So last Friday I went to this bar in the Lower East Side called Cake Shop to meet up with this guy we'll call Ralph for a second date. Our first date went well, as far as first dates go. We'd met up for drinks, and, over the course of the next few hours neither one of us managed to say anything that completely pissed the other one off. This I consider the height of first date success. Also, he was pretty cute, and didn't seem at all crazy--other things high on my list of priorities.What can I say? I ask a lot.
So, the first date having not been a complete disaster, we made plans to meet up for a second at Cake Shop to see a few local bands play. The billing included I Am the Heat, The Press, Ben Franklin, and The Gay Blades all for $7--gotta love the LES scene. I hadn't heard of any of the bands, but had browsed their websites and decided they were all pretty emo/alternativetoalternative/punk/indie-style, in other words, totally my cup of tea.
Ralph didn't know any of the bands either, but his friend had recommended The Gay Blades to him as one he'd probably like. So, all in all it appeared to be a promising evening of drinks, live music, and general enjoyment of each other's company. Well, I was right about two of those things...
The night got off to a bit of a rocky start. I was late, which is sort of unusual for me--I'd gotten lost, which is not at all unusual for me. Usually I allow enough time for this mostly inevitable course of events, but even allowing myself an extra ten minutes to get there put me there about fifteen minutes after the agreed upon meet up time. I wasn't really sorry, although I apologized when I got there. Fifteen minutes, to me, is not a deal breaker. He seemed fine with it and we went down to the basement where the first band was setting up. I don't think this is what ruined the evening but, because I'm not entirely sure, I'm mentioning as a possible piece of evidence for this puzzle. Maybe you, dear readers, can figure out what was the actual curdling point.
We made small talk while the band told the sound people they need more vocal. "More vocal. All you've got. We'll take some more--thanks." All bands said this. Apparently vocal is key. Also key, considering every band did this as well, having a member take off his shirt at some point during the show, or, hell, before the show even starts like the drummer of the first band I Am the Heat. Not criticizing. Just observing. Closely :)
While the first band was warming up and the drummer had just finished the obligatory take-off-shirt ritual, Ralph got up to use the restroom. I ordered another drink. Perhaps this was rude, ordering without him, but I didn't want the awkwardness of "who pays for this round?" and, well, I was thirsty! When he returned he saw my drink and, I noted, did not order one for himself. Curdling point? The band started to play.
I was enjoying the music, not really sensing that anything was amiss, when something weird happened. We were sitting at two bar stools, facing the band. My leg brushed his accidentally, as legs sometimes do beneath a bar. And he immediately pulled his far away.
Probably nothing, I told myself. But, just to test a theory developing, I took my arm, which was propped on the bar, and casually moved it one inch closer to his, still not touching. And he moved his one inch away!
What. The. Hell. I ordered another drink. He did not. I probably would have been more irritated by his obvious concern with any physical contact with me, but I was really enjoying the bands. At one point I'd even almost forgotten about the whole weird episode, and had sort of chalked it up to him possibly wanting to be respectful or some other reason, maybe personal space issues? But then we got up from the bar stools to get closer to the stage and I noticed, the place was packed, people everywhere sardine-style, and he somehow managed to maintain a foot's distance from me at all times. Which, in this environment, took near-Herculean efforts!
What. The. Hell. I ordered another drink. He did not.
The bands were still awesome and I'd made up my mind that I was going to have a great time this Friday night if it killed me, and then never see this jerk again. I jumped up and down with the rest of the people out to have a good time. I sang along to songs I did not know the words to. I supported a guy 2x my weight crowd-surving--I did all the things you basically sign up to do when you decide to go to a concert. He did not.
And here's the kicker. The much-anticipated headline band finally got onstage: The Gay Blades. You may remember that this band was the band Ralph's friend had recommended, the reason we had ultimately decided to come to this bar instead of any of a dozen other LES bars with live bands playing that Friday night. It was at this moment, when the band started to play (not a member shirtless yet, might I add!), that Ralph turned to me and said from his foot-distance away, "I think I should go home. It's getting pretty late."
It was 11 p.m.
"Really? I mean, isn't this the band you wanted to see?"
"Yeah. But, I should leave. It takes me a while to get home."
And here is where I made a huge mistake. I left the bar, even though I was having a great time, because I did not want to hurt his feelings.
Ladies: Never, ever consider some guy's feelings over your own. Especially if that guy is someone you're on a second date with who seems convinced you're crawling with cooties. If you're having a good time somewhere and you're with an asshole who wants to leave, stay. And listen to that band that's supposed to be so good! And then call all of your girlfriends for an impromptu night out after the show, and, by God, salvage that evening! Because Friday nights are sacred and should be enjoyed, whatever grand effort this may take.
So, to end this sad tale of a Friday night shot to hell, because I had not yet acquired the wisdom to stay, I left with him and we walked to the subway together. When we got to the station he informed me that, although he'd had a great time, he really didn't think we should have another date.
Insult to injury! That was my line! How dare he beat me to it?! I, being the lady I am, thanked him for a fun evening and wished him a good night (code, under these circumstances, for "have a good life"). Then I went back to my apartment, and got a drink. And I'm almost certain, he did not.
It has been weeks since my last blog post and don't think I haven't been racked with guilt over my lack of postage...(can I use that word in this sense? I don't think so, but I kind of like it and I'm going to anyway...)
All I can say is, moving in New York City is a hell I wouldn't wish on my least favorite of people and I've been a bit busy surviving the most stressful and strenuous (both mentally and physically) weeks of my twenty-two years on this earth. So please have some patience.
