Being single is a strange thing.
Strange because you are thrown back into The Game, be it willingly or unwillingly. I find myself in it with some trepidation however, my curiosity is piqued. Being set free to roam amongst the male of the species once more is a little like learning to ride a bicycle all over again. I no longer have the security blanket phrase: 'piss off I'm taken' at my disposal. I have to re-learn all the social codes, the language that lets would-be suitors know that I am or am not interested.
Despite being nowhere near wanting to pursue anything serious, I am still a hot blooded woman, dangerously close to my sell-by-date. This biological clock has started to tick and I'd be a liar if I said that I wasn't hoping for my Prince Charming to appear sometime (quite) soon.
My Prince Charming is not the sort that you read about in books. He's a normal guy, in a normal body, with a normal intellect and a normal amount of tenacity. Too much to ask for? It would seem so. Either that or all the eligible bachelors died along with the British economy. All that is left are the scraps. And it would appear that the scraps have a penchant for me. Sadly, I seem to be the target of every dole worshipper. Creatures dug up from the mines, leftovers from the asbestos factories, this generation's wave of wanna-be criminals.
Snobby as this may sound, it does irk me. Without wishing to put myself on too high a pedestal, I do regard myself as being a woman with a little class. Until recently I had believed that this was fairly obvious. I make an effort with my appearance, trying my utmost to always look like a lady; I speak well; am able to hold a decent conversation; use words with more than three syllables and yet, these wannabe suitors see me as
a) being in their league and
b) being remotely interested in the idea of hooking up with them and bearing their bastard children
I think not!
Where am I going wrong? Why is it that I am unable to attract men with an ounce of intellect? I'm not asking for a house on the Riviera or for the keys to his castle. All I'm asking for is someone who has a full set of teeth and who doesn't believe my name to be Love.
It's a frightening prospect. The thought that this may just be the cherry on the top of my cake. Gone are the dreams of the glamorous career, the too big house, the wonderfully ambitious partner. Replaced instead by a poky flat in a bumhole area called Tooting (!), an unglamorous job and.... a pikey husband. The thought is too much to bear.
So, I wont bear it. This is where Laura draws the line. She will settle for this life that London has given her but no more. If that means singledom from here on out then so be it, I'll get my kicks elsewhere. Perhaps while I'm sitting on the sidelines the eligible bachelors will return to London and my tables will turn. Who knows?
Until then though, Laura will flit and float and fly and ne'er shall a Yobbo touch these lips!
L
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Thursday, 9 April 2009
This adventure of mine
This adventure of mine, although not exactly the fairytale that I was hoping for has certainly not been short of interesting moments.
It has seen me touch down in New York, hand in hand with a boy I thought I was set to live happily ever after with. It saw me leave a city I loved more than any other that I had been to before. It led me to London, this cold place, full of charm to some, but none to me. It saw me through a break up and into days of sadness and now it is pointing me forward once more. This time however, it is to a place that is familiar. It is home.
After much thought and many weeks of questions I made the decision on a whim. Sitting in the tube, after a dismal morning at ‘the office’ I asked myself what it was that I thought I was doing. And the answer, ‘I have no idea’ was all that came to mind. It was a stupid answer, especially for one like me - a girl who always has a plan. Except that here I have none. I flit and I float and on that day I decided that it was enough. Home had made me happy and happiness has always been my primary destination. So why not go back to where the heart is?
As liberated as my decision has made me feel, it has also made me terribly sad. When I left South Africa I thought that I had done so for good. I was embracing a new life, one I had dreamed of since spotty skin and first kisses. This was to be my happily ever after.
Except that it was not and now that book is firmly closed.
I have not yet finalised departure details and truth be told I have no idea what I will do when I get home. I will arrive in a wintry Cape Town, little more than pennies in my back pocket, broken compass in hand. But, I will arrive happy. It’s been an intersting journey, unpredictable and tough but I suppose that when hindsight settles in I will look back and realise just how much I enjoyed the ride.
L
It has seen me touch down in New York, hand in hand with a boy I thought I was set to live happily ever after with. It saw me leave a city I loved more than any other that I had been to before. It led me to London, this cold place, full of charm to some, but none to me. It saw me through a break up and into days of sadness and now it is pointing me forward once more. This time however, it is to a place that is familiar. It is home.
After much thought and many weeks of questions I made the decision on a whim. Sitting in the tube, after a dismal morning at ‘the office’ I asked myself what it was that I thought I was doing. And the answer, ‘I have no idea’ was all that came to mind. It was a stupid answer, especially for one like me - a girl who always has a plan. Except that here I have none. I flit and I float and on that day I decided that it was enough. Home had made me happy and happiness has always been my primary destination. So why not go back to where the heart is?
