The Gray Days

The sky was gray.
The sidewalk was gray.
Even the surrounding buildings were painted in the same monotone shade. On my way to work, everything was gray.

I would like to say I’m affected by nothing—that I’m a force to be reckoned with, resilient and rarely phased. I’d like to say that the end of “Big Fish” doesn’t make me cry, and that I’ve never been homesick. I’d like to say that loneliness has yet to touch this extroverted soul, and that no, I’ve never openly sobbed on a New York City street.

Because I am brave.
And I am strong.
And I am invincible, yes?

But that would all be a lie.

It would also be a complete fib to say winter has no affect on me. Regrettably, something as flippant as the weather alters my mood—and the colorless commute was becoming intolerable. This February, it seemed that even the flawless, white snow was mutilated into gray sludge the second it hit the pavement. 

(Are you feeling the heaviness of winter yet? I could describe to you gray subway cars and gray food carts. Or I could explain how the gray clouds sometimes cover up the tops of gray building, blocking out any hope of light. But then, I think you get the point… and maybe it’s all a matter of perspective.)

I knew the seasonal blues had struck when I saw a fat beagle peeing in the snow. It was greedily squatting in the middle of the sidewalk, soiling everyone’s path to the train. I might almost love dogs more than humans, but all I could think was that this selfish pup was destroying something.

“Snowflake ruiner.”

The phrase crossed my mind, and I wanted desperately to say it aloud. Didn’t the owner see that 1) her pet was grossly overweight and 2) he was turning the pretty snow into ugly, gray mush? While stuck waiting for a light to change, I starred furiously at the dog. “Snowflake ruiner. Snowflake ruiner. Snow…flake…ruiner.” It seemed my brain had taken hold of this (albeit strange) idea that the obese beagle was murdering a bunch of perfectly lovely snowflakes by drowning them in his urine.

It made me very sad to think about, so I turned away from the genocide and walked down a different street.

Then I stumbled across something quite peculiar. There, in the middle of the sidewalk, was a huge heart formed from faultless snow. It appeared that no one, except its creator, had touched the small sculpture, leaving it completely untarnished. I couldn’t help but smile at the random “street art.”

That cold, snowy heart made me forget the hesitant warm weather. I imagined other people hurriedly walking by, bundled up in scarves, sweaters, hats—the whole winter bit—catching a glimpse of something subtly beautiful; something out of the ordinary.

And despite the gray…
They might smile.

(As long as that fat beagle didn't waddle down this street.)

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“Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face.”

— Victor Hugo

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What Old You Would Do

When I take the subway, I often walk down to the end of the platform to wait for the train.

It's a habit I inherited during my early days in the city, while toiling away at Bloomingdale's. We'd close up after a hectic night, and I wouldn't want to run into coworkers (or infamously annoying customers) on the train. What was there left to say after a long day? "I really loved folding sweaters with you this evening—the cashmere is so fabulous this season."

So I'd trot to the end of the platform in my black dress (black shoes, blacks tights) to enjoy a more peaceful subway experience. Bonus: It's rarely crowded after rush hour on the first or last car, meaning you'll always snag a seat. This is essential when you’re further downtown than 14th Street and Queens-bound.

Tonight was no different.

Clip-clop down the stairs.
Swipe through the turnstile.
Past the snack man.
Past the benches.
Past the people.
Stop.

I poked my head around a beam to get a better glimpse of the tracks. No trains were approaching, so I took a defeated step back toward the wall. I was suddenly very tired. Once the train arrived, my plan was to put in my headphones, zone out the world, and possibly take a quick nap.

But as I moved away from the edge of the platform, there was something in my peripheral vision. About three feet to the right of me lay a crumpled up man—mouth open, eyes shut.

I shut my eyes.
I did not want to see this man.
I did not want to know the end of his story.
What I wanted was to get on a warm train and slip into sleep.

So I turned away.

But... his face haunted me, and I found my own jaded indifference pretty sickening. Had this actually been my first year in New York—had I been rushing down the stairs, desperately trying to escape Bloomingdale’s—I would not have thought twice about the value of a man’s life.

