“The world only exists in your eyes. You can make it as big or as small as you want.” - F. Scott Fitzgerald

I awake to the tinkly sounds of my cell phone alarm and instantly am struck with an impulse to kill myself in order to get out of going to work. I hit the snooze button instead. Eight minutes later the chimes urge me awake once more and I give in. I stumble through the motions of my morning routine, barely aware of what I'm doing as I'm doing it. I look for things through fuzzy, lensless eyes: washcloth, underwear, shoes, uniform, keys, cell phone...all of it goes in a pile on my bed. I wear the same thing to work every day, yet even in the sleepy morning hours I inevitably spend too much time accessorizing in an effort to minimize the frumpiness of my uniform. My hair has managed to work itself into a state that is somehow both greasy and frizzy. I pin it back in a bun and spruce it up with a black sequined headband. Somehow I make it out the door, though, true to form, I'm running 15 minutes late. Somehow...

The next thing I know I'm standing in line at Ruthy's Deli in Chelsea Market, determined to get a bagel with cream cheese and an enormous cup of coffee, no matter how much later it makes me. I'll still get there before the opening manager, and that's all that matters to me right now. I clock in fifteen minutes late...the first bite proves every second was worth it. I take my time doing my opening paperwork and savoring my coffee. I'm sitting in the office with Tiffany, the morning reservationist, when our manager Sara calls to say she's running fifteen minutes late and to ask us if we'd like breakfast. My heart leaps: even though I've already had my breakfast, I'm down to five bucks in my wallet and I'm heading straight from this restaurant to the next with no time to eat in between, so I figure I could stand to stock up while the opportunity has arisen. Plus, my exhausted little immune system has been working overtime and is dying for some refreshing, nutrient-filled oj this morning. I hang up the phone and head upstairs to set up the floor. But first I pop outside and down the block for a fresh copy of this week's Village Voice to have with my coffee.


When Sara arrives, I find I'm too full for my second breakfast (she's chosen for me yet another bagel with cream cheese), so into my bag it goes, destined to be my lunch on the walk between restaurants. Somehow, be it the free food, getting away with being late, or just the caffeine starting to kick in, I've managed to find myself in a good mood by the time we open at noon.

Around 12:30, five people laden with very intense looking camera equipment enter the sliding glass doors and approach the host desk. The one woman amongst them, shorter and bonier than me though saddled with the largest pieces of equipment (my kind of lady) tells me she's here for "the shoot" and asks where they can park their gear. I point them to the north private dining room that's closed off for lunch. Shoot? I ask Sara. Apparently Chef Morimoto is having a sushi lesson with his fellow Iron Chef Bobby Flay this afternoon. We decide it must be a segment for Throwdown With Bobby Flay. Cool. As the camera crew are loading in more and more paraphernalia, I duck into the coat check for a hot second to check my cell phone, as I do obsessively about ten times an hour. Lo and behold, there's a text from Molly:

Molly: Guess what event im workin today? Yer gonna shit yer pants

Molly: Obama concert with Billy Joel, Bruce Springsteen, John Legend, India Arie and James Taylor...billy and Bruce are doing sound check right now

Me: BAD ASS. Take pictures! Bobby Flay and Morimoto are making sushi together in a couple hours and the Food Network is filming in the restaurant

Me: But you still win

Molly: Shut up! U take pics too! Or get in a shot and wave like an idiot!

Can one become successful by osmosis? I'm pondering this coincidental synchronicity of Molly's and my proximity to fame, when a PA for the Food Network walks in carrying extension cords...he looks extremely familiar. A kid about my age with a puppy dog fave and shaggy brown hair in a green t-shirt and jeans. Then it hits me: I think I slept with that kid about a year ago.

My first and only one-night stand, about a month after I arrived in the city. Quite possibly my last one-night stand: as I remember, it was kind of awful. Not embarrassing or emotionally uncomfortable--I had absolutely no emotional investment in the tryst at all--but simply downright terrible sex. Is it really the same kid? It seems too random to be true. I keep an eye on him peripherally as I go about my business making confirmation calls for tomorrow's reservations and become increasingly convinced that it is, in fact, him. I'm certain because when I met him, he was PAing for MTV when they came into Beacon while I was working to shoot for an episode of Making the Band. The irony of it is enormously hilarious: that my pathetic little excuse for a sexual history would actually come back to haunt me seems so ridiculous. But it's not the first time this has happened.

