I stare at the rain fall from behind floor-to-ceiling windows, the first cold day we’ve had in awhile. It’s 11am. I sit on a high stool at a wooden table and hold the coffee cup close to my mouth and blow. Bach and Mozart fill the half empty shop as I squint to scan the hundreds of books filling the shelves on the wall. It reminds me to put on my glasses. At the very top of the exposed brick there are lined bottles of old wine and a giant mirror reflecting the perfect overcast day outside and I think, no better time to write.
I've been on numerous dates lately; I'm taking a less conventional approach and it's resembled something more like a To Do list than anything else. But the stories are pretty good. I've met the good, the bad, the strange and the insane, and maybe actually someone pretty special. The thing is, I’m a sucker for good dancers and running of the mouth. My mom likes to say I have a bad picker...but the thing is, my mom says a lot of things. Like the time she left a long, dramatic voice mail still saved on my phone that declared in her slow tone, “Jenny, you almost lost your mother last night,” explaining how she had to take more than her one aspirin maximum for a headache. Or the time she explained she most certainly had given herself a concussion after a bowl fell from the top kitchen shelf onto her head, and then went about her daily business as usual. Or the time she told me she’d given up on me in her quest for grandkids, she’ll just have to wait for my brother. Thanks moms.
After I finished the two cups of coffee and the rain ended, I decided to head back up the three flights of stairs to my prewar apartment next door. As I approached the entry it was already open, and out charged my two neighbors, Jesse and Rose(sisters), under five feet tall and well into their late 80s. Jesse and Rose live on the third floor, which means every time they leave, they have to make it down and up two full flights of stairs. Very slowly. “Jesse! Jesse where are you going? It’s the other way!” Says Rose in her frail, cracking high pitched voice. I knew I had to wait this out. Jesse seems to ignore her and keeps going into the next shop. Rose looks at me for a moment, “Oh,” she remembers, “I forgot she had to drop off her shoes to be fixed.” In a shoulder shrug of surrender, Rose waddles on by me, ready to take on another day.
I've been limping in and out my apartment for the past two weeks. Injured tibia, bad Saturday night, involved a rooftop. New York night views are amazing from rooftops until screaming tenants come out to catch you and remind you it's not yours. Some say I'm getting too old for these things. And before I agree with them for too long, I think about Jesse and Rose, and my dad's bedtime stories I looked forward to every night, and I realize one day when I'm unable to live this way anymore I'm going to want a lot of really great stories to remember it by. Wouldn't you?
August 24, 2010
Love Will Save the Day
Last Sunday a college friend of mine, Gus, invited me to some live jazz in the east village. Gus is doing some "clean living" and has renounced all drugs and alcohol, turned vegetarian...and he makes it all look gangster. Gus is clearly one of my favorite people. When I arrived the expected ten minutes late (in true Jen form), Gus was sitting on the neighboring steps holding a giant bottle of water. When we headed inside the maitre d’ asked us if we had reservations amidst a blatantly packed venue. It was a good start to the night when as we responded “No sir,” he still managed to seat us at the only empty table right in the front row. After the show Gus walked me home. As we crossed the street at St. Marks Place, a beggar was playing the guitar and singing into a microphone on the corner. He was singing Des’ree- Love Will Save the Day, and it stopped us in our tracks. In fact, it stopped everyone in their tracks. It was breathtaking. Sort of like that one sound you can feel all the way into your stomach. A crowd started to gather as we let the moment take us all captive, put us into a trance. About midway through the song a homeless man in a wheelchair rolled by, and struggled through the gathering people. He rolled up to the musician, leaned over, and cautiously peered into the money jar sitting on the concrete sidewalk. At first I thought he may try to grab some of the coins, but instead what I saw will remain engrained in my memories of New York forever. He took his own paper cup with his left hand, reached in with two fingers, pulled out a dollar bill and dropped it into the singer’s pouch. He then continued to wheel on his way, north on Second Avenue. My arms chilled and my mouth dropped open. Gus caught my eye as tears filled them and said, “That’s real love right there.” We smiled at each other and took a patient pause to just let that sink in for a bit. Feel it. Learn from it. We should all learn from it. Maybe you will today too...
