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.