Public Service

Today is the inauguration of Obama's second term.  In many ways, the re-election of Obama feels more meaningful than the first, because it was based on his record and was less symbolic, less idealistic.  I'm still very displeased with many of his policies, but compared to Romney and the Republicans, of course, he's still a far better option.  I had toyed with the idea of going down to DC precisely because it was more meaningful, and particularly because today is MLK Day.  But, of course, I failed.  I've not been to DC in years.  I would like to go again, soon, but not to be just now.

Instead, however, I heeded what has become a tradition for MLK Day for some - turning today into a day of service in which you do some public good.  Today there was a clean up on Franklin Avenue and, although we live a couple of blocks away from Franklin, I decided to help out.  It was heartening to see a massive group of people doing it by the time I left at 11am, having worked for an hour.  There were so many people, the work had mostly been done, and so I decided to do a little clearing up on my own block.  I didn't do the entire block, but the little stretch I did looks decidedly better.
 The majority of the ills of smoking are related to lung health and the actual smoking, of course, but it was striking (to me, at least) that the majority of things I picked up were cigarette butts or cigarette packets.  But many soft drink bottles and sweet packets, too.

So now I can feel smug and at least some karmic balance for the very me-time weekend I've just spent - hiking in a glacier-influenced park on Saturday (hopefully some decent photos to come), local Japanese food on Saturday night (Gen!  It is great!), then brunch at James and NFL Conference Championships while scoffing micheladas and a friend's homemade ragu yesterday.  We're off for a museum trip today (part of my monthly objectives for January), then some jazz tonight. 

Figs & Lilies

This post is horribly contrived, but as I was working out a way to plug a glorious bakery near my house, it occurred to me that the last few weeks have brought me great joy in the forms of lilies and figs.

The garden's lilies have been something of exquisite wonder. Because the weather has been, thus far, less brutal than last year's summer, we've enjoyed a lot of lily action, and this year some featured a glorious deep red through orange contrast that we just didn't see last year.


Yesterday also brought this fabulous cake, a deep, rich red velvet that a) tasted chocolatey, wonder of all things, and b) was moist and rich without being too heavy for what was a blazing hot Saturday afternoon. It's from a bakery two blocks away. My intentions to check it out were finally prompted by the combination of a groupon coupon, and a bridal shower that I was helping to organise. I probably didn't need the two cakes (ahem!) but it was definitely a hit.

I've also discovered that one of the fruit stands near work sells boxes of figs. I sat and munched my way through a couple of boxes this week and realised that fruit can be bearable. I'm trying to up my intake of fruit & veg - the veg part isn't usually hard for me, but I do have a fruit block issue. I don't know why, but it just never appeals to me. I'd much rather eat savoury food. On the other hand, if I force myself to purchase it for work, then I do eat it rather than just munching on crisps all the time; I do love crisps. (Yes, this insightful and profound commentary is why you read this blog).

In the Hood

One of the selling points of our neighbourhood was that we would be closer to a lot of people we love (despite leaving behind some others although, admittedly, not many - upper Manhattan is, frankly, deserted these days in comparison to law school days). This weekend I bumped into a friend twice on the same day, and another while I was dashing to see the Atlantic Avenue tunnel. And then we ended up in the same restaurant as another friend who was dining with her in-laws there. It was a nice reminder - as if we needed one - that our new locale has been very good to us thus far, and continues to be. Not to mention the dollars we spent in local bars and restaurants over the past week - a starker contrast couldn't be had. But that's for another post, forthcoming when a) I have a card reader so that I can put up some photos and b) when I have a little more time for such procrastinating.

Boing!

Spring has, officially, sprung. So says I. The baseball season started yesterday (thank you, Hideki Okajima, for getting a win, putting me top of my fantasy baseball so that I haven't given up on it just yet - it happens earlier each year), and we spent several hours slumped on a blanket enjoying the sun in Prospect Park while people all around us flew kites, played cricket (although they didn't even chuck, they just straight out threw the ball), and played annoying hipster hybrids of volleyball and basketball with a giant beach ball. Luckily for my rage buttons, we were nowhere near bongo players, and just had to put up with some light strumming of a guitar (by a group of young folk who spent roughly an hour discussing a) hair straighteners and b) how much they loathed Taylor Swift. I am shallow, but not that shallow).

TOH was here for all of spring break, and we ate incredibly well, culminating last night in our second making of this in a week - absolutely spectacular. We don't cook fish that often, but this was amazing. Other new recipes tried out this week: a glorious, relatively healthy version of laksa, a lemon-chili baked chicken, and a Basque-style chicken casserole. Yum yum yum. We also saw the sprouting of all our various planted seeds, so thinning out will take place this week as we strive to keep them healthy and alive. But it's finally happening. I'm going to post on the growth in the garden and seed table later this week, with photos, but it is just utterly thrilling to see things slowly emerge and grow.

