razzle dazzle

In ninth grade, I wrote a poem about New York City; a tiny snapshot of the city on a quiet wintry evening-dark and chilly but bathed in a warm glow with references to an old Christmas wreaf left up from the holidays and the touch of clanging champagne glasses from neighboring windows. I think there was a cat in one of the stanzas too. It surely wasn’t anything to brag about (although it did make the rounds between the parents and various overzealous relatives) but that poem, amateur as it was, represented a testament- an ode- a truce to a city that I often felt estranged toward-enveloped in a sea of cold anonymity-fast and furious-pitiless and unforgiving. Even as a resident of New York my whole life, already at the age of 14, we seemed to be at war.

Me and it.

Me versus the great city that never sleeps.

Maybe it was my repressed frustration harbored in the fact that I did not truly live in the city..I was on the outskirts..thereby, at the mercy of the clanking subway transporting me back and forth between school and home. I don’t think that the city-life atmosphere of high school and adolescence quite agreed with me either. After all, I craved what the city could not give me-trees, open space, pep rallies (hey, I was young and impressionable.) All if I know is that during senior year, my college search consisted of me getting away from the city and the subway and the litter and the crowds and all the other components making up the daily life of countless New Yorkers.
So, I guess in regard to my duel with the city, the city won because I backed out. I left.

And the funny thing is that I’m back. What is it they say about New York..even if you leave, you always come back? Or, maybe that is what my dad says. Probably the latter.
But, it’s true. For whatever reason, I am back home. And I must say..things do look different now viewing the world with my twenty something year old eyes. New York has an added mystique..a regal charm of glitz and glamour-a beat-a rhythm-a storyline. It’s a place where friends draped in glittering sequins and plunging necklines gather to throw away hundreds of dollars on dry martinis and mouthfuls of brushetta and crablegs and oysters and steak. So, where do I fit into this razzle dazzle crowd like equation? Well, I don’t really. Although, I sometimes feel like I do, or can, depending on my current alcohol consumption. Take last night for instance-me and several friends nestled in a square table at one of the hottest spot restaurants in town..or so I’ve been told. A gorgeous Cuban restaurant, seated up close to the phenomenal mariachi band and salsa dancing elitist New Yorkers who might have had one too many. We sipped our sangria under the shimmering chandeliers and savored our exquisite entrees before ogling the bill. We then proceeded to hightail it to a nearby exclusive bar/Japanese sheik wonderland of a restaurant where the patrons dressed in suits and ties and kept their blackberries close to their wine glases. Ah. The life. The life I could never have known in high school.

My ninth grade poem ended up on a high note. It was something about New York being my home through thick and thin. I think the cat was there for comedic effect. Almost ten years later, I have to admit little has changed. I do go through phases where I look at the dirt and grime on the ground, where I grow sickened by the overwhelming amounts of bodies in Times Square, but then there are those moments like last night. When New York transforms into a fairy land of the rich and famous in all their finery and glory and I feel like a privileged guest on the private party list.

So, I think in the fight between New York and me..New York will always come out victorious. It has too many faces, too much vigor-it’s boisterous and rowdy-elegant and full of grace. I can't compete. Whether I’m stuffed inside the A train or lounging at the wine bar, it’s my home no matter how much I might not fit in. And, I have to admit..the glitz and glamour part of the city ain’t so bad after all:)

So, once again, I forfeit to your majesty New York City.

You win.

The In Between

You see them on the subway. You see them in the park.

They are the ones rummaging through pockets in search of their wallet, spilling out business cards and gum wrappers in the process. They are fully equipped with cell phone, daily planner, vitamin water, newspaper clippings and the latest trend setting sneakers. They can jaywalk through traffic and bob to their favorite tunes on their respective ipod playlist. They are the leftover passerbys after the 1:00 lunch break rush of nine to five office workers who swarm the deli's, the hot dog stands and the park benches. They can type at frightening speeds, push a stroller of other people's children, recite a Shakespearian monologue and shop on eBayy. They have names and addresses and social security numbers, but they still may think of themselves as lost.

You know them.

They are the people in-between, the transient waifs, the dibble dabblers. They are the nanny's and the waiters and the wannabe actors and the writers and the temps and everyone else who is still clinging to their bachelor's degree as an anchor and their big dreams as a sail. I know them too because I was one of them.

Not to say that these people aren't happy. They certainly can be. For those whose art, craft or ambition ignite passion, adjectives like waiting or temping or browsing or sacrificing comprise small prices to pay in the long run. They would know me and vica versa without ever saying hello. We shared a silent exchange..an "I know how you feel" exchange, or a "maybe today will be the day" smile. Our faces met at the preschool where we dropped off our surrogate kids for the day, on the subway where we hand pressed the wrinkles in our new interview suits, on the museum line as we showed off our not so current student id's for a discount.

We all had one thing in common - the here and now.

Last week I started a new phase in my life commonly called graduate school. However, I have created a more fitting title for this time period - Period of overwhelming adjustment ridden anxiety and deja vu of freshmen year undergraduate zania. Yes, so help me, I made up a word. Zania. And zany it has been. Papers and syllabi and office hours and group projects. I somehow conveniently forgot that these causes of great undergraduate stress would be back to haunt me. Yet, in retrospect, the transition has not been that painful. I have again found my place in the cafeteria line, in the bookstore, in the quad. I camouflage into the pool of undergrads sporting my northface book bag and my five subject spiral notebook. Yet, I am not quite one of them. I have seen a small amount of the world beyond the campus gates. I have sampled different jobs, different people, different ways of life. And now, I am back. By my own will. I am back with a drive for a new career and a little more focus. Or so I think.

In the meantime, I will miss the in-betweeners on the streets, on the subway, on the prowl. While I am taking notes, they will be out and about. I think we will always be slightly envious of one another's path.

I may not see them as frequently, but when I do, I will see them for who they are-dreamers and thinkers and artists and seekers, those who dare to be in-between.