Through the Jersey City Looking Glass

Manhattan often come across as physically and even mentally exhausting. The neon lights that make you squint at night, walking through the canyons of concrete and yet…raw excitement that can elicit the most agoraphobic individual to start dancing in the street.

Grove Street was bustling this morning as I walked to Dunkin Donuts for a cup of coffee, donning my running shorts, sneakers, a white t-shirt and my Native sunglasses. Contrary to Weezer’s early morning ditty that rang reverberated through my skull, the workers were not “going home.” The Grove Street PATH Station was ingesting rider after rider like a hungry frog devouring bugs on a humid night.

I did not mind strutting through the most highly trafficked area with my hair appearing like a punk rockstar. Jersey City silently proclaimed that it is a city outside of New York. It accepted all kinds and proudly stood side-to-side with fair Gotham. However, this morning it felt more like a quaint suburb, shuttling its children to the nearby school.

At the conclusion of a long day of work, I found myself in a unique position of freedom with no responsibilities whatsoever. In lieu of gluing myself to a lounge chair and popping a fresh cigarette in my mouth, I opted to take a run from Grove St., all the way down Columbus Drive to the Hudson River. In contrast to the previous night’s run-in with the vast river, this evening brought a brighter vantage point before the sun crashed through the wood and concrete roofs in west Jersey City.

From this view, even Manhattan reflected a shade of innocence…a hue that had not previously made it on to my canvas while painting throughout the big city.  Acting as a courier, a ferry slowly streaked across the river, mixing in this new shade with the pre-established colors of Jersey City as it passed by the Hyatt to that stood beside me.

My cell phone shrieked as a cohort pinged me via an instant messaging program. I retrieved my phone and read the correspondence. My hands dangled over the cool metallic railing lining the edges of the pier. A shiver shot down my spine as I pictured my phone slipping through my long fingers and into the dark liquid abyss below. I took a step back and smiled at the now unimposing city across from me.

As I turned to head back to Grove Street, I noticed the pier was quite full and happening. Runners had their choice of the land…they did not dodge slow-moving pedestrians like they must in the city. Young couples pushed strollers around the dock allowing their offspring an peek at the metropolis across the way. Everyone seemed content. Three policemen sauntered passed a 9-11 memorial, respecting the remembrance, serving and protecting without intimidation.

Life was calm and peaceful in Jersey City tonight…and so was I.

Looking Across the River…

The last three days cruised by, issuing not more than the sound of a subway car passing through a station without stop. As if truly embracing the northeast as a new home, I approached the previous 72 hours as a test…one that I believe was successful.

Friday was a day of freedom and enjoyment. Following a hasty walk along York Avenue, a quick head nod toward Rockefeller University was the only gesture needed to bid farewell. We both knew we would meet again.

Like water running towards its new home, my cab rushed me to the beautiful Bryant Park for a rendezvous with a cohort of mine. Our hands met in salutation. We meandered around the park, lighting and flicking cigarettes. We laughed.

Representing prey for the city’s most shallow merchants, my cohort and I thumbed through the poorly printed letters that laid upon cheap fabric…”I (heart) NYC.” Keepsakes in even cheaper plastic bags. However cheap, these items would bring a smile to a loved one’s face and a small perk to their day. Being preyed upon never felt so good.

As the flocks of human workers fled their weekly concrete hideouts, my cohorts and I joined in the river of pedestrians, flowing with and against the current. Within moments the words “Vincent Van Gogh” lay before me on a simple placard. I let my childhood aversion to simplicity leave me and took several minutes to breathe in the beauty…to really absorb it.

In excited appreciation I spun on my heels and was locked into place as the words, “Jackson Pollock” streamed into my pupils, holding them still. Pollock’s splendid and seemingly arbitrary splatters led me to “Andy Warhol” and his botulism-plagued gourmet art. Then the art assembled from off the wall and took 3-dimensional shape as “Pablo Picasso” created art as obscurely sublime as the ones that hung vertically with his name at the bottom.

My phone vibrated. I plucked the pods of plastic from my ears and the sounds of The Flaming Lips become distant echoes. I looked at the phone. One of my cohorts who had forged ahead in the sea of “modern art” to scout for gems among gems had sent me news.

The words seemed to leap off my LCD screen and into my brain, which without warning propelled my legs towards the escalator leading to the upper-most floor in the museum. “Salvador Dali.” An artist who’s dark side refused to be held down was exploited, thankfully and appreciatively, all around the sixth floor. I drank it in. I felt a connection with the odd Spaniard. We shared our pains and smiled at each other.

