Sparkwood & 21

Urban Combat Training

I am back in the city that fits.

But this time I come to it with fourteen months of urban combat training under my belt.

Before San Francisco used to feel majestic and overwhelming. Now it feels majestic and ready to bend to my will.

See You Soon, San Francisco

I'm going home.

I've been in New York for exactly one year. For me, one year is plenty. 

I'm going back to San Francisco. I'm moving to California on December 1.

New York is a lot. For this gal, it's too much. Did you know that I hate crowds? Oh, yes, I really dislike crowds.

As I write this I struggle to think over the stabbing sounds of horns outside my windows. I'm sitting as high as clouds, and I can see all the way to Brooklyn through the haze. The view here is spectacular, but the view I miss is that of San Francisco as it spills out at 360 degrees from atop Bernal Hill.

I've discussed this with another former San Franciscan, and together we agreed: there is something miraculous about being able to pull back and take in your city from high above. San Francisco allows this at every turn. Each next climb is a new look at the splendor that is San Francisco, so beautifully nestled between the stark sea to the west and the placid bay to the east. It's the most gorgeous city I've ever stepped foot in, and I want to go back. So, I am going back.

There is so much to do here. There is too much to do here. It overwhelms me. It makes me spend money I don't have. I can't climb a hill and pull back and take it all in. If I lived here all my life I'd never scratch the surface of all that this vibrant city has to offer.

I feel like I can handle San Francisco. It's my size.

I got lost in the vertical horizon of New York City. I couldn't find my way. I grew stronger as a result of the struggle, but it sucked me dry down to my bones.

It's hard to live here. If you can handle the hard, it has to be worth it. My God, the place is crawling with world class everything. If you can stand the snow and the summers and the crowds and the expense and the grind of commuting and the non-stop jostle that is living in New York, then the payoff is tremendous. But I don't need world class everything. I don't need the best ballet in the word. Just having a ballet to go to suits me just fine. 

I miss the nature that San Francisco provided. It's a big city in the midst of some of the world's grandest scenery. When people talk about being in San Francisco and being able to be at the ocean one day and skiing the mountains the next, you've heard it a hundred times before. But until you've lived in that kind of paradise, it's hard to comprehend. San Francisco is splendid. New York is splendid, too, but in a grittier, harder, more concrete way.

I'm going back to San Francisco a different woman. New York City is a spanking, and I've learned many a lesson. So many that I know I won't know the breadth of them for a long, long time.

I miss San Francisco so much that I am going back without a job. I've secured housing, but I have yet to find work in the city by the bay. I've been looking, but it's difficult to get hired from 2,500 miles away. I don't care. I can temp, I can wait tables, I can stock shelves, I can work three jobs if need be. I will make it work.

My job at Modest Needs Foundation was incredibly fulfilling and the skills and experience I gained there will carry me far. I am grateful for my time there, but that job requires that I be in New York. And as great is New York is, it isn't great for me.

I'm selling everything I own to afford to move back. I'm bringing my cats, my clothes and a few other valuables, and heading west. What lies next, I have no clue, but I'm up for what ever adventure may await.

San Francisco makes me happy. I did an important thing in coming to New York, but it's time to go home.

Thirty days and counting.

Drunk Girl Wearing Nothing But Heels and Bra at My Door at 2 a.m.: An Analysis

The mystery about the drunk girl outside my apartment wearing nothing but heels and a bra has been plaguing me. How did she get there? Why so little clothing? Why did she call him both her boyfriend and her husband? Why did she think she'd brought her wallet? How does she afford such expensive shoes?

Her being a prostitute had been suggested by many, but I was like, "Nah. She's my neighbor."

Not until today did I consider that she's both: she's my neighbor and a hooker.

In-calls.

It's the best I can come up with. Or as my friend said, "If you end up locked out in a hallway wearing nothing but heels and a bra, you've been having hooker sex."

The Time A Girl Wearing Nothing But a Bra and Heels Rang my Doorbell

There are plenty of people who would be thrilled beyond reason to have a young woman ring their doorbell at 2 a.m. wearing nothing but a bra and sky high heels. I am not one of them.

