New York in the Rear-view Mirror

There is something poetic about a leaf falling in New York City. If I had a dollar for every time I see this image in a movie, I'd be filthy rich! There is a timeless quality about it, an identity all its own in a city that erases every identity there is. In the whirlwind of the New York life there is this one living “creature” dying and your eyes are watching it.

I think about this identity crisis every time I visit New York. I am not a big city girl and going to New York cements that once and for all. I cannot even hear myself think there. But for a short period of time, a couple of days, even hours, I let myself be swallowed by this big city, the noise, the crowds, the dirt, the honking horns, the fire engines, the ambulances, the lights, the moving ads … For a few days I forget I have a life, and a name and I become one with the great unknown around me.

Every time I visit I wonder the same things: how can someone live here, with no ego, no identity, no physical proof that they exist?! How can they live knowing that they do not matter, for this is how I feel in New York: alive or dead, rich or poor, who cares?!

But New York is bigger, larger, deeper than this humdrum mix of nothingness and everythingness. New York is richer than this still. History oozes from every wall, filling up the filthy gutters. Pop culture and the present are leaving their marks seemingly with every second, as we breathe …

The stories, as told by our many guides on our hop-on-and-hop-off buses, abound: “this is where Cary Bradshaw lived, and this is where she got married; this is the first Trump tower and the only one without his name on it; this is where John Lennon got shot; and this is where Sully landed that plane on The Hudson...”

There is never a boring second in New York. If you're not visiting a museum or a sight to learn about history or art, you're listening to some story about something that you have seen in a movie, a series, or a documentary; if you're not doing that, you're probably eating something memorable, even if it is a hot-dog on the streets of Manhattan, or dim sum at an obscure neighborhood eatery . If you're not doing that, you're just wandering the streets of Little Italy and hearing century-old echoes of Italian voices disputing rent and ownership … You're riding the boat on the way to Ellis Island and crying because you can relate to every immigrant story you're about to listen to! You're seeing Manhattan and beyond from some high-rise building and seemingly seeing all the way to Florida on a clear day! I am convinced that you can be born and raised in just one of these boroughs and live to be 100 and not exhaust seeing, hearing, learning everything there is to see, hear, and learn about it. Every day is a visual and auditory explosion of life and death, everywhere you turn.

Like I said, I don't like big cities much, but I enjoy once in a while knowing and feeling, with every pore of my body, that there is something undeniably bigger than myself. New York ensures that.

I have seen it three times so far, and every time it is the same and every time it is a little bit different. This month, it was (if you can believe that!) quieter than I remembered it. The traffic was not as bad as I once thought, but that may be because I have driven in Utah now! Cars were not double and triple parked anymore and two lanes meant two cars in one direction, unlike what I remembered.

9-11 still hovers over the city like a dark cloud, an open wound, still oozing with pain. People talk about it and remember the city “during those days” – probably the most recent historic moment they got to watch with their own eyes. The infinity pools that replaced the towers, flowing deep into the ground, are a profound symbol of what was there before, in absentia: once shooting towards the skies, they are now buried inside the underground of the city, just as deep as they were once tall. Touching the names of those gone sends chills up my spine. I remember the first time I was in New York (1999), the second thing to Ellis Island to impress me was the Twin Towers. Their massive stature, their impressive views. The amount of people they housed. If you have ever seen them or any other high-rise that compares to them, all that would consume you when you see them collapsing would be “those thousands of people have no chance!”. The sadness is all-encompassing and lasting for many years …

And that's the thing about New York: beyond the multitude of buildings and streets and public transport vehicles, there are always the people. 8+ million of them – and you wonder in mute awe: where would they all fit? How can they all fit?! And somehow, you are seeing it: they do …

There is a strange familiarity about New York. Maybe it is the fact that we do see so much of it in pop culture?! Maybe it is simply the fact that we're all human and we relate to all these millions around us?! But there is a certain reassuredness that you're going to be OK, in the end, no matter how overwhelmed you might feel. Walking the streets has always felt friendly and familiar to me, and I never thought I would ever get lost in New York. It's pretty simple: grid system all the way, except, we learned this time, in Greenwich Village.

What was unusual this last time I was there was that my first thought after I got back home from New York was: “I wanna go back.” I am not sure if that was because this time I was there with my sister, the true big-city girl, the true cosmopolitan, the true art monger who really knows how to do a big city justice. Might be all that or I am not sure why, but I wanted to turn right back around and see, hear, taste, live … some more.

