Lust and Friendship Through the Written Word (highlights from NYC continued).

2. I could easily have been a groupie.

I can fall in love (lust) with someone based purely upon their mind. A person’s writing is often taken to be a reflection of their mind. As a creature of modern culture I tend to hold this assumption intuitively. There are two people in particular who have had this effect upon me. One is a fiction author, considerably older than me and not always a popular character. But I loved his writing so much that my bookclub friends roll their eyes and look at me every time his name is mentioned. For my part I can imagine myself lining up just to be with him.

The other person is an educational researcher who presented at the conference in New York. I used one of his papers in defence of my research proposal. I love his work, the way he thinks and the way he writes. Of course I went to see his presentations. His current work was equally as impressive as the work that I had already read about. But the thing that impressed me the most was the way he handled the questions from the audience. He uses a theoretical framework that I think is brilliant. It is cutting-edge. This often makes it difficult to respond to questions from people not familiar with this approach. Sometimes a common language is lacking. The theory he (and I) use resists the separation of mind and body. It takes the person holistically. When his responses to the questions stayed true to an holistic approach I could have kissed him. I went up to him afterwards, admitted one of his papers was important in my study, asked him to send me his current paper and whether or not he would read a draft paper of mine. He said he would. He said, keep in touch. I was stary-eyed. 

3. I met a blogging friend for the first time ever!

Lia from Lubeck was in New York City with her family at the same time that I was there. We had been communicating via facebook and set a time to catch up on my last morning for breakfast. 

We had never seen each other face to face. I waited in the lobby of the Sheridan New York carefully studying the faces of all the people. I wondered if I would recognise Lia and whether she would recognise me. I was looking for hints of recognition in people’s eyes, expectant looks, familiar features when suddenly she appeared right in front of me. There was no doubt. I recongised her instantly. It was a happy moment. 

Over breakfast we talked about our adventures in New York, her new job waiting for her to return home, our shared interest in education, our separate research interests, our families, language, life…

She and her family were staying in an apartment. She had been in NYC longer than I had and I could tell she was in holiday mode. She and her two children had been taking in New York. She told a funny story about her desire to witness sun rise over Brooklyn Bridge. The reality of setting off with her children in the dark, cold, deserted New York pre-dawn to do it was not what she’d been imagining. 

Although it was the first time we had met face to face, her company was easy. When we parted she gave me some marzipan from Lubeck coated in dark chocolate. I was touched by her generosity. I have learnt that sharing stories across the ether in the land of Blog can result in friendships rich and warm. And new addictions (where to find that marzipan here…?).

 

Some highlights from my week in NYC

Hello Possums. I have come home from New York City with too many stories. Life goes on and as it does more stories develop. Let me capture some of the highlights from New York before they are completely forgotten (at Charlotte’s request). Here is a collection of highlights from my week in NYC:

1. The Empire State (and other adventures) with Karl.

With a gentle, affable young colleague of mine, I climbed to the top of the Empire State Building at 11 o’clock at night. We took in the retro magnifience of its interior. At the top, despite the freezing temperature and strong cold wind, we went onto the exterior deck. We walked around stopping frequently to stare out onto the sprawling brightness of New York to the horizon in every direction. We pointed out familiar landmarks to each other, including the brightly lit bridges. 

Back on the streets we walked slowly in the direction of our hotel. We were enjoying each other’s company and kept our eyes open for a nice bar to go to. In Broadway we met a police road block. They let us through when we were able to produce our hotel keys. No sooner than we had passed the barricade, a mass of rowdy black youth (girls and guys) rushed towards us yelling and screaming. A large group of police followed them running also. I grabbed Karl’s arm and pulled him out of their way into 47th street and we took slight refuge next to a nut vendor and his cart. After they rushed by, we continued tentatively on our way. We had not been threatened and had whitnessed no violence. The young people looked very well dressed and not incredibly angry. The reason for the stampede was unclear. I half expected to come across a brawl or some sort of ruckus at one of the venues, but nothing could be gleaned from the quiet street after we had left the immediate scene. Karl and I were perplexed.

The following night, Karl and I went to the 65th floor above Radio City. There we enjoyed cocktails overlooking New York City through floor to ceiling windows. We wandered the streets afterwards looking for a place to go, but we hadn’t planned anything. We were both content to walk and talk. 

