed to spark my fear and anxiety a thousand-fold. I reeled with the sense of being completely out of control, being unable to stop tragedy. I became absolutely terrified that more of my loved ones were going to die, especially my husband Chris. To the point that I would lie awake at night, watching him, unable to sleep for trying to stem this giant tide of panic that wasn't constantly threatening to undo my world.

I know. Maybe not so healthy.

I don't live in that place of intense, uncontrollable fear anymore, but I get wind of it every once in a while. It pokes at me occasionally, trying to get my attention. Reminding me that all is not safe and stable. Clearly, I'm sort of there now, tonight, which explains this post after a long absence, written late at night.

I wrote here not too long ago about an old friend of mine who died entirely too young and entirely too tragically. I'm not ready for dying friends, just as I wasn't nearly ready for my mother's death. It unsettled me and I've been unable to shake entirely that feeling of insecurity.

A few weeks ago, I learned that my uncle in Scotland has cancer. And today, I discovered that another much-loved friend of mine has also been diagnosed with cancer.  The good news (we hope) is that it has been diagnosed early in each case. The rest is up in the air and I don't know what it will mean for either of them in the scheme of things. I do know that it's scary and it has me very uneasy right now.

A more superstitious person might note that these things tend to come in threes, sending her mind racing, worrying about who's next. A more superstitious person might knock on wood to try to stave off that possibility. A person like me might do it anyway. Just in case.

Something strange

Yesterday, I did something kind of strange. Maybe strange isn't the right word. Maybe it's just more...remarkable. (As in the literal sense: worthy of remarking upon.) What did I do? I finished the first draft of my novel. Don't let me get ahead of myself here: there remains a ton of work ahead. In fact, there are fewer parts of the novel that don't need work than do, if that poorly constructed thought gives you a bit of perspective. (It will probably also give you pause about reading anything I've written, but so be it.)

But it's there -- more than 200 pages (250 book-size pages, give or take). In a row! There's a narrative thread that runs from beginning to end. I know what happens and I know how it happens and it's there on the page. It's a story. A whole story.

Despite how it may sound, I'm not exactly patting myself on the back here. It's just that I'm not sure I really thought I could even get this far. And whadda ya know -- I have. That feels like something.

That counts for something, right?

Eight years ago today...

...I married Chris at the bottom of my parents' garden in Louisville. There were a lot of things about that day that the perfectionist in me would change. All but one string of the fairy lights I'd envisioned strung around the backyard failed. The floating candles for the pool sunk. The small set of steps we built so that I could gracefully navigate the steepest portion of the hill in the yard nearly weren't wide enough for my father and me to descend together. I know now that these are minor details, but it's funny how they're the ones that stick with you. What I wouldn't change, nearly without exception, is everything that has followed for Chris and me. I'm not saying the past eight years have been without difficulty. Obviously, they haven't. We've had a number of changes, moves and transitions. There has been conflict and confusion, but very rarely about us, as opposed to the world around us. We have weathered unbearable sadness when my  mother died just two years into our marriage -- and, yes, that's one of the few things I'd change if I could.

The sum total of it, though, has been good. It has been more than good. It has been an exceptional experience. When you get married, you're so smitten that you imagine the big challenge ahead will be to maintain that level of interest and emotion and passion for the years ahead. What you don't know is that it gets so much better than that. That it gets weird and hard and deeper and more resonant and the attachment and respect and fondness grows so much stronger than you'd ever guessed possible. You fall in and out of love a million times, sometimes in the same day or week, but you always land in a better place. Who knew? I didn't.

I think back to that night eight years ago, when a relatively small group of our friends and family gathered and celebrated and danced the night away. I think of how everyone else's lives have evolved. Two of the people there died suddenly and too young, which seems statistically significant for a gathering of less than 50 people. But -- and here's the beauty part -- there were also two brand new lives there, even though we didn't know it at the time. Both my friend Beth and my sister Jane were pregnant. They have seven-year-olds now. Seven-year-olds!

Among our guests, some relationships lasted and others split apart. Some friendships slipped into the ether. Sadly, I'm no longer in touch with a handful of the people who attended, some of whom drove all the way from St. Louis to be there. So much has happened and so much has changed. We have been loved and supported by our families and friends and we couldn't have done it without you. So I thank you, all of you, from the bottom of my heart. Eight years. Can you even stand it?