We never finished seeing The MET, nor did we really walk Central Park. If I were to go back those would be the only two things I truly would want to see and then just turn around and come back home. If I am lucky, it would be a gentle fall day, so I can watch all the leaves leaving the trees in Central Park and listen, for once, at the silence in the big grinder. With every leaf, one second of silence, one single identity of life making its brief existence known. What puts the world in motion, life, and its swan song right in front our eyes … There is good to know that there is room for poetry even in the dirty, noisy streets of Manhattan … So much room …

With such a dense forest of buildings, where are the streets?!  Manhattan seen from The Empire State Building, looking South towards the unified One World Trade Center in the misty sunset. Click to view the album of our adventures ... 

From Hatred to Love. And Hope.

“As the soil, however rich it may be, cannot be productive without cultivation, so the mind without culture can never produce good fruit.” (Seneca)

Before you start shooting now, just remember: the last words here are “love” and “hope”. So, it’s all good. And I am now all reformed! Or about to be.

So, I used to absolutely hate NPR! I know, I know – but remember: no shooting, yet. The slow pace of the reporting, the old voices, the sentiment that their topics are always so serious, so grim, so dry. No “juice” coming out of NPR. No sensationalism. Just pure, dry enunciation. I could never really fully admit that the topics were as much “boring”, but I had zero patience for the style of reporting they do. So I would nix the station simply on the format with no regard to the substance!

All this changed when I moved to Utah, and my commute has bloated to more than an hour one way, at times. The radio options are pretty slim here. You have a couple of “standard” FM radio stations, classic rock, country, this-and-that “new” music, and your local talk radio, which is owned by the LDS church – biased, misinformed, sensationalist, predicting the end of the world almost every half hour and totally embarrassing, at times.

But luckily, there is NPR. One day, forced into a corner by all the poor choices on all the other stations, I switched to it on my lunch break, which I took sitting in my car, at the time. They had an author on, Janet Reitman, talking about her book “Inside Scientology: The Story of America's Most Secretive Religion”. 

That was the first sip of the kool-aid in this dry media desert. I was hooked – by the information, and depth of the discussion and by how much more informed and enlightened I felt. I could not go back to work! I was in a trance. 

Almost a year later, after listening to many a programs on music, communism, mating of snails, politics, contests of livestock auctioneers, Kosher food, a variety of social discussions, I can say I am quite getting used to this little gem of programming speaking softly, and still slow, from my dashboard. 

They are sometimes biased, and a little annoyingly conservative, at times (after all, they are human, and Americans, you know!), but they keep it interesting! They tackle topics that scholarly college professors would tackle and you feel a bit elated by rising above the ordinary with their observations on people, life, religion, etc. They keep me learning! And boy, I have so much to learn, still – as we all do, of course! They keep the Alzheimer’s away (I hope), as they challenge my attention, my opinions, my brain. 

I am not in the mood for it all the time, as a true fan would be, but I always feel more intelligent (really) after I listen to them. And I keep coming back, every day, as to my supply of “smart pills”.  

I love that they use good grammar and full sentences, that they say “I have given” instead of “I have gave”. They use words like “connubial” and “bacchanalia”, which were so dusty, back in the back of my gray matter, somewhere. I smile, drive along and feel a few minutes, a few words smarter. I am finally so happy that they are there for me, to fill my empty commute time with interest, culture and insight. Man, how we need this kind of solid, timeless education for our young folks! Away from the poisons of today’s cheap and cheesy entertainment and reality junk that ruins our society! 

One thing that still puzzles me: NPR is sponsored, amongst others, by … The Poetry Foundation.  First question is: wow! In the era of The Jersey Shore, in America, we still have a poetry foundation, and apparently, they have money?! The second one is: do they have enough to sponsor anything?! One art supporting another tells me that all might not be lost in the human world. At least not yet! 

Stroll

Sometimes the roads less traveled go straight through your own town. That’s what we ended up finding out this weekend, for lack of a better occupation. We walked those roads and found out where they took us.

Trying to enjoy the last bit of a finicky Indian Summer, we decided to take Saturday off from house chores and what-not’s and just stroll about the small (that is an understatement!) downtown of our presently hosting town of Spanish Fork, as well as through Springville, the next town over. The luxury of living in a small burgh is that it only takes a few minutes to cover the downtown walk. So that leaves you plenty of time in the day to visit the next small city (glorified name alert!).

Aside from the weather being just spotless beauty that day, the thorough enjoyment of the adventure also came from unexpected findings like shops with treasures, unique local art, history, old times charm and lots of just plain local beauty.

We got lost in an antique store and then in a local gift and sweets store, and we had lunch at an unusual joint, that advertises “Chinese and American” fare on their sign. We took in the specific of these parts, which speaks so much of what the West stands for, and which are built mainly on family values (read: “kids”) and the Mormon Faith and traditions.

