Thoughts on Scaffolding

I did not pay much mind to scaffolding until I moved to New York. With thousands upon thousands of buildings in this city and them all at some point needing a new paint job or their windows cleaned or their bricks pointed or to be built in the first place, scaffolding becomes part of the scenery.

Around November I start to take note of the city’s scaffolding inventory. In part because I’ll seek it out as a means of protection from rain when walking on the sidewalk from point A to B (I have the scaffolding mapped out on my work-to-subway route just in case I forget my umbrella). 

Most of the time, however, I only notice the scaffolding after it is gone. I’ll turn a familiar corner and where there once was an unmemorable jumble of wood planking stands a majestic pre-war or mirrored-glass building. It’s the city’s equivalent to bandages being removed after a face-lift (did I mention I was from LA?). The true cityscape revealed.

 It is one of my favorite things about this time of year.

Up on the Roof

The hanging flowers were the first to go. Last night on the roof, after watering the climbing rose and herbs I unhooked the planters from the rooftop trellis and brought them downstairs in preparation for their disposal. The leaves already browned and brittle looked decrepit in the bright florescent light of our apartment hallway. It was a sad sight to see the flowers we had cared for since May in such a sad state.

The first time I went on our rooftop was during my initial tour of the apartment. When Elle, the friend whose room I took over, led me through the roof access door I didn’t know what to expect. She thrust the door open with a little extra bump from the side hip and unveiled a large roof deck, half the size of the building with a grey water sealant floor and strange metal trellis above. There was a charcoal grill, ladder, broken planters, plastic tropical plants and rolled up bamboo fencing huddled in a corner. Two large trash bins filled with debris and rain water emitted a horrid road kill stench. Christmas lights were strewn across the perimeter railing. It was hard to see and smell past the odds and ends, but lying beyond the railing was a spectacular view of Little Italy rooftops and downtown skyscrapers. I remember thinking at that moment, “There is so much potential here.” Operation rooftop rehab was born.

I moved into the apartment in September so we had to wait a while before it made sense to make investments in the space. My roommates were enthusiastic about the prospect of having herbs, veggies and flowers on the roof. I did a bit of rooftop garden research bolstered by a Sugar Hill Housing Rooftop Farm Project I was working during my spring semester at Columbia- talk about opportune timing. I also bounced plant variety ideas off of Steve Z. (Peace Corps friend who now works for Wave Hill in the Bronx). In April the wretched bins and clutter were cleaned out. The roof was cleaned up and ready for its enhancements.

First came the patio table and chair set. I managed to convince Jay to pretty much assemble the whole thing for us. Then came the lighting. Jeniece removed all the Christmas lights and hung large bulb strands from the trellis. Last came the plants. Again, I managed to convince Jay to partake by chauffeuring in his SUV. We stopped at a couple floral shops inManhattan before determining prices would be much more reasonable on the other side of the Hudson. We crossed the George Washington Bridge to the Jersey Home Depot/Lowes in North Bergen. It was a muggy, rainy, sluggish Sunday but we managed to pick out a slew of delightful plants. We crammed herbs, hanging plants, vines, tomatoes and a climbing rose bush in the back of his SUV and made the trek back to the city. Guatemala to create a lazy spot to sway with a book on a sunny day. The transformation was complete.
The next week Jay and I planted (well… I planted and he did all the heavy lifting). To top it off I hung a hammock from

All summer we hosted BBQs, ate Sunday brunch on the roof, used herbs from the garden in refreshing recipes and enjoyed a few rooftop gatherings.

However, I knew the end was inevitable. The vines we purchased, mandevillas, are annuals, and are bound to wither in the fall as are the Begonias. The herbs, sadly, will likely perish too, although I’ll do some prep in hopes that they will revive next spring. The depression setting in by the loss of our plants is slightly ameliorated by the flowering yellow climbing rose. I bought it as a tribute to my Grandfather. He used to grow roses in his back yard in Minnesota. It gives me a good excuse to get him on the phone and ask for rose pruning advise. The plant is a perennial and will continue to grow for years to come.

This morning I brought down the hanging plants to the trash bin outside our apartment. An Asian woman was mopping the hallway floors and held the building door open for me. As I placed the dead plants in the trash bin she asked me, “Can I have your flower pots?” “Of course,” I replied.

I guess someone is already thinking of next spring.

Penelope & Me

My friend, Xandra, once confessed to me that she is a one-issue voter. “I’m a single-issue voter,” she stated and then paused for emphasis, “My one issue is biking rights.” I was a bit shocked to hear this. I was expecting a more polarizing single-issue like abortion or taxes or war. But, then I reasoned with myself, we are in New York City, the land of opinions. Here nearly everything is a polarizing issue.

