Up on the Fire Escape

It was sunny and breezy when I climbed out the window and situated myself at the top of the stairs to snap some pictures. After a few minutes though, the sky began to darken and I slipped back inside. Soon after that the rain began to fall in sheets.

Remember, Wynene?

C'mon guys--hang in there!



The George Washington Bridge

Portentous clouds rolling in...

RAIN RAIN RAIN Rain Rain rain rain rain

Every day. Even now as I write. I had to duck back in through my window as a light mist was becoming a little shower which has now become a steady downpour, complete with booming thunder and flashes of lightning, forcing me to stop writing so that I could shut my windows and prevent further damage to the pieces of open mail strewn on my bed. 

I've taken recently to sitting on my fire escape, watching buses and gypsy cabs move along St Nicholas, observing the old man, shirtless, hanging out his sixth-story window across the street from my building, and studying our little planter box of basil and tomato plants. The basil's thriving beautifully, and it looks like the tomatoes are coming around now with all this rain. Their leaves were yellowing a bit after Jenny transplanted them to their new home, and one of the plants was drooping sadly towards the street below, but they seem heartier now, and it makes me feel good having the responsibility of stretching through the window sill each morning to water them.

I guess I forgot how much it rained last summer, my first couple of months spent exploring all the neighborhoods and little streets, exhausted from the unrelenting heat and humidity, just to be suddenly rained upon, forcing me to duck under the nearest awning or into the closest subway stairwell. We'd all just stand there, staring hopelessly at the sky, waiting for the storm to end shortly. And it always does here. In the summer it seldom rains for more that ten to twenty minutes at a time. 

But the rain has gotten me down a bit, and makes me miss home with its temperate climate.

Although (to return briefly to the subject) the fire escape has proved to be a surprising and welcoming little respite for thought and visual appeasement and... thought. I'm thankful we live on the top floor for its privacy and view. As I walk the dog through my neighborhood I often glimpse people on the first floor of their buildings, watching tv or eating in the kitchen at the window sill. They don't have to take the elevator up to a floor or (heaven forbid) walk up flights of stairs to reach their front doors, which is really nice, but I don't envy them their lack of privacy, especially in a neighborhood like ours, where there are always people milling about the streets or mostly just hanging out. 

I like the fire escape best at night. It's a cool break from the stifling, stagnant heat of our apartment and I have an enviable view of the George Washington Bridge, which, in the dark, is lit up by small, twinkling blue lights. At night, being so high up, you can sit on the narrow, paint-chipped and weathered stairs entirely unnoticed. The constant city sounds animating St Nicholas and Broadway provide a comforting soundtrack to the peaceful solitude of the fire escape, making it easy to forget for a while how hot my bedroom is, that the elevator isn't working again because someone was messing with the door in the lobby, that we aren't talking (my choice), and that tomorrow night I'll have to walk into that restaurant again, my eyebrows arced in a five-hour expression of Isn't this pleasant I'm having a pleasant time so that I don't look like I want to hit someone when they ask for and insist upon something that is no longer on the menu because we have a new chef. Or when they ask to speak to my manager after I have to report the unfortunate news that we've begun to charge for an extra side of baguette. "I don't know what to tell you," I replied blandly to this man the other day when he protested the new and rigid policy, meeting his gaze with mild amusement but mostly boredom. "We charge a dollar fifty now for more bread."

But how much do I have to complain about, really? I'm in New York. New York. That's often the only little reality check I need.

Dear Friends Visit Me in NYC

They were here for about five days in April. Some of the highlights? Having a large and delicious lunch at Katz's Deli in the East Village before jumping on the train for the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. Stomping through Soho in the pouring rain and happening upon a kiosk selling mini cupcakes. Enjoying the best rice pudding I've ever had at a place called Rice to Riches. Rifling through the racks at Opening Ceremony, admiring $3200 skirts and sleek Comme des Garcons accessories. Exploring Fort Tryon Park and sitting on a sun-dappled bench, talking and catching up while Jason snoozed next to us. Grabbing soft serve from the Mr Softee truck and descending the huge concrete stairs back to my apartment. Making homemade ravioli and tiramisu after work and eating a late but incredible Italian dinner. Being blessed with friends who would jump on a plane on the fly and travel 3000 (sometimes turbulent) miles to spend time with me. 

A day spent in The Brooklyn Botanic Garden in Park Slope yielded so many beautiful sights. I really enjoyed the Bonsai exhibit, though perhaps the loveliest display was the countless, sun-kissed magnolias dripping from the trees. 

Ravioli Night in The Heights

A fabulous homemade tiramisu, the perfect end to an Italian meal made entirely from scratch

Goodbye 

Breathtaking

The barren, inhospitable Icelandic landscape. These pictures feature our drive into the country. Endless stretches of remote and bitterly cold terrain was an unnerving sight for me at first. 

Hot dog stands are popular in Iceland. Tour books note that Icelanders prefer to frequent hotdogs stands particularly after a night of partying at a club.

The lobby of the building where we rode Icelandic horses featured these two large pictures of Marlon Brando and Clint Eastwood. The Clint one makes some sense to me because he's obviously a cowboy in the photo, maybe featured from The Good the Bad and the Ugly or The Outlaw Josie Wales. But Brando, I don't know. I can only surmise that Icelanders are celebrating them for being two American iconic badasses. Yeah, we like them for that reason too.