Wednesday, July 29, 2009

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.

2 comments:

McLovin said...

Won't you write like this everyday now? I love it so.

Unknown said...

Thank you for the support! Love ya