I lost my virginity to a co-worker at one of my restaurants when I was 19, the summer after my sophomore year of college. After a month-long period of pseudo-dating (I hesitate to call it a relationship), I decided to break it off quickly by neglecting to call him back. I naively thought it would be easy and painless...until he started to call me every day. Luckily, I was in my last week at the restaurant so I only had one uncomfortable run-in with him at work, which ended with me leaving through the back door after my shift and him following me outside, cornering me, and badgering me about blowing him off. Which, granted, wasn't the most mature way to handle it, but I was young and there was a lot going on in my life and I just wanted to detach quickly and cleanly. He called me every day for almost two months and every day I ignored his call. Then one day, he left me a message telling me he was leaving for Europe for several months. I breathed a sigh of relief as I counted down the days until he would be out of the country and I would no longer run the risk of running into him. Then, an entire year later, I was walking out of the Ritz movie theater in Old City with Molly and Matty one Saturday afternoon, when suddenly, there he was, walking towards us. I saw him first and hoped he wouldn't recognize me, but he did, and walked right up to me. I panicked, making forced, frantic small talk and gave him my number again in a daze. Two months later, we met up for coffee one time, and I invited him to see a show I was in at school. After that, I faded him out of my life again. Until this summer, when I swore I passed by him on the street in Old City and added him as a friend on Facebook to see. We emailed about getting together, but my heart wasn't in it.

But the kid I hooked up with one time? New York is the most populated city in America. How could I possibly have run into him? Sure, this kind of thing happens on Sex and the City all the time... but I'm only 22 and I've only slept with four people, and only one in New York. Is the Universe trying to send me some sort of message? I can't possibly imagine what it must be--it certainly can't be to scale back my promiscuity. I couldn't be less promiscuous if I tried. What the hell?

I don't acknowledge that I recognize him. I'm not sure if he recognizes me, or even remembers me, as he makes no indication. I'm relieved. There is nothing to gain for either of is in acknowledging that one tiny event that links us together. It certainly doesn't seem like anything worth revisiting.

I am connected to random people in New York. Although individually they mean very little to me, something about that feels comforting.

The shoot starts around 3:00. I usually work until 5, but at 3:30 Sara lets me go. I leave quickly, relieved that I have an extra hour and a half to myself before I have to work at Tabla. I take the scenic route through Chelsea and walk all the way to Madison Square Park. It's a perfect sunny afternoon, and there's a perfect bench just waiting for me: across from the fountain by the playground, next to a water fountain. I settle onto the bench sitting cross-legged and devour my bagel from Sara as I browse through the Voice. All the parts of my day swirl through my head in a strange kind of way that makes me feel like I'm being guided.

An hour passes, and the sky has clouded over entirely. The threat of rain is in the air but I'm not scared. I'd be happy for it to rain while I'm at work. Everything feels different when it's raining...indoors people become a little stir-crazy and there's electricity in the air that somehow always serves to unite us. A gust of wind above stirs the leaves of the one yellow tree in the park. I noticed this tree earlier in the week while I worked the patio. It's the overachiever of Madison Square Park, eager to be the first to shed it's old leaves and start from scratch. Suddenly the fountain and I and all the people around me are being showered in yellow leaves. They flutter through the sky like birds and as they hit the ground the wind makes them scurry along the sidewalk in great clusters. Tiny children with their nannies squeal with delight. Two leaves land on my newspaper. I tuck them into its pages and save them for later, not for anything in particular...maybe only to remind me of this moment when I get home from work later, exhausted and bitter, and empty the contents of my bag. I'll see the leaves and smile and remember that randomness is itself a pattern worthy of believing in.

Is anything connected? Is everything? I have no idea.

"Our passionate preoccupation with the sky, the stars, and a God somewhere in outer space is a homing impulse. We are drawn back to where we came from."

- Eric Hoffer

Turning Over (Not Into) a New Leaf

Okay. I was just about to start blogging when I happened to look up at the television (which is tuned to TLC so I can watch What Not to Wear in my peripheral vision as I write) and saw a commercial for an upcoming program which has grossed me out so badly that I absolutely have to mention it before moving on. The program was about this man who is half tree, and half man. Half tree! Is this for real? How is such a thing even possible??? Dear God, the pictures of him were so incredibly upsetting I can't even describe them. I'm trying to shake it off.

Anyway.

If you've already noticed, there is something very different about the technical circumstances under which I'm writing today. Have you guessed? Here's a hint: I'm not at work. I'm not blogging by cell phone. That's right, I'm at home on my very own computer! Not a new computer, unfortunately, but my very old, very outdated Gateway laptop. Remember Gateway? I'm pretty sure I'm the only person who still owns one. My version of Windows XP is circa 2001. It's very retro. Still, I'm proud of this computer. My senior year of high school I entered a scholarship competition that I read about in my guidance counselor's office sponsered by Coca-Cola and the San Diego Public Transit Authority. I wrote an essay about the (very limited) history of public transportation in San Diego, and about six weeks later I received a phone call telling me that I was one of fifteen students selected to attend an awards luncheon at Coca-Cola headquarters, at which I was to receive my winnings: a $250 scholarship and a free Gateway laptop, complete with carrying case. Yes, apparently even at 17 I could bullshit in essay format with the best.

