Firm Handshakes

May 7, 2021

I still remember the lobby of the Courtyard by Marriott on Broad Street.

We were living in Richmond, Virginia—maybe the Chester house? I was pretty young. Dad was the General Manager of this hotel. Even as a kid, I knew he was good at his job. When we would pop by to visit him at work, people always surrounded him, laughing and smiling. But there was something else there, too—which as an adult, I can identify as respect.

“Ok, when you shake hands with someone, you need to look them in the eye and give a firm shake. Like this,” Dad said.

“Why does it have to be firm?” I asked, because honestly my hands were small and that was hard and kind of hurt.

“Because it’s a sign of respect. People will take you seriously!”

The rest of that visit, first-grade me practiced shaking hands with anyone in a uniform. I loved Dad’s employees. They would be rolling laundry through the hotel, or checking someone in, and having the best time (from my little eyes—it’s hard work). They had all of these inside jokes. Sometimes, the front desk staff would let me pretend to answer the phone. If it was the afternoon, they might even sneak me Otis Spunkmeyer cookies from the kitchen.

And there were many prank wars—I learned how to short sheet a bed and saran wrap a toilet seat before I learned how to multiply. There was also a notorious whipped cream fight that ended at the hospital…

Then, Dad was selected to open a new hotel: Courtyard Richmond Northwest. She was a beaut. Brand new everything—and oh, did Dad have opinions! The carpet in the lobby was too orange, the pictures were not quite right, and on and on. It was his baby, and he was so proud of the team that opened it with him.

Flash forward a few years, and I was working in the breakfast restaurant of that same hotel. Dad had moved on to another position within Marriott (Elsie Ward was the Queen of the castle at that point, and what a nurturing queen she was). It might seem silly, because I was 16 and working the lowest position, but I took my job very seriously. This was still my Dad’s hotel! I had to keep up the family tradition—laughter, hard work, and respect for my coworkers.

Now, it’s 2021 and the hotel industry is in such despair as COVID continues to rip through our world. Dad has worked at Marriott for over 30 years. Unfortunately, tomorrow is his last day. It seems so unceremonious.

I understand why it’s happening, of course, but as with many people who lose their jobs after devoting decades to a company, it’s just… hard. Long ago, this world became a part of his identity—and now he is being asked to sever those deep ties.

However. My Dad is alive, COVID-free, and already looking to jump into his next adventure. We really can’t complain, can we? If I look at the three big truths here, this is what I see: my Dad is sad. My family is sad. And we will be well.

But, if you’re ever driving down the highways of Virginia or Georgia, and you see a Courtyard by Marriott? Think of my Dad, Bob Fitzgerald. Think of how he started as a dishwasher at Days Inn and worked his way up to an Area Director over three decades. Think of how he taught his oldest daughter to shake hands, firmly, right there in the lobby. Think of the pride he took in his work.

When you drive by, think of how he, and hundreds of other people, were a part of that hotel’s story

That's A Wrap on 2020

December 30, 2020

When I think of what I learned in 2020, it’s a complete jumble of messy realizations, most of which are linked by the common themes of isolation, communication, and unrest.

I’ve always been fascinated in how people respond to and process certain situations. From a murder mystery, to my very basic sociology background, to my love of narrative storytelling, I’m interested in what makes people tick and the patterns in that behavior.

What were my patterns and thought processes in a year of chaos, uncertainty, and thwarted plans? After going through the files in my brain and a few journal entries, here are some themes and comprehensions of 2020. (Feel free to share your own below, if you need a random place to do so.)

We’ll start light: I hate the commute! And I naturally want to go to sleep at 12:45 am and wake up around 8:45 am. So, I have been. It’s fabulous.
Walking is more than just a way for me to get exercise—the physical act of moving soothes my mind. It’s my time to catch up with loved ones, take in new content, or “be still” without actually having to be still in a crowded apartment. All three of these objectives are beneficial for my overall mental health.
I cannot control someone else’s anxiety level. Not with science, not with reasoning, and not with a debate. I might be able to relate or assist—but there’s no controlling it.
I’m an extrovert through and through. I miss parties, where you can bounce around the room and hear something new from 12 different people in an hour. I miss the sound of hushed chatter when you walk into a bar. I miss my friends! However, even in forced isolation, I still need alone time—away from my dog, away from my husband, and away from my phone, which is difficult in 800 square feet. But it’s only in those moments that I can pull words out of my brain and analyze them on a blank white page.
In terms of giving, the world felt collectively kinder this year. There was forced empathy that came in the form of masks, stimulus packages, extra unemployment benefits, and free COVID testing. It protected us as a society and made me deeply question what we should be doing when not in a crisis.
My dog Walter is an emotional support animal. No, not a certified one—but he is certainly one.
I have learned and re-learned that I am privileged in more ways than one. There is a responsibility on my part to recognize how I consciously benefit from my own advantages—and an attempt to further see how I unconsciously benefit. These learnings will, hopefully, steer my future thoughts on everyday life and the policies that govern our society. I’ve also been reminded many times throughout this year that people do not want to have this conversation. People do not want the change that hits like a gut punch, or makes you feel guilt from past actions. People would much prefer to dig their heels in and insist that their existence is “normal,” “right,” and “moral.” 2020 me knows you are scared and that you are lying, which in some ways gives me the great power of saying, “No.”
This train of thought continues in multiple directions and relates to Black Lives Matter, feminism, the crumbling of past heroes, and on, and on, and on. But saying, “I disagree, and here’s why” to a fussy family member, a favorite family member, or a best friend transcends one topic, and brings me brilliant peace, even when it comes at a high cost.