I walked back to the edge, irritated with myself and confused by the situation.

The man was still there, with one foot dangerously hanging too close to the tracks. Where he lay was extremely precarious, as this hidden strip of the platform is not meant for standing. Five inches more to the left, and his foot would be smashed by an oncoming train.

His body was contorted into a position that looked grotesquely unnatural and he showed no signs of life… so I stepped closer.

Was he already dead? His chest went up, and then down.

Up, and then down.
Up, and then down.

For what felt like an hour, but was in actuality about 20 seconds, I debated a plan. My conclusion was this: I would be unable to move this man safely. He could be violent or severally injured. But someone should know that he was here, in the belly of New York, alone.

Up, and then down.
Up, and then down.

“Oh my God.”

I jumped, surprised and on edge (literally). A woman about my age stood directly behind me. She had brown hair, brown eyes, and, ironically, a Bloomingdale’s brown bag.

“I know. I think… I think I should tell someone,” I said, piecing together my thoughts while speaking.

“Yeah, yeah sounds good.”
“Let’s tell the guy in the booth?”
“Yeah, I’ll… I’ll come with you. I can try and hold the train if it comes,” she said.

Suddenly, with Brown Bag on my side, I felt confident. We were at least doing something. She and I rushed back down the platform, past the people, past benches, past the snack man, and through the turnstile.

“What’s he look like—what’s he wearing?” The man in the booth seemed rushed. I gave my description: jeans, dark jacket, tee-shirt.

“Oh God, the police were here looking for him. They must have gone the wrong direction.” Brown Bag and I waited while he made a call. Moments later, cops ran past us, toward our mystery man.

A few seconds later, the N train barreled into the station. “Do you need me?” I asked the MTA employee. He shook his head, so I hopped the turnstile while Brown Bag held the door of the train. We exchanged a “thanks” and a “have a goodnight,” then found our seats.  As we zoomed away from Prince Street, I could see the cops holding up the man (both feet still in tact).

I was breathing fast and no longer wanted to take a nap. My chest went up, and then down.

Up, and then down.
Up, and then down.

Sometimes our younger selves know best. 

This is a different station, but for reference, the man was sitting where the red sign is located (bottom left). 

When Stories Collide

Clare ordered an Old Fashion, while Ivy sipped on a pear margarita. With martini in hand, I toasted to us and to the night.

It was our annual three-part Christmas extravaganza: Each year, Ivy buys the trio an Italian dinner in Hell’s Kitchen, Clare finds tickets for a Broadway show or ballet, and I purchase copious amounts of cocktails at a bar we could never really afford. This night is our gift to each other, and it’s one of my favorite New York holiday traditions.

“Where will we be in 5 years?” That’s the annual question, typically asked toward the end of the evening. But the real query is buried behind this little fortune-telling game we play. What we’re truly wondering is, “Are you planning on leaving New York anytime soon?”

And then, there are the silent questions and concerns:
“Should I pack my bags?”
“Where are we going next?”
“Is there really anywhere else you’d want to reside?”
(“Because I don’t know how to live in this city without you.”)

I’ve had similar thoughts about other groups of friends as well. There seem to be certain people you meet in life, and, for whatever reason, you become utterly addicted to their personality. Your stories unassuming collide, and suddenly there’s no turning back from the altered narrative you will tell.

 I can’t guess where Ivy, Clare, and I will be in six months, much less five years—our lives have never worked that way. But I know what we’ve been doing for the past four years (thanks to some blog documentation), and I can assure you that the empty bank accounts, the endless PB&J's, the relentless job searches—it's all been worthwhile.

Do you see us?

There we are, crammed in the last row of seats on a Chinatown bus headed toward Virginia. A woman asks what drugs we’ve been taking and unabashedly hits on Clare. 

Now we’re running through a park in the Bronx, lost and carefree on a Saturday in late August. The sun never sleeps, and neither do we.