It's been about four years since my computer connected to the internet. My first semester of freshman year my roommate Megan's parents offered to pay for our internet connection. I went totally hogwild, downloading music and AIMing like crazy, to the point where I was finally inundated with viruses. Then Megan dropped out over winter break, and I was left again without internet access. After that, I reasoned that I just couldn't afford it and didn't need to, when the computer lab at school stayed open until 2 am every night. Since graduation, I've done what I could, stealing internet access at work and paying for it at Kinko's, then breathing a sigh of relief when I got my Palm Centro cell phone which had complete, miniature internet browsing ability. Then last night, Matty suggested I try connecting my computer directly to the router, since it lived in my subletted room right by my bed. Low and behold, it worked! I'll never be the same again! DVR, cable, and internet? Matty is spoiling the hell out of me. Thank goodness I've finally started to make some money so I'll be able to pay for all these technological goodies.

So, now that I've got all those tangents out of the way, let me tell you about my day. It was an ordinary, unremarkable day, but a perfect, lovely one nonetheless. Having closed at Tabla Monday night, then worked a thirteen hour double yesterday, my body was begging me to stay in bed this morning. Alas, I had to face another lunch shift, so I hoisted my worn-out self out of bed, put myself together as quickly as possible (given my insomnia) and rolled out the door, pausing to grab an apple and a magazine for the subway.

I was just telling Matty last night that I've started to realize the only way I'm going to be able to sustain working full time at both restaurants is to force myself to adapt a healthy new routine. Last summer, I spent one month working three jobs: teaching by day at the UArts summer program, hostessing by night at Jones, and serving on the weekends at Chili's. It was insane--but I didn't get sick once, and I was the happiest I'd been in a long time because I was managing to fulfill all my needs, both personal, professional, and financial. I was grocery shopping every Sunday evening and packing my lunches, eating really healthy, and taking yoga at the gym on my lunch breaks from the summer program. I've done it before, and I know I can do it again. What gives me the strength and the stamina to endure such a saturated schedule is knowing that it is temporary. I've given myself until February to maintain this ridiculous schedule. True, it doesn't leave much room for a social life, but hey--as Carrie Bradshaw once said, "isn't delayed gratification the definition of maturity?" My main priority right now is taking care to put my life seriously on a healthy track, and that starts with building some financial stability, even if it proves to be temporary, which I've accepted that it may very well be.

This was my online horoscope today:

"You may want to have more stability in your everyday routines, such as diet, exercise and sleep. But there can be too many distractions these days, making self-discipline even tougher than usual. You may reach a point where it's healthier to let go of control, instead of frustrating yourself by trying to tighten your grip on reality. Tomorrow is another day."

Well, shit.

Luckily for me, I've spent the last year purposfully working to accept that change is inevitably out of my control. The tide will always ebb and flow, and while I may not be able to change it, learning to roll with it allows for a sense of flexibility and ease in my life that has taken away my fear of failure. Yes, the confusion still remains, but the fog seems to be clearing little by little and it's fabulous.

I took a bite out of my Golden Delicious apple on the D train this morning and was surprised at how easily my teeth sank into the fruit, and what a satisfying crunch it made. My coppery-pink lipstick left a ring around the bite that glistened in the morning sunlight. I usually only buy Granny Smith apples (for some reason red apples or even Macintosh apples gross me out...I prefer the tartness of green ones.) The Granny Smiths are usually much harder to bite into than this Golden Delicious. Suddenly I was hit by the sensation of Autumn, all at once and very intensely. The potential for beauty and change fills the air everywhere I go in New York; I can feel nature vibrating as the leaves are perched on the very tips of their stems, just itching to change color and fall to the ground. The biggest changes in my life have always happened in the fall, from all the years I moved from school to school as I bounced back and forth between my parent's houses, to every new semester of college that held so much possibility, to last fall when I piled into the UHaul van with Alee and moved myself to New York. The big changes happen between September and January, and through the Winter I hibernate, settling into the new and improved version of my life that I've turned over.

The trains have been running very slowly the past few days, and I was about eight minutes late for work (though I called on the way to alleviate my fear of sullying my brand new unblemished reputation at Tabla.) Once I got onto the floor I settled down, and after several cups of coffee I was ready to work. It was a good shift--I've stopped making mistakes and I've started to create a new muscle memory for the restaurant. I feel settled and satisfied, and very relieved that my schedule has stabilized. As I neared the end of the shift, I started to plan out the rest of my evening. I have the night off and was determined to spend it in the most pleasurable, relaxing way possible so I'd be rejuvenated for my back to back doubles over the nest couple days. When I left the restaurant at 3:45, I headed straight for Union Square. The Farmer's Market was in full swing and I was determined to take advantage of it for the first time, since I had a little money to play with and double paychecks coming on Friday.