As liberated as my decision has made me feel, it has also made me terribly sad. When I left South Africa I thought that I had done so for good. I was embracing a new life, one I had dreamed of since spotty skin and first kisses. This was to be my happily ever after.
Except that it was not and now that book is firmly closed.
I have not yet finalised departure details and truth be told I have no idea what I will do when I get home. I will arrive in a wintry Cape Town, little more than pennies in my back pocket, broken compass in hand. But, I will arrive happy. It’s been an intersting journey, unpredictable and tough but I suppose that when hindsight settles in I will look back and realise just how much I enjoyed the ride.
L
I was looking for a new direction but think I took a wrong turn on the way there
Two months in and life in London is panning out to be nothing like I had expected. Despite the setbacks, it hasn’t been at all bad so far. Bar the fact that I am (still) (mostly) unemployed and living in a place called Tooting, things could be far worse. I am settled and have forged a routine out of the chaos and although there is no proper 9-5 on the horizon I’m not yet in panic mode. I always have the dole to fall back on and although the welfare queue is by no means a pretty place to be, when the times are tough it’s a lifeline to many. Hell, it may even save me.
Some weeks back I wrote my post about the job market in London and just how difficult it is to break into. And then something interesting happened - I got offered a job.
Unlike normal scenarios where job offers are met with delight, my reaction was the opposite. I heard waves crashing in my ears and felt a dull thud in the pit of my stomach as I realised that this was where my education and work experience had got me - a weekend spot in a shop selling… wait for it…. cheese. Awesome!
Needless to say, I needed (and still do need) the money really badly, so with feigned pleasure I accepted the position and then went out and got very drunk. What else was there to do? Getting a job was one thing but one in a cheese shop… oh god!
The interesting thing about this little job of mine is that it has been my salvation; my sanity amidst a sea of uncertainty. Apart from the obvious fact that it earns me some money, it has also helped me restore some faith in myself. Arriving here proved more difficult than I had expected and the result of that was a crisis of confidence. What my job has done for me is that it has allowed me to re-realise my potential and my merit. I may not be worth a million dollars, but my value is definitely worth something.
Better still, I’m rather good at selling cheese. Whoever knew? By the week I am learning about the subtle nuisances of flavours, about things like pate and affinage. In time I may even become an insufferable cheese bore: to cheese what the sommelier is to wine. You never can tell.
I’ll admit that it has taken me a while to post this. For a woman like me who has the dreams that I do, admitting that I am not a high-powered business woman or lady of the state, involves some pride swallowing. Like I said, this is not at all what I had in mind career-wise. Worse still is that in S.A. we are raised as ‘job snobs’ and therefore anything without some sort of a professional edge to it is met with a curled upper lip. I therefore understand if those of you reading this are stifling a giggle or coming up with ‘cheesy comments’ to send my way. Ja well no fine. Bring it on. These times are hard but I am harder than them and this is just the beginning.
The point is, that as my mom always likes to say: ‘when one door closes, another always opens’ and I think that this may be the case here. Someone threw me a lifeline and it may not have been the one that I had wanted, but I’m damn glad it’s here. It has made me feel worthy and I’m ready to try and take this place on all over again - and that’s a pretty good way to feel. Whoever would have thought that my knight was not in shining armour at all, but rather the driver of a cheese van?
L
Some weeks back I wrote my post about the job market in London and just how difficult it is to break into. And then something interesting happened - I got offered a job.
Unlike normal scenarios where job offers are met with delight, my reaction was the opposite. I heard waves crashing in my ears and felt a dull thud in the pit of my stomach as I realised that this was where my education and work experience had got me - a weekend spot in a shop selling… wait for it…. cheese. Awesome!
Needless to say, I needed (and still do need) the money really badly, so with feigned pleasure I accepted the position and then went out and got very drunk. What else was there to do? Getting a job was one thing but one in a cheese shop… oh god!
The interesting thing about this little job of mine is that it has been my salvation; my sanity amidst a sea of uncertainty. Apart from the obvious fact that it earns me some money, it has also helped me restore some faith in myself. Arriving here proved more difficult than I had expected and the result of that was a crisis of confidence. What my job has done for me is that it has allowed me to re-realise my potential and my merit. I may not be worth a million dollars, but my value is definitely worth something.
Better still, I’m rather good at selling cheese. Whoever knew? By the week I am learning about the subtle nuisances of flavours, about things like pate and affinage. In time I may even become an insufferable cheese bore: to cheese what the sommelier is to wine. You never can tell.