I’ll let the pictures we took speak for themselves about the local flair of what it means to live in a smaller than small Utah County (a.k.a. “The Most Mormon County in Utah”) town. I hope you find them telling.

Enjoy the journey! (just click on any of the pictures to see them larger)

We found out at the Spanish Fork Library that the first white man expedition around here was not Mormon, indeed, but Franciscan/ Spanish. There is a monument erected to celebrate this expedition on the Library's front lawn.

This time capsule also at the Spanish Fork Library marks my first ever encounter with such a landmark. I was trying to figure out if I will be alive when it's set to be opened. Probably not!

The downtowns of both Spanish Fork and Springville look very much like your typical Western town: lots of connected one story businesses, in a row, across the street from each other. But a zebra on the roof?! Now, that's different. And I have no idea what business that is, and why a zebra! No, zebras don't live in the Rockies, for those who are wondering ...
- Spanish Fork

Strangeness of Spanish Fork: directions on how to cross a road WITH a flag and major fire hazard. I knew these folks are way crazy about Christmas decorations, but seriously, this does not look safe. And what in the world is "normal caution" anyway?! Hhmm ...



Both Spanish Fork and Springville have family owned drug stores in their downtowns. We always wonder how in the world they stay in business with Walgreens just at the next corner, but ... selling dolls is evidently how - in this family oriented town, those are on high demand, I am sure! - Spanish Fork




And speaking of Walgreens: we spotted this shirtless gentleman in the parking lot of Walgreens, just standing there. No, he was not homeless, by all appearances, he had just hung up his cell phone as I was taking the picture. And was just waiting there... Small town indeed. - Springville

I absolutely loved this store in Springville! It is a gift and sweets store, and everything else you might want to sell, with a local flavor - homemade crafts, "inspirational" gifts and such.
We witnessed a conversation of folks putting in their order for homemade breads for Thanksgiving with the owner, and it was just like coming home again. Nothing beats the personalized, individual attention your small town "mom and pop" store gives you! The name of the store is ShayBee's and it's lovely! The way they preserved the original outside walls where they probably built on an addition was interesting, as well.




There was a memorial square of some sort commemorating settlers, or so it seemed, in Spanish Fork. This particular plaque caught my eye: He was a homebuilder and she was a homemaker and they were both successful. Career women, eat your hearts out! Only home, I noticed that her name was "Margaret Mitchell", one of my most treasured American writers to date ...

Downtown Spanish Fork, the old and the new collide: I am browsing a 1905 edition of the book "One Hundred Years of Mormonism" on the patio of our very own, local, family owned coffee shop. Yes, coffee in Utah County - with a sassy sign, nonetheless.

Eating establishments: "T-Bone Restaurant" in the first picture - one online review described it as " a total dive, but the food is good", and they were not far off! Second picture: the beautiful stained glass windows at Magleby's, another restaurant staple - both in Springville.





Springville, or "The Art City", is literally littered with metal and marble and ... whatever else material you can think of sculptures. Please visit the whole album for a broad depiction of these unique works. You will notice that most of these sculptures are of kids.



My favorite sculpture of all was of course Mark Twain, in front of the old Public Library (1922) in Springville, now a museum. So cozy ...




And because these establishments are filled with little ones more often than not, there were warnings on some of the metal sculptures which made us chuckle.

These markers were all over Springville. They spoke to me, as a live testament of the Old West and its Pioneers. Just like an old coin, branded in everlasting metal, they bore the mark of time, history, hope and faith. It was moving. It's not just brick and mortar of old walls a town is not. It's lives, and people who built it, and their story and perseverance that gave us what we have today.



Springville: I just loved some of its architecture.



Fall in Springville.

Visit the album of this trip to see more. And remember: the next revelation of the year, or of your life can be hidden down that road you never ventured on because it was marked "one way". Park the car and wander about.

Treasures abound right under our noses. And if writers bear any truth, "you might wake up spiritually as easily in Utah as in Sri Lanka" (Anne Lamott), so you never have to travel that far ...