But, things are different now. I feel like my world may have finally stopped spinning and I can foresee a future where weekly blog posts are again a part of my reality. And that future is bright.
And now, a little story:
One Thursday night about three weeks ago, Tyler, a good friend of mine from SMU mentioned in a previous blog post, flew in from Colorado, suitcase in hand, his pockets, of course, proverbially full-of-dreams.
He'd tentatively planned on moving here last semester and through some combination of unicorn dust and a show-stopping resume, he actually landed a job here prior to graduation, sealing his fate to be my new (and hopefully long-term) roommate!
So Thursday June 3 he shows up and we officially have the weekend to find our new digs, or else. His first day of work is Monday; my lease is up the fifteenth--time, to say the least, is of the essence, and we didn't waste a minute.
The next day Tyler scoured the entire borough of Manhattan while I emailed him craigslist postings from work. He saw ten different apartments, God bless him. Most listings were in the upper upper East and West sides, aka, lower Harlem.
Harlem's supposedly very up-and-coming these days though and Tyler was very impressed with some of the places, one in particular. He sent me a text describing a tree-lined street and "HUGE" livingroom windows. The place even had a washer/dryer, which, in any other city in the country would definitely not be a major selling point, but let me tell you, in Manhattan you're lucky if you have a common washer/dryer in your entire building. Wanting one in your own apartment is a dream.
Up until about 3 p.m. I was pretty sure we were getting this Harlem place, and actually very excited about it without even having seen it. I very much trusted Tyler's judgement though and if he loved it, I was sure I would, too.
That's when I got the call.
I was at work, but I answered my cell anyway. It's not everyday you're remote-apartment-hunting and I felt that if Tyler chose to call rather than text, it must be important. I was right.
"I found this great place!" he told me.
"Yeah? East or West?" up to this point those were the only places we'd been looking...
"Chinatown."
Pause.
"You're joking."
He wasn't. I promised him I'd take a look at the place even though I was sure I would hate it. (I kept that last part to myself...)
We went out that night in both neighborhoods to get a feel for how safe I'd be walking home late at night. Turns out a coworker of mine lives in Chinatown; we met him for drinks in the area and he told us about how his kid goes to daycare in Chinatown and now speaks English and Mandarin and a little Hebrew (apparently it's a Chinatown daycare owned and managed by Jewish people. Oh, New York....)
Walking around in Chinatown elevenish at night with Tyler, I felt completely fine. Okay, so maybe I had to pee badly and nothing was open so Tyler and I pretended like we were staying at the Best Western until it turned out there were no Joneses registered for that night (really? no Joneses??) and then we had to leave (but not before I got to use their restroom!) but, the area felt very safe and was surprisingly busy considering most stores there close fairly early and the only places open were a smattering of bars. I even had Tyler walk ahead of me ten paces so I could feel what it would be like to be all alone on the street...and it was really ok.
Then we took the 6 train to the upper-upper East....Harlem.
I do not care what the New York Times says about it; Harlem past midnight was no place to be. Tyler offered to walk his ten paces ahead of me to simulate this whole being alone thing. I told him he'd better not.
It felt less safe for a number of reasons: The streets seemed absolutely deserted except for your standard homeless nappers and beggars; there were no cops making standard patrols as in Chinatown, probably because Harlem isn't your biggest tourist hot spot and NYC throws its money where the money is; finally, about a street down from our would-be washer-dryer-equipped apartment, there was what can only be described as a block party going down, only this block party was unlike any you've ever seen. One a.m. on a Friday, it included a number of baby strollers manned (and wommanned) by young-looking parents using their free hands to hold glass beer bottles or lit cigarettes, or both. I wanted to stop and tell these people "Go home. Put your kids to bed. You are a mom/dad--Seriously...give me a break!"
And because after passing these people enough nights I was sure that at one point I would speak my mind and have to deal with the consequences of such actions, it was probably for the best that Tyler and I turned around at that point and decided we couldn't take the Harlem apartment.
I was also pretty convinced that despite my positive experience in Chinatown by night, we were still not getting that place, either. In fact, I was pretty sure we would be scrapping the whole crappy experience and starting from scratch the next day in search of more mythical laundryrooms, but then something surprising happened: I really liked the C-town place.
Ok, granted, it's small--only two bedrooms, no living room (same as in my old place, the converted one-bedroom to three-bedroom...This place was probably actually a studio at one point and they threw up some pressurized walls and called it a two-bedroom. Again, Oh, New York...)
But, it has hardwood floors and granite tiling and countertops in the kitchen. And there's rooftop access, which is awesome. Tyler and I are on the lookout for folding chairs; we already rescued a folding table propped beside a Chinatown garbage can and got it "foh fwee!" as we've started saying. Now we're looking for chairs and I'm envisioning many a rooftop wine-night in our futures.
And we each have our own window A/C unit in our rooms, which I know doesn't sound great by regular living standards but... you guys have to believe me, it's good. I know a couple who moved into an apartment in Manhattan with no A/C units and they're having to buy and install them themselves. Ridiculous.
Anyway, this post is getting long, but I just wanted to update and soon I'll probably post again to tell the epic tale of my Dad's trip to NYC and how I roped him into helping me move into this fifth-floor-walk-up using only our own brute human strength and the kindness of one brave Taxi driver.
And then another about my first trip to my new grocery store, the Hong Kong Supermarket, and my newfound love for garlic-flavored peanuts.
Post again soon. Please message or leave comments. Miss everyone from home and would love to hear from you!