“If I lived in New York City”, I said, “I would take up smoking”.

Karl laughed and then confessed. “I gave up smoking. But just today I went out and bought a pack of tobacco”.

“You have rollies? Lets have one”.

“But you don’t smoke”.

“No, I’ve never had the habit, but I like the occasional rollie, especially after a drink”.

He laughed again. We walked and talked and smoked for I don’t know how long. 

In the end we found ourselves in the bar at the Sheridon. The bar man made a fuss over pouring me a tequila. It was almost two in the morning when I got back to my room. 

Later in the week I heard that there was a movie being shot in Broadway around the time Karl and I witnessed the “riot”. I texted him the news. He shot back a quick reply about keeping an eye out to see if we make it into the movie as extras.

Yesterday, I thought of Karl, his easy company and the adventures we had together in New York (three weeks ago now). I punched a message into my phone and pressed send, “Hi. How’s things. Are you still smoking?”. “No, I managed to leave the dirty habit in New York. Are you well?”, he replied. 

Its funny how conferences throw people together. Karl is much younger than me. Whilst we will work together in the future and possibly catch up socially with the larger group, it is highly unlikely that we will ever just “hang out” in Melbourne like we did so easily in New York. 

 

 

Serendipity (Forgotten, Part 2).

On my fourth day in New York City, I woke up at 4am as usual and tried to get back to sleep. At 6am I got out of bed, made my breakfast of museli, yogurt and soy milk in a cup (there were no bowls in my hotel room), and turned my computer on. I sat down at my desk, opened the curtains and noticed that it was minus three degrees celcius outside. (There was a sign visible from my window with the time and temperature displayed in alternating neon). I opened up the online conference program and ran a few searches for Elias’ session using different tactics. 

I finished my museli, turned my little coffee brewing machine on, filled up its little water reservoir, put two roobios teabags into the little conical section where you would usually put a filter and some coffee, showered while the water percolated through the tea bags, then poured myself a hot cup of tea. I took it back to my desk and decided to try to find his session once more in the program booklet. I scoured all sessions beginning at 4pm but did not find an Elias presenting in any of them.

I had a full program organised for myself that morning beginning at 8.30, including probably the best session I attended for the whole conference. I took a lunch break at a deli across the road from the Hilton. Whilst there, the idea occurred to me to text my supervisor to see if he knew where Elias’ session was. He replied immediately with ‘no idea’.

At 4pm, I went to a session run by the narrative research group. It ended at 5.30. As I left the session I noticed another text from my supervisor, ‘try session number 657′ it said. I looked up the session in the program, saw that it went until 6pm and made a dash to catch the last half hour. I felt very conspicuous entering the room in time for half of the last presentation and question time. But the atmosphere was collegial and friendly. I enjoyed listening to him respond to questions from the audience with a mixture of confidence and humour. 

At the conclusion he approached me. ‘I remember you!’, he said. We laughed.

‘I changed my presentation based on our chat’, he confessed.

‘Did you?’ I was flattered and pleased. 

‘Yes, I used the concepts you described last night’.

‘I am very disppointed to have missed it then!’. My disapointment was acute. It is rare to find other people so interested in the theoretical ideas I use. I explained why I was late. He confirmed that his missing name was an error in the program.

‘Anyway join us now. We are going to the Brewery around the corner. I’ll buy you a beer’, he said. 

In the lift on the way down to street level, he told me he was coming to Melbourne in November to work with my supervisor. He is taking over a desk in the office directly below mine. ‘We will be colleagues for six weeks’, he said, ‘perhaps we can find a way to work together’.

‘Yes, if you still remember me’, I said.

 

I was forgotten!

On my third day in New York City, after attending a full day of conference presentations, I decided to go to a reception the Branch Nightclub in East 54th Street. I had been busy and had not checked whether any of my colleagues or friends were attending, nor organised transport or someone to walk with. I walked there alone after the last conference session for the day.

It was a long walk. I kept looking over my shoulder for a taxi. As the streets became quieter I felt uneasy and I began to doubt the wisdom in walking alone, and in attending this particular reception at all. I had been invited to two others on the same evening. I was cursing myself for not checking who was attending and braced myself for the possibility that I would know no one. I reasoned that at least I would be able to see the inside of a New York night club, eat for free, have a drink on the house and, if after that, the evening was a flop, an early night would not be the end of the world.

