There are many hours in a day in New York City. Sometimes it feels like more than in other cities. And sometimes I reflect at the end of the day and am struck by just how many encounters I have had. There was nothing at all unusual or spectacular about today. It was a day just about as regular as they come. The day was nearly in danger of being totally unmemorable in fact. But as I walked by a Cuban restaurant on 14th street with a sign for "Salsa! Wednesdays at 9pm" and looked inside to see people sitting at tables, not dancing, for some reason all that was normal in the day became notable. And so I note:
My new next door neighbor walked a few steps ahead of me all the way to the subway. In the first block he took the two copies of the New York Times that had been delivered to his door, unwrapped both, shed the duplicate and unwanted parts and tucked the good stuff under his arm. I wished he had just given one to me. He fiddled his cigarette between his fingers while not smoking it, causing me to mistake it for a pen at first. Funny way to handle a cigarette, I thought.
A co-worker told me about a new nickname for Margaret I didn't know: Gretchen. It's very Germanic, she said.
At the bike shop at lunch I asked the mechanic how much a new set of Continental tires would cost. "Oh, Conti's? Those are pretty expensive. What do you want, something puncture-resistant? Because I have a basic city street tire for $18 and a Specialized for $25." And how much would the Continental cost? "The Conti? Oh, that'll run you about $50." So I passed. But was I tempted to ask what he thought of Continentals, just to see if he might respond: "What? Conti's? Oh they're pretty good." Or maybe I'll go back and tell him that I've decided to take the $25 Spesh tires instead.
At the grocery store at lunch I held on very tight with the fingertips of my left hand to two bottles of seltzer, while I balanced soy milk, berry juice (for mixing with the seltzer) and salad in the right. So many interesting things in the fruit aisle, but my left fingertips begged me to just get to the checkout counter quickly.
I got an email from our intern/music star (kind of) about an upcoming gig. I had hoped to come to this Thursday's show, which is a concert for wounded soldiers at Webster Hall, part of Fleet Week. But she suggested I come to her birthday gig at Joe's Pub on June 2 instead. No Fleet Week concert for me. I had to share the bad news with the other non-wounded-soldier-ladies that I work with.
I took a friend from work as a guest to the McBurney YMCA with me. I was giving her a tour of the track when we heard some music coming from the gym below. We peered over the ledge and saw about 4 women in their late 30s to 40s dancing a 2007 Latin version of Jazzercise, with a short, energetic Asian man as their teacher/leader. It was a recital, with a big audience in the bleachers. They had many steps in their routine and were not bad to watch. They were followed by a solo modern dance piece by a 30-something woman in all black, who climbed on top of a silver chair at points for emphasis. Later, in the hallway downstairs I saw belly-dancers in jingling costumes lining up for their turn.
I saw a sign outside the locker room about departmental open office hours at the Y. Once a week, you've got your opportunity to talk to the Executive Director, the program director, facilities director, and the maintenance director. If you're unhappy about the state of the locker room, which I never am, you can have a civilized conversation during office hours to discuss it.
I walked down 14th street after picking up a snack at the lunch-time grocery store. A few sailors in uniform stood outside a bar. I saw one point me out to his buddies. Then he approached and asked if they could get a picture with me because they're trying to have their picture taken with as many cute girls as they can while in New York. Feeling all sailor-friendly because of the wounded soldiers concert, I almost agreed. I stopped eating my snack, shrugged my shoulders and said ok. But as they got themselves organized I worried that this might turn into a Fleet Week "Girls of New York Gone Wild" photo collage. So I politely declined, much to their sweet disappointment. Who knows, if I had done it, maybe they could have gotten me into the Webster Hall concert.
On the 14th street A-train platform I saw a familiar face walk by. Turns out I recognized it just from a photo. It was a guy a friend of mine had dated a few months back. She had shown me his internet profile and he later showed up in a local rag as one of ten hot eligible guys in some category or another.
The train was quiet. I drank my lemonade and tried to put aside the slight pangs of regret I had about the snack I had just eaten. The ride passed quickly, before I even got around to getting out my book. Hoyt-Schermerhorn. Lafayette. Clinton-Washington. Pretty much just a regular day.
Recent Comments