I have a love-hate relationship with biking in the City. I bought my bike, Penelope (as in Penelope Cruiser),

in June. I found her amongst the heaps of bike parts in Bikes by George’s ramshackle shop in the Lower East Side. When I spotted her, she was just a scuffed-up, off-white Shwinn frame, but I saw potential. I asked George if he could build her for me. He agreed and within two weeks Penelope and I were rolling the streets together.

Anyone who dares to buy a bike in this city knows the risks of owning a bike in the city. Pot holes, insufficient bike lanes, crazy taxi drivers, no storage and bike thieves.  One of the reasons I opted for a used bike was because I figured it was going to get stolen. In NYC stolen bike sob stories are as ubiquitous as halal food carts. One such tale came from my roommate Jeniece. A year ago her bike was stolen from the curb outside of our apartment. City workers who were repaving the sidewalk pulled the street sign that her bike was locked to out of the cement. When she came home there was a fresh sidewalk and new road sign, but no bike.

The warnings sunk in. I detach my seat, lock my front tire to the frame and bring my basket up to the apartment after every ride.

It wasn’t too long before I experienced my own first sad bike episode. My boyfriend, Jay, and I had taken our bikes for an outing across the East River to Smorgasburg in Brooklyn. We locked our bikes up together using a cable lock. This was our mistake. We typically use a U-lock, but figured with so many people around in broad day light no one would dare cut a lock and steal a bike. We were wrong. Walking back to the spot where we locked our bikes I saw Penelope leaning on the post. I turned to Jay and said, “Where is your bike?” Both our hearts sunk, Jay’s a bit more than mine. His bike was gone. I guess the thief didn’t want Penelope.

That day Jay bought a new bike, a silver Schwinn hybrid. Two weekends later it was stolen out front my apartment on Elizabeth Street.

After this episode, I began to lose a little faith in the people of New York City. I spent sleepless nights inventing bike tracking and city bike docking devices to deter theft. I thought up a system of licensing bikes, so when they go stolen they can be tracked back to their owner if found. I considered quitting my job and starting a bike valet pick-up and storage service. I even schemed an elaborate overnight stakeout on my street corner to catch the perpetrator red handed. I was clearly affected by these bike thefts.

In the end, Jay, once again, got a new bike. It’s sleek, green and I named it Tom (as in Tom Cruiser). The name hasn’t stuck with Jay yet… I’m working on that. We continue to wheel to far off, exotic destinations like Astoria, Queens; Bay Ridge, Brooklyn; Coney Island and Hyde Park.

One evening I told Halleel, the owner of the bar downstairs, about Elizabeth Street’s woeful bike misfortunes. Jeniece was with me and corroborated with her stolen bike story. Halleel asked, “Wait, YOUR bike was locked to this post?” “Yeaaah,” Jeniece sighed her reply. She really loved that bike. “Come with me.” He said as he disappeared from the sidewalk down basement steps. Jeniece, looking back in wonderment, followed him down the stairs. Halleel had her bike. One happy ending.

There would be no happy endings for me, though. Monday afternoon, I was walking from the Bowery J station on Kenmare when I spotted Penelope in the distance. She didn’t look like herself. As I neared I saw the thieves had struck again, this time they stole her back tire, cup holder and the wire holder that keeps my basket in place. She was a mere shadow of her former self, looking used and tossed aside. The sorry sight made me want to give up.

Two days passed and I received a note in my inbox from my single-issue friend Xandra:

Hey girl!

Your bike trips look super fun!  How are things?

So, the time is here, and I'm not sure who the best candidate is for biking rights.  It looks like they all kind of suck anyway.  What is your advice on this matter?

This got me to thinking that I can’t give up. I WILL put Penelope back together again. And perhaps I'll even petition the new Mayor for a crackdown on bike crime... 

If you want to make an informed decision on which 2013 NYC mayoral candidate to vote for based on the issues that you care about, check out this article: NY Times: Where The Candidates Stand

Supergirl Kills Subway Rats with Slingshot.

When I moved to New York City from Guatemala the blunt change was eased by some similarities between the two places: street vendors selling mangos, the chatter of foreign languages on the street and the constant battle with cockroaches and rats. Yes, even pests helped me make my transition back to the developed world. At first, when I would encounter a cockroach I would balk at how small it was compared to the gerbil sized variety I’d smash with my flip flops back in Casas Viejas. I’ve since realized that the NYC species is smaller, but faster. Now as I chase the nimble insects I long for the easy roach kills of the good old days.

