New York City. Population: about 1.2 million. Essentially, that makes me 1 in a million. And I’m running around this madhouse of a town like a chicken without a head. So how is it possible that I keep running into people I know? It’s become the norm that I bump into someone I know at least once a day. I actually find myself thinking that it is strange if I don’t. In the subway, right as the doors open to the yellow R line headed downtown- a friend from college. On the street during my dinner break - a friend from high school. And in the park – a woman Jess and I became friendly with when we were shopping on Saturday.
Apparently one in a million isn’t such a big deal. What a let down. Good thing I am still a firm believer in clichés. Take for instance: don’t judge a book by its cover.
Quick scene change from the city to the small suburb within the city – Central Park.
It’s unbelievable how one minute you can be in the slums, the next, walking past high-end brownstones and the next, in a garden you’d swear is prettier than Eve’s. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that 30- and 40-story high-rises attempted to preclude me from the sequestered gem that is Central Park. As if the bars and clubs don’t have it covered, the city is now trying to make the park exclusive by hiding it. It’s almost reminds me of Aladdin. The cityscape emits the hustle and bustle of Manhattan while the little piece of paradise, the diamond in the rough, remains smack in the center. Nonetheless, the skyscrapers do their job. City craziness out. Tranquility and nirvana in.
I find it baffling how the same people who make such a commotion in the city, whether hailing taxis or cat-calling pedestrians, can lie down in the grass and stare at the sky for hours. Sometimes, I guess, you just gotta stop and smell the roses.
Or enjoy the Strawberry Fields forever. Well, for the day at least.
Oh my. I forgot to inform you about my new significant other. Jess and I have accepted the fact that we are essentially dating each other this summer. We go grocery shopping together. We eat our meals together. We fill each other in on every last detail of our day. We even went on my dream date – a picnic in Central Park on a sunny Sunday, equipped with towels, background music and a little light reading. Lord knows all we needed to do was hold hands, frolic over the bridges, paddle in a gondola for two, sing “How do you know that you love her…” and have the birds join in song.
We plopped down in an area of Central Park called Strawberry Fields, where the grass is truly greener, to sunbathe, read and catch up on phone calls with friends and family. We made our rounds visiting Belvedere Castle (which looks like it belongs in Scotland, not NYC, if you ask me) and the Delacorte Theatre before eventually making our way to Zabar’s for some iced coffee that was as good as gold to our parched bodies.
Bang the gong. And get the translator into wardrobe….fast.
Jess and I are looking for a simple dinner. All we want to do is avoid Asian food because it seems that’s all we’ve eat in this town. Not too much to ask for right? Wrong.
“Too expensive,” “I’m not in the mood,” “It looks bad,” “Eh, look who’s eating inside,” and “It’s closed,” all keep us from chowing down. We’re looking for champagne taste at a beer’s budget. Between all of our squabbling back and forth, somehow we end up blocks away from our flat and hungry. Jess, being a good sport, agrees to check out some hole-in-the-wall eatery that, of course, I believe sounds wonderful – “a real cultural experience.” Turns out that all our negative Nancy-isms, except for “it’s closed,” accumulate in this restaurant… after we are seated.
The food isn’t cheap. And what do you know - it’s Asian; actually, it’s Japanese. But not just Japanese (oh no do not say that or else the waiter will laugh in your face) it’s a noodle bar. The menu is totally in Japanese and, when we look around us, we realize we are the only Americans in the entire restaurant. If I didn’t know any better, I would have bet that Jess and I had hopped on a flight to Japan and were preparing to eat our first meal there. Feeling ignorant, we asked the waiter to order for us. He brought out bowls as big as our heads filled with soup, noodles, veggies and some sort of meat (probably chicken gizzard, I kid you not). Well, I am happy to report that the food was actually pretty tasty, lasted me two meals and didn’t make me sick. But I still don’t really know what I ate.
So let me clear this up: Danipete (one of my best friends from college) is adventurous by getting a piercing; I am adventurous by steering Jess and myself to a random, local place that serves fish eyeballs as a delicacy. Nice one KP.
All I do know is that I am still going to have to try ridiculously hard to not eat Asian in this city. Oh, excuse me, Japanese, which is what I attempted to avoid in the first place. Back to square one.
On our way back home, we stop in a tiny ice-cream shop because we both agree we deserve a treat for putting up with dinner. Because some higher being is truly having fun with us, it turns out the sundae shop we enter is a Japanese ice-cream shop (what can I say - when it rains, it pours!) that sells sesame, red bean, ginger and wasabi ice-cream. We are done being adventurous. We settle for reasonably normal flavors (I get the Mocha Chip, and Jess gets the Maple Walnut) in the smallest size they sell. We are nearly sick after the gargantuan bowls of Ramen and a little sweet treat is enough to curb the craving just in the nick of time.
I should always just follow my gut and my clichés. Clichés are cliché for a reason. After all, between looking at myself, the world and the Big Apple, it doesn’t take much to learn that good things come in small packages.
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