NYC

New York City, how I love you. Your friendly denizens, your crazy crumbling public transport, your lovely parks; that last even when they're sluiced by a biting lazy wind and we have to take turns with our one hat.

"This hat looks totally weird on me. People are staring at me and thinking 'Why is that woman wearing that tweed hat?'"
"Nah, they're looking at me and thinking 'Why isn't that woman wearing a tweed hat?'"

Air Canada, I do not love you. I do not love your cancelling of my various flights and rebooking me for later flights that are themselves late and on decrepit planes that need their navigation systems replaced on the runway. Though I thank you for replacing said system before take off, and I have to forgive you for getting Shelley to me a day late, since that was the low ceiling and not your incompetence and aging planes.

I forgive you too, clouds.

We had big plans for thrifting, or at least, I had big plans for us thrifting, and Shelley was happy to go along with me. Maybe it was the thought of a mortgage, I don't know, but I was pretty happy not to spend much money. Some gifts here or there, a nice shirt that will make its debut on my date this Saturday night, a bracelet that fits, which is an odd thing on my stick-like wrists.

We only found one decent thrift store, around the corner from us and by accident. It was staffed by the owner who had another perfect accent, this one entirely Brooklyn. When Shelley and I went up to pay for our finds, the mother/daughter team looking for some kind of fancy dress was just wrapping up their transaction, and asking for directions to other thrift stores. I stopped listening, poking through the stuff on the corner, though I did catch a shocked look on the face of the owner. And caught the response, "No, thanks, I have a physiotherapist."

"What was that?" Shelley asked at the same time as the woman said "Did you hear that?"

"She started out by telling me I had such skinny arms, and that put me at risk for osteoporosis. So okay, but I tell her, 'You know, my family just has skinny arms. I could put on a hundred pounds and I would still have skinny arms. Like my father, my brother. We just have skinny arms, you know?"

She's a tiny slip of a thing. I have skinny arms. Her arms, I could snap like a dry twig. But sure, they're a wiry people.

"But that's not good enough, so then she says, after I tell her all those places to go, she reaches over to me and says 'But your arms, they're so skinny. You might get bone cancer.' Bone cancer! I'm going to get bone cancer! What's she thinking? Bone cancer."

"What did the daughter say?"

"Oh! The daughter! Nothing! But mark my words, that apple didn't fall far from the tree. Just as bad."

A pause while she writes up our bill.

"That'll be 36.95! You have a nice day, 'kay?"

Optimists, I tell you.

Well, we just ran into our first bit of New York rudeness.

We've been hanging out at the Tea Lounge a lot. It's my kind of cafe (and Greg, you would love it here) with once overstuffed couches sprouting white tufts, long low coffee tables with peeling veneer, and shadegrownfairtradeorganic coffee made by cute hipster boys and girls.

Shelley just came back to our seat. Her fancy tea put my fancy coffee to shame, since my fancy coffee did not come on its own board.

She put it on the table and sat down. "The guy behind me - that guy - he just called me a homemaker!"
"What? A homemaker? Why? What did he say?"
"I called this a smorgasbord - get it? board? funny. i know. - and he said 'Oh. The homemaker speaks.'"
"Well, that's just rude. Rude! Why would he say that?"
"I know. I don't know. Cause he thinks I'm as old as his mom?"
"You don't look old. Can I blog it?"
"Just as long as you make sure to write that I don't look like a homemaker today."

I take a survey - converse, dark skinny jeans, black hoody, black tuque.

"You look more likely to rob a house than make one."
"Yeah! Write that too."

By and large, we've been raving, as we always do, about how nice people are here.

Saturday night we ventured over to Manhattan for our traditional Feast of Delicious at Da Andrea. Our two trips before, we've been staying just a quick walk around the corner. This time, it was us and the crazy subway system.

Theoretically, this should have been easy. We're a block and a half away from the F line on the Brooklyn side, Da Andrea is 5 blocks away from the F line on the Manhattan side. We got to the station, figured out the ticket machine, navigated the gates, went down the stairs. The platform was mostly empty, just two nattily dressed guys and us. And a bunch of posters all over the place that we hadn't bothered to read.

One of the guys turned to us. "You know what's going on here?" He gestured at the sign. It said something about Coney Island, getting to local Brooklyn stops, and, fuck, disruptions to F line service. For three days, the three days we'd be taking the train.