There was also a lot of hoping this year, for better or worse. I am a huge believer in managing expectations, mostly because there is nothing worse, nothing more painful to me, than a dream deferred. I can hardly tolerate the, “What would you do if you won the lottery?” question. Why not fixate on something practical, something nearly within your grasps?

But hope, like the aforementioned anxiety, is not the same for every person. There are different forms of it: There’s the prayerful hope—the pleading, meditative hope used when Ryan had a fever after being exposed to the virus at work. And there’s the hope that manifests in the form of desire. Personally, this is the most dangerous of the hopes. But I also leaned on it to stay positive about cancelled trips, postponed weddings, and the possibility of excitement. “Soon,” I’d tell myself. “Soon it will be, because it always has been.”

And then there’s long-term hope. This one is important and the hardest for some to find: It’s that expectation of the future that ebbs and flows and takes on many forms—sometimes appearing as pleading or longing—but it’s stronger than that because it’s omnipresent. It’s a feeling most humans have innately experienced, even when they’ve been fooled before and know the world is cruel. Maybe it’s when you look at your child, or when you hug a sister. Maybe it’s when you’re standing alone in nature, or taking in something beautiful, and you feel both at peace and motivated for what’s to come.

I’m not often an optimist; I fool you because I’m upbeat. But this year, I’ve had to physically and mentally choose to practice the action of hoping. I think hope is a form of gratitude for simply being alive and having the potential to touch the future. And I think you will always have to work to find it, whether it’s this year or the next. In the action of hoping, we must frequently shake off the patterns of what we’ve witnessed in the world and eagerly anticipate a positive outcome—with a confidence that comes from the unknown.

I hope you and I break the patterns that hold us back in the coming year.
I hope you and I hold fast to the patterns that help us survive and cope.
I hope you and I continue to develop patterns that benefit those around us—and those who are less hopeful, because they have been bruised by injustice.

I am hoping the best for us.

Good Things in 2020

New nephew, new apartment, new dog, new used car—and the little things: there were still some moments to celebrate in 2020.

“Hold fast to dreams, For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird, That cannot fly.”

— Langston Hughes

New York in Fall

September 23, 2020

As I walk around Brooklyn, the air is cool.

People have on cozy sweaters and hold cups of warm coffee as they talk to neighbors. The leaves crunch beneath my feet. Someone is selling roasted nuts, and the mouth-watering smell encompasses the block. There’s a family picnicking in Prospect Park, warm bagels in hand.

The only striking difference between this season and any other autumn in New York is that we’re in a pandemic.

So we wear masks over our mouths and noses. Even the kids at the playground on 5th Avenue sport “Black Panther” and “Frozen” fabric face coverings. Indoor dining is not permitted yet—so bars have moved their TVs outside and put up tents with heat lamps. There’s chatter in the streets and the occasional sound of a football whistle.

The fall-themed stoops of Park Slope, Brooklyn.

This is an incredible improvement from April, when we lost over 700 of our neighbors every day for a week. If you weren’t here, with the body bags and the overrun morgues and the messages on shop windows begging for prayers, then I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to quite explain the darkness that settled over our city. You’ll have to trust me when I say there was tangible sadness in the air.

This strange year has brought waves of transition. Spring bloomed with death and confusion. First, we watched as wealthy New Yorkers fled to their second homes. We saw students pack up and leave, many with no immediate plans to return. Others went back to their hometowns to wait out whatever was to come. The virus continued to spread, and some of these transplants unwittingly dragged the sickness with them. Other states began to brace for the unknown.

Then, the city grew eerily quiet. The daily TV briefings and text messages began. Times Square sat deserted, void of actors, commuters, and tourists. The Villages no longer buzzed with nightlife. By week three of self-isolation, as the death toll continued to climb, we knew this was not going to be a quick quarantine. One Friday night in early April, I drank a martini, put in my headphones, and cried—perhaps for too long—about the lost plans of 2020.