I’ll admit that it has taken me a while to post this. For a woman like me who has the dreams that I do, admitting that I am not a high-powered business woman or lady of the state, involves some pride swallowing. Like I said, this is not at all what I had in mind career-wise. Worse still is that in S.A. we are raised as ‘job snobs’ and therefore anything without some sort of a professional edge to it is met with a curled upper lip. I therefore understand if those of you reading this are stifling a giggle or coming up with ‘cheesy comments’ to send my way. Ja well no fine. Bring it on. These times are hard but I am harder than them and this is just the beginning.
The point is, that as my mom always likes to say: ‘when one door closes, another always opens’ and I think that this may be the case here. Someone threw me a lifeline and it may not have been the one that I had wanted, but I’m damn glad it’s here. It has made me feel worthy and I’m ready to try and take this place on all over again - and that’s a pretty good way to feel. Whoever would have thought that my knight was not in shining armour at all, but rather the driver of a cheese van?
L
Living the dream
In hindsight I grew up in the greatest country in the world. At the time however, it wasn’t good enough. Having spent many holidays during my childhood seeing the corners of the world, it seemed to me that foreign pastures were greener than our own and from that observation a desire to live somewhere other than South Africa was born.
In October last year my chance came. It was not entirely my doing, however Tom’s appointment in New York was as good a reason to pack my bags as any. It may not have been my hard work and effort that got me there, but sometimes life throws you a curve ball. My dream had come true, only in a different guise.
And perhaps that’s where the problem lay. It was my dream come true but through someone else’s realisation of it. I was riding on Tom’s wave when in fact, it wasn’t my turn to live the New York dream – no matter how badly I wanted it. I am however still nurturing the hope that if I do what I can to make it happen then it will.
Anyway, that isn’t what my post is about. Rather, it’s about life’s little ironies and how sometimes when you get what you wish for, the version that you get is not the one you wanted, or worse still, it’s not what you wanted at all.
Like right now. Here I am, in a place that had once seemed so me. On previous visits to the UK I had imagined myself settled and happy, living a ‘European life’ that I had effortlessly created. Much of my dream centred around a white picket fence: good job, great man, fabulous house. I have always thought that if I believe it, it will be so. How misguided I was.
After being jobless for close on three months, I was under the impression that I would fall into something wonderful within minutes of my arrival in London. Sadly, this has not been the case. Not at all. The market is dry and, it would seem that I am not entirely suited for the London business scene.
After many visits to job agencies and much feedback from would-be employers, it transpires that two years worth of experience in design and a sexy portfolio aren’t quite enough. It’s a blow but one I must stomach. Pride needs to be swallowed and I have to go back to the drawing board and rework things so that I am, once again, saleable. In the meantime however, temp work is the way forward. I need money, I have skills, so the next best thing is to put them to good use. Easy? Not so much.
My problem is that despite my solid upbringing, my excellent tuition, my drive, my personality it would seem that I am not suited for even the most mundane of jobs. Because I have been immersed in an industry that has me behind a computer all day, agencies find it hard to believe that I am capable of doing anything else. Like answering a phone for example, or even making an appointment on someone else’s behalf. Apparently the mental cross over does not exist and in order for a secretarial position to be filled it needs to be done by… a secretary.
Stupid recruitment agents. Silly, vacant, unimaginative people.
When I started signing up with them I set my temping sights high. I truly believed that I was a shoe-in for all but the more technical roles. Sadly, the past two weeks have proved me a fool and I lower the bar by the day.
My faith in agents shattered, I have also enlisted the help of Gumtree and the Guardian, in my quest for work. Every evening while looking for jobs I get a little more adventurous with my searches. Days gone by have seen me go from browsing for office administration positions to telephone answering, to waitressing but I am now so desperate that I am contemplating applying for roles under the heading ‘household and technical assistant’. Although, I’m now so demeaned that I’m worried about my ability to do even this sort of work. Does my CV reflect credentials that make me worthy of being a maid? I’ve never spent any amount of time in a toilet stall. Will this hinder my chances? Can I scrounge up anything from my previous lines of work that I can use as ammunition to convince people that I am not only able, but also smart enough to clean peoples’ houses or public loos?
I can just see Ms. Mops hunched over my CV wondering to herself whether or not my ability to switch on a computer also means that I can use a vacuum cleaner. ‘Hmm’ she thinks to herself, ‘she says that she can design a magazine, but can she also make a bed with hospital folds? I’m not sure. I’ll put this CV at the bottom of the pile, maybe come back to it later – if there isn’t another, better Mavis on offer’.
It’s not looking hopeful. If Ms Mops wont have me, then who will? Where is my place in this land of grey?
