. . . being a grownup.

I finally understand the tragedy of Sunday night. I'm nearly 30 years old, and I've never had a "grownup" job. I've always worked irregular hours, so weekends don't have the same meaning to me that they do to other people. It took working in a restaurant in New York City for me to have a regular schedule. Weird, right?

Truthfully, the schedule isn't really regular. There's actually nothing really regular about this restaurant. More on that at a future date. Up until this week, I have had to be at work at 6:30am for the breakfast shift (this week I get to to in at 7:15, woo!). At first I was just working the breakfast shift which, naturally, ends at around noon. Now, I'm working breakfast and lunch which goes from 7:15am to 4:30 or 5:30. So long crazy busy days running in circles. But again, this is my most "regular" schedule.

In any case, it's Sunday night, and I don't think I could be any grumpier. I had a lovely weekend. I had a casual play reading yesterday in my living room which led to a great discussion and some significant changes to the script. I finished and submitted my application to the Playwright's certificate program at Juilliard. Today I saw a matinee of Once on Broadway. I ate well. I slept a lot.  I rested. My feet are just beginning to stop aching. What I really want to do is stay up late watching movies and baking Christmas cookies. But no. I have to be thinking seriously about getting into bed soon. I need to make sure my bag is ready so that I can roll out of bed and get on the train by 6:25. I need to shower and dry my hair so I don't scare the clientele at the restaurant tomorrow. I should look over my flash cards since I'm certain I've forgotten half of the menu since the test I took two weeks ago. Wait, Berkshire Pork Belly is on the menu?? And this week is going to be crazy, since Christmas is coming so soon.

I guess I'm also a little home sick as well, especially since I won't be home for Christmas this year for the first time ever. I miss my sister's house. Her pancakes and her FIVE animals. Doing laundry in the basement-- even if I'm a little afraid of it. What? The basement is scary! Haven't you ever seen Home Alone?? I miss my car. I miss my family. I miss Aixois and all the wonderful people who work there and drink coffee there that I got so used to. Couldn't begin to list them, because there are so many. I miss going to work at 10:30am (or 10:37-- let's be honest). I miss the after work glass of wine. I miss cruising down 71 listening to whatever music I want. I miss knowing exactly where I am and how to get where I'm going. I miss my Kansas City.

So I'm going to make mint tea, listen to Damien Rice radio on Pandora (as I'm wont to do when I'm feeling sorry for myself) and try to be thankful for all the many good things I do have. And I'm going to remember to bring my ipod with me tomorrow for the train. And maybe I'll promise myself a latte and some play drafting at the little bookstore on Crosby after work...

. . . landing (in madrid).

twice or three or four times removed from home now:
I guess I've lost count.
I miss the relative comfort of new york city
its persistent noise and confusion
in a language I understand.
the smoke and the grease--
those east village hipsters.

here, it's beautiful.
the buildings, the dogs, the fountains, the sky,
the people are breathtaking.
walking statues.
all of this city is a fashion show.
if only Michael Kors were here to judge it
more creatively than I ever could.
so many people, but I am here
alone with my thoughts,
discomfort, mosquito bites, indecision,
and all the world feels big and old and uncertain,
heavy and awkward as if I am exploring it
in a set of someone else's stiff, too-large clothes
waking up in their bed,
the smell unfamiliar and the sheets the wrong texture.
at the restaurant, somehow I end up with
six assorted mini sandwiches for lunch
anchovies and eggplant,
and a beer.

my phone still thinks it's in queens. I have no watch.
It is morning but I have not slept.
I am walking and I am wearing black.
it is noisy and bright but
I fall asleep
no, sleep takes me by force,
in the grass by the row boats at the park,
and Spanish words fall to the ground around me.
If only I could pick them up and make sense of them.
put them in the right order and demand
that they speak plainly to me.
I dream of tornados and floods and someone chasing me
I need to save someone, but I don't know how
so I just stand there, trying to scream.

my clothes are damp when I awake
unsure how much time has passed
and the people sitting cross-legged or lounging around me
have changed entirely.
It is still bright.
The sprinklers come on,
and I realize I'm wearing the same thing I was
the last time that happened.
at the art museum. do you remember?
My third cortado of the day
provides a false sense of alertness.
I wander, stumble-- that was a step--
trying to take it all in.
so much beauty,
I don't know where I should go
or what to eat, or how I should even find out.
I won't have anyone to kiss at sunset.

