Iberian Intrique

The New York Times recently published an article in their science section called “Gene Test Shows Spain’s Jewish and Muslin Mix”. This article, while on a personal level full of interesting tidbits as I am descended from those very Moors who were so violently ousted in the late 1400s, reminded me just how much the Iberian Peninsula is completely intoxicating to me.

The article, while brief, shimmies through most of Spain’s major historical events while making a broader point about Spain commonly thought of as being primarily racially pure since that 1492 expulsion is in fact much more of a mix than anyone previously thought. As I said, this is interesting as its own scientific discovery, but those brief little bullet-points of Spanish history really only got me salivating for more!

In 2007 I was inexplicably and suddenly seized with the desire to learn all I could about the royal family of Portugal. Wikipedia beautifully served here and I spent a few days utterly immersed and in awe of the convoluted and intertwining paths of the Portuguese/Brazilian royal family. It was fascinating and I couldn’t get enough. Spain holds a similar allure for me for reasons that I think are fairly basic: I am an British historian and if there is one thing I hold in common with the Britons I study, it is a firm view that Spain is an undeniable Other, one which is wrapped primarily in mystery but one that is also enticingly interesting because of that obscurity. I know very little about Spain beyond the typical things that have leaked out (expulsion of the moors, Christopher Columbus, Catholicism, etc.) and those little pieces only make me want to learn more and as quickly as possible.

To that end, I decided I wanted to know more about the period between 700-1600 in Spain, which would take me through the Muslim rule (while neatly avoiding the earlier battles of the Romans and Carthaginians) and the Spanish imperial state (before it fell into decline somewhere after the defeat of the Armada by my wonderful Brits). Searching for books called “history of spain 700-1600” unfortunately didn’t get me very far since there are both a million books answering that or part of that description and also few who cover so broad and specific a range. So perhaps I am doomed forever to the broad strokes of Wikipedia. If anyone out there reading this has any suggestions of better ways to find good Spanish history books or knows of any personally, I would be much obliged for the recommendation. Until I find that perfect Iberian history book, I shall remain intrigued and awaiting more dispatches from that mysterious historical front.

Overheard in Corey's Life

If we all clap our hands and believe…

Automated Subway PA: We are delayed because of train traffic ahead of us. Thank you for your patience.
Crazy train guy: That’s what you say every day…
Train Conductor over the PA: There is an express number four train passing in front of us, please be patient. We’ll be moving in a minute…
Crazy train guy: Fuck! Damn!
In a minute, the train does in fact begin to move only to stop again a few minutes later.
Crazy train guy: What’s passing in front of us now? A pink elephant?!

--Overheard on the uptown 6 Train

They grow up so fast!

Enthused second grader to visiting educator: Oooh! Can we do research?!

--Overheard at the British International School

Cleanliness never goes out of style

Seven-year-old to his bored-looking mother as they enter the bathroom: I’m going to wash my hands! I’m going to wash my hands! I’m going to wash my hands…!

--Overheard at the outlet mall

Power to the Sisterhood

Preppy NYU girl #1: I'm sorry, but I don't know why she does this...I mean, we decide who we have sex with! We aren't desperate! We decide!
Preppy NYU girl #2: Mmm-hmm.

--Overheard on E. 13th Street

The Lost Song from The Little Mermaid

Father to super-excited four-year-old son: Yep. That's a squid.

--Overheard outside the M2M Asian Convenience Store

Got some good ones to add? Comment and I'd be happy to add them to this post! It's not as rewarding as actually being on Overheard in New York but it's an easier process and you are guaranteed a post!

Obama's Attempted Pacification of a Hillary Supporter Fails: News at 11!

I feel I must at this time vent my annoyance regarding President-Elect Barack Obama. Before I do, I think you should know that I voted for him and think he is an amazing orator, a good man and an inspiration to many people, but that I am also one of those “die hard” Hillary Clinton supporters. I am still rather embittered and, though we as a group may come across as a trifle crazy, I agree with the Clinton die hard consensus that she was robbed. I know the election or the nomination doesn’t belong to anyone (which, I might add, is more or less Ralph Nader’s stance on the 2000 election, so mind your bedfellows), but, honestly, she was robbed.