And yet, this was the very scene outside my studio apartment this Saturday night.

I was sleeping on the couch, like you do, when I heard someone ring my doorbell. I found this odd for several reasons, the primary of which is that I live in a doorman building, and I hadn't okayed anyone coming up. Also: 2 a.m.

Thinking I might be dreaming, I waited. Sure enough, the bell rang yet again.

I threw on some shorts and headed to the door wondering what on earth might be lurking out in the hallway. A gentleman suitor? A late night delivery of pizza and wine?

Nope: naked girl in nothing but a bra and high heels.

She tried to cover herself up once I opened the door, but she had nothing with which to do so. She must have seen my gobsmacked face that had just gotten a gander at her hooha, because she immediately exclaimed, "I'm so sorry."

"Are you okay?" I feared she may have been assaulted.

"Yes, I am fine. I just..."

"First of all, get in here." I ushered her inside, and she immediately went to sit on the end of my bed. Without her chonies on. Yeah. That's when I could tell she was drunk.

"I locked myself out of my apartment, and I was hoping you could call the desk and ask them to let me in."

"Of course!" I looked around for my phone.

"Wait, let me get you a robe." I pulled my robe out of the laundry hamper (so, it wasn't clean, but it was clothes) and handed it to her. "You can keep that," I told her.

I made the call to the front desk and told them my neighbor had locked herself out and could they please come up and let her in.

"Can she come down and get a spare key?" No, I told them, she could not.

I think she said she was sorry several dozen times. Assuring her it was fine, I was just thanking the stars I'd never gotten so drunk that I ended up locked out in a public hallway wearing nothing but stripper gear.

Her story didn't really add up. She said that she and her boyfriend had gotten into an argument, and he locked her out. Then she called him her husband. I hadn't heard any banging on doors or pleading to get back in. I mean, you have to have no where else to turn to knock on a stranger's door buck naked at 2 a.m. on a Saturday night, you think she'd be banging on the door where he boyfriend/husband was.

I further questioned her story when she asked me if she'd brought her wallet. She'd hadn't. And besides, who gets kicked out wearing nothing but shoes, but brings along their wallet? Fishy.

Once I got confirmation that someone would be coming up to let her into her place, I noticed her hair was wet. Not soaking wet, but damp.

So very odd.

I told her that someone would be on the way up, and showed her to the door, and she almost forgot her shoes. I picked them up--nude, patent leather Jimmy Choos--and handed them over. "My Choos!," she yelped.

She looked me in the face for the first time. "I know it's a really trashy way to meet someone, but thank you."

I'm not sure we met as much as I bailed her naked ass out.

After she left, and I heard her safely (?) back in her apartment, I wanted to tell everyone I knew: THERE WAS A NAKED DRUNK CHICK IN MY HALLWAY WEARING HEELS AND A BRA AND THAT IS IT. But it was nearing 3 a.m., and no matter how juicy a tale, I wasn't going to wake anyone up for it.

So, I put it here.

I Know, I Know, "It's Only Going to Get Worse"

It is officially December.

I mean, obviously, because that is what the calendar tells us. But weather-wise, it is also now officially December.

I need a raincoat with a hood. A sturdy one. Because this morning, when I tried to use an umbrella in 50 mph wind gusts, the gods laughed at me. I had a wild tussle with my cheap $10 umbrella in the middle of a busy intersection, and the umbrella won. That fucker turned on me.

You should hear the howls of wind from my apartment allll the way on the west side on the Hudson. It sounds exactly like movie ghosts sound, and I just know I can feel my building bend.

I am not equipped for this weather. And it isn't even cold yet.

A tiny boy decked out like a duck in all yellow rain gear was navigating the streets like a pro, avoiding puddles and leaning into the wind. I felt that kid staring down at my cheap boots and cheap leggings getting soaked all the way through, and I swear I heard him laugh.

[Photo by Alex Barth]

Already Got a New York Attitude

The other day I was leaving the Film Forum after seeing (the awesome) Le Cercle Rogue, and there were two people on bikes right on my heels.

I stopped at the intersection to wait to cross when the man on the bike said, "Let's keep it moving!"