Sadly, what this lowering of standards has meant is that the picket fence is fading before my unemployed eyes. Furthermore, if it does in fact turn out that I am only worthy of doing the most menial types of work then it will lessen my chances of snagging the wealthy man so firmly fixed in my imagination. Because, who in their right mind wants a lady who looks good in a pair of rubber gloves and a hairnet?
L
In October last year my chance came. It was not entirely my doing, however Tom’s appointment in New York was as good a reason to pack my bags as any. It may not have been my hard work and effort that got me there, but sometimes life throws you a curve ball. My dream had come true, only in a different guise.
And perhaps that’s where the problem lay. It was my dream come true but through someone else’s realisation of it. I was riding on Tom’s wave when in fact, it wasn’t my turn to live the New York dream – no matter how badly I wanted it. I am however still nurturing the hope that if I do what I can to make it happen then it will.
Anyway, that isn’t what my post is about. Rather, it’s about life’s little ironies and how sometimes when you get what you wish for, the version that you get is not the one you wanted, or worse still, it’s not what you wanted at all.
Like right now. Here I am, in a place that had once seemed so me. On previous visits to the UK I had imagined myself settled and happy, living a ‘European life’ that I had effortlessly created. Much of my dream centred around a white picket fence: good job, great man, fabulous house. I have always thought that if I believe it, it will be so. How misguided I was.
After being jobless for close on three months, I was under the impression that I would fall into something wonderful within minutes of my arrival in London. Sadly, this has not been the case. Not at all. The market is dry and, it would seem that I am not entirely suited for the London business scene.
After many visits to job agencies and much feedback from would-be employers, it transpires that two years worth of experience in design and a sexy portfolio aren’t quite enough. It’s a blow but one I must stomach. Pride needs to be swallowed and I have to go back to the drawing board and rework things so that I am, once again, saleable. In the meantime however, temp work is the way forward. I need money, I have skills, so the next best thing is to put them to good use. Easy? Not so much.
My problem is that despite my solid upbringing, my excellent tuition, my drive, my personality it would seem that I am not suited for even the most mundane of jobs. Because I have been immersed in an industry that has me behind a computer all day, agencies find it hard to believe that I am capable of doing anything else. Like answering a phone for example, or even making an appointment on someone else’s behalf. Apparently the mental cross over does not exist and in order for a secretarial position to be filled it needs to be done by… a secretary.
Stupid recruitment agents. Silly, vacant, unimaginative people.
When I started signing up with them I set my temping sights high. I truly believed that I was a shoe-in for all but the more technical roles. Sadly, the past two weeks have proved me a fool and I lower the bar by the day.
My faith in agents shattered, I have also enlisted the help of Gumtree and the Guardian, in my quest for work. Every evening while looking for jobs I get a little more adventurous with my searches. Days gone by have seen me go from browsing for office administration positions to telephone answering, to waitressing but I am now so desperate that I am contemplating applying for roles under the heading ‘household and technical assistant’. Although, I’m now so demeaned that I’m worried about my ability to do even this sort of work. Does my CV reflect credentials that make me worthy of being a maid? I’ve never spent any amount of time in a toilet stall. Will this hinder my chances? Can I scrounge up anything from my previous lines of work that I can use as ammunition to convince people that I am not only able, but also smart enough to clean peoples’ houses or public loos?
I can just see Ms. Mops hunched over my CV wondering to herself whether or not my ability to switch on a computer also means that I can use a vacuum cleaner. ‘Hmm’ she thinks to herself, ‘she says that she can design a magazine, but can she also make a bed with hospital folds? I’m not sure. I’ll put this CV at the bottom of the pile, maybe come back to it later – if there isn’t another, better Mavis on offer’.
It’s not looking hopeful. If Ms Mops wont have me, then who will? Where is my place in this land of grey?
Sadly, what this lowering of standards has meant is that the picket fence is fading before my unemployed eyes. Furthermore, if it does in fact turn out that I am only worthy of doing the most menial types of work then it will lessen my chances of snagging the wealthy man so firmly fixed in my imagination. Because, who in their right mind wants a lady who looks good in a pair of rubber gloves and a hairnet?
L
Long nights
My mom and Dad did their best to raise me to be a lady and what they themselves could not teach me they left up to the school I spent my early years in. Neither of them may have succeeded entirely but whether or not I am one, I believe I know the principles behind the ideal.
Ladies do things like tuck handkerchiefs into their sleeves. They curtsy. Always say please and thank you. They pee eau de cologne and never do the foul things that men are guilty of. Most importantly, they do not snore.
Or so I thought - until my arrival in the UK on Tuesday.