Whoosh. Two express trains fly through the Prince Street station at deafening speeds, so Ivy and I scream inappropriate words as loud as we can. You would, too, if you were only making $18,500 a year.

There’s beautiful Clare, with California sun sprinkled across her cheeks. She’s walking down the aisle, and smiling at her husband-to-be. They are surrounded by people who love them.

We nap in Ivy’s Harlem apartment, sprawled lazily across the bed with elbows and legs all tangled, their owners unidentifiable.

Now it’s late. But we ride the train together, happy to have a friend for the long commute back to Queens.

There we are once more.
We cry when the world is unpleasant. Then, we pick ourselves up and move on without a glance toward the disagreeable past. In these moments, we are often our strongest and brightest.

I can’t tell you where we’ll be in five years.
But I can tell you I loved the last four.
So I toasted to us, and to the night.

To the friends in the room with me, and to the friends milling about our fascinating city. To the friends who live far away, and to the friends who assume they’ve been forgotten.

Cheers to the hazy future.
Cheers to the enthralling past.
And, of course, cheers to 2014.

Editor’s Note: I’m not ashamed to admit that we always end this classy night in a McDonald's around 2AM, ordering questionable value meals. However, I am slightly ashamed to admit that this particular year, we also sang Christmas carols to those on staff who were willing to listen.

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“Every moment and every event of every man’s life on earth plants something in his soul.”

— Thomas Merton

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The Heart of Conversation

Let me tell you a not-so-secret factoid about myself.

I, Britney Fitzgerald, despise small perpetual noises—particularly when I’m writing or reading. My grievance can be broken down most accurately into two categories: the tolerable and the intolerable.

What are the worst perpetuators of this borderline OCD behavior, you might ask? The ultimate unbearable sounds include lip-smacking and gum popping, which, by the way, are popular pastimes on all of New York City’s public transportation systems.

Thus, the headphones.

They save my sanity, and often act as a barrier toward unwanted attention. Sometimes at night I’ll walk home with ear buds in and music off, simply so I don’t have to engage in conversation with the local club hoppers.

I realize this makes me sound a tiny bit crazy, and quite a bit jaded. But the truth of the matter is, I love people and I engage with others on and off the clock. So my commute is often the only hour in each day where I will simply sit.
And think.
And be.

But all of the above justifications do not dissuade me from believing that we, as human beings, love (or need?) the opportunity to connect. Herman Melville once wrote, “We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men; and among those fibers, as sympathetic threads, our actions run as causes, and they come back to us as effects.” 

So when a woman from New Orleans sat down beside me on the train, looking utterly lost, I pulled my headphones out of my ears…just in case.

She took the bait, and asked how to get to the World Trade Center. I then learned about her home, her kids, and why she was in New York. Suddenly the subway didn’t just seem like a breeding ground for rats and germs, but instead a haven for thousands of people with thousands of stories, whooshing through tunnels underground—and we were all en route to our next adventure.

For me, that involved meeting someone for coffee near Chelsea Market. I was early, so I stepped in line and began scoping out the menu. “Have you been here before?” a woman behind me asked, all grins.

She was excited because she was on a self-guided tour of the “best coffee places” in New York. She lived in Westport, but her parents were moving to SoHo, and did I want a bite of her maple cookie? And no, she’d never heard of the Mudtruck but yes, she’d check it out… and so on.

There were conversations on the Highline, at dinner, over cocktails. There were conversations after a movie, at a wine bar, in a margarita joint off Saint Mark's. There were even conversations with my cab driver from South Africa as we listened to the radio at 3AM.

A local station was discussing the death of Nelson Mandela, so I asked him to tell me his thoughts on the former president’s passing. The cabbie explained his country’s history in clipped English and said that; “We all need a lit-tle bit of grace in our hearts. Do you know? We need grace is our hearts…”

 I smiled from the backseat as we sped over the Queensboro Bridge, with the lights of midtown dancing in the rearview mirror. The window was slightly cracked; it finally smelled like snow. 

