I am surprised at how well my “Boo-Boo” kitty has adjusted to our tiny new living quarters here in Midtown Manhattan. We’ve officially been here for more than two months now and Martin has not once cried by the front door to go out into the scary beyond. I’m really surprised at this. Of course, he gets so much attention from me these days that I’m not quite sure why he’d even consider extending his explorations to the 9th floor hallway of the Gershwin. No belly rubs to be found out there!
Truthfully, I think because this particular apartment has a long hallway leading in from the door, Martin knows that I am usually not within view of that door. So he must think it’s useless to even try sitting there meowing to go out if I cannot observe his pathetic demand for sympathy.
Another thing that I’m proud of is he no longer drinks from my water cup at night! This is a years-old habit finally broken. Soon after we moved in, I ordered a special kitty fountain for him from PetSmart.com. This was after researching the drinking peculiarities of other cats, as described by their owners, on the Internet.
I was able to confirm that the reason Martin didn’t like drinking from a stainless steel bowl is that he cannot determine the water level in the bowl. I’ve suspected this for a few years, ever since I first saw him pawing the floor next to his bowl each time before drinking. I also suspect he didn't like the taste of the water here because he had stopped drinking from any bowl almost entirely. Another thing I found out is that cats like their water VERY fresh and VERY cold. Hence Martin’s delight in drinking from my freshly filled green plastic cup of ice water each night before bedtime. (Even then he would paw the night stand before drinking - so green doesn't help with the water level problem either.)
So I plugged the fountain in. It took a week or two before he finally gave up drinking from my bedside cup. Little by little, he gave it up. And now he drinks exclusively from his fountain.
See – cats aren’t that hard to figure out. I tell you what, he sure seems happy here. So my eight months of worry about his adjusting from a 2,010 s.f. home to a small 1-bedroom apartment was all for naught. That sure makes me happy.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Friday, March 18, 2005
Day-to-Day Life in the City
On New York City streets you'll see just about anything.
Last night I took a walk to Duane Reade (the local drug store) and Gristedes (a local grocery) to pick up a few items. In Duane Reade I overheard a baggy-pants teenager (complete with do-rag) complaining to the cashier about his recent arrest. "I stabbed two kids. I had to cuz they was robbin’ me."
Interesting. I crossed the street to Gristedes, got my groceries, piled everything into my purple tote back with rollers, and started the 4-block walk home. At the 51st Street crossing, I saw a man get hit by a taxi cab just ahead of me. The walk signal was on, so the pedestrian was within his full legal right. But the yellow cab flew through the cross walk and clipped him anyway. The pedestrian was leaning over grasping at his leg as if in pain as he pounded his fist on the cab’s trunk, screaming, “You m--- f----!!” I wondered if the cabbie had run over his foot. (The same thing almost happened to me a block from there just a week or two ago.)
The cabbie stopped in the middle of the road to help the guy. Meanwhile, a potential fare jumped in on the other side of the stopped cab as if nothing had happened. I kept walking.
This afternoon I was walking home on 8th Street when a man in front of me accidentally dropped his burning cigarette on the sidewalk. I watched as the burning butt rolled, with him chasing after it. I was thinking, "No, please don’t put that back in your mouth. For God's sake, PLEASE." He picked it up and – sure enough – stuck it right between his lips.
Come on, people. That is disgusting. New York City sidewalks are the filthiest in the world. I still dodge the spit on the sidewalks. And I still turn my head and hold my breath when I come across the usual Saturday morning pile of vomit. How anyone could eat off of these sidewalks or smoke off of them is beyond all comprehension. And this was a normal middle-class kind of guy.
Sure, cigarettes are seven bucks a pack but that's no excuse.
Aaaaaaagh!
Last night I took a walk to Duane Reade (the local drug store) and Gristedes (a local grocery) to pick up a few items. In Duane Reade I overheard a baggy-pants teenager (complete with do-rag) complaining to the cashier about his recent arrest. "I stabbed two kids. I had to cuz they was robbin’ me."