We all gathered round, offered up myriad interpretations. Most of it didn't make sense if you didn't already know the system. We helped them, they helped us, together we parsed out a way for them to get to their local stop in Brooklyn, us to make it to our fancy dinner. They were from Guatemala, but one of them had lived in Montreal for a while. We sat across the way from each other on the mostly empty subway car, chatting a bit back and forth.

When we got off the train, Shelley and I, I assumed that our sweet Guatemalan friends were behind us. They weren't. We didn't get a chance to say goodbye.

Coming back was going to be a breeze though, right?, because it was just the opposite of what we'd done. Not so. After our delicious dinner, we had a drink and didn't make it to the station until nearly midnight. When the service all changed around and the D train wasn't running to where we thought it was going to run, and there were loud announcements that we couldn't decipher and still didn't make any sense if you didn't already know the system.

Because this is what you do in New York, we turned away from each other and just asked "So, how do we get back to Brooklyn?" into the air around us. Two people answered. The woman, coarse wavy black hair down to her shoulders in a triangle, wiry gray through it, round horn rimmed glasses, perfect Bronx accent, "Oh, you wanna take the R train." at the same time that the man, neat grey flannel pants, navy windbreaker, close cropped hair with a curl of white at the front, broad face, forehead thinner than jowls, a softly lilting deep voice with no corners or edges, a warm voice you could just lean into and rest on, said "I'm going that way. Just stick with me."

We stuck with him. Sitting on the train, a questioning look in his direction as the next stop was announced, a slight shake of the head for 3 stops, then the nod. We waited for the shuttle with him. "I'm hearing an accent," he said to us. "Maybe European?"

We laughed. "Sort of. We're from Canada."
"What part?"
"I'm from Ontario. I'm from Nova Scotia."
This satisfies most New Yorkers. If they ask further, it usually has to do with Toronto. It's rare that I describe Ottawa as being close to Toronto, but I have here, a couple times.

He was a calypso player, had toured Canada, knew Toronto, Montreal, had played Jazzfest in Ottawa. Was a limo driver for 18 years, would never go back to the long boring waits for people. Loved taking transit.

The wind was chill, all of us hunched in. A bus came, not the shuttle, and we got in a dither over whether we should take it. He thought we should. We ran over, too rushed for a proper goodbye. By the time the bus passed the corner where we'd all been standing, our calypso player was gone, crossed the street, and we didn't get a chance to wave goodbye.

Steph: So this key, this square one, it's for the iron door.

Me: You mean the iron ga- right, the square one.

Because what do I care if she doesn't want to live behind an iron gate?

Though you'll notice she didn't mention the iron windows.

Mike: Oh yeah, that key doesn't work.

Me: No, this is the one that works. The other one didn't turn at all, and I used this one to lock the door; I just couldn't use it to open it again.

Mike: Yeah, I was having some trouble with it earlier. Lemme try again.

[goes outside, locks me in, comes back in on his own]

Me: Oh.

Mike: Enh, it's hit and miss.

Me: Okay, so if I'm in and out tomorrow morning....

Mike: Might as well just leave the inside door open. If anyone gets past that outer door, you're dead meat anyway. I mean, that lock's not going to save anyone, is it.

I have been hearing two things about "my blog + NYC": when are you going to put up the shopping post already? and why aren't there any pictures of you in NYC? Alright already.

I like to think of myself as someone who is not a shopper. But of course, I am. I like buying things. I like having new things. My sister was here this past weekend and referred to me as a collector. I balked a little bit, but had to concede. It takes a huge effort not to buy another typewriter. What prevents me from being a pack rat is that my need to purge items is as big as my need to get new ones.

This trip to NYC at least involved shopping with a purpose:
1) Clothes that fit my happy fat.
1 a) Jeans that didn't make me feel like a sausage.
2) An outfit to match the killer shoes I bought the last time I was in NY.
3) Thrifting.
4) A corset.

1) Forever21 was probably the wrong place to go for this. I'd wanted to make it there, since Suge over at Babycakes had posted some very fun pictures. It was fucking bananas, both times we went. We got there Thursday night, almost at closing time, and I tried on a few dresses that I thought would suit me. And then I thought they might suit me in a better, i.e. bigger, size. I also tried on some jeans that were pretty good, but I didn't love. But bought anyway because they were cheap.