Tonight is the finale of Project Runway. Matty and I have been looking forward to this for weeks. It's an even bigger event since it's the show's final season on Bravo before it transfers to Lifetime next season. Miraculously, we both happened to have the evening off, so we planned to spend it together for the first time in weeks. He doesn't get off until 7:30 or so, so I'm cooking dinner for us: turkey burgers and sweet potato fries, with some kind of veggie dish on the side. Matt and I constantly bicker about our opposite beliefs regarding grocery shopping. Both of us love grocery shopping, and love crafting our own meals, although our styles and tastes couldn't be different. For one thing, Matty doesn't really buy or eat much fruit, whereas I crave fruit and juice all the time--it makes up for a large percentage of my shopping. He also buys pre-grated cheese (which I'm just so against), Kraft Singles (ditto), and frozen vegetables. He claims that every time he buys fresh produce it goes bad before he has time to eat it. I think it's a matter of buying less, only as much as you know you can eat in a week. Very few things actually spoil in a week if they're stored in the fridge, even if they're organic. He uses garlic powder instead of fresh garlic. The difference is obvious: he's all about convenience and practicality, whereas I'm all about authenticity and richness of taste and quality. You can tell which one of is is the restaurant snob.

At the market, I look for fresh organic garlic, onions and bell peppers--it's the first time I've ever bought produce at a farmer's market. It feels so fantastic for so many reasons. I feel like I'm getting back to the earth, taking a break from Corporate America with all it's overly-processed, pre-packaged, wasteful superstore glitz, and supporting local vendors at the same time. I feel like I'm making a difference--resisting over-economy, putting my money in the pockets of normal citizens instead of corporations. Shopping at the farmer's market feels like an act of rebellion. And, it makes me feel like part of a community.

I spend $2 on two small yellow onions, a clove of garlic and a green bell pepper...already I can smell how fresh and delicious they will taste with our dinner tonight. My next stop as I meander through the masses of green shoppers with their reusable shopping bags (I left mine at home) is at a little flower stand. The woman running the booth has backed her van into the tent, and its doors are open revealing her dwindling stock of fresh-cut flowers (I'm a little late...the market will start to close down in an hour or so.) I pick a small bouquet of fall-colored chrysantemums, and she tells me they're on sale, so I buy two for $10. The smile up at me with friendly red and yellow faces as I continue on through the market. I stop, on a whim, at a baked goods stand (my weakness) where I pick out a homeade pumpkin loaf and a large chocolate chip cookie (all I've eaten today was that apple and I'm dying for a snack) for a total of $4.50. Down the street from Union Square is a Trader Joe's, complete with an absolutely astounding wine store. This is my favorite new discovery in the entire city. Trader Joe's has a decent little wine selection from all over the world, and not one bottle is over $30 or so. I've purchased two bottles for $10 before...and it's still good quality wine. It's so worth going a few blocks out of my way for: I pick out an Il Valore Sangiovese from Puglia for (are you ready?) $4.59.

So, in half an hour, I've spent about $21 and I've purchased flowers, a bottle of wine, fresh organic veggies for dinner, a cookie for a snack, and a pumpkin loaf. All fresh, all organic, all deliciously satisfying.

New York is possible to enjoy on a budget, after all...you just have to know the little secrets. And stop assuming that the best things come with big price tags.

I'm divinely satiated on the N train ride home, even though I'm exhausted and have to stand (I always forget about rush hour.) I get home, arrange the flowers, and open the bottle of wine. I've decided to try drinking more in an effort to trick myself into going to bed earlier. I know, I know... it's a lonely, treacherous road to alcoholism. Luckily, it doesn't run in my family, and my body is so vulnerable to drugs and alcohol that one glass pretty much always does the trick. And besides, a glass of red wine with dinner is supposed to be good for you, isn't it? Wishful thinking?

"Still Life With Groceries"

How wonderful it feels to take comfort in small pleasures. My attitude has improved so much in the past few weeks...I'm sure it's a sign of ever greater developments to come. I have short-term goals in mind that serve only to take me from one phase to the next. I'm keeping my mind open to possibilities that are impossible for me to forsee. Right now I'm focused on my holistic happiness rather than my long term world-changing goals. Those are all still there. But focusing on the short term makes it easier to trust that the long term will fall into place. It's kinda like the way I see without glasses or contact lenses: everything that is within a foot of my face is clear, and everything that is farther away becomes blurrier and blurrier. I can still see it--the colors and the shapes are there, but fuzzy and blended together. The closer I come to an object, the more it comes into focus.