I left the museum feeling “cultured.” I was.

“Merriment abound,” bubbled up from the deep beer glasses I gulped that night. Playing cards flipped, poker chips clinked and ping-pong balls darted to-and-fro for hours upon hours. I slept.

New York City had welcomed me with open arms. It was kind, yet bold…outspoken, yet truthful. Knowing it was my time, I garnered my belongings and joined the non-residents on the PATH. The faded metal train cars dove into the dirty silt of the Hudson River and breached on native soil.

Within only moments, my free trial subscription to New York City was a memory. I was back in the Garden State.

A long day at work reverted me back into a feeling of “the real world.” However, north New Jersey continues to display a 1940s-1950s feel…a cozy, innocent atmosphere amidst the shouting car horns and crowded street corners you’ll see in any city. Jersey City made me comfortable.

Then, later in the night, my cohort and I took a late-night walk. I wanted to stroll through the city that brought such pleasant thoughts to mind. However, as my now increasingly dirty blue and silver new pair of Pearl Izumi sneakers ventured further and further towards the river…the 1950s turned into the present day. Old corner grocery stores morphed into Starbucks. Three-story brick apartment buildings sprang into 40-story monstrosities.

Then we reached the Hudson River. It flowed as it always had. Not a single ripple was misplaced but only for a second after a fish flailed itself to the top of the water for a midnight snack. The river moved, and remained the same. Thoughts of Siddhartha flowed through my head.

What happened that got me here? What did I do wrong? Did I deserve any of this? Where am I going next? What is the right thing to do?  I found a quote about rivers…how apropos:

“Time is a sort of river of passing events, and strong is its current; no sooner is a thing brought to sight than it is swept by and another takes its place, and this too will be swept away. “
- Marcus Aurelius

With that in mind, I gazed longingly upon the city of New York that I had just departed. My short term there would soon be swept away, as would everything in my past that I’m not desperately clinging to so as to not let it ever slip away.

I’m ready for the river to bring me something new…to bring me my new beginning. I’m ready.

Time Ticks Down in NYC

Despite a growing affinity for New York City, my time in NYC proper is winding down. The experiences have been fun, adventurous, liberating and more than worthwhile.

This post will not be reflective, nor will it be long. Tomorrow I spend my final day in NYC. I have the day off and will be meeting several friends throughout the day to go mess around in the city, grab lunch, go to the MoMA, meet for dinner and so on. Then I re-paint the Big Apple red.

After that, I will provide a more thorough and conclusive wrap-up. Until then, I get tonight off.

Ciao…

Dark Clouds

My twin alarms earned their keep again this morning, waking me up at the exact time we agreed upon. Colors were fuzzy as exhaustion clouded my sight. A few moments passed before I found myself ascending a slight hill in search of java. A dab of milk and a pack of sugar and my day was in full swing.

I took a swig of the hot, dark liquid and my senses tingled. My body shot up and readied to work like an old car kicking into gear. A quick gaze outside revealed yet another wall of gray surrounding Gotham City. The Queensboro bridge, with its body taught and parallel with the East River, still draped over as city workers provide the metal mammoth a new paint job.

Eyes locked back on the computer…coffee sipped appreciatively…cell phone placed in easy arm’s length…fingers placed upon starting positions on the keyboard…work commenced.

Work ended.

Feeling slightly ill from an unusual level of exhaustion, my body started to reject the idea of venturing out into the city. Unfortunately for my body, my cohorts had other plans. A second shower washed away the day, an ibuprofen slid down my throat diffusing my headache and a couple glasses of water seemed to get me on the right track.

Off we went to the dirt and litter filled subway system, which incidentally, boasts more history than one can possibly imagine. The train tunnels and standing platforms hosted sauna-like humidity levels that spawned instantaneous and unstoppable sweat drops from rolling from my forehead to the divots of my eyes.

The train arrived and cold air, coolest in the city, engulfed each rider. Sweat evaporated and created spots of salt all over my body. The train stopped, the humidity rushed back in and the sweat fought its way back to the forefront of my skin.

The clouds grew darker like a veil over the city, mimicking the drapes of the Queensboro Bridge. My cohort and I took shelter in a cool billiard hall named SOHO Billiards. This game room featured an impressive 30+ tables, each with well-groomed, bright green felt tops.