At Day 56 of self-isolation, I called my mom and asked if we could visit my home state of Virginia for a few days (with precautions). Because my husband and I were both working from home, I’d spent hours hunched over my computer in our bed while he spent hours at our not-so-comfortable kitchen table. There was only a folding closet door between us as we both talked through endless Zoom meetings. I’d woken up, worked, and slept in the exact same place for months. So visiting Virginia was like going on an all-expenses paid vacation to Europe. Those few days away helped shift me into a healthier head space.

A quiet trip to Colonial Beach, Virginia.

Summer sizzled with relaxation and rage. Amidst all the COVID deaths, we then witnessed extreme police violence both on TV and in our neighborhoods. We grappled with Black injustice. People filled the streets across the nation and curfews were imposed. Statues crumbled. There was backlash, confusion, and many heavy conversations. More people died. My grandmother passed away. I attended virtual weddings, funerals, baby showers, and bachelorettes. Dad helped us move apartments. I worked 14-hour days and then took my first vacation since Christmas. We marched to City Hall, we signed petitions, we clapped for healthcare workers, and throughout it all we hoped that the infection rate of the coronavirus would slow.

My community has been affected by the pandemic. We lost bartenders, co-workers, and parents of people we know. Luckily, while my immediate friend group has seen sickness, we have not experienced death. Some of my friends haven’t left the city since March; some have been gone for months. Some will never come back.

I’m still here, in part because my husband has returned to physically working in an office. Ryan’s commute has kept a few people at arm’s length, even though he gets tested weekly. I have to remind myself that individuals handle their anxieties in different ways—and being cautious is wise. But there is isolation in the way we live this season. I am distant with people I once took for granted.

I’m also still here because this is home. New York is in my blood, and her addiction is strong. There are no dark jazzy bars, no endless night out, no theater—but even without being my Neverland, I can’t see myself anywhere else. That could change; it just hasn’t yet. It’s not my time. Ten years has not been enough.

Many aspects of life look very different, like school, work, and the commute. People don’t have jobs and parents are strained in tiny apartments that were never intended to harbor its occupants for so long.

But then some things will always be the same. My friends are having babies. People are falling in and out of love. Families are strolling through parks and museums again. The man on the street corner is still selling warm, roasted nuts.

And when you walk around the streets of Brooklyn in fall, the leaves will crunch beneath your feet. You might hear the shouts of a protest at Grand Army Plaza, or the cheers of people watching a football game at a bar on 5th. You’ll see kids on scooters and pumpkins on row house stoops.

You might even spot me, wandering the city blocks I so adore, thinking both about what comes next—and how to make the most of this surreal moment in history.

“Don’t you love New York in the fall? It makes me want to buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address.”

— Nora Ephron

Processing

July 13, 2020

New York and other cities around the nation have been protesting since George Floyd, a Black man, was murdered by a police officer in Minneapolis. The video footage is deeply disturbing, and unfortunately, no longer surprising. This senseless death—along with others this spring that include Breonna Taylor and Ahmaud Arbery—have rightfully reinvigorated the national Black Lives Matter movement.

Let me be very clear: I’m no expert on antiracist behavior, and I have failed in the past at being a perpetual advocate for communities that don’t look like mine. Perhaps there was intent; there wasn’t longevity.

But I don’t know how you watch the life of a Black man be snuffed out by the knee of white authority in a painful eight-minute video, and not think there should be a vast reimagining of our current systems. I don’t know how you complain more about the economy than the blood on our hands. I don’t know how you could put so much energy into caring about the fate of Confederate “monuments”—and never question the injustice they represent.

I’ve had uplifting and emotional conversations with my parents about what we as Americans must consider in 2020; I value our discussions, especially since we don’t always believe in the same solutions. But not all of my interactions have been positive—which is, of course, expected.

So there has been much internal searching during this time. Why is this the norm? How did I not learn about that? What could I have done instead? There has been sorrow. There has been learning and listening (see below). There has been protesting and petitioning. There has been guilt.

We don’t like to feel guilty—and I wouldn’t suggest any human stay in that space eternally or process it publicly. But when closely examined, feelings of discomfort can and should lead to changes in behavior.

Guilt does not equal “bad.”
Protesting does not equal “bad.”
Having hard conversations does not equal “bad.”
Questioning and changing an opinion does not equal “bad.”

That’s processing. And with action, it could turn into growth—which by definition, is not a stagnate stance.

Without spilling my guts too haphazardly, know there has been a reexamining of my own philosophy and the actions I do or don’t take on a daily basis—particularly in regard to racism, injustice, misinformation, and empathy. It would be cowardly of me if I didn’t express some of my learnings and opinions here, since I’ve written out so many others.

My current plan is to monetarily or physically support the marchers in NYC, with an emphasis on the education system and hunger in our city. I’ll promote the petitions I sign, seek long-term projects, and continue to do much learning in a humble posture.

This is not a particularly prolific post, or a story about New York, or a funny narrative about city life. It’s simply a public admission of thoughts amidst the backdrop of a global pandemic and worthy protesting of broken systems. It’s a way of processing my understanding of justice, grace, and hope.