Clearly, I am near-sighted in life.

I've been blogging all summer to cope with a serious crash of my morale. Thank goodnessI'm finally changing with the leaves.

(...though thankfully not changing into the leaves...I just remembered the tree-man again. So gross!!!)

In Search of the Best of All Possible Worlds

"Life is not good or bad. Life is life."

-Voltaire, from Candide.

I have approximately ten dollars to my name right now. I'm starting to worry a bit because the new job isn't working out so far. They've been cutting me almost every shift I'm scheduled for, so I've only been getting to work one shift a week and I've cut my availability down at Morimoto in order to accomodate the new schedule. Every day I come home from work, make some pasta or scrambled eggs and settle in to watch hours of TV. It's a terrifying slippery slope.

My brother Jake sent me this text message a couple hours ago:

Jake: Hey, I'm like really really really unmotivated about life right now. Any advice?

In the middle of watching last night's episode of Top Design on DVR, I stared at my cell for a moment, trying to think of some pearl of big sisterly wisdom. I was tempted to blow it off with a flippant, breezy comment about how I'm not really one to advise these days, as my outlook hasn't exactly been sunny lately. But I ultimately wasn't ready to admit to spiritual defeat... especially to my little brother. He's about to graduate from UCLA's School of Film and Television in the spring and he's burnt out and discouraged. I know his plight all too well, and it breaks my heart that he feels so jaded. I tossed my cell phone aside in hopes that some kind of insight would come to me if I gave it a few minutes.

Tuesday morning as I sat on the New York-bound Bolt Bus at 7:15 am, returning from Philadelphia after a divine weekend trip, I tried to translate my complicated feelings into blog fodder:

"I don't think I'm supposed to continue living the way I'm currently living for much longer," I wrote.

At the time, I was a little overwhelmed (not to mention totally exhausted, having slept for one hour before leaving at the crack of dawn to return to NYC in time to work at Tabla at 10:30. And still a little drunk from the Barrymores the night before.) I was unable to further sort through the static in my head and the swirling in my heart. But I definitely felt a change...and whatever it was it felt so good.

My weekend in Philly was exactly what I needed, and not a moment too soon. I'd asked for Sunday and Monday off from the restaurants, and was pleasently surprised to get Saturday night off as well. I got off work at 5, rushed around getting my errands done (buying a dress for the awards show, bus tickets, and Vogue for the bus ride) and hopped on an 8pm Chinatown bus. Heather met me at the diner after her show, and we walked down to South Philly, catching eachother up on the past three months. As we walked, a cluster of burly former frat guys stopped us to ask where Finn McCool's was. We expertly pointed them in the right direction--I felt like I was home.

Sunday, I went into Center City early with Heather to shop for Barrymore jewelery and meet up with my old friend Andy for coffee. Having non-college friends makes me feel like such a grown-up. Andy worked at Chili's with me for one summer before he quit and somehow we've managed to stayed in touch over the years. He walked me to the Arden in Old City so I could take in the matinee of Candide that Heather had gotten me a comp ticket for (in exchange for me taking her as my plus-one to the Barrymores.)

I love going to the theater by myself. I especially love going to matinees and sitting amongst the over-sixty crowd. I feel like an insider, like I'm going undercover to watch how the patrons interact with eachother, and how they react to the show. (Plus, old-lady chit chat in the bathroom line at intermission is totally priceless. "I like it, but it's not my favorite. Sondheim is just so wordy...it goes by so fast. This is Stephen Sondheim who wrote this, right?The voices are just wonderful, though.")

As I waited for the lights to dim, I felt so inspired--and nothing had even happened yet! It was then I realized that it's been months since I'd been to see a show. I haven't had any money, so my entertainment options have been limited to the lowbrow. It was an absolute relief to be sitting there. As the overture started, I felt my heart thaw and my mind begin to open, and my whole being began to hungrily soak up every drop of creative juice that began to seep across the stage.

I always forget about the overture to Candide until I hear it. It is one of the most perfect, exhilirating overtures in the American musical canon. When I was in tenth grade, I played first violin in the Symphony Orchestra at the Etobicoke School of the Arts in Toronto, and the overture to Candide was in our repetoire that season. As I recall, it was the piece I had to play to audition for re-entry into the orchestra. As the Arden's ten-piece band played, I did miss the bravado of the seventy-piece orchestra. But the band did a commendable job with what they had, and the lush beauty of the playful, yet moving score remained in tact. I teared up the minute it started, and from then on was totally on the journey.