Something Always Takes the Place

These are things I don't think I've blogged about, but that I will miss most about 5E:

• The ride up the Westside Highway at night. "Highway" is a bit of a misnomer below 59th street - there are traffic lights every five blocks or so. But once you hit the ramp after the 57th street turnoff, then you suddenly hit a stretch of non-stop road. And, more importantly, you hit a blaze of tall buildings - residential, office, all glowering in the dark at you. It's best when you hit that time where there's a mixture of lights on and off, and they loom up at you like some smaller version of Akira or, as Dr. TOH and I have named it, Bladerunner. It's amazing, and if you've never been uptown - and I mean really uptown - then you've never had reason to suspect it exists. But it's beautiful, and such a gorgeous way to see the city. And then you have the buildings on the other side of the Hudson, which suggest the album cover for Original Pirate Material, and you get to see all the nighttime activity on the river - boats chugging here and there, as the city keeps working while you head home.
• The orange wall. It took Dr. TOH and I four years to paint, but paint we did. Inspired by a glorious rug I bought in Mozambique, we decided to paint the wall buttered yam. Not with buttered yam, but that colour. It's glorious. One of the amazing things about the new place is how lovely the decor is, but I will miss the buttered yam wall. We're taking the paint. Just in case.
  
• Watching the large tree in the middle of our courtyard change as the seasons roll around. It turns a very pretty red in late September, early October. Then, the leaves slowly shrivel and fall off. By January, it becomes laden with snow. It is bare in March but suddenly, at some point in early April, I'd notice the first shoots and glimpses of green. Sudden, blossom would emerge, and it would feel hopeful and sunny in the courtyard. I won't have any real indicator in the same way.

What is strange is how quickly we've adapted. I've not once tried to get the 1 home. I've not once directed a taxi uptown (although that makes it sound like I've caught millions of them, which I have not). But it's just not home anymore, and it happens that quickly. But I imagine that when the leaves start changing, I'll get a pang for the courtyard.

Smug as a Bug...

And I really am. It's been an astounding couple of weeks. First we had the big move. Not that it's really over, yet, but we are here. We still have a mountain of things to do, furniture to buy, and, sadly, boxes to unpack, as well as sifting through all our crap because we packed so hastily that we did not have time to really do a big sort and offload/throw away a lot of stuff that we really do not need or want. Of course, because we're now in a much bigger place, we didn't have to worry about space.

Still. It's lovely. The garden is gorgeous. The exposed brick wall is heavenly. The dishwasher and washing machine / tumble dryer have changed my life - I - and not the Doctor - now do laundry! Me! For the first time in YEARS I've done the washing twice in a row. Astonishing, indeed. The cats took a while to adjust, but Clem has ceased hissing at Winston every time he comes within four feet of her. They're absolutely intrigued by the garden but, as yet, haven't made a break for it. I've signed up for the amazing food co-op nearby, and signed up for a local blog that showcases cool (and bad) things about the large avenue that delineates the start of Crown Heights to our east - and tonight my dinner was bought from the organic, 24-hour mini-supermarket I found out about on that blog.*

Plus, we just had one of the best holidays of my life, complete with manta rays, tons of fresh fish - both to look at and eat - an active volcano, stargazing, beautiful beaches, and a hot tub, plus fresh papaya and mangoes everywhere. It was wonderful. AND the end-of-hols gloom was defeated by England winning the Ashes and Spurs being top of the table.

Something, clearly, must go wrong soon. But for now - life is sweet.

* I also got called a "pot-bellied bitch" by local youth just past there. Well, not to be too egocentric about it, but I think it was directed at me. Having bought a giant bar of chocolate to comfort myself while the Doctor is in RI and having barely done any exercise in the past four weeks, I am inclined to agree. Of course, it is the product of several amazing weeks of overindulgence, and I'm therefore quite attached to this reminder of the fabulousness of the past month. I patted it fondly in response.

So This Is Goodbye

Dr. TOH and I have two more nights left in our apartment. This is the apartment in which we first lived together. Now, it's hard to imagine a time when we didn't live together. But this was our first home. So it will be sad to say goodbye to it.

Living in that apartment opened up not just another chapter in our relationship, but opened our eyes to a whole social world outside our university-based friends, simply because our neighbours were friendly when we moved in, and we jumped on their overtures. Together with them we tried out restaurants, took swimming classes together, did football training before work, ate marvellous food, played ping pong. That simple generosity and open nature is something I hope I've taken on, although our lack of familiarity with the current neighbours belies that hope. Nonetheless, I want to take it into the next building we live in. Because I have learned, finally, that neighbours should be there for one another, and that's when good neighbours become good friends.*

So while it's sad to leave it, it's worth remembering how much we valued being next door from a wonderful set of people. Because now we're off to the outer boroughs, we get to be a lot closer to a lot of people, including our former neighbours. We get to explore a new neighbourhood, a new park, a new set of shops and restaurants. Find our bearings there.

Five years is a long time in any place. It's time to move on.

*Sorry, could not resist it.