Current Readings/Listens:

Defund the police? Here’s what that really means. - Washington Post article
American Police - Throughline podcast
What Science Says About Police - Pod Save the People podcast
1619 - New York Times podcast
Trevor Noah’s thoughts on George Floyd, the Minneapolis Protests, Ahmaud Arbery & Amy Cooper
Osheta Moore’s thoughts on peacemaking
Marie Beecham’s quick tips on how to ally
Zinn Education Project provides daily history lessons (that I never learned)
White Fragility by Robin DiAngelo
The Long Hot Summer - Throughline podcast
Anti-Racism Daily - a daily email newsletter written by Nicole Cardoza
Let’s Talk About Race - portal from the National Museum of African American History and Culture
How we're priming some kids for college — and others for prison - TED Talk by Alice Goffman

Up Next:

How to be an Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi
I'm Still Here by Austin Channing Brown

Actions:

Paying Black people who I’m learning from by buying their materials or through Patreon
Donating locally to organizations/campaigns I think are making a difference. Examples include:
- @nycmarchers on Venmo
- @thefriendlyfridge on Venmo
- CHiPS in Brooklyn (takes food donation, monetary donations, and also has an Amazon wishlist)
- Looking for something specific? Here is a large list of funds.
Making reoccurring donations to larger nonprofits. Examples include:
- Color of Change
- She’s the First
Making an effort to shop and learn about Black local businesses
Physically showing up to marches (with a sign, mask, and distance)
Focusing on defensiveness and where it pops up
Working through this calendar compiled by Autumn Gupta with Bryanna Wallace’s oversight
Learning about my own biases
- Ex: Taking the Race IAT, or Implicit Association Test
Signing petitions, sending letters, sending emails, etc. Examples include:
- Petitions that haven’t met their goal
- Petition for justice for Elijah McClain
- Petition for justice for Breonna Taylor
- Black Lives Matter roundup of petitions + resources

“Fear of radical changes leads many citizens of our nation to betray their minds and hearts.”

— bell hooks

Brooklyn During a Pandemic

April 17, 2020

It was February 2020.

Ryan and I booked a cheap three-day trip to Paris. We’d sneak away from work with hotel points, see the highlights, eat too much food, drink too much wine—and swear to return! We’d meet up with one of my dearest friends who lives in London for lunch. Then we’d stroll the Seine and pick which museum we’d glide through in the off season…

Of course, we never made it out of New York. The government closed down travel to Europe about 10 days before our trip (as it should have been). So, we worked on getting our money back and began prepping for a city-wide lockdown, of sorts.

March arrived with a vengeance.

New York documented its first official coronavirus case on March 1st, though we now assume the virus had been floating around for much longer. Our way of life changed rapidly after that; each day there was a new opinion, a new cluster of cases, and a new regulation. It wasn’t “scary” for my husband and me—we are not immunocompromised—but there was an ominous feeling in the air as businesses began to shutter and people got sick.

So, what’s it like living in Brooklyn during the pandemic? Everyone’s experience is different based off of certain privileges, type of job, overall health, etc. But the scene itself is probably not very different than other cities hit hard by the virus. I’ve always found it useful to document what I see in my daily life and share it with you—so here are my observations:

1. I work at a museum. We were told to pack our things and start working from home as of March 12th for an indefinite amount of time. I remember the subway car that day: it was less crowded than usual, but not empty. Schools were open and I still had a thing called “plans.”

Taken on March 14, the day of my last subway ride.

2. By March 15, we learned that restaurants and bars would be closing (delivery was and is still allowed). I think this is when I knew the virus was going to hit us hard. New Yorkers don’t live in tiny apartments for the fun of it—most of us have our favorite local bar, our favorite backyard bar, and our favorite family-owned restaurant. We spend a lot of time outside of our apartments at parks and museums. Closing down that part of NYC culture hasn’t happened in the 10 years that I’ve lived here, even through hurricanes and blizzards. (Note: I support the closings 100% in the hopes of giving our hospitals a chance.)

3. I’m not a healthcare worker, so I cannot explain the chaos that they are seeing. But I have walked past a refrigerated trailer that was a makeshift morgue in Brooklyn. It was depressing.

4. I spent the first week of self-quarantine in a complete funk. I grieved my trip to Paris, my friends’ postponed weddings, and my sense of freedom. I allowed myself to cry while drinking wine and staring at an unfinished puzzle. I worried about my job, my dad’s job, and my husband’s job. Then, work got busy, my husband got sick, and I had to try to find the “joy” in each day. I’m not always successful, but having something to look forward to is a mentality that keeps me sane. Example: bagels.

5. The flowers are blooming, the birds are chirping—and the sirens are roaring. I think that’s what I’m going to remember most about COVID-19. Constant sirens. In the back of my Zoom calls, as we watch TV, while we sleep. Honking cars are much less frequent; there’s almost no traffic on my street. But the sirens seem to have tripled in frequency.