Because I'm inspirational, that's why.

A few months ago, I got an email from Crate & Barrel thanking me for my purchases over the past year -- in other words, giving me props for snapping up the clearance page stuff other people passed on. They offered me a $25 gift card to spend how I saw fit at DonorsChoose.org. At first, I thought it might be a bit of a bogus cross-promotion where I'd click a button and wind up inadvertantly agreeing to buy an $800 patio loveseat. So, of course, I did it anyway. (I've since learned that this is an award-winning effort Crate & Barrel's been making for the past few years, issuing these gift cards so that customers can help direct how the company spends its charitable contributions. Which I think is very cool. Would that more companies follow suit.)

Anyway, I followed the DonorsChoose.org link and was intrigued to find that this is a website where teachers, mostly from high poverty schools,  post pleas for financial help purchasing specific supplies -- books, teaching tools, etc. I picked a project somewhat randomly. It was near the top of the list and it caught my eye. A teacher in Northern California needed $24 more to meet her goal of buying copies of Judy Blume's Superfudge for her class.

I love this one from my pal, Sal. Why does he like books? "Maybe because some are funny."

The project piqued my interest on three different levels. First, my mother was a teacher who felt very passionately about imparting to her students the love of reading. I figured my meager and free (to me) donation would honor her in some small way. Second, I was nuts about Judy Blume's books as a kid and I remember Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing and Superfudge were particular faves. And third, my donation would complete the amount the teacher requested and I do like to be a closer!

I'd completely forgotten about the project I'd selected when I fetched my mail today. In it I found a thick white envelope from DonorsChoose.org and with the following words printed on the outside:  "Hurray! Your student thank-you letters for your donation have arrived!" I vaguely recalled that this was part of the deal -- getting a thank you from the class or the teacher.

"When I grow up I'm going to be just like you - donate stuff to class rooms. Sincerely, Eunice." Yes, Eunice, because that's what I am best known for.

Still, I didn't expect what I found inside -- 24 individual hand-written thank you notes addressed to me. With names and drawings and notes about why they liked the book. I should mention that I'm an unbelievable sucker for a thank you note. I was raised in a household where writing them was mandatory and to skip them an unthinkable sin on par with putting your elbows on the table during dinner time. (Guess you had to be there.) Now it seems there are so few people who write them that to get any at all is always a treat. To get a thick envelope full of them from a bunch of little kids who are loving their books is pretty remarkable.

Kids are so wise, aren't they?

I'm not saying the expectation of thanks is a reason to consider donating to DonorsChoose.org. I'm just saying it doesn't hurt.

Cherry blossom petals on the deck

Taken 05.08.09

Four days in the Big Apple

I wasn't sure I wanted to go. Chris was heading to NYC on a business trip last Wednesday and we had a spare ticket we had to use up before too long. So I decided to tag along, despite the fact that heading to New York always puts me into a bit of a panic. I get overwhelmed just by the idea of the city and its offerings. I get consumed with the idea that I'll do the wrong things and I'll miss out on all the good things and wind up catatonic on the subway, rocking back and forth, unsure where to get off.

That didn't happen. It never does. I didn't say it was a rational fear. I'm just not a very good decision maker -- I have trouble picking something off a menu -- and there's so, so much to do and see in New York. I feel like I'm supposed to go to museums and take advantage of the culture but the truth is that what I really like to do in the city, in any city I visit, is wander. Aimlessly, sometimes. Operating with a vague idea of where I might want to end up or which neighborhoods I might like to see. A boutique or craft store I might want to check out.

I like to punctuate my wandering with frequent stops -- sitting at an outdoor cafe and people watching. Pausing in a park and people watching. Standing dumb-struck on a street corner, people watching. You get my drift. And, boy, did the weather cooperate. Beautiful days stretching into one another just tailor-made for doing not much of anything and covering a lot of ground doing it. Thus, the trip I was reluctant to go on turned out to be (of course) one of my favorite to NYC yet.