Meanwhile, the sky grew darker.

Amidst the joy of my afternoon, mother nature read my mind. Mirroring the incoming clouds, the difficulties in my life started to loom over me ominously. Regardless of where I go or what I do, these soul-piercing clouds create panic and eventually find a way to draw my attention away from the good times at hand.

“When will I be rid of these plagues? How is it that they find the worst times to come?”

My faithful and loyal cohorts with their relentlessly elevated spirits, slowly but successfully burned away the dark clouds and I soon found myself tearing apart a deliciously cooked chicken leg from its bone and mixing it with an oddly added hard-boiled egg…I used my hands as tools. I remembered the excellence of Ethiopian cuisine.

The sky cleared after dinner and my troubles followed suit. But the humidity that has suffocated New York City since day one remained intact. As a yellow cab scurried on the FDR heading uptown, I realized that while I banished the clouds, the humidity remained in my thoughts as well. It would take much longer to shake these more constant troubles away.

For the first time since I arrived though, New York City was helping me do that. I released a small smile and looked at the night sky over midtown.

“I’m going to be OK,” I said to my cohort who knew not what I was rambling about.

A sudden, midnight blue hue of paint splattered onto my canvas…a special request by NYC herself.

Olive-Colored Scientists on York Ave.

From the extended futon that lay flat over the wooden slats that covered apartment 4J, the first of two alarms began to sound off at 7:30AM. A quick flick of my finger and the only barrier between unending sleep and re-emerging into the world of the conscious, was my trusty blackberry carefully set to ring every five minutes starting at 7:45AM. The “Antelope Tone” set on high sprang from the speaker of my phone and clamped down on my ear drums one leg at a time. I was awake.

Today, July 8, 2008, New York City transformed into a part of the real world. The veil that covered it was removed. The real world set in. Instead of wild discovery and illuminating colors, dust-covered venetian blinds and four-story hikes to enjoy cigarettes, consumed my day. I logged a full day of work in New York City.

Following the conclusion of a traditionally busy day, I once again slipped into my double-knotted Pearl Izumi’s, snagged my Native Eyewear sunglasses and patted my back pocket to inspect the attendance of my wallet.

A quick discussion with my cohort translated into a walk down the tree and apartment-lined, York Ave. Like an oasis in the midst of a desert, a beautiful, well-kempt graduate school sprang up and whisked me in through the front gate.

Ducks paraded around a suspiciously clean pond, trees as green as emeralds showed off for their guests and newly bloomed flowers waved to the tune of the honeybee’s wings . A cool, gentle breeze began to sweep through the campus breaking the humidity that had imprisoned the city for so long.

“Where I am,” were the only words I could muster.

I was informed that we were entering the lush threshold of Rockefeller University. This arrangement of brick and mortar was a true sanctuary in the city.

The university, which specializes in quite advanced science, offers shelter to some of the most fascinatingly interesting people my eyes have ever seen. We took rest at the Philosopher’s Garden where clean tables and chairs adorned a white marble floor in the open air. One scientist seized the day, sparking a grill for a BBQ…his Einstein t-shirt smiled along with him. My group drank beer and gin and tonics, while discussing the merits of American and European football…we also conversed about the qualities of olives and nuts.

Each individual was asked to be who they were…and nothing more. In response, the scientists obey. This illustration of acceptance, education and open-mindedness is a model for the rest of the city to follow.

The smells of grilled chicken and burgers, searing in perfect lines, sent my olfactory sense into overdrive. Sustenance was needed.

My cohort and I left the wonderful Rockefeller University border and were abruptly slung back into humidity, car-horns and concrete. The rubber soles of our shoes scratched along the surface of the cooling pavement as we forged onward towards our dining destination.

Soon thereafter we found ourselves in a modest deli, surrounded by fresh olives from all over the world. Two baguettes were removed from a cabinet and fastidiously sliced apart and covered with ham and brie, and prosciutto and mozzarella (respectively) before being forced back together again. The desserts teased my taste buds as the rugala and baklava seductively winked at me.

I was sold.

The afternoon of quality conversation, serene settings and delectable foods parlayed into a quiet and relaxing evening with a movie. Just what the doctor ordered after a busy day of work. Perhaps most interesting though, was that a section of Manhattan seemed to break away from its mainland. A portion of the upper-east side defined itself in all of its “olive-colored glory,” and it was good.