I was relieved when I finally arrived safely. I actually felt relaxed as I unwrapped my layers at the cloak room and took in the ambience of the night club, dimly lit and cave-like. By the time I had shed my coat and woolen wrap to reveal a low cut purple top I was in the mood for anything. I was not at all phased when I scanned the immediate area and saw no one I knew. I went to the bar with my free drink ticket and ordered a glass of Pino Grigio. 

Pino Grigio is my latest fad in wine. I had found the wine lists in New York to be like a foreign language and resolved this difficulty by asking for their best Pino Grigio. The tactic did not let me down for the entire length of my stay. 

I had hardly left the bar before I found myself in conversation with a friendly young man from the hosting university and his colleagues. The pleasant exchange was cut short however, when he suddenly realised he needed to be somewhere else. He lept off without explanation. But his colleague pointed out that he was the guitar player in the university soul band, who had started setting up for their gig. I laughed. The idea of the musicians being academics from the hosting universities amused me.

I craned my neck to get a closer look at the band and noticed two dear colleagues, one from Melbourne and one from Ireland approaching me from deeper within the night club. I was excited to see them. “Is anyone else here?”, I asked. “Oh yes, the whole group has just arrived!”. Sure enough my supervisor from Melbourne and a large group of his academic friends had arrived and were ordering drinks from the other end of the bar.

Amongst this group I spotted someone I really wanted to talk to, Elias from Sweden. I met him last year at the conference in Chicago. I had also bumped into him on the last day of this conference. He had been fishing the day before. We had a long conversation about his adventure with some local fishermen. He had a couple of hours to kill before he flew back to Sweden and invited me to join him for lunch. I was heading off to meet two blogging friends (Stephanie and Abby) for a morning cuppa and was catching an evening flight home to Melbourne. I declined his invitation and we were out of time to arrange an alternative. We had parted with a hug and kiss on the cheek. However, there had been a mix up in my arrangements to meet Stephanie and Abby. I ended up going to the Art Museum alone instead and regretting the missed opportunity to have lunch with him.

He was standing at the bar drinking beer. I greeted him and asked if he’d been fishing this time. He looked puzzled but replied that it was the wrong time of year to be fishing in New York. I reminded him that at this time last year he had been fishing in Chicago. He retained his bewildered expression. It transpired that he recalled nothing of our conversation in Chicago. Not only that, he did not remember me! 

He was suitably molified and apologetic. I told him I would forgive him only if he joined me for a dance. After our dance we struck up an intense conversation about our separate professional interests and discovered many of our interests were overlapping. He left early that evening to prepare his presentation for the following day. “Our conversation has inspired me”, he said before he left, “please come to my presentation at four o’clock tomorrow”.

The rest of the evening was enjoyable. I managed to drag my supervisor up for a dance, educate my two friends on the tactic of ordering Pino Grigio in New York and with the group had a pleasant walk back to the hotels.

Back in my hotel room I sat at my desk with the conference program. Elias had told me the time of his session but not the location. I searched for his session in the program but could not find it! (To be continued).

 

The Flower Ring

Hello Possums. When I was in New York City two weeks ago, I purchased a diamond ring. It was sold to me by the lovely Rita, my fairy god mother. Here is a picture to complete the story:

 

The Kill (or, Lovely Rita part 2).

Rita led me to a cabinet of rings. “What sort of jewelery do you like? Do you like rings?” she asked. “Yes, I do like rings. But I’m not here to buy jewelery”, I repeated. “Take a seat here. You can try some rings on for fun while we wait”. She beckoned me, her powdered skin stretching into a smile that was both alluring to me as well as frightening. On one hand her expression was so joyous and irresistible, as though she had waited all her life to adorn me with sparkling jewels and nothing in the world would give her more pleasure. On the other hand, I sensed a trap. I felt like Grettle. I wanted to believe. I sat down, trying at the same time to steel myself with will power and self talk. Rita sat opposite me and smiled with subtle surity as if to say, “I have you now!”.