Those jeans. I am going to wear them until they fall off of my body. They are magic jeans. F21 managed to make a pair of jeans that are tight enough in the ass to make me look like I've got an ass, and yet loose enough in the thigh to prevent feeling like I'm about to be eaten. It's a heavenly combination and I have worn them more days than I have not since I got back. They're in the wash right now and I am sad that it will be at least two days until I can wear them again.

Going back Saturday was probably a mistake. It was after our Central Park picnic.

This is what I looked like just before we went in. I am tired of lugging around the giant bag. I am hot from sitting in the sun and wearing a sweater. (I am wearing my new jeans. Look at how my thighs do not look like sausages.) This is not the best time to be going into a store full of empire waists, baby doll dresses, tunics and teenagers. I tried on a bunch of medium-sized clothes and most of them made me look like a 32 year old trying to fit into my high school clothing. I was busting out of the medium and the large looked really large. I came away with one dress and the knowledge that I have hit the point in my life where going into stores like that is stupid.

And I got mall-head. Which made me buy the dress. I like it, and it's pretty, and it was $20, but it's an empire waist and shows off a lot of cleavage. And you know, that might sound enticing in print, but in person, that's going to mean a lot of people giving my stomach meaningful glances. Hopefully they'll actually ask me if I'm pregnant and I can say "Oh no, my belly always looks like that," and watch them writhe in embarassment.

2)Sometimes when I am away, I do weird things. The last time we were in New York, I bought chocolate brown and rose pink high heels. I have never worn those shoes because I have nothing to wear them with. I do really like them though. This time, I was bound and determined to buy something to wear them with. Now I have a pink and brown skirt with sequins on it. Weird skirt to match weird shoes. Now I really like them both, but will have to find somewhere to wear them. New York 2009?

3) We managed to hit one thrift store. Next trip, I am only going to thrift stores. We went to a church thrift store - St. Luke's - and the prices there were about twice what they'd be in Ottawa. Skirts were $8 to $15, for example. But the quality? Holy shit. On one pass through, I managed to find about 5 skirts, a couple dresses, a couple pairs of shorts, a bra and a pair of shoes. And not an empire waist in sight.

I got all Gollum-like at one point, when I found these shoes.

These are Campers. Campers are Very Expensive Shoes. Very Expensive. This pair is in *perfect* condition. When I asked the price, and the nice church lady blithely responded with "Fifteen dollars," I wrapped my arms around them and whispered "My precious."

4) A couple days before going to NYC, I found a corset at St Vincent de Paul. It was $4, so I bought it, even though it was 15 minutes before closing time and I couldn't try it on to see if it fit. It almost fit, and I could see that the ways in which it did fit meant that I really needed - yes, *needed* - to have one that did fit. I thought I'd keep my eye out while we were thrifting.

On the rainy Sunday, Shelley and I spent a chunk of time at a cafe on Orchard St. before trudging through the rain to go to a feminist bookstore called Bluestockings. We passed store after store with their grills closed. And then one sign caught my eye: Orchard Corset - the Bra and Girdle Fitters. We walked a couple more stores and I thought to myself, should I bother interrupting? Do I actually drag Shelley back to stand around while I do yet more shopping? Apparently some instinct knew yes, because I was calling her back before I had decided I would.

It was our most quintessential New York experience for me.

We got buzzed into a tiny room, probably about 12' wide. There was a counter along one side, and a broken sewing machine on the other, holding up a tv with shitty reception that was showing some kind of cooking show. There was a giant man behind the counter, a counter covered in boxes and slips and a laptop where he was watching something that probably wasn't a cooking show. He taking up about a quarter of the available space. There was a short, stocky woman working with him. Sullenly. The only time she spoke was to yell sizes at him from the fitting room.

They stared at us when we walked in.

"Yes. Can I help you?" He was friendly, but confused. I'm not sure we were his regular clientele.

"I'm looking for a corset. Not something frilly and sexy. More substantial."

"Take your jacket off."

I complied.

"Your sweater too." It was weird. I'm not usually ordered to take my clothing off unless something more fun than bra fitting is about to happen. But this was completely asexual, and so there was some dissonant firing going on in my neurons. He was very nice and business like.

He decided my size like he was telling my fortune.