Interesting. I crossed the street to Gristedes, got my groceries, piled everything into my purple tote back with rollers, and started the 4-block walk home. At the 51st Street crossing, I saw a man get hit by a taxi cab just ahead of me. The walk signal was on, so the pedestrian was within his full legal right. But the yellow cab flew through the cross walk and clipped him anyway. The pedestrian was leaning over grasping at his leg as if in pain as he pounded his fist on the cab’s trunk, screaming, “You m--- f----!!” I wondered if the cabbie had run over his foot. (The same thing almost happened to me a block from there just a week or two ago.)
The cabbie stopped in the middle of the road to help the guy. Meanwhile, a potential fare jumped in on the other side of the stopped cab as if nothing had happened. I kept walking.
This afternoon I was walking home on 8th Street when a man in front of me accidentally dropped his burning cigarette on the sidewalk. I watched as the burning butt rolled, with him chasing after it. I was thinking, "No, please don’t put that back in your mouth. For God's sake, PLEASE." He picked it up and – sure enough – stuck it right between his lips.
Come on, people. That is disgusting. New York City sidewalks are the filthiest in the world. I still dodge the spit on the sidewalks. And I still turn my head and hold my breath when I come across the usual Saturday morning pile of vomit. How anyone could eat off of these sidewalks or smoke off of them is beyond all comprehension. And this was a normal middle-class kind of guy.
Sure, cigarettes are seven bucks a pack but that's no excuse.
Aaaaaaagh!
Sunday, March 13, 2005
The Chanel on Canal
After two weeks of nose-to-the-grindstone working and studying, I passed an MCSE test on Friday. I already had dinner plans in the city with Jacqui that night, so we met up after my test to celebrate. She wanted to go down to Canal to go handbag shopping.
During my four months living in NYC, I’ve passed by dozens of handbag stands on the streets. Prices range from $5 to $20 a purse. And in this case, you get what you pay for. Right after I moved here I was in dire need of a tote bag. I picked one up for $15 on W. 52nd Street – so proud of myself for haggling the price down a whopping five dollars. I think I paid too much.
Recently a shoulder strap detached itself from my $15 tote. I promptly Super-glued it back on and continued using my tote until yesterday when I shelled out $140 on Spring Street for a Cleo and Patek of my own. That was a much better deal considering the original price on this bag was $428.
So Jacqui and I took the C train to Canal Street Friday after work. What an experience. I had no idea how much illegal trading activity went on in the city until that night. Jacqui needed a “Louis Vuitton” to give as a gift to a friend of hers. I, of course, had never heard of this designer brand. At our first stop, I noticed that none of the purses on the tall display in the crook of the building had a name label on them. The front of each purse had two holes in it where you’d expect the name brand to be. Jacqui explained to me that they just applied those later, after purchase. “Ahh....” That’s when I knew for sure that the beautiful turquoise purse that another friend of mine at work told me she’d paid $40 for wasn’t really a Hermes. “I got it on Canal! I’ll take you there one day!” Jen, I have news for you.
Jacqui asked one of the guys manning the booth for a specific brand, and he said, “Wait five minutes. I’ll be right back.” And he ran off down the street. How strange, I thought. Where is he going? I (naively) wondered if he kept part of his inventory in his apartment or something. He came back carrying a black plastic bag containing a "Louis Vuitton" backpack for Jacqui. She paid $35, and we were on our way. Peeking in the bag, she pointed out “Wow – it even comes with a dust bag.” Another term I was unfamiliar with. So designer bags come with a designer dust bag for storage.
OK, but I still didn’t understand why he had to leave to get the bag. Anyway, we continued on.
The next stop was at a stand on the corner of Canal. A salesman in a knit cap named Mohammed hurried over to help. First thing he said to us was “Louis Vuitton”? I didn’t get it. How did he know?
As Jacqui was working a deal with him, I saw him take out a laminated card displaying thumbnail photos of Louis Vuitton purses. He huddled up to Jacqui to show her the card. I tried to get a look over her shoulder. But Mohammed quickly tucked the card back in his coat pocket before I could even steal a glance, murmering something along the lines of, “gotta watch out for the police.”
