From Montreal to I <3 NEW YORK
In quick succession it went like this: Woke up (early), made a single phone call (to a friend), and was dutifully informed “You have ten minutes to show up on St. Laurent and Mont Royal Street. We’ll pick you up; we’ll take you to Boston.”
And so the race was on. The bus schedule had already been memorized—from Boston to NY departure at 11 PM—Chinatown, arrival at 2 AM—Chinatown. Socks, shirts, two bananas, a grapefruit, a passport, and some electronics—haphazardly packed in 3 minutes.
I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet, they felt fuzzy. “We’re running late, we lost the car” my ride said. Into the corner restaurant with toothbrush in hand I rushed, and brushed. Then another call: “we’re lost.” I scampered through a bike race, traffic lights, over green grass, under hanging festival banners, and into the back seat of a 2001 Kia Sophia.
Racing across borders: “STOP STOP STOP! I HAVE TO GET MY PASSPORT STAMPED!” The fear of being denied entry to Canada, a place that I had called home for the last 4 months, was a big one. But an even greater fear: Where was I going to sleep?
The interesting thing about having irreverence for the “sensible thing to do” (said sternly, as dad would say) is that it allows the spirit of adventure run uninhibited– like a drunk girl on spring break. I had no hotel plans, no hostels, and no friends: Just a few couchsurfing requests that had gone unanswered. (couchsurfing.com being the finest method of finding unreliable yet free housing) I secretly hoped that my phone might ring somewhere along the 8 hour journey.
To say that I was stressed is a bit of an understatement. Because the phone did in fact ring and it was a man with an offer: “You can stay in my apartment.” He said meekly. As if he wasn’t quite sure what he was getting himself into. You can’t exactly blame him. I was a complete stranger—who knows what kind of torturous/murderous/raperous behavior I was capable of. But I could say the same for him couldn’t I?
The 47 year old man on the phone named Ferenz was not at the apartment, nor would he be until Wednesday. “Pick up the key from the organic food store down the street.” He instructed. …and I pondered aloud “are they open at 2 am?” A moment of silence… “Call them. Good luck.”
Katie picked up the phone on the second ring. “Organic Avenue how can I help you?”
“Hi Katie, have you heard of a man named Ferenz? I’m his friend visiting from Montreal. He says you have a certain key of his.”
“Yes.” She replied.
And I thought to myself about how neat it would be to get a job at the CIA. Surely spies get to make calls like this to complete strangers. So with the eloquence of James Bond I instructed:
“Katie, could you please put the key outside. I will be arriving well after you close.”
“Sure! It will be buried in the flower pot on the right hand side of our store. I’ll put a stick there.”
“Thank you Katie.”
We hung up. The mission was underway.
I waved off the dudes who had just ended a weekend of partying in Montreal, boarded the Boston subway to downtown, and took a deep breath. I hadn’t felt like I’d been at home in months—after all I’ve been away from Los Angeles for over 4 months. But something about the smell of the green line subway car—it smelled very familiar, and it made me smile wide. It had been almost six months since I’d been in Boston last.
The stations slipped by till Chinatown, the lumbering bus appeared, and I disappeared into the night on my way to New York City.
121 Norfolk Street is a place where you will find a warm bed, a shower, and faux Jackson Pollock paintings that hang from floor to ceiling. Two beds—one big and uncomfortable, and one small and comfortable line the sides of two distinct rooms separated by a tan curtain. There’s a kitchen with friendly cockroaches, and a bathroom with 4 colored light bulbs above the sink.
Note: You need to twist the light you intend to use. There is no light switch.
All of that good-home-feel can be yours for the small price of finding your way through the densly packed streets that make up New York City. The beauty of this urban metropolis is that you can get off a bus in the middle of the night—with the only geographical understanding of “I’m in new York city” and still manage to find a guide to take you to your destination
A mother Teresa of a woman escorted me to the organic food store where the keys were recovered. I was dropped off with a wave, “goodluck”, and a goodbye at my new front porch.
Part II
I checked all of my appendages first—just to see if they were still attached and hadn’t been hacked off in my sleep. Then I felt around the bed to ensure I was still alone and hadn’t been joined by some sex crazed maniac. All was well… In fact it was downright peaceful. The gentle hum of traffic reverberated outside the window, a sunray glistened through the window. The faux Jackson Pollock splattered-spaghetti-art sat idly as if waiting for someone with a fork to come by and munch on the jumbled paint strands.
Showered, shaved, and dressed to the nines—I walked outside, into the rush.
Walking in New York City is more of an elaborate dance—the dodging of cabs, the shoulder to shoulder tango, the slow shuffle. We all sheepishly move into and out of traffic, around construction sites, and into the underground to make our way to wherever we’re going. We don’t interact because there are too many of us. Our eyes don’t meet because, really, who has the time. We just walk—as quickly as possible.