Once he'd assesed size, style and make, he eyed the wall across from the counter. It was floor to ceiling boxes. He spent two seconds roving the shelves, heaved himself out from behind the counter, took out the corset he thought I would want and handed it to his assistant.

"Go with her behind the curtain."

The size was slightly off, but I loved it and walked out of there with exactly what I wanted.

When I was done, Shelley decided that she wanted a bra too.

"Take your jacket off." She was already starting.

"Turn around. Hmm. You're a [redacted]."

"Actually," Shelley replied, "that's going to be too small. I'm more like a [redacted]."

"I -" and he paused to smile a knowing and superior smile, "I have been making bra patterns for 34 years. I'm sure you're a [redacted]. Here." He handed a bra to his assistant. "Go with her behind the curtain."

I took pictures of my rubber boots and the walls. Not long after, the assistant yelled out "She needs a [redacted]." The same size Shelley said she would need.

Our corset man was flabbergasted.

As we were leaving, he eyed her tits some more. "I can't believe I was wrong. I've never been that wrong. Turn around again."

She obliged.

"Your back. Your back is definitely a [redacted]. But, ah! your ribs! You've got depth."

I love New York City.

I was looking over the list of things that I wanted to do while away, and you know, I'm feeling pretty good about it.

Thursday afternoon, after deplaning, cabbing to our lovely guesthouse, hieing ourselves to the well-oiled noodle-serving machine that is Republic, looking at dresses (more on that later), looking at skirts (more on that later), going back to the hotel to drop the (hint: filene's basement and forever21) bags, we hit ourselves with the dykey stick,* and strolled down Hudson St.

See, one of the plans involved going to a dyke bar called Henrietta Hudsons. See, last time, we got spooked by the thought of going to HH because of a description we read in some guidebook - we both envisioned L-Word lesbians. Fabulous and fashionable and Big City Queer. So we went to Rubyfruit instead, which, as Shelley put it a year and a half ago, "Are we in Dartmouth?" There was a lot of hockey hair and high-waisted pleated jeans.

We passed Rubyfruit. The same women were outside, smoking. We got to HH, paid our outrageous 10 American Dollar cover EACH, and walked into a fishbowl of a room. Bar along the right side, lined with women. DJ booth in the back corner spewing out pretty awful 80s music: "Forever Young" by Alhpaville was the first song I heard, and it was by request. A ring of women against the other walls. The record practically came to a screeching, scratching halt as everyone turned around to look at the New Girls in Town. They either thought we were not worth their time, or a couple. Judging from the sore lack of cuteness I saw, I choose to believe the latter. A lot of trashy cleavage and trainers with sweatshirts.

We bought a too expensive too strong drink and avoided the beer. Here is a reason to hate America: beer. I love me some neat whisk(e)y, and I have been known to imbibe the occasional gin and tonic, sure. But really. I do not love hard liquor, and I like mixed drinks even less. If I'm out, I want a guinness or a creemore or a fuck, 50, I don't care. Not a damn import that still tastes like piss. But I digress.

We sat in the corner and listened to the terrible music and watched the room. We mostly said "This drink is very strong." or "It's been a long day." or "We were intimidated by this place?" or "The Blonde *is* here with someone." See, The Blonde was a Bird of Paradise, by which I mean, she was Done Up. Bleach blond hair, 4" high heels that looked expensive even from across the room. Tanned legs that stretched for approximately one mile up to, well, my jesus. Honey, if your skirt is so short that you have to uncomfortably perch on the edge of your stool and self-consciously cover the pink with your sheepskin coat, then maybe you should think about a few more inches of skirt next time. Meretritious, Steve would say. I couldn't stop looking - my god, her legs! - but I sort of hated myself for looking each time.

Friday night, we went back to Rubyfruit, which was pretty fun, but again with the bad music. We made up a lot of stories about the people around us, and gamely danced for a few bad songs. It was not loads of fun. But neither of us is drinking as much these days as we were on our first trip. I think that made a big difference to the fun level.

That night, getting into our pyjamas, Shelley said, "You know, I think we've been going about this the wrong way. Do we go to dyke bars at home?"

"No," I said. "We don't like dyke bars at home."

"Then I don't know why we keep trying to like them here."

