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Reunion: feet and pavement

I never thought I'd be so happy as to just feel pavement directly under my feet. Ice has been keeping us apart—me and pavement. And after last week's big melt, the soles of my shoes and the cold concrete are enjoying a beautiful reunion. They get along quite well. I remembered this last week in Minnesota, where the snow removal team on the campus of Carleton College gets an A+++. Though Minnesota is a cold and snowy place, pedestrians there rarely have to deal with ice as an intermediary for very long. It makes for a totally different winter experience. That is, until one tries to walk down the hill on First Street, past Love House and Crack House.* Nothing has changed there in the last ten years, as the ice on the sidewalk makes for a treacherous ascent or descent. You're better off walking over to Second Street to get to Blue Mondays.

Getting out of the cab back in Chicago, both the cabbie and I nearly took a spill on some black ice on the sidewalk. But two days later the sun did us all a favor. I suppose this is the blessing of winter, to make us appreciate these little relationships that we take for granted in warmer weather. Now, each day my rubber hits the concrete, I will try to say, "Hello, my friend, nice to see you again."

*Update for ex-Northfielders: The St. Olaf German professor/slumlord that owns our beloved Love House and Crack House has apparently given up the battle of the names. After objecting in the mid-90s to the fact that the houses were commonly referred to by names that he thought to be evocative of a brothel and a drug den, he posted signs on the houses with new official names—those of a couple legendary German professors from St. Olaf. I was delighted to see that these have been replaced with prominent LOVE HOUSE and CRACK HOUSE signs. It's like the song from the Fantasticks: "Why did the kids pour jam on the cat?/Raspberry jam all over the cat?/Why should the kids do something like that,/When all that we said was no?"

Hair, 'Hoods, and Loyalty

Today I visited my hairstylist in the epicenter of hip, also known as Williamsburg, Brooklyn. I used to live in Williamsburg, but in the last couple of years, I rarely go there except to get my hair cut. I'm on my second stylist in the hood—this one at an unlikely (for me) setting called "Hair Metal." They wear black, play Black Sabbath, and have a very messy bathroom. The first time I went in, at the suggestion of a friend, I had not thought about what the "metal" in "Hair Metal" was all about and had trouble keeping my jaw off the floor as I worried about what kind of cut and color I might walk out with. But as it turns out Christy understands my hair quite well (it's just like hers) and gave me a very good cut.

So I went back. A good haircut is totally worth sitting through two hours of my least favorite kind of music. Christy and I had warmed up to each other even more by this time and we traded stories about her dream of moving to Charleston, South Carolina and about the fact that my name is the second most popular dog name in the world.

As we reviewed the holidays, it came out that she had stayed home on New Year's Eve. "I go out EVERY other night, so I don't need to go out when the rest of the world is." I nodded in understanding and asked her where she usually goes out—is it usually in Williamsburg? "ALWAYS. ALWAYS in Williamsburg." I was impressed by her fierce loyalty to her hood, which sure is something when you're going out EVERY night. There was definitely a hint of "why would I go anywhere else?" in her voice. So perhaps that's not loyalty. Perhaps it's provincialism. In any case, the enthusiasm and commitment with which she seems to engage with her home turf was admirable. Even if some day she wants that home turf to become Charleston, South Carolina.

It made me think about LIVING where one LIVES. Really LIVING. LIVE it up. Let LIVE. About being so excited and focused on the place you're in that you ask, "why go anywhere else?" And with that, I settled into the sweet sounds of Judas Priest, letting the contentment wash over me.

Jamaican Mild Beef Patty

As readers may guess, my departure from Chicago and long-planned return to New York was met with some sadness. My winter sabbatical in the Windy City was restful, recuperative, and fun. I was re-introduced to many of Chicago’s bright spots and contemplated when I might come back for a longer, and more permanent, stay.

But Brooklyn has some bright spots too. One of them is the beef patty, a staple of the Caribbean bakeries that dot the borough. Today, after my first day back at work, I rode home from Manhattan on the C train, thinking about the flaky yellow crust filled with soupy ground beef that awaited me on Fulton Street. There was a knot of hunger knawing at my stomach and I knew that for $1.35 the knot would go away. There was no line when I walked into the Golden Krust, a franchise operating in 8 states and Canada. (I highly recommend checking out the website to listen to the Golden Krust jingle: “Taste the rhythm of the islands. The flavor can take you there. To Golden Krust. Tell me if you really wanna roll with us.”)

The regular guy behind the counter glanced at the clear plastic heat cabinet by the window to see if they had any mild beef patties left, nodded his head to me, walked over and slipped one into a paper sleeve. “There you go, sis.”

I walked down Fulton Street, past the Met Foods, run by a Yemeni family, which has some items on its shelves from the last century. And past “drug bodega” which had a new friendly face outside, nodding to me. All the while, the beef patty kept my hands warm and I didn’t have to dig my gloves out of my pocket to cover them. I tried not to trip on the snake of fresh asphalt that seemed to cover an electric line under the sidewalk, across the street, down the corner, back up to the sidewalk. Remnants of a ConEd project I’m glad I missed. As if the sidewalk in front of drug bodega wasn’t bad enough already!

I climbed the stairs and opened the door, to discover I’d left my bedroom light on all day. Ah well. And finally, sat down at the dining room table, ready to enjoy my reward. Brooklyn has its bright spots too.