We stayed at Le Parker Meridien in Midtown, about a block south of Central Park, thanks to my husband's amazing acumen at finding stellar hotel deals. This one didn't disappoint. If you have a partner who enjoys the mind-numbing and crazy-making task of developing complex strategies for bidding for hotels online -- or, you know, an expense account -- I heartily recommend it. Compared to our last visit, our hotel room this time was practically cavernous and at 28 floors up, afforded us a nice view into Central Park and onto the outdoor living spaces of those in buildings shorter than ours. Not that it mattered a ton, considering we spent most of our time wandering the streets of Manhattan, trying to ignore aches and blisters.

On the day of our arrival, Wednesday, I napped. I'd like to tell you I did a whole lot more than that, but it would be a lie. We had to get up at the ungodly hour of 5 in order to catch our flight, which routed us through Chicago, so I was more than done by the time we were able to check into our hotel at 3. (Do any of you ever experience what Chris has affectionately taken to calling my propensity for "morning tummy"? That is, if travel requires me to get up super early, I tend to spend much of the day queasy and nauseous? No? Fine. It's just me.)

Anyway, Chris was off at meetings with probably very important people and returned just in time to drag me out of bed and out of the hotel for dinner, lest the day be entirely wasted. I wasn't up for much, but I have to say the matzo ball soup at the nearby and infamous Carnegie Deli was just the thing for my delicate constitution. Not so much the table pickles, but what do you expect? I've probably only had matzo ball soup five or six times in my life, but I've never had balls this big. Yeah. I said it. You can't possibly actually have expected more from me.

Plus, you get to watch people tackle inadviseably tall (and exorbitantly expensive) piles of pastrami on rye while gazing at walls covered in framed, autographed headshots of stars from the late seventies and early nineties. Oh, neighbor guy from The Jeffersons. What a looker you were!

In the interest of rigorous honesty, there might have been some brisket after the soup, but I prefer to have you think of me as the delicate sort of flower for whom the above would be a complete meal. If it makes you feel better, the brisket didn't do me any favors and absolutely nixed the possibility of having some amazing-looking cheesecake for dessert.

After dinner, we wandered among the throngs in Times Square and while I did my fair share of gawking and photo-snapping, I must say I don't enjoy that level of crowdedness. I have to fight the constant urge to just shove the hell out of people, which would be disastrous for a number of reasons but mainly because New Yorkers would shove back and I'm pretty much a wuss. Nor do I find, as I heard one woman remark to her toddler, the lights of Times Square to be "beautiful." Unless by "beautiful" you mean "draining the world's precious energy resources," in which case, I concur.

At this point, my feet started to suggest to me that perhaps I might consider taking it easy on them this first eve in the big city, what with three full days of walking ahead. So I did what I do every time I'm wandering around a new place: I ignored them. Instead, we kept walking, this way and that. Over by Radio City Music Hall, where the Flight of the Conchords were playing a sold out show. (We were only a tad jealous; we've tickets to the Detroit show this Friday.)

Next, we swung by 30 Rock to see if Tina Fey was waiting to meet with me. I didn't see here, so I can only assume that somehow the message didn't get to her. It's hard to find good help, isn't it?

I consoled myself by watching ice skaters and seeing if I had magically developed the ability to make good use of my camera's night time settings without actually learning how. Turns out, no. Still, we had a good old time watching the skaters, which were an odd mix of adolescent girls, families and a small group of mad-fast break-skaters whizzing around the ice, whipping in and out among the regular folks fast enough to put the fear of God into the small children. Occasionally, one of them would put an elbow down on the ice and spin around. Not the most impressive move, but whatever.

That seemed like plenty for one evening, so we high-tailed it back to the hotel. Chris had meetings the next morning (what is with him?) and I slept entirely too late, before dragging my ass from bed, grabbing a sammich and heading to Central Park to get in an hour or so of hard-core people watching. And watch I did. It was a spectacular day. The trees were in bloom, forsythia branches exploding and it was like all of New York had crawled out from their office buildings to sit in the park on their lunch hour, blinking their mole-eyes in the sun's bright light.