Leaving that hardened bitterness aside, I turn instead to the more recent actions of our noble President-Elect. Upon his election last week (was it just last week?) I decided to let myself be swept up in the tide of optimism that he brought with him. I grew excited about the possibilities for his Cabinet rather than focusing on his election which still wasn’t really getting me all excited. A friend mentioned to me that John Kerry was vying for the Secretary of State position and I allowed myself to get all happy about the wonderful possibility of John Kerry as our ambassador to the world. I thought pleasantly back to his 2004 jaunts to France, where he exhibited his fluency in the native language. I was reminded of all the reasons I voted for him in 2004: his intelligence, his experience and his passion to change things for the better. I was reminded of Teresa Heinz Kerry’s worldliness and her own proficiency with languages (English, Spanish, French and Italian, not to mention her native tongue of Portuguese). I got hopeful and excited and I crossed my fingers that Obama would choose Kerry.

I woke up this morning to the news that is has been leaked by some source or other (“two Democratic officials in close contact with the Obama transition team,” claims the AP wire) that Obama is considering Hillary Clinton for the position of Secretary of State. This information was painted with the brush of “he’s doing this to appease the die hard Hillary people because they’re still pissed she didn’t get the VP slot.” As a die hard Hillary person who is, in fact, still pissed about not just the VP slot but the entire presidency, I cannot think of a worse way to appease me then by giving Hillary the Secretary of State position. I was all geared up for Kerry and I was all excited that his exit from the Senate would leave Hillary the opportunity to become the next Ted Kennedy, the new Liberal Lion of the Senate. Now he’s ruining that dream, too? Honestly, Mr. Obama, can you do no right by the die hard Hillary people?

I am only slightly heartened by the fact that the AP also mentioned, in a dinky sentence at the end of the article, Chuck Hagel, John Kerry and Bill Richardson as other possible candidates. All the same, I can’t help but wonder if the leak was the metaphorical test balloon to gauge people’s reactions to the idea of Hillary Clinton as Secretary of State. From what I understand of these matters, things do not get leaked unless someone wants the information out there. Excuse my paranoia while I go off to hope that Obama doesn’t ruin this for me, too.

Once Upon a Time in New York City...

As this increasingly becomes the New York City randomness blog, I still feel compelled to share this lovely little New York love story.

Once upon a time in the West Village, there was a little apartment building with two spires that was appropriately called Twin Peaks. It was filled with little tiny wood-paneled garrets that were populated by the artsy and the literary in accordance with what the Village used to stand for. One particular year, an Italian bachelor and a French bachelorette both happened to come and try to make their way in the big city. As fate would have it, the Italian bachelor and the French bachelorette both found their home in Twin Peaks, just one floor apart.

As they came and went in the course of their new big city days, the Italian bachelor couldn’t help but often catch the eye of the French bachelorette and visa versa. One day, the apartment across the tiny wooden hall from the Italian bachelor became available and the French bachelorette, much taken by just the look of him, snatched it up and bought it.

Now that only a tiny hallway separated the pair rather than the rickety green stairs, they saw much more of each other. In fact, what began as a look and a “hello” as they entered and left their respective apartments soon became conversation and from there friendship and, soon enough, our Italian bachelor and our French bachelorette had fallen in love. They soon wed but couldn’t bear to leave the environs of their courtship. Thus, for the next eight years, the pair lived out of the both the tiny studios, trading back and forth between the apartments and generally being very much in love.

Finally, the back and forth had just gotten too much and they decided it was time for them to have their happily ever after in the country. So they put the wonderful little apartments up for sale and headed off into the sunset of Westchester or Long Island or wherever the wind would take them.

I went to the open house for one of their apartments last night and I am here to tell you that this story is even cuter once you see the apartment. A New York Times Streetscapes article for Twin Peaks is here, but that might not be enough. The listing for the apartment is here, but that might not be enough. I don’t think anything is really enough short of going immediately and seeing the place. It is wonderful and their story just makes it better.

I [heart] New York?