Heather told me that Terry Nolen, the director of the show, turned to the cast at one point in rehearsal and said "this may be the hardest musical...ever." And while the production may have fallen a tad short of its ambitions, I was still completely engaged from start to finish as I discovered the rich, poignant satire of the story, the lavish beauty of the score, and the bleak but desperatley moving philosophy of Voltaire.

"We have no choice", one of the characters says deep into the second act, as hope continues to dwindle. "The current will take us somewhere. and if it isn't nice--at least it will be new."

It reminds me of Nina in The Seagull : "And now I know, Kostya, I understand, finally, that in our business--acting, writing, it makes no difference--the main thing isn't being famous, it's not the sound of applause, it's not what I dreamed it was. All it is is the strength to keep going, no matter what happens. You have to keep on believing. I believe, and it helps. And when I think about my vocation, I'm not afraid of life."

After the matinee, Heather and I had a super cheap (but totally awesome) dinner at the Continental, where we visited our old managers from Jones, and discussed the show. We then parted ways as Heather got on a bus to go to New York for an audition the next morning, and I went home to hang out with the boys.

I think, of all the places I've lived in the last year, that the boys' house is the most comfortable, the safest, and the most nostalgic. I just feel so overcome by their kindness and acceptance of me, and so at home when I'm sitting up with them in their living room, talking about school and life. They are such lovely people, destined for so much happiness and success. I slept in until 2 pm the next day and when I got up, I realized it was the most satisfying sleep I'd had in weeks...on the boys'dilapidated couch, no less.

I realized: being back in Philly made me feel like myself again. It makes sense. Philly is where I found myself to begin with.

The next day I ran errands, bought Jamie a chocolate cupcake (it happened to be his 21st birthday) and dropped to visit Peggy, my friend Molly's mother. I adore Peggy. We've gotten to be very close over the years. She is an important part of my Philly family. Funny how the family we make for ourselves can become a more active part of our lives than our actual family.

Heather and I glammed up in a hurry and cabbed it to the Wanamaker building to make it in time for "Cocktail Hour." Within the first five minutes, we each ran into five people we knew from our various theatrical endeavors. (Let me take this moment to state: I'm totally jealous that Heather is now legitimately friends with Mary Martello.) And a lovely thing happened: even though I live in New York now, even though I was in one Philly show this season, for the first time I felt like I was a part of Philly Theater, instead of merely wishing I was. I'm so in love with the theater community in Philadelphia, and I've always felt that if it embraced me, I could be really content there. But for the first time, I realized that I can be a part of the community without living there full-time. I caught myself telling a friend that I was thinking about moving back to Philly. Truth is, this is only a thought I have when I'm there. When I'm in New York, I'm committed to it, and I'm certain that the tough times won't last forever. New York and I are starting to warm up to each other. It's been throwing all kinds of shit my way, and I've been consistently dodging bullets. I'm starting to feel like New York is accepting me as it's equal, acknowledging that I have the strength, stamina and determination to take it on my own terms. New York will never drive me away, and if I choose to leave, it will not be out of necessity or scorn, but because I've gotten what I need from the city and am ready to move on.

It's too soon. I need to stay in the thick of it for now. And in the meantime, a piece of my heart will always be in Philadelphia. I can't wait to go back for the revival of The Irish... in the winter and live with the boys again. I can't wait until my next visit. And right now, I'm trying to work. And I'm enduring.

About a half hour later, I text my brother back:

Me: Changing my location helps me change my perspective...find a new environment to spend some time in. It may help you define what's important to you.

Jake: Wow, that was really profound.

Me: Well, I try. Seriously though. Every time I get out of NYC I feel like my head clears and life seems much simpler.

I hope he wasn't being facetious. I'm a little vulnerable right now.

Maybe there is no such thing as the "Best of All Possible Worlds" where everything happens for a reason and all roads lead us to who we want to be and the ideals we most desire. But I refuse to believe in the worst of all possible worlds, where everything is painful and random and anarchy is the only path that makes any sense.

I have amazing friends and a wonderful family. I will take comfort in the love that surrounds me and the love I have for others and I will seek constant inspiration. I will defy the bleak cynicism that has overtaken this tragically messed-up country. I will maintain hope and faith in humanity. And I will strive to make art a larger priority in my life because art is what I do and who I am and it is that which makes me feel alive and connected to the universe and the greater good. Even in the darkest moments.

"Let us work without disputing: it is the only way to render life tolerable."

- Candide

Ode to the Midtown Diner (and Philly Diners in General)

It's 10:45 pm and I made it to Philly in one piece. I must say, it's been like 3 or 4 years since I took the Chinatown bus, and wow did I forget how ghetto it is. Like, three of the overhead reading lights on the whole bus work, the seats are tiny, the whole thing is dirty as hell, the TVs are covered in graffitti...and dear god, the bathroom shouldn't even be spoken about. All I can say is, thank goodness for the hand sanitizer I keep in my bag at all times.