6. We wear masks now. Not a few people, but most people I pass on the street have some sort of covering. As of April 17, we’re required to wear them in stores, or other places where the six-foot social distancing policy isn’t possible. I have no idea if our ragtag masks help; but it does feel like we’re all on the same team, trying to beat an invisible enemy. Many of us also wear latex gloves while shopping or getting the mail.

7. There are lines for bigger grocery stores because they can only allow so many people into the store at once. The Whole Foods in Brooklyn usually has about 25 people in line who are asked to socially distance while waiting. A security guard manages the entrance—he’s like the bouncer at a hip club, except now the goal is to score eggs. If you go to your local bodega, you probably won’t run into this issue, but our two closest corner stores have closed.

8. Most groceries are available, though the middle of March was a bit dicey for eggs, milk, bread, and meat as people started realizing we were going into self-quarantine. Through the end of March, most of my favorite restaurants still delivered, but we saw many businesses close down the first week of April.

9. The parks can still get very crowded on nice days. My husband and I avoid them. In the earlier days of self-quarantine when we went for more walks, it was always on side streets or in cemeteries. We like 2nd Avenue in Gowanus—just a bunch of parked garbage trucks and us!

10. There’s now “contactless delivery” for takeout, meaning a restaurant will just leave food on your stoop and buzz your apartment. No human interaction.

11. Some bars have a “take out” window, where you walk up and order a cocktail to-go. I love this concept—can we keep it post-COVID?

12. We’re at the point in this crisis (April 17) where most New Yorkers in my circle know someone with COVID-19 symptoms. And unfortunately, many people have at least some (loose) connection to a death. My husband and I have lost a local bartender, a co-worker, and three family members of co-workers between the two of us. There are no funerals or memorials at this time.

13. Uber and cab drivers have all sorts of ways to try and stay safe. Hand sanitizer, plastic curtains to separate the driver and the rider, masks, an open window policy, gloves, etc.

14. I’ve said “hi” to my neighbors more. You never really know who’s struggling—we’re going on over a month of self-isolation, and it can get pretty lonely. But I also actively step away from people while walking to the grocery store. The sidewalks can be pretty narrow here, so sometimes I’ll just walk in the semi-empty road to pass someone.

15. All of my friends who are stuck in apartments would kill for outside space—just a patch of grass you could call your own! One of my struggles has been not being able to go outside, stretch my legs, and enjoy the sun on a daily basis. Sometimes I’ll hang out on my fire escape, but a squirrel attack and some rusty screws make this option less than ideal.

Overall, life is moving on the same way it did before—except there are no plans, no dinner reservations, and no evenings spent watching a Broadway show. I haven’t taken the subway in a month, which means I haven’t been in Manhattan in a month. We don’t have a car, so we can’t go anywhere that isn’t walkable. I miss my friends the most. I miss hugging people and going to concerts and BBQing in someone’s backyard. But I imagine that’s how many people from around the world feel.

There are also signs of hope. Governor Cuomo comes on the news each day with an update, and recently he reported that the hospitalizations have slowed. There are also nightly cheers for healthcare workers at 7pm when they change shifts. I don’t even live near a hospital, but people have started cheering this week on my street.

I think we all need to cheer for something.

Here are some slice-of-life photos of Brooklyn from March - April 2020.

“Why do the birds go on singing? Why do the stars glow above? Don’t they know it’s the end of the world?”

— Skeeter Davis (but I prefer The Carpenters' version)

This is Part Two of a blog post on COVID-19 in NYC. For Part One, click here.

"These Hints Would Have Been Forgotten"

March 31, 2020

PART ONE

It was January 2020.

The winter had been kind to us in New York City. I almost missed the snow—but then I reminded myself that it would come. Whether it would be next week or sometime in March, New York would see another snow. She always does.

We were leaving a friend’s apartment in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn and dispersing for the night. The streets were lined with four- and five-story brick walk-ups from the early 1900s. There’s a decorative trim on the top of these buildings that mark them as being from a different, more fanciful era. Then, a little further down the road, we ran into the classic Brooklyn brownstones, with their steep staircases and massive wooden doors.

For me, there is no finer place to walk.

Through unemployment, through drunken laughter, through tears, through screams of Broadway musicals—I’ve lived 10 years of life with the streets of New York and her boroughs as my background. Some of these very blog posts came from notes on my phone, as I was hopping from one avenue to the next, brimming with energy and the need to control restless thoughts. Strolling through cities both excites my mind and gives me a sense of peace. It’s the only way I can fully commit to doing two things at once: walking and talking, walking and listening, or walking and recording what I see.

I don’t know what that says about my personality, but it pleases me immensely to succeed in multitasking.