Folks were running, the playground was swarming with kids, horsies were dragging fat tourists around in open-air carriages. All good stuff. I saw fat people and skinny people and tall people and short people. I heard seven million different languages, although my favorite eavesdropping moment was in English, when a young girl pointed at a horsie and said, "Mama! I see something poking down from the horse's belly!" Yes, you do dear. Because it's spring. It's spring!

When Chris' business was finished for the morning, I met him back at the hotel and we decided to hop on the subway and head down to Soho, mostly in search of Purl Soho and Purl Patchwork, a duo of yarn and fabric shops. I've ordered fabric from the website before and was eager to get a chance to browse up close and personal some colorways I'd seen online.

Along the way, in NYU's law quad, we saw the first of many stunning magnolias lighting up the city. They're barely budding back home and here some were already losing their petals. Nature doesn't do many things more dramatic than magnolia-makin'.

I didn't actually wind up spending much time in Purl Soho or its sister shop, Purl Patchwork, a few doors down. I knew they were rumored to be small spaces, but they were even smaller than I anticipated. I just get so overwhelmed and claustrophobic in tiny shops, so I barely stayed in the yarn one for more than a minute or so. When confronted by that many balls of yarn, packed tight, piled high in cubbies for the ceiling, I do the aforementioned panic and sort of shut down.

I lingered a bit longer at Purl Patchwork, although it was just as tiny. There were some fabrics designed by the owners I'd wanted to check out and I was glad to have had the chance to see them up close. I also fell in love with some Indian cotton drapery fabric there, but at $37 a yard it was a) out of my price range and b) pointless, since I have no use for it. I left empty-handed, but with that happy fabric-y feeling only fellow sewers will relate to.

We had originally thought we might try to hit Ellis Island on Thursday but they recommend allowing two or three hours for the full effect and the last ferry leaves at 1, the park closing at 5. Since Chris wasn't done with work until well after the last ferry, we went for the cheap, cheerful and fast alternative: the Staten Island Ferry. Sure, it doesn't stop at Ellis Island or give you the option of an up-close visit with Lady Liberty, but on a beautiful afternoon such as we had, it offered us a closer view of both than we would have had on shore and some pretty sparkling sun off the water.

I tell you, no matter how jaded you might be, how many times you might have seen the Statue of Liberty in photos (or even in person), and no matter how tiny she might seem way out in the water, you're just a cold fish if you don't get a bit of a lump in the ol' throat as you glide past.

Walking through Times Square again on the way home, we picked up some half-price tix to see Blithe Spirit, the Noel Coward play, at the Schubert Theater, starring Angela Lansbury, Rupert Everett, Christine Ebersol and Jayne Atkinson. I like Coward well enough, but I like Everett even better, so although the seats were tight and we were about as high up as you could get in the tiny theater, it was a delight. A delight!

I'm not a very shoppy lady, but if I have one extravagance, it's bath products and glorious scents. While other women think nothing of dropping big coin for purses or shoes, that doesn't much tickle my fancy. I will, however, save my pennies to splurge on some really quality bath goodies. Thus, Friday morning, I made Chris schlep all the way up Madison Avenue with me just so I could set foot inside an actual Jo Malone boutique.

My husband created a monster this past year when, on separate occasions, he treated me to the red roses bath oil and the honeysuckle & jasmine bath oil. (While the latter is divine, the former is perhaps the best thing I've ever smelled. Not cloyingly rosey, but green and fresh and amazing.) There were so many different scents I wanted to try and reading about them on the website wasn't cutting it. I sniffed just about everything, dropped my pocket money on a refill of red roses bath oil and a small orange blossom cologne and figured I could die a happy woman.

Except we were going over to Brooklyn, so I needed to stay alive a bit longer. Thanks to my friend Amanda's great tip, we found our way to Brooklyn General, a really lovely yarn and fabric shop. So many sweet notions and pretty things to look at. Such nice help. And more Amy Butler fabric choices than I've seen in one place. They also had a nice selection of vintage fabrics and spools of vintage ribbon. I bought several yards of the latter, not because I have any idea what I'll do with it, but because it was just so sweet. I also bought myself my first cut of Amy Butler fabric, plus the pattern for her weekender bag. Probably a bit ambitious, but I was feeling creative and full of possibility. This too shall pass.