I spun around and shouted, "YOU ARE NOT EVEN SUPPOSED TO BE ON BIKES ON THE SIDEWALK."

The guy on the bike responded in a calm tone, "I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to my wife."

She was the other person on the other bike.

"Oh. Good," I said.

And then I felt bad.

Quick Cab Ride Down Lexington Avenue

I took the subway the wrong way again. This meant an $8 cab ride to work.

So I made the most of it.

Fix the Knicks!

Last night I met some friends at Carnegie Hall for a taping of "Wait, Wait...Don't Tell Me!" the NPR quiz show. The theatre was gorgeous, and the show was hilarious. Much funnier, I think, in person.

Mayor Michael Bloomberg was the guest. I don't want to give away a ton of spoilers since the show does not air until this weekend, but I think a tiny sneak preview might be okay.

Bloomberg was being interviewed about how he only makes $1 a year as mayor and how he takes the subway every day to work. When Peter Sagal asked him if anyone ever confronted him on the subway, he said, no, not really.

Except for one time.

When, as the doors were closing on the train, a guy got in his face and screamed at him, "Fix the Knicks!"

How to Take the Subway and a Cab When You Can't Find a Cab

I woke up late. It happens.

Even the cotton candy sunrise could not entice me out of my air mattress on the floor, so I hit snooze five times and took in 30 minutes more sleep. I told myself a ten dollar cab ride to work was worth the extra slumber.

Once ready to go, there were no cabs. All full. It was rush hour after all.

After a good 7 minutes of failed hailing, I hoofed it on up to Times Square, keeping my eye out for an available taxi all the while. One guy stole one right out from under me, and I just missed another outside of the Port Authority. I texted my boss, and hit the underground.

God, is it hot down there. I scanned my MetroCard, hightailed it to the S train that goes to Grand Central with the plan to transfer to the 6, which takes me just 3 blocks from work.

Downtown or uptown? Shit. I really had no idea. I visualized a map in my head, decided on uptown and scooted on to a 6 train headed out of the station. There is a lighted stop map that showed my unlit exit was next. But it wasn't. I was going the wrong way. (Now I know: uptown means the street numbers go up.)

I hopped off at 54th, and tried to find a way to get to the other side to take the 6 downtown but decided fuck it. I climbed the stairs to Lexington Avenue to find a cab waiting as though it were put there just for me. The morning's first transit blessing.

I crawled in back and put down the window to dry my now sweat-drenched hair, and shoved my jacket in my bag. Once at 30th, I swiped my card (love that all NYC taxis take debit cards), then jumped out and headed on foot...in the wrong direction.

I was 25 minutes late.

And that, my friends, is how you take the subway and a cab when you can't find a cab.

This Is The Way

The sound of rain beating down onto the panels of a tent anchored outdoors in an open field is what I awoke to. I set the sound on my phone before falling asleep, a preventative move to drown out the human noise all around me.

Smoothie in a pink-rimmed mug pierced by a hot pink straw. Breakfast in a glass and out the door.

Juggled wallet and umbrella and pink berry sludge in the rain while waiting for the right bus to take me away. I was last aboard due to the wrestling of items.

The up and down game of "Is He Old Enough to Give Up my Seat" was played. I lost.

A woman stood stoically in a going out silky, tight skirt. She wore going out makeup, three shades of shadow and slick lips and fake lashes.

A young man with blonde stubble in a NY ballcap in the colors blue and orange. I couldn't tell if he likes the Mets or the Yankees. Probably not both.

The driver screeched at the next stop for us all to move to the back! No one budged. She barked her orders to push back yet again, when riders responded, "No room!"

"I can see room," she said.

"For how many people?," someone shouted back. Not wanting to quibble semantics, she drives onward.

Two women could not get bus window open. They grunted and pushed and pulled, and nothing.

The cupcake place was dark.

A man carried reused manilla envelopes with little strings tied around little discs, a closing tactic I like very much.

Puma, Jack Spade, Timbuk2, Jansport in my face. Bags are big business in San Francisco. They carry your everything.

Relief at 3rd and Market as the suited people climbed off in waves. I sat in wet for the last two block.