The walk in Cobble Hill that night was really no walk at all. We were simply lallygagging to the top of the street to catch a cab. Someone mentioned the Coronavirus in passing. At the time, it was a distant concern—a “flu-like” virus that jumped from an animal in Wuhan, China to a human sometime before the Christmas holidays. The reports sounded troubling and mysterious, but I remembered SARS. That illness had arrived a short time after 9-11 and was disastrous in certain countries. Still... from my middle school memories? Only a handful of Americans had contracted the virus. With that in mind, containment of the new Coronavirus seemed highly plausible.

Someone brought up a podcast on the topic; someone else mentioned an article from The New York Times about the conditions in China. Then Ubers were called, and the conversation ended. As we hugged our friends and slid into the backseat of a cab, my husband said, “What if this is like in the movies? What if this is like when they flashback to a time before ‘the virus?’ And we’re all…”

Laughing.
Going to work.
Hugging each other.

It’s Day 17 of self-quarantine.
I think about the moment a lot.

But on the ride home that night, I remember thinking about the weather: When was it finally going to snow?

Part Two: Brooklyn During a Pandemic

“If the event had not come to pass, these hints would have been forgotten, as thousands and millions of suggestions and supposition are now forgotten that were current at the period, but have been shown by time to be unfounded and so have been consigned to oblivion.”

— Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

Random snapshots from January, 2020

THIS IS PART one OF A BLOG POST ON COVID-19 IN NYC. FOR PART two, CLICK HERE.

How to Eat in New York City: Best of Times, Worst of Times

January 20, 2020

I don’t know how to describe this post—it started out as a bit of a joke. But ultimately, it became my 10-year survival guide for finding food in NYC on a wide range of budgets while having a wide range of emotions. Whether you’re having a mental breakdown, or living it up on top, this blog entry has something for you!

Discover & share this 2 Sassy For U GIF with everyone you know. GIPHY is how you search, share, discover, and create GIFs.

When you’re making $18.5K (pre-taxes):

Invest in peanut butter, whole wheat bread, eggs, and hummus. All of these items are relatively cheap and will fill you up. Tip: It’s important to find foods with high amounts of protein when you’re an accidental vegetarian. I also have a really excellent recipe for a 5-minute microwaved potato.

When someone visiting New York wants to go to Peter Luger’s:

Remind them that Peter Luger Steak House is more of an experience, than a perfect piece of meat. Explain to the visitor that your friends have actually been able to cook better steaks with a good cast iron and butter. Then send them the over-the-top NY Times review of the establishment so you have something to laugh at on your journey to Williamsburg. But then, relent a bit on your hazing of this cash-only restaurant because the vibe is still old-school and fun.

When you can only afford snacks (and “wine?”) from CVS:

To make cheap eats more fun, head to a roof! Nothing elevates an experience like being surrounded by water towers and skyscrapers. If that’s not a possibility, consider brown-bagging it in the Hudson River Park. The green patches of grass and the rolling water will do your tired soul some good. But beware! Sometimes at night, the rats can get rowdy in the weeds. Post-sunset, I’d recommend sitting on a bench.

CVS wine isn’t so bad with some friends and sunshine.

When you’re on a date at Eleven Madison Park:

It’s worth noting that your dinner is going to be a three to four hour “experience,” so buckle up. You pre-pay for the meal and tip is included in that $330+ per person price. There’s no dress code, but most people arrive in business casual attire. The restaurant gives you the option of putting your phone in a box at the beginning of the meal so you can “be in the moment.” I obviously did not partake.

Ryan has a black eye from a recent surgery in this photo—but a happy belly! Photo circa 2019.

When you only have enough cash for one meal that day:

As a social person, I highly recommend heading over to Crocodile Lounge on 14th Street. You get a FREE personal pizza with every beer you purchase. I used to go there at happy hour and score two Yuenglings and two pizzas for less than $15. Prices have fluctuated over the last decade, but you’ve still got yourself a bargain.

A slice-of-life photo from September 2010 — A *slice*-of-life photo from September 2010

When you surprise yourself, and marry a foodie:

Bone marrow needs to be sucked out of the bone *immediately.* Letting it congeal will cause gagging. Aquavit is a delicious Scandinavian spirit that is produced like gin, but with caraway or dill instead of juniper berries. Don’t eat a whole can of caviar by yourself. Irish butter is best, so go ahead and splurge on that Kerrygold. The trick to a perfect French omelet is letting the eggs get to room temperature before cooking them. Never scrub a cast iron skillet.

When you’re walking through Hell’s Kitchen with $10:

Head over to Rudy’s Bar and Grill, one of my favorite dives near the Broadway district. For every beer you order, you’ll get a free Nathan’s hot dog (you must ask the gruff bartender for this snack; it will not magically appear). If you order a pitcher of beer, you can receive up to four free hot dogs. I prefer Rudy’s Red over the Rudy’s Pale. After 9 pm, play a song on the jukebox from the 90’s to get an eclectic dance party started.