"La vie en rose"

It takes roughly 6 hours to get from Greensboro to Montreal.
Loaded up with ALL my winter attire, and I really do mean ALL of it, every thick sweater I own, I spent Christmas in Montreal this year. The thing was: Montreal was quite warm. And that was not the only pleasant surprise on this trip…
Although this time I was planning to just see family and stay in and get a serious case of the cabin fever, I reluctantly accepted the invitation to go out, after 4-5 days of heavy Romanian cooking and eating, of too much sausages and “sarmale”…
There is something about the city that makes me feel like I am in Europe. Before I went to Canada the first time in 2006 I thought I would feel more like being somewhere in YankeeLand, America. Not so! I felt more like in Northern Germany, or Holland. My sister always says she feels more like in Northern France, but I have never been, so …
The city has an Old World feel and safety about it that’s unusual in a metropolis, to me. Yes, there are times of the day and spots even in New York City where I feel borderline “safe”, but not many!
In Montreal, I feel like in my own back yard, with nothing to fear, no danger awaiting. There is a peace in the hustle and bustle of the city that’s hard to describe. Easier to grasp though. There is a slower pace and a friendlier attitude of the French, I guess, that are reassuring and inviting. And I think the French is what makes the city feel and look “non American” to me. Not much to annoy the Americans who expect to hear English; but enough of it, where it makes it feel you’re abroad.
In just the couple of days of sightseeing that I set aside on this trip, I still managed to entertain the eye, and the palate with some of the bazillion things Montreal has to offer. That’s the thing about a big city: you never run out of things to do and see, I guess… The trouble there is: what to do with such a variety and so little time?? But I usually like little portions of time on my hands: gives me no hour to waste! And I love the concentration of those little chunks of time. It’s what stays with me.
One day, we went shopping in the Underground City on Rue Saint Catherine. I hope I got the street right here, but I know I got the place. It’s this huge honest-to-God Shopping City, built indoors, mostly under the street level, but also above, but all indoors. I hate shopping, but I love shopping with my sister, because she loves it so much! She’s like a professional shopper. She wastes no time. She’ll make a list of what you need, and then take you there. Like the project manager of shoppers, she has all planned out and timed!
One thing that stuck with me on this tour was the $1 lockers they have. It’s Montreal, or as my sister says, “The North Pole”, so everyone wears thick, heavy clothes : well, “for your shopping convenience” they have these lockers you drop a coin in and then you lock your baggage and your coats in. So convenient!
I was also fascinated mostly by all the various cultures cuisines in the Underground. Anything from Lebanese to Serbian and Japanese seemed to be represented, as in a Babel Tower of goodies. My sister had to have a shawarma – her favorite sandwich since forever, and I just gawked at all the sushi fast food counters, because as much as I love sushi, and as beautiful as everything looked, I was saving myself for a “flamm” at Les Trois Brasseurs later. No, it’s not a pizza. It’s better than a pizza! The menu looks like a newspaper, and working for a paper here, I can appreciate that; it’s even called “La Gazette” and along with their own beers it features these very thin and loaded with flavor “flamms” which are like pizzas, only better. Maybe more like flat breads?!
Another day, we went to the Beaux Arts Museum. I have not been to a museum probably since college (don’t ask: that’s a LONG time ago!). There, I saw for the first time ever original works by Dali, Picasso, Warhol and Rodin, amongst soooo many others. I am never a museum fan, typically, but I’ll have to say, if it comes in small portions and at long intervals of time, it can be very relaxing and mind opening. With the risk of stereotyping, if America is all about movies and amusement parks, Europe is about museums. Anyone I know goes to Paris, and Madrid, Russia and Rome for the art! The museums. Reconnecting with the way I grew up, as a perpetual student, was good too, this way … Refreshing. Rejuvenating. I don’t do spas, so, this was my spa treatment. For the spirit – which I’ll have to tell you, I worry more about than my skin!
Some pictures I took there were because of the viewpoint of the art, or the materials, some others were for their fame. They were all taken because they opened my vision and they all provided food for thought. They were never “dry” … They fed me! In many ways! Creative, spiritual, visceral. Check out the gift shop when you’re there. It’s not cheesy! At all!!
Another stop was the lounge bar at Suite 701 on Cote Place D’Armes for an appetizer and wine dinner . Very subdued, hip but classy, modern décor, model-like handsome wait staff, and THE best cheese plates I have ever seen! You felt like in The Iron Chef contest, and you were given the opportunity to sample and judge! The judging would have been easiest: all the plates would have won! The presentation of the dishes was outstanding, but they definitely passed the tasting challenge too. True feast for many senses.
The seafood plate was oozing with sea smells and full of flavor, once you tasted it! The best smoked salmon I have had in a long while, and the best oysters! And what a presentation! The fries came like in Europe, of course, with mayo on the side. Yum!
Once outside, in the surprisingly warm Montreal, we soaked up in winter decor and snow, like we were walking in a fairy tale.
It was such a nice break from the routine. And like my French teacher said in school: she used to go to Paris once every two years. She didn’t have much cash, but she said she needed to see Paris every two years, “to feed herself with beauty for another 2 years, and then her routine life became more bearable” … Now, I see where she was coming from!
Note: Enjoy Montreal Pics Here.