“I can read people”, she professed in her New York drawl. ” I have a knack, I usually pick a ring perfect for the person”. As she said this she handed me a large square diamond set on a white gold band embelished with smaller diamonds. It was a beautiful ring, in an antique style. But I knew then and there that Rita was no magician. The ring was not at all me. I wear my finger nails short without polish in a very practical style. I have slender fingers. Large stones don’t suit my hand and don’t suit my style. She produced ring after ring.

When I hesitated on an interesting eternity ring in white gold that had no central stone but had little rectangular stones embedded all the way around the band, she began her sales pitch. “I’ll give it to you for half of the price on the lable there”. I told her it was still a lot of money. “Treat yourself while you are young and beautiful”, she crooned. I laughed to myself because I am not young anymore. I accepted the compliment gracefully however, because I figured I was still thirty years her junior.

Simultaneously as I put the eternity ring back down on the counter she produced another ring. “Try this one”, she said. It was a shiny ring with a yellow gold band. In the band were tiny diamonds and as the centre piece, small diamonds were fashioned into the shape of a flower. It was exquisite, but understated. It looked perfect upon my finger. “Oh!”, I said. I did not want to take it off. Rita sensed my interest. “You can have this one for half price too, because I really like you”. “Oh, I can’t spend this much without ringing my husband first!”. “Yes you can! You deserve it. You are so young and beautiful. It will give him pleasure to see you happy. Of course you can. Think of it this way: if I give it to you for half price its as though you are getting the Lladro for free!”.

I purchased the ring and had it set aside for resizing because it was slightly too big. When I picked it up the following morning, I scanned the shop. No Rita! Was I disappointed? Yes, to tell you the truth. I wanted to thank her. I can’t explain why. Where had she gone? Had I imagined her? Was she my fairy godmother?

Her colleague produced my ring. She was my age or younger. “Oh how beautiful!”, she exclaimed, “The flowers are my favorite pieces”. Before I could doubt her sincerity she showed me her fingers adorned with similar golden flowers on many rings fashioned in slightly different designs to mine. I admired the rings on her fingers. For a moment we shared a sisterly connection. I placed my flower ring on my finger. For a split second I felt a surge of dissatisfaction. Was one flower ring enough? I left the jewelery shop in New York City wondering if I would ever return.

Lovely Rita

In New York on the second morning, I decided to walk to Central Park alone prior to meeting my colleagues for a seminar at the Hilton Hotel. From my hotel on Broadway near Times Square I headed across town on fifty-first avenue. I passed Radio City Hall, where on my first night I noticed Aretha Franklin’s name in neon lights. She played there that night to a sold out crowd.

I had in the back of my mind to buy a present for a friend back home who’s birthday coincided with my visit to NYC. I window shopped as I walked until a broad, brightly lit jewelery shop caught my attention. It advertised a sale on Lladro. I entered the shop and was immediately struck by the temperature difference. Inside the door I placed my lap top bag and hand bag on the floor, removed my rabbit skin gloves and sheep skin coat.

As I rearranged myself thus, a creature emerged from behind a counter and approached me steathily. She was a creature from within the environment I then braced myself to navigate. Lladro was displayed in a floor-to-ceiling cabinet that stretched the length of one wall. Jewelery display cabinets hemmed the other walls. These were at counter height and angled perfectly for viewing by customers seated upon gold chairs with red velvet cushions. The deep red velvet of the chairs was a contrast to the dazzling brightness of the lights and the merchandise.

She introduced herself to me as Rita. I could not have imagined Rita in any other environment, just as I could never have imagined myself sitting upon one of those red and golden chairs. Her hair dyed brightly orange was shoulder length with a filck up at the ends. She sparkled. Her fingers supported stones of the largest and shiniest varieties. Her wrists were weighed down with multiple chains of white and yellow gold, chunky and jangley. Around her neck she wore a long yellow gold chain whose open links were embelished with ornamental pieces: charms and pendants. The thick cosmetic powder she wore did not conceal her deep wrinked skin, which hung from her face and stretched as she closed in to greet me. Her lips were painted red and her teeth were even yet discoloured.

Upon my request she showed me the lladro. Following behind me, she jangled her keys to the cabinets, asking me what type of lladro I was interested in and offering to retrieve pieces for me as I browsed. I finally chose three pieces to look at more closely: a curious cat, a girl holding a baby chicken and a girl standing with butterflies. Rita told me I could have a further discount. Twenty percent off she offered me. I chose the girl with the chicken for my friend because she looked after my girls during the time our pet chickens were babies. “Only one!”, shot Rita taking a step back shaking her head, “the discount was for all three. If you only take one, the discount is ten percent”. I considered this briefly and negotiated the purchase of two of the pieces with twenty percent off.