At least they make good time. I got in at quarter to ten. I'm staying with my friend Heather this weekend who is currently crashing with my beloved South Philly boys while she's performing in Candide at the Arden. The show is like 3 hours long, so I figure I've got a while to kill before she can meet me. (Actually, I suppose I could've gone straight to the boys'--I still have a key to their house, after all. I'm not sure if they realize this, though, so I decide to lay low.)

Unfortunately, if Philly were a person it would be a seventy year-old man with bunions and bad eyesight who sits in the park and yells at people and goes to bed at 7:00. There is a serious shortage of establishments that actually stay open past 9pm...even on a Saturday (bars excluded of course, and they only stay open 'til 2.) So Starbucks is out, as is the bookstore. I can't really afford to go somewhere and be waited on as I always feel guilty ordering less than $20 worth of stuff at a restaurant--a sum that seems so indulgent to me now. I miss the days when I could afford to take myself out to a $50 dinner at a decent restaurant.

Pondering what to do as I walked down 11th st., the answer suddenly presented itself.

Midtown Diner!

So many memories of drunken post-party grilled cheese sandwichs at the midtown run through my head and I feel a warm sense of comfort and familiarity wash over me. One New Year's Day post-sleepover, a large group of us trekked across the drunken chaos of the annual Mummer's Parade on Broad Street to drown our hangovers in coffee and oj and pancakes. Last fall while I was subletting Kati's old apartment on South Street, I locked myself out of the apartment and didn't realize until returning home from work at 1:00am. So I went to Midtown and waited for Kati to return from Delaware so I could crash on her couch and drop by the real estate office in the morning for their extra key. Shivering in the early fall AC (that seems unnecessary to me) and miserably sipping hot chocolate, I felt safe in the fluorescent glow of the Midtown.

The diner hags at Midtown are the best. No one compares to authentic Philly waitresses. With their flat nasal accents, peroxide-fried hair and trademark smoker's coughs, they're the friendliest gals you could ever hope to meet.

"Yous ready to order, Hon?" Love it.

They let me plug my dying phone into the outlet at the service station and brought me decaf and apple pie with ice cream which I ordered in hopes of soothing my cramps with sugar and carbs. I desperately needed to use the restroom and realized as after the fact that I'd left my bags at the table unattended without thinking anything of it. Cell phone on the table. It seemed perfectly safe to me. I was as comfortable as in my own home.

Yeah, yeah I know it's Philly, I should never leave my stuff unwatched. I do know better than that. There's not much there to steal, I figure. My point is, I wasn't even conscious of it. There truly is so much comfort in familiarity.

New York diners just aren't the same. They're cleaner and sleeker and the food is better and the owners are all immigrants. There is something so distinctly American about Philly diners. At Philly diners the food is generally bad, often the service is worse, but there is so much charm in it all. Plus they're always open, the only places in Philly that you can always count on to be open when you need it most.

Mmm. How've you been, Philly? Did you miss me? I hate to admit it, but I've missed you. You know I always do. You're my first love, after all.

"For the person for whom small things do not exist, the great is not great." - Jose Ortega y Gasset

I have always been afflicted with chronic lateness. It's a very serious issue. I'm very rarely more than fifteen minutes late, and to things that really matter very rarely more than five minutes late. Somehow, I cannot figure out how to reprogram my internal clock to run on time let alone early.

One of the nice things about working the am reservations shift at Morimoto is that I am always the first front-of-house employee to arrive at the restaurant. I cherish my alone time in the office. It's my time to drink my coffee, eat my homeade breakfast sandwich, check my email and read the news online. It's heavenly. Also, and this is both a blessing and a curse, there is no one here to notice when I'm late.

Whenever I manage to make it to work on time, or early, I feel an enormous sense of satisfaction and pride akin to, I imagine, what it must feel like to run a marathon or adopt a small child in Sudan. I realize that it's completely ridiculous to feel such a grandiose sense of accomplishment for being on time to work, but for me, it's a big deal. It truly is the little things in life that count, after all.

I desperately wish I was a morning person. There is something so divinely grown-up about eating breakfast at home, at the table, before going to work. Or having the time to take the long route to work and not having to speed down the sidewalk like a bullet train, instead having the freedom to take in the crispness of the morning air, the quietness of the city, and the twinkle of the morning sun. The energy of New York changes so beautifully from the crisp potential of the morning, to the vibrant buzz of the afternoon, to the smooth coolness of the evening, to the hazy decadence of the night. My absolute favorite days are when I am awake for a long enough stretch to experience all four stages of a New York day...and then am able to sleep through all of them the following day.