July 10, 2010
Jen Goes to Amsterdam
3:30am Saturday morning and I’m in a car with two strangers making the 45 minute drive back to Amsterdam. It seems poetic that this is how my last night is spent. The sun is coming up in the distance since during this season Holland stays dark for only five hours as a joke on me. My flight is in less than 12 hours and I can’t help but smile as I recount the series of events that brought me to this very moment. To me, only the most bizarre of events equal success. In this case I think it’s best to start at the beginning...
My first few days were spent getting lost between the canals and districts of Amsterdam, locating coffee shops, taking photos, and learning mushroom culture as I watched the cyclists almost run me over. Anne Frank’s Annex and the Van Gogh Museum were as climactic as I'd hoped, and after a day I finally allowed introspection to swallow me whole. The Dutch are calm and happy, and very tall-- which resulted in me barely being able to see myself in the bathroom mirrors.
By the time I was midway into my third night, I found myself surrounded by six Aussies, in a team meeting in the middle of the red light district. After helpfully suggesting (as per request) which prostitute one of my new friends should pursue I slowly crept out of the trip I’d been riding since we ate the mushrooms hours earlier. I’m holding someone's hand, partially just for stability. They invited me to a "show" (of an adult wish-I-hadn't-seen-it nature) when I met them at lunch earlier and since there were two girls going with them I figured why shouldn't I...we’re in Amsterdam are we not? Before I knew it I was in their room preparing for said adventure with Sauvignon Blanc flip cup, quarters, and splitting boxes of mushrooms. Had I not met these new friends 10 minutes earlier, I’d have thought this was just another night. Minus the mushrooms.
The backpacker hostel I stayed in was called, "The Flying Pig" and had a reputation that preceded itself. I wonder to myself when I'll be too old to feel comfortable at backpackers, as I smell consistent waves of pot coming through the windows. The mushrooms were a new feeling: stationary objects were moving unmistakably and I saw faces in curtains, but other than that things were pretty conservative. I did see masks of elders in the tree leaves and had 15 hands, but it really seemed normal at the time. It made cruising the Red Light District bar-hopping and playing games in the side streets at 4am a little more interesting.
It's not just the legal drug usage, I'm enamored with this city. I'm surprised at how easily my absolute loyalty to New York has been diminished. My last night the plan was to watch Neema perform her closing show, spend the night in cast bungalows hours away, and then catch her tour bus back to Amsterdam the next day and hit the airport. At 3 in the morning in the midst of an epic goodbye party, we realize the bus is not actually leaving the bungalows until an hour before my flight. And that, my friends, is how I met Caspar and Oscar. And how it came to pass that I am in their backseat on this highway smiling as the sun comes up, driving back to one of the greatest cities I've ever visited.
My first few days were spent getting lost between the canals and districts of Amsterdam, locating coffee shops, taking photos, and learning mushroom culture as I watched the cyclists almost run me over. Anne Frank’s Annex and the Van Gogh Museum were as climactic as I'd hoped, and after a day I finally allowed introspection to swallow me whole. The Dutch are calm and happy, and very tall-- which resulted in me barely being able to see myself in the bathroom mirrors.
By the time I was midway into my third night, I found myself surrounded by six Aussies, in a team meeting in the middle of the red light district. After helpfully suggesting (as per request) which prostitute one of my new friends should pursue I slowly crept out of the trip I’d been riding since we ate the mushrooms hours earlier. I’m holding someone's hand, partially just for stability. They invited me to a "show" (of an adult wish-I-hadn't-seen-it nature) when I met them at lunch earlier and since there were two girls going with them I figured why shouldn't I...we’re in Amsterdam are we not? Before I knew it I was in their room preparing for said adventure with Sauvignon Blanc flip cup, quarters, and splitting boxes of mushrooms. Had I not met these new friends 10 minutes earlier, I’d have thought this was just another night. Minus the mushrooms.