I must’ve had that dumb “I’m new to NY” look on my face that I’ve been averting for months. Jacqui turned and said, “It’s illegal.” I still didn’t get it. Lots of people sold purses on the street. “Ah, but these are fakes.” I didn’t understand what the big deal was – they’re just purses. Meanwhile, Mohammed’s buddy behind the stand opened up a secret door that was part of the purse display and disappeared behind it. I looked at Jacqui and just started laughing! I was like, “Man what is this – black market handbags?” It was just too much at that point. I couldn't stop laughing.
Another gentleman came up from behind with some Gucci sunglasses, and Jacqui tried them on. “Oh, they’re YOU!” I exclaimed. She just had to get them. “How much?” she asked the big guy. $45 he said. Whoa. Too much, Jacqui told him. “I only have $20 left.”
“And she’s borrowing that from me,” I told the guy. Finally, she talked him down to $20, and before I knew it, the 20-dollar bill was whisked out of my left hand, the Gucci’s were in my right hand, and the dude was long gone. "Um, Jacqui, I just bought you the Gucci's." It was only later that Jacqui realized the guy had left without giving us the "Gucci" eyeglass case too. So we went around the corner, looking for him, but he was gone. Mohammed promised he’d get the case from the guy, and Jacqui took down Mohammed's phone number. I took a liking to this Mohammed.
We moved on after that. Jacqui had everything she’d wanted – except the eyeglass case. We stopped at a few more places asking about cases, but nobody had any. As we walked down the sidewalk, we got bombarded with people trying to sell us designer bags – albeit somewhat surreptitiously. People standing on the sidewalks would say, “Louis Vuitton? Louis Vuitton? Louis Vuitton?” like they were selling drugs. I was having a good time. This was a whole new scene for me. One Asian man ran down his list for the passersby - “Louis Vuitton, Coco Chanel, Burberry, Coach....we got it all here!”
What a trip that was. Even the restaurants try to sell to you on the sidewalks in front of their establishments. We had just turned to walk into Little Italy and were passing by the first ristorante on the block when a man holding a pile of menus eagerly offered us “Free cappuccino” if we dined there. And that we did. Fratelli is the name of the place. And it was good. As usual, Jacqui and I somehow ended up ordering the exact same thing on the menu. This time, the lobster ravioli with Vodka sauce, a calamari appetizer, and our usual Diet Pepsi. I gotta say, that was the best calmari I'd ever had, and the ravioli was to die for.
After dinner we stopped by a bakery to get some Italian treats to go, then took the subway to Spring Street so I could buy myself a Cleo and Patek handbag similar to Jacqui's. I had to treat myself to something for passing my test! They had just closed, though. It wasn’t even 8pm, and all the retail stores in Soho were closing up. Except one called Sissy on a corner. We popped in there, admired their handbags, and each purchased a fused glass pendant for ourselves. Well, Jaqui got two. And she somehow managed to talk the sales girl down 5% on the price. That's something else I like about shopping in NYC. You can haggle with everyone but the grocer!
Later that night, when we got back to my place, I looked closely at the "Louis Vuitton" that Jacqui had gotten. That's when I understood all the underhandedness that took place during the transaction. The purse comes complete with a serial number, as well as a copyright stamp on the brand. I was like, "That's a copyright. They can't do that!"
Ding!
The next day I had to go to Hester Street in Chinatown to finally get a haircut. I was at least two months overdue, and a friend had told me about this cheap place in Chinatown. The haircut was only 19! (And believe me, it is CUT. My hair hasn't been this short since I was in the third grade.)