In my first apartment in Murray Hill we had a mouse or two that would vacuum crumbs from our cow hide living room rug after parties. I remember one night I woke to a rustle in the garbage bin under my desk. Falling in and out of sleep I dreamt that there was a mouse in my garbage can. The rustling continued until I woke up and found that there was, in fact, a mouse in my garbage can. I crept out of bed, smothered the top of the can with a pillow and ran down four flights of stairs to the street. I crept barefoot and in my pajamas toward the city receptacle on the corner of Lexington and 30^th, but the sneaky sucker jumped out when I was halfway there. As it scurried into the bushes outside our neighbor’s apartment, I figured it would eventually make its way back to our apartment.

I have since taken a less humane approach to pest control. In my current apartment, we set out traps and poison and average one mouse extermination every four months. We usually don’t even notice that they are in our apartment until a stench fills the air. Sarah sniffs out their final resting place then someone (usually not Sarah) scrapes the remains off the floor and disposes of them in the sidewalk receptacle. A few scrubs of bleach cleaner later and all is back to normal.

Apartment mice, though, are nothing compared to the rats in the subway system. These guys are the size of the rats Toribio, my Peace Corps counterpart, would unleash his dogs on in Casas Viejas. They are ugly little suckers. You see them scurrying along the tracks, emboldened by their understanding that the ground they tread on is for trains (and rats) alone. These vermin drive me crazy. One day, while watching a rat in the rail pit feed on Cheetos crumbs, I conjured up the grand idea to arm myself with a rat killing device. My weapon of choice for this: a slingshot. I envisioned myself standing on the platform waiting for the train and spotting a brazen fat rat on the rail. I’d pull out my slingshot from my purse or, better yet, my back pocket, and as onlookers stare with wonderment and confusion, I’d sling shoot the rat dead in its tracks (pun intended). Then I’d ever so nonchalantly return the weapon to my bag and go about reading my New Yorker magazine. The Post would then write an article with the headline, “Supergirl Kills Subway Rats with Slingshot.” I’ve been meaning to buy a slingshot ever since I had this epiphany.

On my way to work his morning I was walking down the platform to my waiting spot at the Bowery Station when I came face to face with one of these monster rats. We had a stand-off. OK, not exactly a stand-off. I stood frozen staring at him as he sat on his hind legs licking his arms and washing his face. He was oblivious to my presence. I thought to myself, “I am so close to getting this little sucker. How do I catch him?” For a moment I thought I may be able to scare him onto the tracks just as the oncoming subway car enters the station and have him inadvertently commit suicide by train. Then I realized that was absolutely implausible. Instead, I unfroze and just continued walking. The rat was startled, finally aware of my existence, and hurried under the black iron rod fencing of a closed off portion of the station. I watched it through the gate as it bounced from step to step up a staircase leading to an old abandoned street entrance. If only I had had that slingshot.

Making Ends Meet

My mom once told me that when calculating living expenses, rent should take up about 30% of one’s income. My rent takes up 70% of my take-home. Welcome to NYC. In nearly any other city my salary would make me upper-middle class, here I’m clipping coupons. Seriously. I especially appreciate the free panty coupon Victoria’s Secret sends me in the mail on a monthly basis.

It wasn’t too long ago that I was living off of $2,000/year in the Peace Corps and so to make ends meet I began deploying Guatemalan living tactics in The City. I grocery shop in China Town ($1 pint of raspberries, holler.), I refrain from using cabs (the NYC version of tuk-tuks), I ration my Trader Joe’s Gingerly Macadamia trail mix….

Despite my efforts to thriftily manage my money, I recently determined that I can’t continue on this way. Money was beginning to get in the way of my happiness and that is no way to live. I evaluated three paths I could go down to remedy my situation- 1.) move apartments, 2.) get a new job, 3.) some how make more money. I have the best two roommates (love you, J and Sarah) in an amazing apartment and I find too much satisfaction in my job to give it up so the third option was really my only option.  

In talking with my coworker Eileen about my dilemma she mentioned that I should get on sittercity.com. It is a website that pairs tutors, babysitters, petsitters etc. with those in need of their services. I decided to put up a profile for tutoring Spanish. Within a week I landed my first job. I couldn’t have asked for a better introduction to the world of part-time work. My student is a sixteen year old girl who is super eager to learn and I tutor her in Spanish once a week. Off to a good start, I continued to look for opportunities on the site. One day I happened upon a posting for “Side job - photo albums for family.” I googled the zipcode of the listing and it came back as Upper East Side. Jackpot. I have been putting together photo albums since I was 9 so sitting in some ritzy apartment sifting through photos for a handful of hours a week and getting a load of cash for it sounds right up my alley. I applied for the job and within an hour had a response. I agreed to meet Tracy C. that evening.