Bliss

This weekend has been rather fabulous. Lazy, slow. We took a wander round the neighbourhood yesterday, up to 181st to pick up a tennis racquet and a scratching post for the cats, which of course they have studiously ignored, sitting a mere five inches away and steadfastly looking anywhere but at it, let alone contemplating using it. We've listened to a lot of cricket on TMS, and picked up a couple of books I've been wanting to read for ages from the local library.*

We took advantage of the fabulous courts by the GW Bridge and played truly terrible tennis for an hour-and-a-half. We then had a bit of a sit and a read while watching the boats serenely sail by, the jetskis thunder by, and the sun set over Jersey.

Oh, and a galleon. No, really.


I've been wanting to do more in the neighbourhood before we move - under three weeks to go - but these have all been about restaurants, sights, things like that. Yesterday reminded me that we really have not taken advantage of the area's access to the river; spending a few hours there went a little way to redressing that.

* If you're interested, Tipping the Velvet, which is the only Sarah Waters other than the new one that I've not read - we're saving both for the hols which will be in a mere 3.5 weeks - and Charm City by Laura Lippman - I'm slightly obsessed with this series. It's set in Baltimore in the 1990s (thus far), and has the extra interest value of being written by the woman** whose husband wrote the original Homicide - the book and the tv series which, while nowhere near as good as The Wire, set the scene for it, and I maintain the first couple of series are extremely good indeed.

** Of note, and annoyance, is the fact that David Simon's wiki bio does not mention to whom he is married - which is clearly interesting as she's a journalist of note in Baltimore, and a good, celebrated writer - but hers does mention his. I wonder why. Not for long, though.

Desperation

There was an article in the NY Times about women in my neighbourhood and the huge barriers they face in controlling their reproductive health and how they attempt to access abortion, often resorting to self-induced methods that seriously endanger their health. It is sickening to think that communities like in my neighbourhood - social stigma around abortion, lack of resources and access to healthcare - are the kinds targeted by Crisis Pregnancy Centers and the like. I really recommend reading the article, and the thoughtful and incisive letters the newspaper published in response.

Yo Soy Boricua

... and not just because it's mentioned in one of my favourite ever overheard in new york quotes.

TOH worked out the other day that this is the longest, since leaving Sheff for university, that he's ever lived in one place. And I think that's true for me, too; obviously lived in London, but in various places. Yet we are embarrassingly ignorant about where we live. Therefore, we are embarking on a mission to tour the riches around us, before we head off for other climes (which may well happen later this year).

One of the most obvious omissions has always been The Hispanic Society of America, which is based in the campus of Boricua College. It's on Audubon Terrace, on Broadway between 155th and 156th. It was founded by a museum founder; seriously, that's what he did, with lots of others founded, no apparent connection between the themes. According to the museum, he was obsessed with Spanish culture, having read travel memoirs of it as a young man in the early 20th century. TOH and I are both enthusiasts of Spanish painting, yet until this afternoon had never visited this place two blocks south of our house that houses works by Goya, El Greco (his and my favourites, respectively) as well as Velázquez, Zurbarán, de Ribera, and Murillo.

It's a modest, but lovely, collection. The most important painting there, however, is a glorious Goya that is extremely famous - the portrait of the Duchess of Alba, dressed in black mourning clothes. There's a lot interesting about this painting. He painted two of her, and the one of her in virginal and highly fashionable white is displayed in a palace in Madrid. In contrast, the "Black Duchess" was never given to the Duchess, or indeed shown in public, essentially because it represented Goya's apparent passion for the widow. When you think about it, it's a really quite cheeky thing: she's in her mourning dress, but has a ring on her finger saying "Goya," and is pointing to the ground where the words "Sólo Goya" ("Only Goya") have been etched into the sand, apparently by her - after all, she is alone.* Robert Hughes, in his wonderful biography of the artist, states

This is not what she feels, but what Goya hopes: she is in mourning for her dead husband, and Goya is the only man for her. It is the painter's fantasy, not the subject's, and presumably that is why the portrait did not pass into the possession of La Alba; she would hardly have wanted visitors to see so striking a declaration of a love that she did not in fact feel.** In the painting she is beautiful and imperious, the yello of her gold-embroidered blouse and the red of her facha, or knotted sash, powerfully suggest the burning coals of passion, glowing through the black filigree of lace. One can imagine the painter staring at it through the privacy of his studio and wishing it were so.

The museum is free, peaceful, and this painting is utterly exquisite. There's also a lovely Sagrada Familia by El Greco, a beautiful small head portrait of a little girl by Velázquez, and a couple of striking Zurbarán portraits of female saints that actually bring to mind the society portraits by Singer Sargent, with opulent cascading materials, rather than traditional saintly images. Further, there's a Spanish impressionist, Sorrolla y Bastida, that we'd never seen before, who warrants further investigation. Apparently they have an extensive collection of his work - indeed, a whole room - but that is closed until 2009, sadly, so a return visit is definitely necessary.

* It may just be me, of course, but she looks much more... buxom, standing in a more sensuous and challenging position, in the black than in the white.
** Of course, there are many who suggest that it was indeed reciprocated, or at least they had an affair.