Anyway, I stopped off at Canal first and tracked down Mohammed through his buddy. He remembered me and was happy to go get the Gucci eyeglass case for my beautiful friend. “Wait here; I’ll find him. I’ll be back in 10 minutes.” Sure enough, he came back in 10 minutes. But no eyeglass case. I said, “You know I’m thinking of getting a Louis Vuitton for my mom,” and he whipped out his laminated card before I had a chance to say, “brown or tan.” I said, “You get me that Gucci eyeglass case, and I’ll give you $40 for the purse." (I.e., full price.) He left again, and the guy behind the counter passed a black plastic bag to me under the table. I peeked in the bag and immediately asked, “Where’s the dust bag?”
I caught Mohammed's eye as he approached for a third time on the sidewalk. He raised his chin up as if to say, “I got it.”
He came up, secretly pulled the Gucci case out of his pocket and put it in my black plastic bag, patting me on the shoulder and telling the pretzel vendor what good customers Jacqui and I are.
Maybe one day I'll tell you Jacqui's Rolex story. It's hysterical. For now let’s see if my mom can tell her new $800 bag is a fake. :) Shhhhh....Daddy, don't tell.
During my four months living in NYC, I’ve passed by dozens of handbag stands on the streets. Prices range from $5 to $20 a purse. And in this case, you get what you pay for. Right after I moved here I was in dire need of a tote bag. I picked one up for $15 on W. 52nd Street – so proud of myself for haggling the price down a whopping five dollars. I think I paid too much.
Recently a shoulder strap detached itself from my $15 tote. I promptly Super-glued it back on and continued using my tote until yesterday when I shelled out $140 on Spring Street for a Cleo and Patek of my own. That was a much better deal considering the original price on this bag was $428.
So Jacqui and I took the C train to Canal Street Friday after work. What an experience. I had no idea how much illegal trading activity went on in the city until that night. Jacqui needed a “Louis Vuitton” to give as a gift to a friend of hers. I, of course, had never heard of this designer brand. At our first stop, I noticed that none of the purses on the tall display in the crook of the building had a name label on them. The front of each purse had two holes in it where you’d expect the name brand to be. Jacqui explained to me that they just applied those later, after purchase. “Ahh....” That’s when I knew for sure that the beautiful turquoise purse that another friend of mine at work told me she’d paid $40 for wasn’t really a Hermes. “I got it on Canal! I’ll take you there one day!” Jen, I have news for you.
Jacqui asked one of the guys manning the booth for a specific brand, and he said, “Wait five minutes. I’ll be right back.” And he ran off down the street. How strange, I thought. Where is he going? I (naively) wondered if he kept part of his inventory in his apartment or something. He came back carrying a black plastic bag containing a "Louis Vuitton" backpack for Jacqui. She paid $35, and we were on our way. Peeking in the bag, she pointed out “Wow – it even comes with a dust bag.” Another term I was unfamiliar with. So designer bags come with a designer dust bag for storage.
OK, but I still didn’t understand why he had to leave to get the bag. Anyway, we continued on.
The next stop was at a stand on the corner of Canal. A salesman in a knit cap named Mohammed hurried over to help. First thing he said to us was “Louis Vuitton”? I didn’t get it. How did he know?
As Jacqui was working a deal with him, I saw him take out a laminated card displaying thumbnail photos of Louis Vuitton purses. He huddled up to Jacqui to show her the card. I tried to get a look over her shoulder. But Mohammed quickly tucked the card back in his coat pocket before I could even steal a glance, murmering something along the lines of, “gotta watch out for the police.”
I must’ve had that dumb “I’m new to NY” look on my face that I’ve been averting for months. Jacqui turned and said, “It’s illegal.” I still didn’t get it. Lots of people sold purses on the street. “Ah, but these are fakes.” I didn’t understand what the big deal was – they’re just purses. Meanwhile, Mohammed’s buddy behind the stand opened up a secret door that was part of the purse display and disappeared behind it. I looked at Jacqui and just started laughing! I was like, “Man what is this – black market handbags?” It was just too much at that point. I couldn't stop laughing.
Another gentleman came up from behind with some Gucci sunglasses, and Jacqui tried them on. “Oh, they’re YOU!” I exclaimed. She just had to get them. “How much?” she asked the big guy. $45 he said. Whoa. Too much, Jacqui told him. “I only have $20 left.”