Since my week is rapidly becoming one of those where I end the days shouting purposelessly from our roof garden "I HATE CITIES WHAT AM I DOING HERE?!" I thought it might be a good idea for my mental health to think more about what I like about cities, namely the one I'm in, New York.

1. Public Transportation! Even if the subway never seems to be at the cross-street I want and the bus doesn't come when I am passing out from walking too far, I have got to give New York some serious props for their public transportation system. I love how easy they are to use, how convenient they are (yeah, I know, I'm in Manhattan and things can get dicey in the outer boroughs, but props!) and, generally, how on time they are even at rush hour. Perhaps this is just the 6 train and I'm pampered, but at the very least New York gets props for the 6 train.

2. Parks! New York is best known for Central Park and that is probably my favorite part of the city, but there are all these other, lesser-known parks scattered all over the place to generally improve your City experience. You can go to these lovely parks and pretend you're even not in the City and try to star-gaze (although, let's face it, there's probably still going to be too much light pollution to do so). At the very least, you can vicariously enjoy some puppy love since many of these little parks have great dog runs (notably Union Square and Tompkins Square Parks).

3. Helpful Hobos! If you are ever lost in New York, odds are there will be some kind of homeless person on hand to help you find your way. As I wandered aimlessly with friends this Monday looking for a seemingly invisible Thai restaurant (see below), a Helpful Hobo helped us out and pointed us in the right direction, only afterwards soliciting us for our spare change. I happily emptied my purse of its loose change and then enjoyed some high quality dumplings. (Admittedly, you're just as likely to run into the Helpful Hobo's polar opposite, the Insane Itinerant, but here's hoping for the former!)

4. Food! Everywhere! Say you want some Thai food at eleven o'clock at night. I defy you to find a place where it would be so readily available (outside Thailand!). Any given street is entirely likely to have twelve different kinds of food so you need never be bored on your nights out. And, yes, some of the best pizza in the world is here if you want to play it safe.

5. Subway Performers! Yeah, subway panhandling can be at best annoying, but the subway performers in New York are not just asking for your money, they are playing their hearts out for it and they rock! Apparently, there is this intense interviewing process before you are allowed to play in the subway and, I have to say, whatever the system is, it works! Subway performers are remarkably talented and extremely varied in terms of their talent. I've seen a guy play a bunch of old cans and it was just as amazing as a pair of middle-aged doo wop brothers who sometimes haunt the 6. Equally impressive, I'm told, was a group of subway car break dancers seen on the R Train. And let's not forget the mournful and mysterious Chinese stringed instrument played beautifully by the old man outside the E and V trains. The list could go on, but they are all amazing, talented people and they can really brighten up a day with their music, dancing or what have you!

That said, I'm off to go partake of number one and maybe number 5, if I'm lucky.

The Fiction and Reality of Central Meeting Places

As some of you might be aware, I am a rather big fan of the television show How I Met Your Mother. I see them at McClaren’s week in and week out and feel a surge of slight envy that they have their little group and their little hang and that they—gasp—actually meet people at this place. It turns out that McClaren’s is actually based on place in New York called McGee’s. It looks basically like McClaren’s and today I felt compelled to seek it out.

Like any good internet stalker, I took my first steps online to learn more about McGee’s. I found this nice little piece about it: “McGee's is a lively Irish Pub with a strong emphasis on great food and drinks as well as friendly service. Our main bar area boasts big screens, surround sound and a huge selection of draft and bottled beers. This pub offers a lot of booths comfortable for dining and sports viewing. McGee's serves hamburgers, salads, potato skins, fried calamari and a variety of other appetizers for guests to enjoy.” Sounds yummy, I thought to myself. So now McGee’s/McClaren’s is a good time, a good place to meet people and it has good food! Forgive me if the jealousy was more than a little slight at this point.

Then I stopped and thought about it. I often think wistfully back to my Northampton days as some kind of heyday that I can never replicate. There was a bit of a tradition (I say it this way because we went with only slight regularity but often enough that it could be called a tradition) for me and my three friends to go out to a place called FitzWilly’s. It too could be characterized as a lively Irish pub with strong emphasis on great food and drinks. It too has a lot of comfortable booths as well as a bar (and even more bar next door at the Toasted Owl if the FitzWilly bar was just too small for you). And it too has some great potato skins that we almost always ordered.