Another gem from 2010. Note: two pitchers = 8 free hot dogs!

When you dine at fancy seafood places, like Le Bernardin:

Enjoy the experience. (Also do the wine pairing!) But don’t forget your roots, dear girl. You can rip a crab to pieces with nothing but a knife and your teeth. This gives you some sort of advantage over the other people in the restaurant. I’m not sure what exactly that advantage is, but perhaps it’s longevity on a deserted island.

When you have a business meeting at Per Se:

The food is extremely rich here; I would recommend not starting with a dirty martini, but instead sticking to a wine that will pair nicely with the heavy, French courses. There is also a 9-course vegetable tasting menu, in case your client in vegetarian. Both the Chef’s Tasting and the “Tasting of Vegetables” are $355, tip included. Note: This is the one tasting menu I almost didn’t make it through—I had to do some deep breathing exercises in the bathroom between courses six and seven. Again, do not fill up on olive juice and gin!

When someone steals your debit card, and you only have $2 in quarters:

On Google Maps, search “dollar slice” to find all the cheapest pizza places nearby. You’ve got this! But also please realize that I’m not offering you quality. My go-to? I’m still a sucker for a folded Two Bros white pizza as I’m walking to the subway on Saint Marks.

When your mom accidentally takes $100 out of your account—and that’s all that was there:

Always keep at least one can of emergency black beans in your cupboard. These can be eaten with a spoon or with your roommate’s stale tortilla chips. I’m also a fan of the emergency can of tuna fish, but that opinion can be polarizing. Remember to check the expiration dates on these items every four to six months.

This photo was taken today, in 2020, as I am still a big believer in emergency canned food.

When you have enough extra cash to enjoy cocktails:

Sure, you might be past PBRs, but if you’re like me, you still want the best bang for your buck. Avoid pre-mixed drinks, as they’re usually watered down. Mimosas have always been a waste of money in the New York brunch scene, so just keep that in mind. Martinis are my favorite—you have to mix an alcohol with another alcohol, making it very difficult for the bartender to short you in… alcohol. Served “up” means the drink will come out chilled in a long-stem glass with no ice. “Neat” means the liquor will be served at room temperature with no ice. “On the rocks” is a cocktail served with ice.

When you’ve been out drinking and don’t have any cash for snacks:

Should you find a wrapped cannoli on the sidewalk, you can eat it. BUT ONLY IF IT’S WRAPPED. We are not complete animals.

When you’ve had a long day, and don’t feel like spending money on food:

I highly recommend eating a small of amount of whatever you crave—which, for me, is typically a combination of salt and alcohol. Chef Britney likes eggs, olives, cheese bits, pretzels, and refried beans for dinner. This tasty meal is usually paired with a cheap-ish white or a glass of whiskey.

When you just don’t know where to eat:

Never forgot the New York staples: Katz’s Deli. Your favorite bodega. Shake Shack. The local halal truck (I like half chicken, half lamb, extra white sauce, solid dab of hot sauce). Reyes Tacos. Cheesecake at Junior’s. And of course, the hand-rolled, water-boiled bagel. Even if the only thing you eat that day is an authentic NYC bagel (been there), take comfort in the fact that you’re munching on literally the best bagel in the world—and you’re trying your damndest to make ends meet in a difficult place to live.

When you’re a little lonely and a little sad:

If it’s the dead of winter and you’re an introvert, splurge on a Seamless delivery even when there’s a $3 delivery fee. If you’re an extrovert, find a place where you’re comfortable eating or drinking alone. Get to know the people who work there; soon enough, you’ll be a “regular” and that will always make you smile, even when you’re feeling low.

If it’s summertime, walk the streets of our fascinating city and find a Mister Softee truck—I like the vanilla cone with rainbow sprinkles. As my Grandma Barbara used to say, “Everybody’s happy eating ice cream. Have you ever seen a sad person eating ice cream?”

A Writing Exercise with the Reader

November 11, 2019

I’m sitting on a plane, flying somewhere over America’s Midwest. Maybe Iowa? We passed Chicago about 20 minutes ago, so that feels right. The final destination is sunny San Diego for a work conference. It’s an exciting professional opportunity—I’m looking forward to networking with social media managers from around the world and to jumping into a creative mindset with my career’s work.

But in this moment, I do not feel “creative.”
I feel like I might cry.
And I’m not exactly sure why…

However, the man next to me keeps trying to talk, and the person on the other side of the aisle has spilled a drink, so the flight attendant is on her hands and knees sopping up red wine. Most annoyingly, the person in front of me keeps reclining their seat back and then up and then back again. It just doesn’t feel like a “safe place” to cry, if you will.

“Haha… OK, I’m going to do some work now,” I say to my chatty neighbor, while stuffing massive headphones onto my ears.

Silence.