I arrived at the stately Park Ave. apartment complex a little early. Three guards waiting on the street ushered me into the reception area where another guy called to Tracy and then pointed me to the South wing where the C.’s live. When I got to their apartment a smiling man introduced himself as Mr. C. and guided me past the dining room and living room to their family room. The interview progressed more or less as follows:

Tracy: Why don’t you show us what you’ve done.

Annalisa: (taking out photobooks) These three books I created out of photos and a blog I kept in the Peace Corps

Husband (thumbing through books): Nice pictures.

Annalisa: Thanks!

Tracy: We used to have our Nanny do the photo books, but it became too much of a burden for her. We have seven year old twins and the photos are just piling up. (I hear dishes being cleaned in the kitchen. Maybe the Nanny? Maybe the maid?). What other jobs are you applying for?

Annalisa: Mostly tutoring jobs. I am currently tutoring a girl in Spanish.

Tracy: How old is she?

Annalisa: About 16

Tracy: Have you ever tutored younger kids?

Annalisa: I tutored 8-12 year olds in English when I was in Guatemala.

(Eye contact between Tracy and Husband suggests they are interested in me tutoring their children)

Tracy: Why haven’t you applied for Nanny positions?

Annalisa: I have a full-time job and I feel the nanny market is harder to break into because there are so many qualified applicants in this city. I’m more interested in other part-time work.

Tracy: Have you ever cared for children?

Annalisa: Yes, I’ve babysat off and on since I was about 12.

Husband: (smiling through all of this)

Tracy: What time would you be able to get here in the afternoon?

Annalisa: I get off of work at 4:30 so I could reliably be here by 5pm.

Tracy: (sidebar to husband) Do you think it could work, she leaves at about 4pm, but we’d need someone….. (back to me)

Husband (still smiling): How many hours per week are you thinking of working?

Annalisa: About 10 hours.

Tracy: What we are looking for is someone who can come here and ask questions, organize the photos and work on their own to put the albums together.

Annalisa: That is perfect. I understand how this type of thing can get put on the backburner and you just need to have someone sit down and get the work done. I am really great with these types of projects and I’m super organized- my closet is even color coordinated.

Tracy: Have you cleaned closets before?

Annalisa: None aside from my own.

Tracy: Could you organize kids closets?

Annalisa: I guess….

By the end of the interview, I didn’t really know what job I was interviewing for. Two days later, Tracy C. posted a new position on sittercity “Personal Assistant/Swing Nanny.” I did not apply.

The next job I scored was pet sitting for an adorable seven year old toy poodle with a UTI, nervous bladder and swollen anal gland. Every time I’d put on her diaper or wash her little tuckus I thought to myself, my apartment is sooooo worth this.

Directionally Challenged

I can still visualize the street corner in Barcelona, Spain where a woman in her mid-thirties with slick, ebony hair and a rushed look begged my pardon and asked for directions. It was July 2003, the summer after my junior year of college. I had been living in the city for four weeks doing an internship in the marketing department of a law firm and was put up in a little flat in the Gracia neighborhood. Up until that point I had always been on the asking side of the directions exchange. In my spare time I wandered up and down La Rambla and yo-yoed the Metro with a purpose. I was never ashamed to ask a passerby for help in my quest to check off as many sites as possible in my thick Lonely Planet.

It came as a shock to me, then, when this woman stopped me on the corner and in Castilian asked me, “Where is the Fontana Metro station?”

I was even more shocked that I knew the answer, “Go down two blocks make a right and it will be a few blocks down on your right.”

She thanked me and rushed down the street. I stood there for a moment with a proud sense of accomplishment. First, a Spaniard mistook me for a Spaniard- any undergraduate Spanish major’s dream. Second, I was able to give directions in a foreign place. I realized that in all of my exploring I had reached an expert level of spatial comfort and familiarity with the city. I felt like I had conquered Barcelona.

Since that day the ability to properly give directions to a stranger on the street has become my litmus test for “conquering” a city.

It is now July 2013. Exactly ten years since my encounter on the streets of Barcelona with the lost Spaniard. I’ve lived in New York City for 23 months and people stop me on the street and ask me for directions all the time.

The first time it happened I had been in the city for less than a month and was meeting a friend in the East Village. I emerged from the Astor Place 6 train station. I looked around me- six streets were colliding into a concrete partition and I was standing in the middle of it. I couldn't tell east or west from up or down. It didn't help that at the time I was living in Murray Hill and any intersection that was not perpendicular startled me. I grabbed my iPhone from my purse and took baby steps as I tracked my little blue dot on Google Maps to figure out which direction I was going. I was pretty sure I was walking east when someone came up to me and asked if I knew where St. Mark’s Place was. Seriously? I can’t imagine I looked like I knew where I was going.