And that’s about when I had a rather pleasant realization. All that time I was watching How I Met Your Mother (or Friends or Seinfeld or really any show with a central meeting place) and feeling those twinges of envy, I was basically living the dream. I had my three friends and we went out to FitzWilly’s and drank and ate burgers and potato skins and laughed and generally had a good time. So while this may be bittersweet, I guess it reinforces those old lessons about being grateful for the present and being careful what you wish for. Who knows? You may have already had it.

Puffers in the City

I feel like every new Life phase I enter, there is incrementally more smoking. Given logic and positivity, you would think that this would not be the case. Considering the amount of advertising now done against smoking and what we now know about the health risks, you would think that this would not be the case. And yet, it is.

When I started at Smith in 2004, I was nearly blown away (no pun intended) by the amount of puffers around campus. They seemed to be everywhere as I pointedly hacked my lungs out in front of them whenever I could. I assumed that all this sudden smoking was because everyone was basically over 18 now and could thus legally obtain cigarettes. This compared with a high school full of underage smokers where smoking was the sneaky, semi-cool thing you did back behind the football field just over the school’s property line to thumb your nose at the school’s dictatorial principal. Perhaps in college, people were just expressing their newly-found right to buy cigarettes and that accounted for the difference.

Anyway, I got used to it. I chilled out, stopped my pointed coughing and just chose to hold my breath whenever I passed a smoker. I was damned if I was going to get lung cancer because that idiot couldn’t read a Surgeon General’s warning!

And then I came to New York. If I thought Smith was bad, New York was like living in a chimney. They were even more everywhere! And I couldn’t hold my breath that consistently as I walked around the city. (For any number of other reasons, that kind of oxygen deprivation probably wouldn’t do wonders for my health any more than breathing in their smoke would.) The subway was my only refuge from these people who just can’t seem to obey common laws of courtesy by keeping their addiction to themselves in some private corner. I honestly get a trifle offended by their insistence on polluting my air as well as their lungs. It doesn’t seem fair that my health should suffer from their habit.

I had a last straw moment today in the big city in terms of smoking. We had a protest at work this fine autumnal day (I work for a historic preservation organization so it’s okay and we’re not a bunch of crazies, I promise) and, of course, it was outdoors. It was there on the curb that my suspicions about my boss were realized. In addition to being a fruit juice-loving, passionately cause-oriented, gay, hat-wearing thirtysomething, my boss is also a smoker. And he just stood there on the curb talking to me about the building we were trying to save, smoking away, blowing smoke up above our heads. With each puff my respect for him diminished. How could he do this? Why would he do this? Does he really have a death-wish?

Just to cut to the chase, it didn’t resolve in me actually doing anything about it other than writing this. Because even if a smoker can’t respect my space, my lungs and my preferences, the least I can do is respect their right to make those decisions. I can be the better person in this situation by not exploding about why in God’s name they would chose to do this to themselves. So, just like I didn’t explode at my other smoking co-worker, I didn’t say anything today. I still feel imposed upon and little disrespected in terms of personal space, but there isn’t anything to say. They know the issues and they clearly can’t stop. Perhaps the number of people smoking has gone down and that I just keep entering these bigger and bigger sample areas so it just feels like there are more smokers. At least that’s what I like to think. And hope.

New Yorkers: Some Snapshots

I leave the alcove studio apartment I share with my mother at or very close to 8:20 a.m. most mornings. I take the elevator down from the twelfth floor to the shiny lobby and there encounter Melanie, the girl at the desk. She is kind of notoriously surly until you somehow pass some mental-Melanie test and you're golden. So the first three months I lived there, I was greeted every morning with a glare and silence. Now, I say "Good morning!" and she replies with a perky, "Have a nice day!" "You, too," I call back as I'm halfway out the door. It's a very strange transformation, but not at all unwelcome. In a city that is filled with unfriendliness, I would much prefer such a morning to a surly glare.