The backpacker hostel I stayed in was called, "The Flying Pig" and had a reputation that preceded itself. I wonder to myself when I'll be too old to feel comfortable at backpackers, as I smell consistent waves of pot coming through the windows. The mushrooms were a new feeling: stationary objects were moving unmistakably and I saw faces in curtains, but other than that things were pretty conservative. I did see masks of elders in the tree leaves and had 15 hands, but it really seemed normal at the time. It made cruising the Red Light District bar-hopping and playing games in the side streets at 4am a little more interesting.
It's not just the legal drug usage, I'm enamored with this city. I'm surprised at how easily my absolute loyalty to New York has been diminished. My last night the plan was to watch Neema perform her closing show, spend the night in cast bungalows hours away, and then catch her tour bus back to Amsterdam the next day and hit the airport. At 3 in the morning in the midst of an epic goodbye party, we realize the bus is not actually leaving the bungalows until an hour before my flight. And that, my friends, is how I met Caspar and Oscar. And how it came to pass that I am in their backseat on this highway smiling as the sun comes up, driving back to one of the greatest cities I've ever visited.
May 28, 2010
Venture Still
Where are you now.
I could say I'm in boxer shorts and a light pink sorority t-shirt, throwing every outfit that reminds me of a late 60's hippie into an over-sized suitcase. A suitcase I'll be dragging down the street tomorrow evening two-handedly towards the uptown local E train. And outfits that will be perfectly suited for my week-long trip to Amsterdam to visit my Kenyan sister, Neema Ntalel. I'll get to the train entrance and figure out how to haul the bag (that will most certainly cost me an extra $50 and be marked with a big red tag that reads: "HEAVY") down three flights of stairs and through a turnstile during end-of-day prime commute hours.
I enjoy riding the train to the airport. It's therapeutic as I shove my ipod speakers into my ears and mentally prepare. Anticipate. Feel the beginning of the venture.
It's midnight. Typing at my computer and looking out my first windowed room that faces a brick wall, I try to summon the state of emotion I was in the last time I packed my bags for JFK and another life. But I can't. It's easy to speak vividly of change when you need it. It's easy to dig down, so deep into the belly of belief systems and philosophies when you question your own; when life goes dark and history turns pitch black and we fumble blindly through the journey just to grab onto anything we can in order to survive (BREATHE). But right now...right now I feel pretty fucking great.
But just because I don't need it, I still want it. I want the extremity and novelty of a new experience and a new world and a reminder of all things raw. Another update of my mental state and reality check with perspective. Sometimes we need a little magic in our lives. And if you don't believe in magic...you'll just have to make some of your own.
I could say I'm in boxer shorts and a light pink sorority t-shirt, throwing every outfit that reminds me of a late 60's hippie into an over-sized suitcase. A suitcase I'll be dragging down the street tomorrow evening two-handedly towards the uptown local E train. And outfits that will be perfectly suited for my week-long trip to Amsterdam to visit my Kenyan sister, Neema Ntalel. I'll get to the train entrance and figure out how to haul the bag (that will most certainly cost me an extra $50 and be marked with a big red tag that reads: "HEAVY") down three flights of stairs and through a turnstile during end-of-day prime commute hours.
I enjoy riding the train to the airport. It's therapeutic as I shove my ipod speakers into my ears and mentally prepare. Anticipate. Feel the beginning of the venture.
It's midnight. Typing at my computer and looking out my first windowed room that faces a brick wall, I try to summon the state of emotion I was in the last time I packed my bags for JFK and another life. But I can't. It's easy to speak vividly of change when you need it. It's easy to dig down, so deep into the belly of belief systems and philosophies when you question your own; when life goes dark and history turns pitch black and we fumble blindly through the journey just to grab onto anything we can in order to survive (BREATHE). But right now...right now I feel pretty fucking great.
But just because I don't need it, I still want it. I want the extremity and novelty of a new experience and a new world and a reminder of all things raw. Another update of my mental state and reality check with perspective. Sometimes we need a little magic in our lives. And if you don't believe in magic...you'll just have to make some of your own.