All I can say is please, thank you, coffee, hot,
and I'm sorry. . .
I'm sorry, I am.

So I walk. and I write. and I drink.
And I reach for your hand.
I wish you were here to point me in the right direction
to hold me up on the train
face to face
your arm strong across the middle of my back.
I wish you were here to find ways
to make me blush when nobody is looking
to tell me it will be ok.
I climb the green and white tiled staircase
and walk out onto the terrace.
they are protesting down below,
and I want to join them.
soar down to hold a banner and march march march,
disappear into the crowd
fly down for a cause, for an afternoon
fly down, or not. just fly. just go.
where will I land? will I land?

I press Damien Rice into my ears
and begin to breathe.
to think about which dogs and babies
I'd most like to have
big and Spanish, respectively.
or maybe reversed.
I imagine being a mom in a city like this one.
too pale, and too American
but I push a dark-haired baby in a stylish tram.
she coos in Spanish,
and I have learned to chatter in Spanish
with someone tall and handsome
saying much much more than lo siento.

. . . a private booking

a lapdance, I believe,

is a pretty straightforward thing.

sure, you may be thinking,

a lapdance is the sort of thing

that I could describe without much trouble

or better yet quickly identify,

if I were to see one in progress.

maybe you could even

demonstrate-- or perform 
a lapdance

given the right circumstances.

maybe you even have

in the past. 
maybe multiple times. 

it’s really none of my business.

I can’t say whether any dance

I’ve performed in the past--

and I’ve performed a great many--

could really qualify as

a lapdance and then again,

it’s really none of your business.

but it may be the case for you,

as it was for me,

that when a prospective employer referred to one

in the context of

a job description

for twenty dollars every three and a half minutes

you, wine glass in hand,

wouldn’t know exactly

what a lapdance might entail.

faced with the prospect of earning
one thousand dollars per night,
you may have asked questions, like I did

about hand placement, musical genre, payment,

wardrobe, expectations gleaned from semantics,

gender roles and female objectification

and a litany of other things.

regardless of the answers,

you may have found yourself back again

the following evening,

as I did,

in the red lit dive bar near Times Square

greasy kitchen moonlighting as dressing room

sixty-seven girls, sixty-seven fat purses,

lipstick tubes, hairspray cloud, garter belts, false eyelashes,

sixty-seven tiny dresses,

ass cheeks, wads of twenty dollar bills, perfume,

shaved legs, lace and bows,

tall tall strappy heels, up the stairs,

rihanna beats, devil horns, drinks you have to earn,

crowded bar, sixty-seven girls,

at midnight there’s pizza, which isn’t half bad, 

and the tiny dresses come off.
lingerie, thongs, curled hair, conversations,
music pulsing from above,
an enchanting erotic environment beckons.

personally, I was more interested

in the assorted crowd of

seemingly decent, down-to-earth men

wearing button-down shirts

crowded around clutching beers

waiting to be approached.

Ed the math teacher who wrote a children’s book
too scary for children,

Duncan the handsome scruffy South African

who said that this

was the most real experience

he’d ever had with a woman

(at a place like this).

I could have stayed downstairs

until 4am as scheduled

bemoaning the differences between

what the clients

and the hosts

were told about the event,

telling everyone my name was Natasha,

declining politely when anyone asked me

to dance,

discussing my relationship status,
my greatest aspirations,

and why I moved to new york.

but, when I wandered up the stairs

warm with gin and tonic

to wait in line for the bathroom

in my five inch heels

and the longest dress in the building

grazing my thighs,

I felt a little voyeuristic

peering through the black sheers

to the dance zone.
at long last: the main event.
low red couches. dim light. men sitting back,
hands on knees. looking. soaking up.
tiny dresses and lingerie too gone missing.

and suddenly there was no longer any confusion

in my mind whatsoever

as to the definition of

a lapdance.

