So I'm as surprised as you are that I feel compelled to follow through with last night's spontaneous pledge of "scout's honor." I have no scout's honor.
I promised you bits and bobs, though, and I have plenty of both. It occurred to me as I was hitting "publish post," that I left out some very crucial New York happenings which I know will stay with me for some time.
1. Sarah not only has a car - she also possesses an uncanny ability to voice my weirdest interests / fascinations / curiosities / aesthetic ideals. This manifests itself frequently in her giving me awesome and unexpected gifts, and also in suggesting great activities I might yearn for, but never come up with on my own. All of these things came together Saturday morning to equal nothing other than...
The Hasidic Jew Tour of Brooklyn. Yes. I can say with certainty that never in my life have I seen so many curly sideburns or beards. And because it was Saturday morning and probably right after temple got out, we saw not just the stray mensch trotting the sidewalk, but what looked like the entire neighborhood and then some. Women with scarves covering their hair. Preteen girls in patent leather ballet flats and black dresses. Fur hats. Hebrew. It was like we'd entered another country.
This might sound ridiculous, and I don't mean it to sound derogatory in the slightest, but it hit me as we drove while they walked that they're kind of like Amish Jews. Except (as Sarah pointed out,) often in Honda minivans. It's very very strange to me to think that my grandmother Sally grew up like that (minus the minivan of course) before she and her family fled Ukraine. She moved to the U.S. when she was still pretty young, so I'm sure she was spared the head-shaving and wig-wearing, but I wonder... what was the transition like? I don't even remember her wearing a Star of David. How easy would it be to drop all the trappings of the Hasidic community?
Matthew, who was driving at the time and is actually very informed about the Hasids, mentioned that though that neighborhood looked entirely Jewish, it wasn't: the hipsters had arrived with their bikes and their bike lanes. And they were causing trouble. Many leaders in the Hasidic community had voiced concern over the bikes; women riding bikes in skirts are a dangerous thing, apparently. Sinful. Improper. Not kosher. (Ha ha.) So there was a Battle of the Beards being waged.
1.75. Speaking of Jews and Brooklyn, I was too busy drinking mimosas, eating Venezuelan food, and getting my hair cut to do any Jonathan Safran Foer research. I'd checked his website before I left home to find out about any speaking engagements he might have, but it looks like he's either laying low, or knew I was coming. Incidentally, I almost traded my left kidney to meet his younger brother at a book signing on Sunday. Jonathan isn't the only wunderkind in his family - Joshua Foer just won the American Memory Championships and wrote a book about his journey from geeky journalist to geeky journalist AND "mental athlete." No one could take my shift at work, so my mom went for me and I'm now the proud owner of a signed copy of "Moonwalking with Einstein." It says, "Best wishes, Anya! Joshua Foer" on the title page. And before you assume that my intentions were pure - they weren't. I only googled it on Saturday night - dude's already married. Womp womp. As a condolence prize, it turns out he's actually an excellent writer and his book is fascinating. I'm on page 72 and I have laughed out loud at least five times and learned a lot about my own brain. You win some, you lose some.
2. I did end up going to the Thornwillow at the St. Regis to check out my mystery patron and any design-rippage. I was very surprised to find that the Thornwillow is a dark little room with lots of uncomfortable looking chairs, and very expensive but unimpressive and unremarkable stationary hanging out in glass cabinets. There were a few framed engravings of famous buildings, and some sad leather bound books around, but not a soul in sight. Etsy mystery: half solved. No one is ripping me off, but why did someone have my cards sent there?
3. Infinitely more exciting was my visit to Tender Buttons, a very remarkable button store. Yes. You read that right. Button store. They sell only buttons. On one wall were more boxes of buttons than you could shake a stick at - thousands. On the other wall were framed sets of buttons which I noted ranged from $50 to $500 per set. Holiest of molies. I told myself that I needed to buy what I wanted because when would I get back to Tender buttons, and then I told myself that I needed to eat. Some of the buttons had prices marked on them, and uhh... some didn't. Here's what I allowed myself to buy:
Those are Italian embossed leather foxes, if you couldn't tell. (Ha.)
And those other blobs... hand-carved wooden hands from Nepal.
That word you're looking for? Fabulous.
I was stunned when the lady at the counter wrote out the receipt by hand, and then yet again when she told me that they only took cash. I booked it to an ATM and mournfully offered her more of my bills than I thought possible. Who needs to eat.
4. Post-rat, Brian and I took a long walk around Central Park.
I asked him what book he would write if he knew it would automatically be a New York Times bestseller and not affect his reputation as a decent human being. (Incidentally, I pose this same question to all of you, dear readers.) Right when the inappropriate jokes emerged, I spotted this precious piece of poster:
At least their Department of Parks and Recreation is responsible?
5. I really tried to take in everything I saw. I've become accustomed to traveling with close friends in very foreign places over the last few years, and I noticed in this very different scenario, I was much less comfortable whipping out my camera for photographic documentation. Feeling like a tourist in your own country? Weird. And New York, while entirely new to me, did feel like my own country. And the differences I perceived between NYC and LA were a) not as great as I'd presumed, and b) totally not what I would've guessed. For one, people might be nicer in NYC. They were certainly friendlier and more helpful to me. Total strangers smiled at me. Doormen asked me if I needed help. Men held doors for me. Bankers drew me maps. Everyone seemed ready to chat - and not push me out of the way, give me the stink eye, or rip me off. The crowds weren't as brutal as I'd imagined, and I actually found the hustle and bustle pretty exciting. New York City! Shit getting done! Don Drapers drinking Scotch in their offices and oggling their secretaries. French tourists cooing. Normal people going about their life. Who knew?
Sarah said something to me that I actually thought a lot about when I lived in Portland. She said, "I know this sounds cliché, but I feel like everyone here is looking out for each other. Like, New Yorkers are in it together. So let's not be assholes." And you know what? Even though I saw a distinct lack of unshaven mothers with baby slings and mason jars of hemp milk, I believe her.
Next stop: ISTANBUL. In two and a half weeks. Whoa.
* Randall, I saw this and thought of you:
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