May 18, 2010
Dagoretti Corner Tour
I can't stop reminiscing lately! Austin takes us on a tour of one of our many homes while living in Kenya...
May 9, 2010
Mothers and Their Daughters
There’s a photo of my mom and I...I was about two or three years old. We’re in Little Grass Valley camping for the week; I was dressed in overalls. I’m sitting on her lap with my hands wrapped around her neck and she’s swinging me back to make me smile. In the photo both our mouths are open and we are mid laugh. My dad is in the picture too, he’s cooking breakfast for us all. I think this is one of my favorite photos of all time. Whenever I think about how much I love my mom, I picture this photo. It’s perfect; it explains everything that my mom means to me. Then I picture all the times I wake up in my parent’s house to find my mom in the kitchen or living room, and before I’m awake enough to speak any words, she comes over and just hugs me, and rubs my back. How can one person have the ability to just know everything, and be everything you need?
To be loved by my mom is the best feeling there is. I will never stop needing her. She knows when something is wrong or right before I even dial her number from across the country. The one faith I will always have, there is no substitution for her. None.
Nothing takes the place of a mother-daughter relationship. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I've heard it's not easy, but hands down my mom wins. The amount of love I have for her is completely intangible, owed only to someone who taught me that kind of love herself. To all the mothers out there teaching real love, thank you...for making this world a better place.
Happy Mother’s Day Mommy. Thank you. I love you <3
April 5, 2010
On the Streets of West 12th
It was four in the morning and they were dancing in the streets. I was confused at first, and watched from my window as she performed some sort of celebratory jig. I couldn’t help but feel a little envious of the fearlessly rogue street crossing that ensued, or how two people were having that much fun walking it out. They probably had really awesome Italian grandparents. Either way, La Esquina still wouldn’t let them go downstairs...so that happened.
It was as if they had been drinking gin and sodas all night, after three wrong orders of gin and tonic...even if it was the best gin behind the bar. They might have even had a dance-off on the d-floor...because when is a dance-off ever bad? He owed her a pedestal, even after he put her on one, and perhaps even a dinner that didn't involve a sports bar...but it didn’t suck. I think it should have been a good sign after the great white shark appeared at Spring Lounge, but apparently the Maritime Hotel has three dance floors, really bad cell phone reception, and mysterious wine-cork curtains. It also has a great meeting spot at the bathrooms, given you’re talking about the same bathrooms. Ariel views wouldn’t have even helped. But all in all, it was worth leaving the bottle he just bought for the night.
It’s as if he had to use a GPS tracker to find her, or maybe even a game of Marco-Polo, but when he did it was like finding an ipod-filled Easter egg in the middle of a fiercely competitive elbow-throwing hunt. This sort of thing would never happen above 14th Street. I kept thinking what type of rubble-rousers would pretend they were at an 8th grade dance formal, but then again who would think to wear a windbreaker jacket to Southside? It was the sort of thing that could even intimidate a girl with a Swiss army knife in her purse. But he had no chance. He should have known from the beginning; the irony of the pet shop next door might have said it all...
It was as if they had been drinking gin and sodas all night, after three wrong orders of gin and tonic...even if it was the best gin behind the bar. They might have even had a dance-off on the d-floor...because when is a dance-off ever bad? He owed her a pedestal, even after he put her on one, and perhaps even a dinner that didn't involve a sports bar...but it didn’t suck. I think it should have been a good sign after the great white shark appeared at Spring Lounge, but apparently the Maritime Hotel has three dance floors, really bad cell phone reception, and mysterious wine-cork curtains. It also has a great meeting spot at the bathrooms, given you’re talking about the same bathrooms. Ariel views wouldn’t have even helped. But all in all, it was worth leaving the bottle he just bought for the night.