Then it was off to meet our friends Matt and Claudia -- and their adorable eight-month-old son Diego -- in Crown Heights. They suggested a neighborhood Mexican joint called Chavarella's, where we sat outside despite the cooling air and I ate some of the best fish tacos I've ever had.

Saturday was our last real day in the city. We debated heading over to Coney Island but the thought of spending nearly an hour each way on the subway while the sun was shining seemed a tad silly. So we headed instead down to Union Square, which boasts an art and green market on Saturdays. Fresh flowers, local art, street food, strong sun. All so good.

From there, we wandered through the Village, then stopped for lunch at what has become a favorite dining spot in the West Village, French Roast. We were able to snag a table outside and Chris almost saw Parker Posey. That is to say, he saw a woman who vaguely resembled Parker Posey. I should probably mention that, at this point, I was already bitching up a storm about not having seen any celebrities on this trip. I really want people to believe that I am far more evolved than this, but it's not like they wouldn't figure it out after knowing me for ten minutes or so.  Instead, I made us play a game of pointing out people who could have been stunt doubles for famous people and that was far more lucrative.

After filling our gullets, we ambled more around the West Village,  where I saw this gorgeous fire department doorway below.  We ducked down side streets, marveled at sculptural window box displays and just generally enjoyed the atmosphere. We didn't stop into a whole lot of shops, though we made a very happy exception for Pure Dark, where I would very much like to say we learned all sorts of things about how chocolate is made. In reality, we learned mostly about tasting chocolate, particularly in its drinking chocolate form, with nibs. Almost too much for two people to split. Almost.

Exhausted from all that eating, we followed Christopher Street west to where it dead ended at Hudson River Park and plopped ourselves down on the steps at the waterfront to watch people some more.  Tons of folks were out, walking their weird dogs and their weird kids. And I stretch out a bit on the step next to me and look to my right and there's a woman who looks a lot like Janeane Garofalo. Because she is Janeane Garofalo. (If you don't know who that is, why are you even reading my blog in the first place?)

So, like an asshole, I took a few surreptitious pics of her which only fear of litigation is preventing me from posting here. As I'm snapping away, I'm well aware of the fact that this is an invasion of privacy, which I'm less worried about than how horribly cheesy it makes me look. As I'm contemplating all of this, I look up and, passing right in front of me is the adorable Jason Bateman, his wife and their lovely daughter. I wasn't feeling quite ridiculous enough to blatantly take their picture because, you know, I'm cooler than that, so you'll just have to believe me. Or not. Whatever. (Note, that is not a celebrity in the photo below. It's just some random man with his dog. Clearly I had no problem violating his privacy, either.)

That was about it for our last afternoon in NYC. There was some dinner, of course, lest I starve and a little more walking through Central Park, accompanied by a lot more complaining about how sore my feet were and a sheepish eight-block taxi ride back to the hotel so that poor Chris could live to see another day. We had to be up early for our flight again on Sunday, so we were tucked in bed at an hour on Saturday night when, I'd venture to guess, most people in the big city were just heading out to enjoy themselves. Which was fine by us. We'd seen all we came to.

More photos of our trip on my Flickr page.

Need two empty bottles?

The serial killer* who lived next door finally sold his house and moved out. It went on the market at $189,000 and the last I checked was down to $150,000. I'm guessing it went for less than that, which just goes to show you that, in this economy, people simply aren't paying what they used to for neglect.

He left something for you on the porch in case you're interested:

*I suppose, in the interest of dodging libel charges, he may not necessarily have been a serial killer. Let's just say that if the new tenants happen to find surprises waiting for them in the crawl space, I won't be the least bit surprised.

It's a no

On the summer writing fellowship at the Norman Mailer Writer's Colony (or, as my husband has taken to calling it, The Mailer Academy.) But that's okay, because we're pretending like it doesn't matter. Like it doesn't matter at all.

My School Chums

From Hyndland Primary School in Glasgow, Scotland, 1977:

Apparently, I only had four chums. I have no idea what happened to the last three, but the first -- Deborah (whose name I, evidently, could not spell) -- I'm still in touch with today. (In fact, I attended her wedding just last year in Scotland.)