“And she’s borrowing that from me,” I told the guy. Finally, she talked him down to $20, and before I knew it, the 20-dollar bill was whisked out of my left hand, the Gucci’s were in my right hand, and the dude was long gone. "Um, Jacqui, I just bought you the Gucci's." It was only later that Jacqui realized the guy had left without giving us the "Gucci" eyeglass case too. So we went around the corner, looking for him, but he was gone. Mohammed promised he’d get the case from the guy, and Jacqui took down Mohammed's phone number. I took a liking to this Mohammed.
We moved on after that. Jacqui had everything she’d wanted – except the eyeglass case. We stopped at a few more places asking about cases, but nobody had any. As we walked down the sidewalk, we got bombarded with people trying to sell us designer bags – albeit somewhat surreptitiously. People standing on the sidewalks would say, “Louis Vuitton? Louis Vuitton? Louis Vuitton?” like they were selling drugs. I was having a good time. This was a whole new scene for me. One Asian man ran down his list for the passersby - “Louis Vuitton, Coco Chanel, Burberry, Coach....we got it all here!”
What a trip that was. Even the restaurants try to sell to you on the sidewalks in front of their establishments. We had just turned to walk into Little Italy and were passing by the first ristorante on the block when a man holding a pile of menus eagerly offered us “Free cappuccino” if we dined there. And that we did. Fratelli is the name of the place. And it was good. As usual, Jacqui and I somehow ended up ordering the exact same thing on the menu. This time, the lobster ravioli with Vodka sauce, a calamari appetizer, and our usual Diet Pepsi. I gotta say, that was the best calmari I'd ever had, and the ravioli was to die for.
After dinner we stopped by a bakery to get some Italian treats to go, then took the subway to Spring Street so I could buy myself a Cleo and Patek handbag similar to Jacqui's. I had to treat myself to something for passing my test! They had just closed, though. It wasn’t even 8pm, and all the retail stores in Soho were closing up. Except one called Sissy on a corner. We popped in there, admired their handbags, and each purchased a fused glass pendant for ourselves. Well, Jaqui got two. And she somehow managed to talk the sales girl down 5% on the price. That's something else I like about shopping in NYC. You can haggle with everyone but the grocer!
Later that night, when we got back to my place, I looked closely at the "Louis Vuitton" that Jacqui had gotten. That's when I understood all the underhandedness that took place during the transaction. The purse comes complete with a serial number, as well as a copyright stamp on the brand. I was like, "That's a copyright. They can't do that!"
Ding!
The next day I had to go to Hester Street in Chinatown to finally get a haircut. I was at least two months overdue, and a friend had told me about this cheap place in Chinatown. The haircut was only 19! (And believe me, it is CUT. My hair hasn't been this short since I was in the third grade.)
Anyway, I stopped off at Canal first and tracked down Mohammed through his buddy. He remembered me and was happy to go get the Gucci eyeglass case for my beautiful friend. “Wait here; I’ll find him. I’ll be back in 10 minutes.” Sure enough, he came back in 10 minutes. But no eyeglass case. I said, “You know I’m thinking of getting a Louis Vuitton for my mom,” and he whipped out his laminated card before I had a chance to say, “brown or tan.” I said, “You get me that Gucci eyeglass case, and I’ll give you $40 for the purse." (I.e., full price.) He left again, and the guy behind the counter passed a black plastic bag to me under the table. I peeked in the bag and immediately asked, “Where’s the dust bag?”
I caught Mohammed's eye as he approached for a third time on the sidewalk. He raised his chin up as if to say, “I got it.”
He came up, secretly pulled the Gucci case out of his pocket and put it in my black plastic bag, patting me on the shoulder and telling the pretzel vendor what good customers Jacqui and I are.
Maybe one day I'll tell you Jacqui's Rolex story. It's hysterical. For now let’s see if my mom can tell her new $800 bag is a fake. :) Shhhhh....Daddy, don't tell.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)