It’s as if he had to use a GPS tracker to find her, or maybe even a game of Marco-Polo, but when he did it was like finding an ipod-filled Easter egg in the middle of a fiercely competitive elbow-throwing hunt. This sort of thing would never happen above 14th Street. I kept thinking what type of rubble-rousers would pretend they were at an 8th grade dance formal, but then again who would think to wear a windbreaker jacket to Southside? It was the sort of thing that could even intimidate a girl with a Swiss army knife in her purse. But he had no chance. He should have known from the beginning; the irony of the pet shop next door might have said it all...
March 11, 2010
Metro Moments
There's something I never could quite understand about airplanes. An enormous piece of machinery, flying thousands of miles up in the air. It just doesn't seem to make any sense to me. But then again, neither does the remake of "We Are the World" with Lil' Wayne signing Bob Dylan's verse...but I still dug it.
The other day I had a love connection on the subway. I was riding the local 6 train downtown from the upper east side. I had just shown the Goodfellas actor, Paul Sorvino, a few $3M properties uptown and was heading back to the office. This stranger was incredibly handsome and after exchanging a few smiles I was certain he was to someday be my husband. As I stood up to leave the train he handed me a page he tore out of the book he was reading, with his name and number hastily scribbled on the corner. I wish I could say the story ends here. Only after we met for coffee did I find out he was only 20 years old, a student at NYU, younger than my little brother. I swore off "love at first sight" immediately in that sobering moment.
At least once per week I see the +254 Kenya country code show up on my cell phone. When I pick it up it's one of my kids asking me to Please Miss Jennifa call for me back! I think of the time some my students walked me 45 minutes home after school, up a dirt road on one of the hottest days of the year. Now I've traded t-shirts for blazers and flip flops for boots, dirt roads for a concrete jungle, but it's still where dreams are made of. And if I close my eyes I can still see my kids there when I look down. It tends to keep me in perspective...I'd have to say.
The other day I had a love connection on the subway. I was riding the local 6 train downtown from the upper east side. I had just shown the Goodfellas actor, Paul Sorvino, a few $3M properties uptown and was heading back to the office. This stranger was incredibly handsome and after exchanging a few smiles I was certain he was to someday be my husband. As I stood up to leave the train he handed me a page he tore out of the book he was reading, with his name and number hastily scribbled on the corner. I wish I could say the story ends here. Only after we met for coffee did I find out he was only 20 years old, a student at NYU, younger than my little brother. I swore off "love at first sight" immediately in that sobering moment.
At least once per week I see the +254 Kenya country code show up on my cell phone. When I pick it up it's one of my kids asking me to Please Miss Jennifa call for me back! I think of the time some my students walked me 45 minutes home after school, up a dirt road on one of the hottest days of the year. Now I've traded t-shirts for blazers and flip flops for boots, dirt roads for a concrete jungle, but it's still where dreams are made of. And if I close my eyes I can still see my kids there when I look down. It tends to keep me in perspective...I'd have to say.
January 31, 2010
January 13, 2010
Haiti
Please
I want to talk about real things
Even when it stings
And your eyes water until they get sore because you want to do more but can’t do more but you could do more if you tried to do more...You ask what for and I say explore like never before I won’t keep score but I will implore you not to ignore to think of the shore where homes hit the floor in a sudden downpour, bodies faced war and a little bit more than spirits were tore, just get down to the core and DO MORE
Please
These things
Are happening a few hundred dollars away make a difference today...
If you can
And solve real live questions to real life problems
Some of us just talk about it while others are out there doing it
Be the verb not the adjective
Someone told me that once
I think he got it from someone else...
But that’s not really the point.
I want to talk about real things
Even when it stings
And your eyes water until they get sore because you want to do more but can’t do more but you could do more if you tried to do more...You ask what for and I say explore like never before I won’t keep score but I will implore you not to ignore to think of the shore where homes hit the floor in a sudden downpour, bodies faced war and a little bit more than spirits were tore, just get down to the core and DO MORE
Please
These things
Are happening a few hundred dollars away make a difference today...
If you can
And solve real live questions to real life problems
Some of us just talk about it while others are out there doing it
Be the verb not the adjective
Someone told me that once
I think he got it from someone else...
But that’s not really the point.
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