. . . safe places

we met in the summer of 2005 in late july. you were younger, but you’d been though a lot. you were mature. we understood one another right away. as they say, I just knew. it was smooth. easy. no conflict. no problems. I immediately loved your little meow.  

life was simpler then. I was in school. you could buy a gallon of gas for two dollars and seven cents. two dollars and seven cents! it was before anything bad had ever happened to me. 

life was good, and you were always there. it was you and me. I may not have always put you first, but I always came back to you. and you were waiting. you waited for me. my escape. my partner in crime. my shoulder to cry on, sometimes in a manner of speaking and sometimes literally. a place of refuge and comfort. and of adventure. we went to Mount Vernon, Iowa, St. paul Minnesota to the tall skinny house. the mountains in Allenspark, Colorado. you went with me every Monday to Columbia for eight weeks until my mother started drinking milk. and then that was over. you were there when I bought my yellow stemless wine glasses. the night of the supermoon. and when I found out life wouldn’t always be so simple. 

to me and for me, you were quirky, but consistent. strong and resolute, but never boring. one of the only constants. when I broke down, you waited for me to compose myself. patiently. unconditionally. you accepted my friends. you let them in without knowing a thing about them save that I had approved them. some of them should never have been approved. you met them all, and I never hid them from you. the one who loved Manchester United. the one who fell apart when I was near. the one who chugged red bull. the one who spoke Italian. the one with the blue eyes. 

I may have left you behind from time to time. on Roanoke. in a parking garage at the wrong time. in loose park. I was wandering in the rose garden and I shouldn’t have left you. I’m sorry for what happened while I was in the rose garden. 

you know my secrets because you were there when they happened. first kisses. last kisses. first impressions. I spoke them aloud. you listened to me at the end of the night. to my desires when I was tired or drunk—more nights than I should admit, I was too drunk to drive. on my birthday, after Fred P. Ott’s, after Kelly’s, after Todd & Ashlee’s. after two Kansas City Repertory Theatre fundraising galas and three Kansas City Fringe Festival opening and closing night parties. you listened to my prayers when I was broken. unabashed and desperate. my wishes and confusions and fantasies and musings and philosophies and singing SO LOUD to Lady Gaga and the Killers and Whitney Houston and all the others. you never judged. you took me to Banana Republic, to Overland Park Regional Medical Center, to Stonewall Pizza, to Evening Star Road, to the house on Sagamore, to the house on 87^th street, to Truman to see Travis, to The Daily Dose, to the Spencer and the Copaken, to Francesca’s, to Latte Land at six in the morning, to Wright/Laird casting, and of course to Aixois. To Kurin’s wedding, to KCI so many times and waited for me until I returned. 

some of my favorite moments in my entire life were driving home, with you, windows half mast, radio on 91.5, KCUR jazz in the night, turned up loud, heat high on my feet. you felt more like home than anywhere I have lived since that summer. you always knew just what to do. soft and welcoming. cozy and familiar. how did you know?

three weeks ago, I left you behind again. but this time, it’s different. this time, I’m not coming back. and if I do, I know you won’t be there anymore. I cried as you drove away. I can only hope that she will come to love you as much as I do, and as fully as I have. my sweet lavender girl. 

orbviously romantic

In honor of tonight's supermoon, (the coincidence of a full moon and the time when the moon is closest to Earth making it extra big and terrifically luscious) I have to say: I. Heart. The moon. I always have. I can't remember a time when the moon wasn't significant to me. "What an odd thing to say..." you may be thinking. And yes, it is.

So while I've always had an affinity for the moon, (an affinity I can trace back to a love for children's classics such as Goodnight Moon and Mooncake) it became super (overly) romanticized on a school trip my senior year in high school. I was on my high school's Academic Decathlon team (Nine students compete in ten academic events), and that year we made it to nationals. Which was totally awesome because I got to leave second semester senior year when everyone was getting super antsy about graduating.  So on the first night in Erie, PA, I noticed that there was a person at the competition with the same last name as me. Let's call him Begonia. So, naturally, I set out to find him. On the second to last day there, Begonia found me! He had been looking for me, too. So the culminating event of Academic Nationals that year was an award ceremony, a dinner, and then a free-for-all in the indoor water park. Cool, right? We nerds sure thought so. So Begonia and I totally hit it off, and I ended up hanging out with him and his team late into the night. We parted at something like 5am when he needed to catch his flight back to Begoniaville. (Like Louisville, it's pronounced kind of relaxed. Bu-gon-vulle. Yeah, that's it. Good job!) Anyway, we kept in touch after that from across the country. We had so many things in common: our last name, our Italian heritage, putting olives on our fingers as children (maybe it's an Italian thing?), and a passionate love for the moon. At first we talked every single day. He even came to my church canoe trip that summer, and I told everyone he was my southern cousin. Looking back, I don't know if anyone believed me. Let me proclaim the truth these nearly ten years later: He. Was not. My cousin. In time, we talked less, I would be dating someone, or he would, and we'd go weeks without speaking. But, we always talked on the night of a full moon. Even if it was just a simple:

me: heya happy full moon.

begon: heyyyyyyy a! thanks!!!