And I felt completely infatuated with the captivating inhabitants of our city, all over again.

An Unbecoming Moment

I was trying to be "healthy."

So when my mom bought me a bunch of multivitamins during a recent trip home, I was ready: I was going have a nutritious diet! I was going to feel like an all star! I was going to ignore a Crunchwrap Supreme craving from Taco Bell!

Day 1

First, I popped a B12 under my tongue. It didn't taste too bad, and dissolved quickly. This little pill was supposed to keep me focused and feeling less sluggish. Since meat is a huge source of B12, and I've become an accidental vegetarian 80% of the time after moving to New York (aka POOR), I was ready to get this regimen started.

Next came the "once-a-day women's multivitamin," otherwise known as the "terrible tasting yellow horse pill." Gag, gag, but down it went. I shook my head in disgust. How was I going to take that thing each morning? I had been in college before I was able to handle sugar-coated Advil. In fact, our family basset hound had enjoyed most of my sick-day pills when I was younger... 

Day 2

B12, taken like a champ.

But the multivitamin looked intimidating before 8AM. So I had a brilliant thought: Why not cut the pill in half, and take two smaller portions instead of one scary one? Chop, chop and the yellow pill split down the middle.  

I swallowed the first half, and knew immediately that this I’m-going-to-be-healthy nonsense was most certainly going to backfire. After gagging down both pills with much water and controlled breathing, I went to the bathroom to fix my hair.

But instead I puked.
I’ll spare you the details, because this is already more than you bargained for in reading my blog. Let’s just say, I lost half my “once-a-day-women’s multivitamin.”

Note the important word in that last statement: half.
I lost half of my vitamin.

Flashback to the bathroom.
I'm pretty appalled, and a little confused. I was going to be late if I kept theorizing over what the hell just happened, so clean, clean, brush, brush, and it was time to head to work.

Despite the recent nastiness, I felt pretty good. I’d slept well the night before! I’d eaten some Greek yogurt! It was a lovely autumn morning, and the bright leaves were beginning to fall…

BAM.
My stomach revolted.
“No, no, no…” I said to no one in particular.
I stopped walking, and pulled over. 
"Nope. No, no!"
I would not puke in the street.
As an adult, I would not puke in the street.

But alas, my stomach twitched and I hunched over the sidewalk. I remember thinking, “This is really unbecoming,” and then there, near my neighbor’s azaleas and a pile of dog crap, I lost my battle with the unsinkable women’s multivitamin.

“Rough night?” some jerk said as he paused on his way to work.
I was unamused.

There will be no Day 3 of Healthy Britney.
Or, perhaps I will try taking Flintstones Chewables. 
Like an adult.

Connect the Dots

Of course, I hadn’t packed an umbrella.

The misty rain was dusting the top of my head, leaving little beads of (possibly contaminated) New York water in my hair. I was standing at the crosswalk of Madison Ave and 32nd, waiting for a break in traffic.

Slowly soaking, I thought of all the other times I’d stood in the rain before—sometimes on purpose, sometimes on accident.

One of my more vivid New York summer memories was a violent rainstorm that stuck my first year living in the city. It was the end of June, right as the afternoon’s humidity was building up to the point of combustion.

And combust, it did.

I quickly ran from Union Square toward an awning at the Strand Book Store. From there, I watched lightning strike a building, a torrent of water instantaneously flood the street, and a cute couple hide out from the storm in parallel phone booths, occasionally grabbing the other’s hand.

“Give me your hand!” someone said in clipped English.

I was in Ireland, on the outskirts of Galway. We were all bathing in some precious sun on a dock looking toward the Arian Islands, when pellets of rain began their victorious attack. Some of my travel buddies were from Italy, others from Belgium and France—but you could have guessed what expletive we all uttered in international unison.

We needed to find temporary shelter. “Come on!” the accent said again, so I grabbed his hand, and we ran down the slippery pier, half laughing, half cursing the lush, green country we so adored.  