Truer words. Saturday, we kicked it into high gear Taylor-Butcher style. Before Rubyfruit, we'd been to a great bookstore - run by a volunteer feminist collective - called Bluestockings. Where we heard about the Anarchist Bookfair. I didn't get a picture of the fair itself, but here are all the zines I scored there.

At the fair, we heard about a workshop the next day about sexual healing for queers. The title was much less flippant than that. When we got there, in our rubber boots, the workshop we wanted was cancelled. We stayed for the end of "It's Everyone's Fault: Sexual Violence in Small Communities." It was good but sad. There was a genderqueer woman there who looked so much like Eric that I kept turning around to goggle at her. She kept looking quizzically back at me, not sure if I were being supportive, cruising her, or being snotty about what she was saying. I somehow thought that saying "Sorry I keep staring at you, but I miss my boyfriend" might be an awkward thing to say.

We walked 8 blocks and got soaked.

Friday night, mustabeen between dinner and Rubyfruit, we checked out the Knitting Factory to see what was happening there. If the Gossip were playing there the next night, maybe there was something equally cool that night. Nothin doin. There was something jammy in the basement and cover band awards in the main space. "Do you happen to have any tickets left for the Gossip?" Shelley asked. "Nah, everyone's gonna be here for the good show."

Turns out, too, that I'd read at the Knitting Factory. At an open mic after our PMR performance. Weird to find that out nearly 3 years later.

We didn't bother going back. It's not the kind of place where people stand outside trying to sell tickets. And TriBeCa feels a fuck of a long way away from the West Village.

It was nice to kind of relax about "having to do stuff" and try to just experience the city like I lived there. I spent a couple hours each day in a cafe called 'Snice, just down the street from our room. Don't let the name fool you. It was beautiful and wonderful. I love cafés. Those hours really energized me.

Shelley mostly napped while I was caféing. Those naps really energized her.
And sometimes she joined me. This is first breakfast on Sunday.

*Well, I kind of tapped myself and ended up one smidgen more dykey. "Should I wear the neck scarf?" It probably made me look more gay, but I'm not sure it made me look more like a dyke. Shelley just got dressed.

Sunday was really a bit of a writeoff, what with the fucking insane rain. We were on the top floor of our guest house. The rain pounding on the skylight woke me up at about 2 am on Sunday morning, and it just didn't stop. It rained and rained hard for over 24 hours. At one point, we walked about 8 blocks - 8 short New York block, no less - and my jeans were wet through. We holed up in a cafe and read the paper and checked email and generally just tried to dry out a bit. It was grey and miserable.

It would, in fact, have been the perfect day to go to the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, which was one of the things I really wanted to do while we were there. But you can only see it by guided tour, and we never managed to get tickets - they were sold out or I couldn't get a hold of anyone on the phone to pre-order them.

Or we just didn't feel like it. Because the thought of trying to concentrate on Culture with clammy thighs was monumentally unappealing. So I drank a giant cup of coffee. And looked at my new green rubber boots.

Everyone in NYC is wearing rubber boots. Scratch that. Very very very many stylish NYC women, as well as some adventurously stylish men, are wearing rubber boots rain or shine. I am quite chuffed with mine. Shelley bought black ones. Without them, I think we would have stayed in our room, since the one pair of leather boots I had with me would have been soaked through after 4 blocks, and those same four blocks would have soaked through both pairs of Shelley's sneakers.

The rest of the days were lovely, however. Lots of sunshine, but even when the sun was hidden, it was still bright. And warm. I had my jacket open most days.

We ate a picnic in Central Park on Saturday and watched a Very Happy Rollerskater skating around and singing to herself and generally trailing a good mood in her wake. There were lots of other skaters there too.

I will tell you that people in NYC use their parks. After Central Park, we went to Union Square to look at dresses (more on that later) and found an open market full of flowers and organic food. I bought Eric some Curry Sauerkraut, and the guy in line in front of me paid $68 for less than 3 lbs of beef tenderloin. I hope his dinner guests liked it. Rest assured that Eric's sauerkraut, although local and organic, cost much much less than 68 American Dollars.

Along with warmer weather goes flowers. I will also tell you that New Yorkers do a very lot of prettiness with a very little space. After one particularly stunning front plot, Shelley turned to me and said "Don't ever let me say my garden isn't big enough to do something beautiful."

And the magnolia trees! Everywhere and out in full bloom. They're Shelley's favourites.