As her colleague handled the business end of the sale and took time to package the pieces securely, Rita beckoned me to one of the red and gold chairs. “Let me try and tempt you with jewelery while you wait”, she smiled slyly. “You can try”, I replied, “but I am not here to buy jewelery”. Like a fly caught in Rita’s web, I foolishly sat down upon her gold and red chair. (To be continued).

First Day in New York

My body clock is skewiff. I wake at 4am. As I lay in bed on my first morning in New York, I resolved not to spend my first day sleeping. I rose at 7am and ate breakfast in the hotel dining room. Out of the window I looked down over Broadway. Two large screens competed for my attention. On one a singing cowboy wearing only wire fronts and on the other a group of four rappers. The images were soundlessly demanding. I resented their continuous presence.

It was minus one degrees celcius outside. I wrapped myself in my sheep skin coat, alpacca felt beret and rabbit fur gloves and stepped out into the street. Walking briskly I warmed up slowly. I was heading towards Union Square following advice from the hotel concierge that the shopping was great at DSW (a designer outlet bargain store).

It was a half hour walk. Joni Mitchell’s song was never far from my mind. There are hundreds and hundreds of yellow taxis here! I passed a shop front in an art deco building that said ‘Fresh Food Market’. It drew my attention. The promise of fresh fish of every variety, fruit and vegetables had to be seen to be believed. The shop front looked like any other I had passed. I entered and the Fresh Food Market opened up after I passed through a narrow barricade. I felt as though I had discovered a secret.

I wandered past the fresh food to where you could buy ready made salads from a large salad bar. I was tempted to purchase a selection for my lunch but I couldn’t work out the rules. Where were the containers, and how many salads could you put into one serving and how high was it acceptable to pile it. While I was grappling with these questions, I noticed brown rice sushi rolls made with large pieces of tuna and salmon and avodado. I took a prepackaged box of this instead. Beyond the salad bar were rows of supermarket produce on wooden shelves with small selections of quality produce. I found a natural museli, some fresh plain yogurt and a long life container of soy milk in one aisle. Amongst an exceptionally large tea selection at the end of the store I found some red and green rooibos tea.

There was a three way queue to pay. I watched other customers and worked out that the protocol was to attend to the order at which people made it to the front of their respective rows. It was this order that was naturally followed when the number of a check out was called out electronically. The check out chick was a young black woman. I greeted her but she just started scanning. I paid in cash and said thankyou to her but she did not respond in any way, almost as though she was automated. As I left the store I laughed to myself. Her obliviousness to me was truly a New York experience and I was glad to have had one.

With my recycled paper grocery bag in my hand I continued down to Union Square, counting down the streets as I went. Finally at fourteenth I found DSW and their shoe outlet on the fourth floor. I left the store ninety minutes later with four pairs of shoes and a hot pink Donna Karan coat.

I did not have time to stop to eat my sushi in Union Square as I had planned to do. I had booked a ticket to see the matinee of Chicago and was suddenly pressed for time. The streets had become more crowded and my shopping bags were heavy. I made it back to my hotel room with only ten minutes to spare. Luckily the theatre was next door to my hotel. I scoffed the sushi and made it in time to take my seat in row K.

During the second act, I felt the pull of sleep from my confused body but I did not have time to lie down afterwards. I was due to meet four colleagues at 5pm. I waited in the lobby of their hotel but they were late, so I went searching for a hot chocolate. The hot chocolate quest I will save for another post (it was a complicated process of rule following, and spillage).

With my colleagues we caught a taxi to The Gotham Bar and Grill on East 12th Street. In this ambient and austere restaurant we had the dining experience of a life time. Not only was the food exquisite but the service was the most friendly and attentive we had ever experienced.

We partied on to Bleaker Street, singing Paul Simon songs as we walked there. We found The Bitter End and watched a young local soul band playing original music. At twelve o’clock midnight when my head hit the pillow, I went out like a light. (And I woke again at 4am).