Brooklyn Draws a Line

The sky proudly brimmed with a baby blue tint, modestly welcoming New Yorkers to a new day.  Eager to embrace the newest hue for my canvas, I dug through my duffel bag and procured a pair of shorts, socks and a t-shirt.  The silver-plated elevator that lurks within 500 E. 63rd St., opened its jaws and quickly snapped shut behind me.

The button labeled “L” glimmered under the faint overhead lights as I meticulously placed my thumb over the same worn spot that hundreds of thousands of other riders had before.  The worn “L” held up its end of the bargain as the silver jaws slid open once more.

After a 30-minute journey through the maze-like underbelly of the city some refer to as the New York Subway System, I observed a completely new land.  The endless heights of the towers overhead vanished.  The flocks of outwardly harried and stressed individuals, were simply gone.  I had stumbled upon an entirely new kingdom, which seemed light years away from Manhattan.

As I turned the first corner, my head adjusted upwards to seek out the name of this new territory.  The sun, having emerged in its entirety for the first time in two days glared violently into my eyes.  With my hand raised to battle back against the light, I read the following word on a street sign:

BROOKLYN

My eyes widened despite the merciless rays from the sun and my iPod leapt, as if possessed, from my backpack to my ears and sounds of the Beastie Boys echoed through my ears.  The newly conquered  borough demanded exploration.

Small, paper coffee cups and old newspapers danced in tandem along the sidewalks.  Peace signs were arbitrarily stenciled on brick walls and street posts.  A troupe of determined volunteers gripped their clipboards with certainty.

Manhattan was at a distance.

Around another corner, Brooklyn featured another empty street.

Silence.  Only the muffled zip of a nail gun being triggered into a nearby construction site broke the muted borough.

Following a casual break for fresh sushi and a jaunt down a retail-lined avenue, Brooklyn proclaimed its identity.  Without speaking, the borough I had first placed my foot upon only two hours prior, relayed its color.

Then, without warning, a slender, slightly curved but methodical line quietly slid across the canvas.  Having primarily dark colors thus far, the addition of a tope was an odd contrast to the art.  However, Brooklyn had made its mark.  New York City’s most populous borough…was a shade of tan.

New York City Presents: New York City

A blurry gaze at a clock that disappointedly informed me it was 11:15am sent shock waves of guilt and nausea throughout my body as I lay in a nicely made up bed. The bed was in a room in an apartment in a 26-story building in Manhattan’s upper-east side.

Stumbling down the hall, I began to recall the events of the previous night. As if receiving a formal New York City baptism, last night my cohorts and I traversed the city like eager worker bees along a field of newly bloomed flowers. After a rendezvous downtown with some friends, we offered a feeble attempt at negotiating for a few remaining pieces of pizza at a local restaurant. Negotiating while excessively inebriated at 3:00AM is a futile endeavor. Lesson learned.

I digress.

Mirroring the day before, New York City exhibited another humid and gray day with only sparse glimmers of sunlight that unsuccessfully poked at the dark barrier prohibiting it.

From my comfortable throne of apathy within apartment 4J, the Big Apple pleaded with me to join in the frenzy of activity it boasted. The hum of FDR Drive, the laughter of children playing four floors below and the tapping of raindrops from the occasional shower relentlessly bribed me to join in. The city won its case as I carefully looped the laces of my new Pearl Izumi shoes into double knots in anticipation of my upcoming hike.

As I took to the streets, my eyes caught a glimpse of a cigarette butt that I irresponsibly discarded onto the ground 24 hours earlier. It was brown and water-soaked and appeared as though it had been through a lot the night before. I picked it up and tossed it into the garbage.

Immediately thereafter, the streets absorbed me like a blood cell flowing appropriately through a vein. I had officially joined the buzz of the city.

The vibrant, interchangeable cast of characters took the stage as I approached the borders of Central Park. Horses brushed flies away, Lady Liberty smiled as a young child donated a dollar and Sabrett dealers encouraged passers by to indulge. A group of excited revelers danced on roller-skates, a young couple passionately embraced each other and a red-faced gentleman loudly proclaimed “the truth” about America.

Excitement, drama, romance and comedy around every corner, path, street and alley. The characters lived their lives.

I watched.

Which role would I be given in this production? Where would I fit in?

I re-entered apartment 4J. The production continued.

I listened.