I did have a purpose for being in NYC. I wasn’t doing this scramble for nothing! The looming UN building was calling. A conference put on by the UN and the XPrize was underway and I was to volunteer there; with the CEO’s, fat cats, and innovative elite.
Normally I would bore you with the gooey details of the opening ceremonies of such a lavish event. The patrons had each paid $1,800 just to be there—to be bemused by numerous speakers from numerous industries. There was so much to absorb!
But to be perfectly honest I was pleasantly distracted by blue eyed, blonde haired, UN Intern from Germany. She wore the most pleasantly distracting power dress that made her look like she was either ready to serve coffee or address the president—I couldn’t decide.
I sat next to her, pulled out my notebook and composed a little something: “The second guy on the left—the old one (well I guess they are all old), do you think he’s sleeping? He looks like he’s sleeping.”
She responded with a resounding “YES!!” and instantly we became short distance pen pals.
Un-inhibited romance that involved casual sex on the 60’s era furnishings of the UN conference halls, spitting off the roof into the East River, and copious amounts of both inappropriate and appropriate touching in public spaces would all have been lovely things to do. But I’m not that lucky . I think once the words “I’m sleeping on some guys couch in The Village” graced the page of our notebook, and we broached the conversation of “no, I have never met him, but he seemed nice on the internet.” she had officially lost interest. My heart will go on…
After the first day of conferencing I found myself sipping cocktails on the UN’s observation deck, chatting up Dean Kamen (the guy who invented the segway), X Prize Officials, and other startling individuals. The East River slowly bubbled by, tuxedo clad hors devours distributors kept interrupting my conversations, and I thought to myself “Whenever I get around to writing this part of the adventure, it won’t have a plot in the least.”
And so it was.
Part III
I’m a very off-putting individual. I blatantly, with unabashed candor, inquire to almost complete strangers “Would you happen to know where the subway is?” or “What’s an interesting thing that the locals do in this city? What’s going on this evening?” The look of “are you seriously talking to me? How DARE you talk to me.” is understandably well deserved. So after three straight days of social failure I had concluded: I must smell bad. I met the people, they heard me out, but they were not having any of this “let’s be friends stranger!” cheery gleefulness that I have this tendency to exude. Save for the drunk people, the drunk New Yorkers can’t smell.
And they received me with open arms.
A man with quite possibly the greatest laugh in the world was cracking up in the middle of the street. His girlfriend was looking at him quizzically, and because my curiosity is never ending I asked “What’s so funny?”
I never found out why, but all of a sudden I was being dragged across the city, cordially offered drinks, and as I mentally pondered the eternal question of “does this free drink taste roofied?” I was rudely interrupted:
She walked up to me with intention. A bit frazzled, a drunken eye droop, high heels that by now had turned from sexy to painful—she blinked once. Pause. Blink. Pause.
“Hi!” She said.
“Before we go any further. Where can we dance?” I answered.
Into the night we went. From club, to club, to club, to club. Drinking, smiling, laughing. Dancing close, dancing far, dancing in between. When it started pouring we got soaked, and when we found a new place to dance we steamed. We didn’t even know each other’s name. We didn’t care! Social acumen is only necessary in places where you can actually hear each other.
“So you’re running a youth hostel now?” her friends inquired the next day as we arrived on the 6th story of Picassos apartment. I say Picasso’s apartment because the place was quite literally covered from wall to ceiling with Picasso inspired art. Cubism in the living room, blue period above the bathroom sink, bits of surrealism on the rooftop patio. And everywhere else was failed attempts and paint splatter.
“He’s sleeping on a strangers couch!” she replied. The irony that we didn’t know each others name until the next morning escaping her completely. I still don’t understand why everyone thinks couchsurfing is the worst thing ever…
“Watch where you sit, I’ve sacrificed many skirts in the name of his art.” Him being Steve, a self absorbed parent funded artist who swore that he was “going to take the art world by storm!” We were going to see him on the news. He was going to be in galleries all over the world. He was the future!
We cooked a dinner of soft shell crab, ceviche, and I donated my usual dietary staple of bread and cheese as an appetizer . The landlord dropped in for a visit to chew out her tenants. Apparently the first time she saw that her beautiful apartment had been turned from a domicile to a studio she broke down in tears. Now she was simply resolved to evict Steve. He had informed her a week prior “your apartment will be worth millions now that I’ve lived in it. I just sold a painting for $50,000.” He’s sold one piece of art to a friend for $50. He was known for dropping off art pieces in front of galleries with desperate notes taped to the front. “This is the future of art. –Steven” …A landlords worst nightmare.
I laid out on the fire escape with my cheeks to the sky. The traffic below me screeched and honked, the people busily went about their business—avoiding eye contact at all costs. The clouds couldn’t decide if they wanted to rain or part for the sun, the pigeons soared between skyscrapers. I pondered about what my next adventure might look like, fully knowing that the unpredictable nature of these sorts of things is what I embrace the most.
Oh… the thrills of travelling.