I only have to go around the corner to get the subway at East 96th Street. There, if you go before 9 a.m., there is a hunched Asian man of indeterminate years (he could quite honestly be anywhere in between fifty and seventy) handing out AM NY. He has one of this quintessentially Asian mustaches, the ones that are short above the lip and then hang limply down around the mouth, and he rarely smiles. He calls out, "Am NY! Am NY!" and attempts to foist a copy of the paper on every single person getting off the bus, going down into the subway or coming up out of the subway. The first few weeks I lived here, he offered one to me every day and every day I would shake my head with a small smile and a definite hand gesture and say, "No thank you." This daily ritual has been enough to win me over as his friend. Now, he knows me in a pleasant way that no one else in this big city has yet to rival. He sees me and grins but doesn't hand me a paper. I say "Good morning!" and he nods back with that smile on his face. The limp ends of his mustache sway a little at the unexpected smile.

Nothing happens on the train, as usual. I've heard and read so much that the train is a great place to meet people because you're stuck with roughly the same commuters five days a week on the platform and then in a tiny subway car. But the only people I ever recognize are this strangely heterosexual-looking gay couple whose only sign of their own gayness is a pair of matching, glittering rhinestone charm bracelets that they wear like wedding bands. They commute together every day down to Union Square. They get off there, like me, but I have no idea where they go. That’s kind of the thing about New York. You see people every day but don’t learn anything new. I like to think they walk each other to work, kiss circumspectly and then meet up for the commute home before ordering various kinds of exotic take-out every night because they both hate to cook.

As I trudge to and from work every day., there are these two utterly unclean old men who hang out on the stoop of a brownstone across from Webster Hall. I have no idea if they live there or are homeless, but they hang out there and sometimes one of them sings. As I was walking to work one day, I made eye contact with the African-American one and smiled (something no one in New York does, by the way). He eagerly leaned forward and grinned, "Hello!" he chirped. "Good morning," I replied civilly and continued on. These are the kind of people I meet on this street. Not international superstars. Not even people my own age. Just dirty old men.

This snapshot seems to be making an argument opposite to my usual point about New York City, that the people here are unfriendly and don't care if you live or die as long as you get out of their way. But the people in this little piece are the exception. I've been shoved by some overzealous, hurried city-person more times than I can count and the few times I've attempted to form a human bond with another pedestrian by making eye contact and saying "Hello," I've been ignored. I didn't even get past the eye contact. The people here are like this dog my high school French teacher used to impersonate: their eyes are anywhere but locked with yours. They'd rather look at a pile of garbage ("Oh how interesting!" you can almost hear them forcing themselves to say in their heads) than make eye contact let alone say "Hello." It can wear you down and I think remembering the few times someone did bother to greet you or shared a smile with you can help with the otherwise self-absorbed culture of this place.

Job Title: Gramma?

Well, I didn't really think being a mother could be this official and I must say that I find it quite amusing that it can. Here's to moms who are not just mothers, but are officially deemed so by the phone book!

The Debate between the Idiot and the Articulate Person...Sound Familiar?

There is a fine line between elitist and superior. Some would say that neither are good traits, especially shown off during a town hall debate, but I would say that only the latter is truly fatal. John McCain has shown a remarkably smug superiority throughout this debate which I find utterly unappealing and even off-putting. From the very second question (when he rather patronizingly commented to a young black man that "I betcha never even heard of Freddie and Fannie before"), I have never felt more spoken down to. Yes I want an intelligent leader, but I don't want one who thinks he is so godlike that he assumes all us commoners can't possibly know everything that he does.

McCain had a number of unbelievably patronizing moments in this debate, but I think it is really his policy and issue broad strokes and attempts at a folksy Sarah Palin rhetoric that will really do him in. He over-generalized complex issues to the point that he did not seem to have a firm grasp of them. It just ended up making him seem like some potty old man who can't understand complex issues let alone explain them in answer to a question. Obviously, I'm no expert, but I do have half a brain (which allows me to have heard of Frannie and Freddie and, yes, even the internet itself which Mr. McCain openly disavows) and I think this debate did John McCain absolutely no good. Once again, the republican didn't implode, but he (in this case) certainly didn't gain any ground either.