Shopping with Girlfriends

Hello Possums. I have been collecting information from friends and strangers about what to do in New York. I have had some super suggestions! Some of them have been detailed and specific. There are the obvious ones like visiting well known land marks but I have also been told to “experience Times Square by entering it from below ground”, go and see a particular stage show and where to obtain half price tickets for it and go for a drive around Manhatten. However, the most frequently suggested must do in New York is “shopping”. Why does everyone else seem to already know that you can buy anything and everything in New York cheaply? Is it really true? Should I set aside half a day and shop ’till I drop? Is it really that good?

One thing I would love to do is to find the place where the Great Gatsby was set. I want to see the east and west banks that Fitzgerald conjures in his classic novel. Unfortunately I probably won’t have time. I am in New York City for only a week. My main purpose there is to attend a five day conference.

Last year Libby and I flew up to Sydney from Melbourne to spend the weekend with our dear friend D. She lives near the Harbour. In Melbourne, I rarely shop with friends. I often shop with my daughters and that’s lots of fun, but I hadn’t shopped with friends since I was a teenager. We spent Saturday browsing around the shops and lunching in one of the many quaint bayside presincts. After lunch we went into a clothing shop that had a very comfortable back section where you could try on clothes. There were three curtained-off changing cubicles and a wall mirror in a cosy shared space where you could sit on comfy round cushiony chairs. We had a lot of fun choosing clothes for ourselves and for eachother, trying them on and modelling them.

I chose a skirt for Libby that I thought would look great on her, but with her runners she looked like a bag lady in it. Libby came out of her cubicle laughing so much she couldn’t speak. Her laughter was contageous and she did look a scream!

I tried on a red top. D liked the look of it. She asked me to pass it into her cubicle after I’d taken it off.  She looked great in it too, but unfortunately there was only one left in the shop! After I bought it I asked the woman in the shop to cut the tag off so I could wear it straight away. For the rest of the afternoon D eyed it off saying, “I want that top”.

Libby chose a beige wrap for me to try on. “Oh no, I regret beige”, I told her. “What do you mean, you regret beige”. I can’t wear it. I like the idea of it. I think beige things look okay on a coat hanger. But as soon as I try anything beige on I know it was a mistake. Beige is not my colour. It makes me look like a corpse. Libby and D laughed when they understood. Libby said she regrets lacy knitted cardigans. She said she always liked the look of them but not on her busty frame. What do you always regret trying on Possums?

D couldn’t decide whether to buy a low cut wrap top. “Does it fill a gap in your wardrobe?”, I asked with the intention of being helpful in her decision making process. She laughed. I don’t know why she found that question so funny, but she used it for the rest of the day.

Yesterday I was speaking to D on the phone. She was excited for me about going to New York City. “Let me know when your next conference is”, she said, “I might come along!”. What a fun shopping spree I could have if Libby and D came with me!

Its up to you, NY NY!

Hello Possums. I’m heading off to New York in just over a week. Here in Melbourne we’ve had quite a hot spell. I spent the weekend practising catching waves on my mini malabu while the kids frolicked in the surf and mucked around on boogie boards. I can’t quite get my head around my recently searched-for information that it is currently only nine degrees celcius during the day in New York. I have my case out. I started to pack short sleeved shirts. I don’t think I have suitable shoes. Perhaps I’ll pack the court shoes I bought in Paris and purchase some sturdier shoes in New York… I’ve had to pull out my coat, gloves, beret and scarf, and I’ve been sifting through my jumpers (‘pullovers’ if you’re not from Australia) for one that goes with the woolen skirt and pants I’ve chosen to take. I’m considering packing thermals, but most of the time I’ll be at conference sessions in hotels… I can’t imagine needing any of this stuff when I’m sitting here at eleven o’clock in the evening in a singlet and shorts! I’ve chosen the conference hotel with the biggest swimming pool. I intend to swim laps as often as I can to break up the frantic conference pace.  I’m starting to get excited. I combed the preliminary program today and I’ve printed out my preliminary schedule. It looks exciting. Already three dinners and two breakfasts have been organised. I haven’t heard about any receptions yet, but I’m hoping some of the universities who invited our group from Melbourne last year will come through for us again. Last year in Chicago, I was even invited to a private condo for a party! Oooh I wonder what New York has planned for me?