I adored everything about Montreat, North Carolina. The quaint town of Black Mountain, the square dances held in an old barn every Friday night, the funny kids we worked with at camp each day—I loved it all.

But I did not love our rainy Fourth of July. This particular holiday is Montreat’s thing. The Fourth of July is to Montreat, as Thanksgiving is to New York, as Fat Tuesday is to New Orleans. Between the big parade and assortment of country fair-like activities, to the dances in the evening and the masses of guest from out of town, this little North Carolina community is in its prime on July 4th. So when the rain started to fall as I was watching someone attempt to climb a sticky pole, I sighed.

Mom sighed. 

“Girls you are sopping wet. No, no… come here, Gracie. Everyone stay put. I just cleaned the floor. We need towels…”

Kathryn, Grace, and I looked like three little drowned rats. We had been playing in the front yard, when a summer squall began brewing. I’ve always loved the beginnings of a storm; there’s an increasing buzz in the air. The wind picks up, and you can smell a shift in the weather—something is about to happen.

So going inside hadn’t crossed my 10-year-old mind.

Instead, the sisters had pretended that we’d lived on a farm. Were the cows safe? Had someone gathered up all the chickens and roosters? They wouldn’t survive the impending sheets of rain… and wasn’t there a horse missing?  

We ran around the front yard, collecting scared (and invisible) animals. Even when the rain started to pour down, we didn’t want to leave our posts. I was sure the animals needed us, the fantastic farming Fitzgerald girls.

You might say we had active imaginations.

My imagination was interrupted by a honking horn. It was before 9AM, and I’d already been to Ireland, North Carolina, home, and back to the city again. Almost no time had passed at all, as my brain had connected together hundreds of images and acute memories.

But it was time to cross the street.
I decided I didn’t mind the rain so much. 

Puddles on pavement

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“Sometimes I see myself as a child in a rain storm, running around trying to catch all the drops in his mouth. I long for your adventures to be like the raindrops the child saves and not those which crash to the ground.”

— Author Unknown

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Old Blogs and Old Men

I’m not going to lie.

I’ve had a bit of a hard time transferring over to this new blog. Twice last week, I sat down to write a post about pirate ships, pumpkins, and the end of summer. (It was sure to be a classic…) But both times I found myself logging into that dusty, ol’ Blogger account.

Also.
It’s harder to bare one’s soul on a white background.
 (Don’t laugh!)
My last website was dark, with white text.
Emotions didn’t seem so glaring.  
Anger didn’t seem so bitter.
 Joy didn’t seem so very annoying.

And did you know that I’d run that blog since 2009?! Five years seems like a long time when it’s a fifth of your life. Then one day, out of nowhere, I up and leave the blog and don’t look back! Seems a bit bad-mannered, wouldn’t you agree?

But of course...
That other website was disastrous.
 The poor thing probably wanted to be retired.
He was old and difficult to modernize.
Even his coding was out of date.
One more click, and he might have crashed into internet oblivion.  

So, to recap:
White background = way more vulnerable.
Vulnerable me = nervous and sad about change.
Stubborn and changeless = the creation of a coping mechanism.
Coping mechanism = depicting my old blog as an old man, praying for retirement.

What I’m trying to say, is that I’m not always good with change.
But it was time.
 (Right??)

Right.

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Speaking of change, fall has officially arrived. 

Welcome to the New Blog

 It's about time, right?

Welcome to the new blog! You'll notice that I'm still trying to decide on a few things (fonts), and that some of the old blog posts are difficult to read (more font issues), but overall I'm happy with the update.

What to note:

• Sharing buttons for social media are now at the bottom of each post.
• To search for past blog posts, use the "Search" tab in the left-hand navigation bar. I've also imported The Why Blog's archiving system under this tab.
• There were over 700 old blog posts downloaded into this site, most of which have a few font errors. These will (eventually) be fixed.
• Even though I was able to preserve the old blog, I'm not going to put a redirect on that site just yet, as I'm still figuring out a few kinks.

Think something's missing? Feel free to reach out! And enjoy...