Meanwhile, I think Obama successfully sounded calm and informed rather than superior. He may have laid McCain's faults on a little bit thick and played a little fast and loose with his condemnations of his opponent's record, especially towards the end of the debate, but on the whole he was persuasive and intelligent.

A Stolen Font and a Stolen Voice

A small and large frustration occurred today in my co-worker's calm usurpation of my font. This sounds rather petty, but I don't suppose one can truly appreciate the individuality or prettiness of a font well-chosen until one has taken a printing class, as I had the joy of doing. The class promised to make us view the world in a different way and, unlike so many college classes who say they'll change who you are, this class truly delivered. I do see things differently. It's like an initiation into this special group of people who notice serifs and the differences between the slant of an "e." Anyway, I now take fonts extremely seriously and thought very carefully before choosing one for my work e-mail. I chose Georgia, a relatively new typeface designed for clarity on the computer screen while maintaining the lovely look of something from an earlier age. I really love Georgia and, to my delight, received a few compliments on my font choice from recipients of my work e-mails. There were others in the little font society and I got to communicate with them! They recognized the importance of the font and the choice. "It's like a different voice," one commented. Exactly as I felt.

One of the people to compliment my font choice was my co-worker, E. She is a genuinely nice person who notices the little things and never seems to have a negative or frazzled outlook (unless anyone brings up Sarah Palin, of course, but that sort of thing can be excused). Whereas S manages to up the stress level with her involvement in anything, E brings it all down a notch to calmness and is generally a pleasant person. Thus, I was quite pleased when she complimented the font. She rose in my estimation by showing off, most basically, her ability to notice the tiny details of a font and, more importantly, her similar taste to mine in terms of a nice font. "It's so pretty I kind of want to use it as my own!" she joked and we all laughed.

Fast forward a week to today when I received a short, ordinary e-mail from her. It was just asking me to enter some information in the database in the most friendly, polite terms as she always did. But it was all in Georgia. It was jarring. I was momentarily confused. It was like hearing your own voice on a recording somewhere unexpected or suddenly coming around a corner to face a mirror, and yourself. It took me a moment to realize what had happened: font theft! E-mail identity theft! Theft of voice! I was, needless to say, peeved.

But how to explain this to someone who is genuinely and simply practicing the oldest form of flattery in the book: imitation? She really did just think it was very nice and wanted something equally nice. How can one argue against that? The answer is that you can't and I just have to let it go, but it still rankles a little.

A Citizen's Call for Substance

A coworker brought up Sarah Palin’s interview on Katie Couric today at work, asking us if we saw it or what we thought. I asked when it was on, she guessed last night since the Times covered it this morning. I nodded and thought to myself, oh I’ll just read that then. No need to watch the interview because, and here’s the kicker, I realized that we have reached that point in American politics where it honestly doesn’t matter what actually happened. It only matters how it is viewed the next day. It really does matter more what the Times said about the interview than what actually was said in it. Perception has so thoroughly replaced truth that I, your average citizen, no longer even feel compelled to watch something—an interview, a debate, a breaking news story, whatever—since I know it truly will matter more in the long run of the campaign what the Times or the Post says about it. Any given candidate could be incredibly articulate, intelligent and generally erudite one day but if some blogger in Podunk, USA thinks the candidate was being—heaven’s forbid!—elitist, that’s the story. Apparently, we don’t want intelligence in our presidential race and we are apparently showing it by upholding that blogger as the voice of the American people and holding his words as more important than those of our ostensibly intelligent, committed leaders.

So here I am, throwing my hat in with my blogger comrade in Podunk. But rather than complaining about words I can’t understand in a campaign I increasingly just plain old can’t stand, I am calling out for a higher level of responsibility and intelligence in our political machine. I want it to matter what actually happened. I want it to be more important what was actually said than what was inferred. I want a system where a candidate can say something on Wednesday and then Thursday just skips the round-table debate over what the candidate ‘really’ meant. Call me idealist, elitist, wishful or a Frank Capra left-over, but I am an American voter and I am calling for a higher standard than we are currently holding ourselves to by allowing perception to triumph over substance.