You want to know a secret?

I’ve cried over all of my favorite blog posts. Even the lighthearted ones—I’ve usually shed a tear of happiness. There is something very curative about writing for me; it’s a form of therapy.

But recently, all I think about when writing is, “maybe I should not post this.” Not post it like the other ones—the ones that end up in the Trash icon on my laptop. The ones that no one will ever see because I hated my own thought process midway through the blank, white page.

Oh dear.
Is that a wee tear?
Maybe the therapy is working.

Let’s keep pushing on that bruise, shall we. Here’s what we know: the blank, white page is hard to fill. And the work to get you there is tiring. And you’ve recently found this frustrating and have questioned your own creativity. It should not be overlooked that, as a social media manager, your job requires you to scrutinize every phrase that you put on the Internet, leaving no room for emotion or opinion. There’s also the fact that perhaps your personal thoughts are not for the rest of the world—why should someone read them?

My first blog was actually called “The Why Blog.” I was very young, and there were massive amounts of grammatical mistakes. (Note: there still are, but my sisters usually text me a list of typos to fix.) I think the first couple of posts on “The Why Blog” were from 2007 and about my trips to Newark, New Jersey during college. A team of us worked in the inner-city schools during the day and volunteered at an after-school program at a church in the evenings.

I think what inspired me to start typing up stories at the time was the sheer wonder and devastation at what I witnessed. A teacher slapping a boy in the face, a mother dangling a child out of her apartment window while negotiating crack, a teenager growing up and making it on their own, a city with some signs of hope for its inhabitants from its own citizens—not outsiders. It was very messy. I regret not knowing what each and every one of those children are doing now, especially Zaza and Christopher. They haunt me.

The next slew of blog posts was about my solo trip overseas for an internship at a local paper. To Ireland, “The Why Blog” went! And oh, what fun we had learning another thousand new things, meeting dozens of people, and seeing perspectives of everyday life from another country’s eyes. All of your ignorance shows when you travel—and I documented mine, for better or worse.

Then, the golden age of blogging simultaneously occurred as I moved to Astoria, Queens. Everything was a story—everything! The bagel guy, the subway rides, the awkward internship interviews, and the financial struggles that left me eating peanut butter, potatoes, and eggs for about two years. You name it, I wrote it. It was all very raw. The writing was not always good, but the posts were extremely sincere.

I also remember being lonely. Sometimes I wouldn’t talk to anyone for hours on the weekends—I would actually be excited to go to work just to have what I considered to be the appropriate amount of human interaction. And my silly little blog was my way of taking you with me. It made a collective experience possible, even if I was alone.

You were never there with me physically, but I pretended you were.
I saw the world—my world—through your eyes.
And I needed that.

(Oh, now I’m over Nebraska, and I am crying. At least the man sitting next to me has stopped trying to force a conversation. Life advice: always be the craziest person in the room, or on the street, if you don’t want to be bothered.)

I suppose many things in my world have changed since 2010, and mostly for the better. I’m married, I have lovely friends, and I get to work in a field where I tell stories for a living. But I think what has been nagging at me these last few months is not so much the question of what is good, brilliant, perfect creativity. I think I can say, after crying over Nebraska, that I don’t care so much about that. Creativity is a subjective beast that the mind might use to point out our successes, failures, and overall identity in a way that is not always truthful.

But my bigger gut feeling is that I don’t know how to talk to you, the Reader, anymore. Or at least, I question everything I type with a lens of deep criticism: Am I an unreliable narrator? Is my post from a feminist point of view? Is this something I’ll cringe at 10 years later? (Probably.) Does my writing take into account other perspectives in terms of class, race, and gender? Am I telling stories that matter? And while these questions at their core are very important—if not necessary in telling truths—they have left me wondering: are my thoughts even worthwhile?

And that question leads to a dark place.
To a lack of creativity.
To a cynicism in myself I didn’t have when I first wrote about Newark, or Ireland, or New York. I only had stars in my eyes, and I recorded everything I could capture. But there is both beauty and shocking ignorance in perpetually remaining in childlike awe. No one state of mind was ever meant to be permanently sustained.

We’re approaching Kansas, and I’m not sure I have the answers to my nagging questions.
But I greatly enjoyed doing this exercise with you—it feels good to share again.

I guess I’ll just keep working toward my truths.
And those truths may change.
And I’ll need your grace and understanding as I grow.
And I’ll probably still cringe 10 years from now when I read an old blog post on the futuristic Internet of 2029, which will most likely contain a few typos and an outdated mindset.

But hopefully my sisters will have caught most of the spelling mistakes.
And hopefully you and I will still be on this adventure together.

“Now no feeling can be relied on to last in its full intensity, or even to last at all. Knowledge can last, principles can last, habits can last but feelings come and go.”

— C.S. Lewis

Update: The work conference was lovely—and productive! Here are some photos from San Diego.