And this went on. FOR SEVEN YEARS. The story of what happened at the seven year mark is one for another blog post. (Blost. Posog. Sometimes I like to smoosh two words into one in what's formally called a portmanteau. Just for fun.) Needless to say, we do not text when there's a full moon anymore. But sometimes I think of Begonia. Mostly, I just allow myself to be utterly romanced by this amazing phenomenon that occurs outside my window once a month and what a privilege it was to share that with someone every month.

Way too late in life, at the age of about twenty-four, I discovered a film and a writer who seems to feel the same way that I do about the moon. John Patrick Shanley. And the film of course is Moonstruck. That gorgeous time capsule of Italian-American New York in the 80's with a striking lioness called Cher and a sexy brooding Nic Cage. 

cher: I'm looking at the moon

nic: It's perfect.

cher: I never seen a moon like that before. 

nic: Makes you look like an angel. Looks like a giant snowball.

Well put. And then, I saw John Patrick Shanley's Joe Vs. The Volcano, a fantastic quirktastic 80's film with the dynamic romcom duo Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, where there is an even bigger moon. I couldn't believe it.  I didn't even think it was possible. I hope to meet John Patrick Shanley one day, and I think our slightly intoxicated (on my end) conversation would go something like this:

me: wow, it's such an honor to meet you JP. omigod, did I just call you JP? sorry.

jps: oh, thanks.

me: you, like, won a Pulitzer for Doubt, huh?

jps: yes! I did.

me: good job, man!

jps: thanks.

me: and your films! the moon?

jps: what?

me: can I get you a drink?

jps: uh, no thanks. I have one. 

me: oh. yeah. holy wow I can't believe. and you're handsome, too?

jps: I have to go.

me: love your work!!

I'm sure he's a great guy. I mean a person who loves the moon as much as he obviously does would have to be, right? So let this post stand for the undying love and affection I have for the moon, and for the connections that I have made with people simply because of a common adoration for the moon. What an unusual thing to unite people. Let this post signify how my breath catches in my throat when I see her, how I adore her silver light on my bedspread, a black body of water, or the grass in an open field. The way she travels effortlessly and gradually across the sky at night. ow every moment she is present somehow feels like I'm inside a film the way nobody could ever actually be inside a film. How I love her in every form from low, warm, butterscottch horizon-brushing majesty to angular piercing sliver lazerbeams. Sigh. Goodnight, moon.

--

something about strawberry jam

It should be no secret: I have red hair. Copper, as I've learned to describe it in the salon. Also not a secret: I was not born a ginger. I was actually convinced, to become a redhead. I have always identified as blonde. Which I guess is strange, because my natural hair color is a lot closer to brown at this point. Sort of an ashy light brown. But it was platinum when I was really young, and bleached easily in the sun throughout my childhood/adolescence, so my super long hair stayed pretty blonde. And you know, in those delicate tween years when I was forming my self-image, I was blonde, and that stuck.

But as such, I've enjoyed the inadvertent social experiment of changing my outside appearance and seeing how people treat me differently. I happen to believe-- and I think there's quite a lot of research supporting this-- that a large portion of how we perceive the world is directly related to how the world perceives us. And of course, it's not anywhere near an exact science. There are so many variables in perception and people and opinion and mood etc... So I recognize I offer these observations through the extremely biased filter of my own perception.

It all began in the summer of 2008 back when I was sales associate at Banana Republic.  I was approached by a handsome, well-dressed man with flowing hair.

grady: so I'm a stylist. I'm new to the area, and I'm looking for new clients.
me: oh, I don't think I'd be interested. can I interest you in some chinos or a banana republic credit card?
grady: I'm just doing free cut and colors.
me: really, free cuts?
grady: yeah, here's my card. gimme a call.
me: sure!

So I called. I had pretty short caramely blonde hair at the time. My "omigod, I'm in Europe and I just broke up with my boyfriend, so I'm gonna chop off ALL my hair" do was growing out and I'd been looking a little Owen Wilson . . .