A New York City stroke

A pristine home with freshly cleaned linens on the bed in the guest room, carefully tucked into each corner of the mattress. Freshly cut strawberries on top of whole grain waffles, with a sprinkle of powdered sugar. The powerful aroma of just-brewed coffee dancing from the top of a small, but appropriately-sized cup of delicious coffee.

“Amazing,” I mumbled to myself, pondering the possibility of one day living in this kind of world every day.

The final dab of paint from my first stroke came to a halt on my new canvas. Princeton Junction, NJ delighted me in only the way “home” truly can.

SWOOOOOOOSH!!

An Amtrak Acela train rushes by the NJ Transit train station in Princeton Junction. My ears ring with child-like excitement as the Dinky sings its proud song on its return trip from Princeton. New York City’s amazing, yet vile arm finds a way to stretch down into the nicest of New Jersey suburbs like a virus through a newly-obtained host. Like duped, white-blood cells, New Jerseyians flock to the northeastern hub in search of culture and excitement.

I sought a new hue for my canvas.

Like swimming through the air, I walked down 33rd St. forcefully admiring the humidity that clogged even the widest open areas of New York City on July 5, 2008. Rain fell providing a cleansing, aerial assault on the Big Apple, but did not provide the relief needed to break the city free of its shroud of humidity.

The wheels of my 50+ pounds of luggage shrieked as they held their breath, submerging themselves along the gutters of every street side. They re-emerged, took a beep breath and dove back down again. Eventually they found themselves roughly tossed into the dirt-coated rear compartment of a bright yellow taxi.

Meanwhile, a recently sealed New York Giants Super Bowl Champions memorabilia set skipped unknowingly in sync with the 50+ pounds of luggage. Unlike the luggage though, the Super Bowl memorabilia did not shriek. Although it was unable to fully comprehend its new surroundings, it felt a sense of calm and “home.” The same sensation I felt only hours before, while sitting down to my freshly cut strawberries and powdered sugar.

Would I react like the memorabilia, or more like the luggage?

It begins in an airport…

This afternoon I sat in the Aviator’s Club.  Denver International Airport continues to ironically tout one of the last smoking lounges in American airports.  With the smoke hovering like smog over a city on a hot, humid afternoon, I lit a cigarette and looked around the room at the characters passing by.

“What a place to start my journey,” I thought to myself.

Only moments before I was to board my plane and start one of the biggest and most important chapters in my life to date, I observed the unfortunate progression of time from the corner of a smelly, loud smokers sanctuary.  With only a few quick glances, I was able to view the evolution of a smoker, from the newcomer who slowly drew out the same pack of cigarettes he had the last time he flew about a month ago, to the veteran who masterfully balanced the size of the fiery end up his tobacco stick.

I saw life from one point to another.

Quickly I doused my cigarette in the freshly cleaned ash-tray delivered by my waitress and dashed out the door, hastily dismissing the fascinating lifeline I had just tracked.

Bright orange satchel over my shoulder, garment bag in hand, I briskly walked to gate B47…NEWARK.

Though the airport on July 4, 2008 was surprisingly quiet, the multitude of stressers and anxieties busily running through my head screamed at me.  Why was I going to Newark, NJ on the 4th of July?  That’s when I recalled what I was doing.

I let out a quick chuckle, which released a small puff of air from my nose that shot through my mustache.  An Irish Proverb I had read only days ago sprang to the forefront of my mind, blasting away the pesky worries that had held me down for the last three months.

“Making the beginning is one third of the work.”

Now on board my transport to mental clarity, my heart-rate increased.  I was leaving Colorado to seek-out “what’s next.”  My heart beat even faster.

An entire Exit Row to myself, a small box of assorted foods and my freshly updated iPod were my company.  I shut my eyes and pretended to sleep as the always educational safety video began to roll.  My mind began to race at the same pace as my heart.

“In the event of an emergency, follow the illuminated paths through the cabin to the exit nearest you…”

At once…my eyes opened, my heart-rate returned to normal and a small grin stretched mildly across my face.  I understood what I needed to do.

New York City, Princeton, Jersey City, Hoboken, Hamilton, Elon, Manhattan, Gibsonville, Washington D.C., Baltimore…all these destinations represent small bottles of paint that I can use to paint this blank canvas of mine.  My decisions and actions, my brush.

The wheels of the plane retracted with a thud as we soared over Colorado, heading due east.  The first stroke of my brush touched the canvas.