I now live in Nolita. I’m in the heart of the city and feel at ease getting around most areas of Manhattan with the exception of the Financial District and the West Village (wow-crazy street plans). I am no longer scared of Astor Place.

I continue to be a magnet for lost pedestrians.

If I think I know how to give the right directions I attempt to answer. Often times, while I pause and fumble over my words, some frank, accented, true New Yorker will jump in to say, “You’ll wanna take the 2 to Fulton Street and transfer to the A train going towards Far Rockaway” or “You’re looking for Hudson? Go straight up Bleecker 5 blocks and you’ll hit it.”

Months ago, a guy getting on the 6 train at Union Square asked if the Downtown train stopped at Spring Street. I could definitively answer, “Yes.” This exchange gave me a new level of confidence in my direction giving ability. I decided I’d challenge myself to a little game. I began to keep a mental tally that goes a little like this:

Someone stops me on the corner of Spring and Lafayette and asks which direction Greene Street is. I know the answer. Point: Annalisa. Then four days later on the same corner a tourist asks where Wooster Street is. I don’t know the answer. Minus one point.

Sadly, Wooster is only one block west of Greene. So close.

I like the freebies. I’m standing at the entrance of a downtown subway station, and someone stops me to ask, “Does this train go downtown?” “Why yes, it does,” I say with a smile. Never mind there is a sign 10 feet from our noses that says, “Downtown.” I’ll take the slop. Point: Annalisa.

And so the game rolls on…

I work downtown across from Battery Park and make a point to get out at lunch and weave through the buildings on foot. The area is quite charming. It was the status quo when, on a recent lunch hour stroll, two middle aged British tourists stopped me and asked if/how they could walk to City Hall. I directed them to Broadway and suggested a stop off at Trinity Church where Alexander Hamilton is buried. Extra points for the scenic route.

As I was showing these two ladies where Trinity Church was on their map a co-worker of mine, Nyoka, walked by and questioned, “Anna?” “Just giving directions.” I replied.

Back in the office Nyoka came by desk and laughed at the scene she had witnessed. “I don’t know why I always get stopped for directions,” I told her.  “It’s because you have a kind, approachable face,” was her reasoning. I had always thought I had a mean resting face so this was a revelation. I felt a new sense of duty in my quest to conquer NYC through direction giving.

I had been on a roll, guiding lost souls through the streets of New York for weeks straight when I was stopped downtown last week after work. Did I mention earlier I am weary of giving directions in the Financial District? OK, just checking. So, this guy in business attire asked me how to get to Front Street. I thought I knew so I directed him up Broad Street and told him to turn onto Dover that eventually intersects Front. He said thank you and walked in the direction I had told him to go. Then I checked Google Maps on my iPhone to check the accuracy of my directions. I had led him on a less than direct route. I was loosing my touch. I figured he’d get to Front Street… eventually. Oops. Can we call it a draw?

I found John Street.
He has a good view of the Freedom Tower.

Last week, on the subway a little lady asked which stop was closest to John Street. John Street? I’d never heard of John Street. A heavyset man in a Mets t-shirt leans over and says with his New Yorker accent, “Fulton Street.” Point: Mets fan.

Then, just today I was waiting for the 6 train and a group of Eastern European tourists asked me how to get to Battery Park. “Take the 6 to Brooklyn Bridge / City Hall. Transfer to the 4 or 5 and get off at Bowling Green,” was my reply. Easy. Putting points back on the board.

I’m not sure I will ever “conquer” New York but the game continues….

Dear Mom,

Happy Birthday!

So, I got you a special gift this year. Let me explain...

Remember that email you wrote to me during my second week of work? The email that went a little like this, "How is your second week going? Hope you are finding lots of fun things to fill your free time! Reading, Cooking, Friends, Exercise, Blog?"

Now you remember.

I know you well enough to see what you were intending by that final sentence there. I see how you strategically placed "blog" last in the list for emphasis. It was a subtle hint, dropped much like the prior subtle hints, that you wouldn't mind if I started up another blog. So, here I am writing my first NYC blog post to you, on your birthday, as your birthday gift. It will literally (pun intended) be the gift that keeps on giving.

What should you expect from this blog? I'm not quite sure yet, but most likely my posts will be filled with everyday yet extraordinary situations (aka the NYC norm) that I somehow forget to tell you about over the phone. I hope you (,Dad and who ever else stumbles upon this page) enjoy it.