Which, while it suits him, is a surprisingly heinous look on me, especially as it grows out. So I agreed. The moment I sat down in Grady's chair, he said in his charmingly subtle Southern accent:

grady: you. are a redhead.
me: what? (is he delusional? or colorblind. at least color deficient... what is it red/green? omg, is my hair green??!)
grady: you are a redhead! let me make you a redhead!
me: oh, I don't think so.

I am notoriously low maintenance when it comes to my hair. I don't want to straighten it. I don't want to curl it or style it. I don't like to put "product" in it. The last thing I want is to have to go and dye it every two months in order to not look ombre (though ombre hair is kind of in now, right?) I was able to fight off his ginger advances for an entire year. But finally, the following summer, I sat down in the chair and I said the words he'd been waiting for:

me: ok, I'm ready.
grady: to be a redhead?!
me: I think so. . . let's do it. before I change my mind.
grady: you're gonna love it.

And I did. Instantly. At this time, I was working seventy hours a week, living alone, and eating terribly. I was short on friends, and had had a string of failed relationships. When I looked in the mirror, my hair, my eyes, my face were all grey.  It was amazing how much my self-image turned around just in changing my hair color. Instead of seeing an overworked, pale skinned, dishwater brown haired, sad twenty-something, I was a redhead. My skin all of sudden glowed. It was alabaster instead of blue tinged and sallow. My eyes started to look green and snappy. It was like in that movie Pleasantville when all the colors came to life when everyone started having sex. Oh, life was so good.

And then, I noticed my inadvertent social experiment unfolding. All of a sudden, red haired men started to notice me. I'd see them watching me across the room. They started to approach me in bars or in the grocery store and give me awkward compliments. And yes, this extra attention could very well have come from my sudden burst of confidence, but it was simultaneous with the redding of the hair.  I also quickly learned the best way to get rid of clingy red haired men (of which there are only a few; I find red haired men to be well-mannered in general) is to them I'm not a natural red. They get offended. I was called out at an Irish pub because my eyebrows weren't red. This gingerman was so disappointed in me. Like before, I was a novelty because I was just as much of a mutant (recessive trait, only something like 3% of Americans have red hair) as he was, and now I'm not. Misery loves company? Needless to say, the next time I went to the salon, I had Grady dye my eyebrows as well.

By this time I was waiting tables, and I noticed that there are certain men who are drawn to redheads, which is fine, and understandable. Unfortunately, there is no way to identify these men before the cycle below unfolds. They look like everyone else. But all men who love redheads have the same thought processes. Now an estimated 17% of these men never say anything, thank God. They just look a little too long, and you can feel it. The other 84% hit step one. Approximately 63% make it to step three, and then a very special 32% make it all the way to step three. Behold:

step one:
man: Have I ever told you I have a thing for redheads?
me: uh. no. um. heh.
man: yes, my sister/daughter/ex-wife/niece/dog/love-of-my-life has red hair.
me: oh that's so nice.

step two:
man: you look like that one girl/you could be her sister/daughter... who is it?
me: I couldn't say...
man: name of tv/film/commercial character who has red hair
me: ohh, thank you. she's so pretty.

step three:
man: I'll just, huh huh, call you Donna/Wilma/redhead name
me: oh... great!

And now years later (I think it's been three or four years), I've noticed that my self-concept has caught up with my actual appearance. I now know that I am a redhead. And I do feel a certain community with other redheads. On Ash Wednesday this year, I accidentally went to the school service at the Catholic church, and there were soo many cute little Catholic kids in uniforms. And I found myself falling in love a little with all the awkward little redheaded kids. I was actually plunging face first into a little fantasy about maybe having a gingerbaby of my own one day before I realized that as far as I know there is not a single thread of a gingergene in my family. Bollocks. And I now have a special love and affinity for redheads on tv/movies/commercials. So, I'll end with my favorite redhead: Christina Hendricks.



In the words of Roger Sterling in Mad Men (which I love), "I like redheads. Their mouths are like a drop of strawberry jam in a glass of milk.” So odd, and true and beautiful.

--

something about that city

A few weeks ago, I took a long-weekend trip to New York City. I had been to New York twice before, but this was my first time to go by myself. I should say: I am a midwest girl. I have spent my entire life in the midwest, except for a couple of trips here and there, and one study abroad semester in Europe. I do fancy myself at least a little bit worldly, and I have a pretty well-developed sense of adventure but nevertheless, I was a little nervous about navigating it all by myself. And people are always talking about how rough New York is. That being said, I really had no solid plan for the weekend even the night before I left. The purpose of the trip was a two-day interview for a Master's program a half hour outside of what I felt very cool to be calling, "The City." I had two different options for a place to stay, and a play I wanted to catch on Thursday evening in Manhattan.