Today, I was determined to leave early and enjoy my walk from the subway to the restaurant. I was scheduled to come in at 10am, and to be alone in the office until the manager comes in at 2pm. To clarify, I'm not proud of my chronic lateness. I'm actually extremely ashamed and embarrassed by it. I wish I could brush it off, but I'm still a little too much of a people-pleaser to avoid feeling guilty about being late. And I really love my job and all of my managers, which makes it even worse. Although they won't know I was late this morning if I don't tell them and they never scold me when I do, I still feel like crap about it.

I have two main subway routes that I can take to Morimoto. I can take the D train (which stops a block from my apartment) into Manhattan, transfer to the A,C,E at West 4th, then get off after one stop at 14th street and 8th avenue and walk three blocks. Or, I can take the N train (which stops six blocks from my apartment) straight to Union Square, and then walk seven long blocks to the restaurant. Though the blocks between avenues are very long, I actually prefer to walk from Union Square for a number of scenic reasons. First of all, Union Square is one of my favorite parts of New York. It is such a vibrant cross-section of people, what with the publishing district up the street in Flatiron, the NYU campus starting just down the street, Chelsea just the the west, and Gramercy just to the east. It's all of New York coming together, professionals, artists, students, street kids, bums, and rich people. All in the same square.

Union Square (not my pic)

Fifth Avenue is around the corner, there are tons of amazing restaurants, and just as many tiny diners and cheap pizza places. The Green Market goes on several days a week in the square, with produce and flowers and fresh breads and apple cider from local vendors, and though it's maddening to fight through the crowds if you're late for work, it's lovely to stroll through on a lazy afternoon. And best of all, when I have the time to walk the long walk, I get to walk through Chelsea and dream of the day when I'll be able to afford a beautiful brownstone apartment on a beautiful tree-lined street like the ones along 15th street between 6th and 9th avenue.

15th st. between 8th and 9th

Unfortunately, since I've apparently become nocturnal and can rarely fall asleep before 4am anymore, and had to pack for my weekend in Philly this morning, I left the house 20 minutes late and had to forgo the scenic route. I spent the entire subway ride planning my post-work errand schedule in my head and trying to figure out how I could get a quick breakfast and a cup of much needed coffee for the $2 and change. I haven't been able to find a coffee cart on my route, and I was pretty sure the designer coffee kiosk in Chelsea Market would charge at least as much as Starbucks. Luckily, I wasn't as late as I thought I'd be; I reached the corner of 9th ave and 15th street at 10:08 and decided that a cup of coffee was worth an extra few minutes that no one would ever know about. And even when they told me at Starbucks that the coffee was brewing and would take another 2 minutes, I consented. I've got a long day ahead of me, after all.

"There's perfection in simplicity." Well said, Starbucks.

In the three blocks from the C train to the restaurant, I did get to see a little of the urban scenery. And it's such a clean fall morning, if a little overcast, that I couldn't help appreciating it as I sped down 15th street. I can't help finding ordinary things interesting and beautiful.

An alley on 15th st between 9th and 10th

This city never ceases to inspire me. I just love New York. As difficult as it is to live here, as much as we're all suffering from the economy crash, and as much as I feel the city has toughened me up, every time I find a spare ounce of energy in a spare second to take in the little urban idiosyncracies around me, I am always flooded with emotion, nostalgia and pride in a place I haven't even lived in for an entire year, and the same sense of awe I felt at 16, the first time I visited the city, in a simpler time when Times Square seemed like the most beautiful place in the world. And even though I now absolutely cannot stand walking through midtown, it's not the city's fault. There will always be swarms of tourists and newcomers flocking to New York, no matter how bad things get financially, because New York is still the absolute icon of the American Dream, the place where anything still seems possible, even if it no longer is in actuality. In a time where I feel like I'm systematically being robbed of all the opportunites America is supposed to offer, all the opportunites my parents had at my age to build their lives the way they wanted to without worrying about the economy collapsing beneath them and things like health insurance and social security that should be fundamental rights being abolished, I can't help feeling like New York may be the only place left in America where it might still be possible for me to find my heart's desire. Without New York, I may as well move to Canada where the taxes are higher but nobody bitches about it because the streets are clean, public parks and pools are aplenty, and everyone can go to the doctor when they're sick.

Am I being naive? Perhaps. I prefer to think of it as full of the hope that only youth can sustain.

"This is not the same country as it was when I was growing up," my dad said to me last night. Everywhere I go all I hear is it's not the same city, either. But I'm not ready to give up on New York yet. It took me 23 years to get here. I'm not leaving that fast.

And so, I will continue to look for the beauty and simplicity of the little details in my New York life. And I will cherish my tiny freedoms.

The 9th st Corner of Chelsea Market