 

I flew into Laguardia at about 11am on Thursday, and I didn't have any solid plans until the next morning. So far so good. I quickly found myself on the M60 bus to Manhattan. As we traveled west, I watched the woman across the bus from me bantering with her beautiful daughter, and it was at least a half hour before I realized that I was the only white girl on the bus and anywhere nearby on the street. Looking out and seeing the word Harlem, I had that impulse, like midwest girls who grow up in 99% white high schools and go to 99% white colleges do, that maybe I should get off the bus. But I didn't. Eventually, I told myself that whenever Pretty Mom and Daughter got off the bus, I'd follow. As we disembarked together a few minutes later, I asked for directions, and she happily gave them to me. And I was off. I passed a beautiful sunny day in the city trying not to look like a tourist (impossible, considering the hulking backpack I had in tow, but I think I gave the judging New Yorkers a proverbial run for their money).

 

That evening I was on my way to the place I had decided to stay-- a half hour outside of The City (I'm getting cooler every time I type it). I was taking a train from Union Square to Grand Central, which is just a few stops. Shortly after I sat down, a handsome bearded hipster dressed all in black sat down next to me. We both smelled vomit. We both simultaneously located said vomit on the floor in front of us and made eye contact.

 

dude on train: mmm, almost home.
me: what?
dude: I can tell I'm almost home when I smell that.
me: oh. gross.
dude: guess you don't live nearby.
me: nope.

 

I'm totally flattered that he actually thought I lived in The City, when I think my coral trench coat (everyone, seriously wears all black!) gives me away but I think this may be his intention.

 

dude: I'm an actor.
me: of course you are.
dude: what does that mean?
me: I don't know. everyone's an actor around here.
dude: where you getting off?
me: grand central.
dude: really? we just passed it.
me: seriously? you're messing with me.
dude: no, we just passed it.
me: well, I'd better go. nice to meet you.
dude: come to my bar tomorrow night!
me: maybe. I'm Arika.
dude: I'm Nick.
me: well, it was nice to meet you. bye.

 

And I'm lost. I ask another New Yorker for how to get on the train to take me back south, cause I accidentally panicked and got on an express train that ended me up at 86th or something. She removes her ipod headphones and gives me friendly, clear, concise directions. Thank you! You're welcome, good luck.

After the interview, I take the train back into Grand Central. The girl sitting next to me, who also had an interview for the same Masters program spills her orange juice in the aisle and as the train moves it stripes down the aisle. It will be a sticky mess. We disembark and find a spot against the wall to wait for the friends we're meeting there. (Why isn't there more seating in Grand Central Station?) I realize, a full seven and a half minutes later that I don't have my phone. I've left it on the train. So, I leave aforementioned hulking back pack with a person I met the day before (also a New Yorker) and run to the train. It is still there! But there is nobody in it. I run down the side of the train. It is completely empty. And then! At about the fifteenth car, there is a man cleaning the car, holding a large trash bag. He has a lazy eye. A really lazy eye. I knock on the door, and he opens it. I tell him I've left my phone on the train. He asks which car and I tell him I can't remember. He says he's been in the front cars, and didn't see anything. I ask him if I can look in the rest. He says sure. As I go in the next car, I see the striped orange juice aisle. And my phone is sitting forlorn on the seat, right where I left it. I thank the man profusely, effusively, midwesternerly (yes, that's a word now). I want to hug him. He speaks for about the length of three sentences and I don't follow what he's saying at all. He's saying words I think, maybe even phrases, but they don't add up to a whole. But I listen carefully and nod. My brow furrows to show him that I am interested in what he is saying, despite the fact that it is completely incomprehensible. I give a little bow as I spew a few last thank you's to him, and I go back to meet my companion who is sitting there with my bag that contains everything I have in New York.

So in conclusion, from the information outlined above, I have to conclude that the whole stereotype of New Yorkers being mean is just that: a stereotype. Nobody stole or tried to steal my money. People looked me in the eye and smiled at me sometimes before I smiled at them. People asked me if I needed help. And when I was in trouble, New Yorkers bailed me out. You don't have to be in the midwest to meet decent people.