After a long trip from New York (on Air India - nogal) I was exhausted. Bar the fact that I had seven hours of jet lag to deal with I also hadn’t managed to sleep on the plane. The net result was that when I landed I was a grumpy mess.
Sadly, sleep was not on the agenda as I was not allowed to check into my room at the backpackers until late that afternoon. That meant I had the better part of a day to kill.
When I did eventually return to my dorm that night I collapsed on my bed in an exhausted heap. I don’t even think that the door had closed properly behind me before I was asleep. And it was bliss - for all of 40 minutes.
As the woman opposite me fell deeper into her sleep the respiratory demons took over her body. Their over sized hands blocked her nasal cavities and pried open her mouth so that the only sounds she could make were deep, guttural gargles. Rattling right from her diaphragm up to her tonsils. Louder and louder until she had the rest of the room tossing and turning, trying their best to fall back asleep while she herself was in the depths of Lala Land.
Because my nerves were already shattered I could barely fight the urge to do her harm. So, with what little restraint I still had I dragged myself from my bunk and into the reception area where I asked if I could please change rooms. The receptionist was not happy about my request but understood by my manner that I was not going to take ‘no’ for an answer. And so, minutes later I was in the comfort of a new, quieter bedroom.
Except, as I was on the edge of sleep once more - at the point where I was about to be enfolded by dreams, the woman on the bunk below me fired up her engine.
It seemed that my decision to relocate had been the wrong one. This woman was twice as bad as the one in the previous room.
The thing I hadn’t appreciated about snoring is that it is cunning. It ebbs and it flows, stops and starts so that every time there is a lull in the tide you believe the last gasp to have been the final one. But just as you fall towards sleep once more, it starts all over, shaking you out of your reverie.
It goes without saying therefore, that it was a terribly long night and when I woke up in the morning I was no ray of sunshine. The lady, it turns out, was well aware of the fact that she is a snorer and even went so far as to explain why: her two nostrils had been sewn up to become one in a horror operation that went very wrong.
She apologised for her bad behaviour and despite the fact that all I really wanted to do was kill her, I tried to be as gracious as possible and told her through grinding teeth that it was ok.
And then I went to the pharmacy and bought some earplugs.
‘Good idea’, you may be thinking, but the problem with plugs is that they are not always as powerful as the snorer and sadly these ones failed me. There I was, later on that night, tucked into bed, ears blocked with bits of foam, looking forward a peaceful eve. But it was not to be. Her snorts and snarls were way more powerful than my plugs and I spent another night tossing and turning, wishing my bed would collapse on top of her and silence her for good.
And so, the next morning when it was light enough to escape I went back to reception and requested to be moved again. ‘Third time lucky’ I thought.
But again I was wrong. It seems that all the female snorers in the world have migrated to London and they are all staying in the same backpackers as me. In fact, I am convinced that I am the only one among them who is not guilty of such a sin. Because of this revelation, in the days since I arrived I’ve spent a lot of time being amazed by just how many women are snorers.
Honestly, I had always believed that women who snored were a rare breed, like nearly extinct animals. And truth be told, I liked it that way. In my mind that was how we women were supposed to be: quiet and dainty while asleep. Not like raging sawmills. As I said, this week has changed me and I’ve come to believe that snoring women are, in fact, the norm.
Therefore, I can only admit that my school gave me misguided information and I am, in fact, the exception. Do I come from a family with defective female genes, and am I therefore set apart from all other, normal women? From my experiences this week it certainly seems to be that way. On top of stomaching the fact that I am miserable and sleep deprived I now also have to come to terms with the knowledge that I am far less of a lady that I had once believed myself to be.
L
Ladies do things like tuck handkerchiefs into their sleeves. They curtsy. Always say please and thank you. They pee eau de cologne and never do the foul things that men are guilty of. Most importantly, they do not snore.
Or so I thought - until my arrival in the UK on Tuesday.
After a long trip from New York (on Air India - nogal) I was exhausted. Bar the fact that I had seven hours of jet lag to deal with I also hadn’t managed to sleep on the plane. The net result was that when I landed I was a grumpy mess.
Sadly, sleep was not on the agenda as I was not allowed to check into my room at the backpackers until late that afternoon. That meant I had the better part of a day to kill.
When I did eventually return to my dorm that night I collapsed on my bed in an exhausted heap. I don’t even think that the door had closed properly behind me before I was asleep. And it was bliss - for all of 40 minutes.
As the woman opposite me fell deeper into her sleep the respiratory demons took over her body. Their over sized hands blocked her nasal cavities and pried open her mouth so that the only sounds she could make were deep, guttural gargles. Rattling right from her diaphragm up to her tonsils. Louder and louder until she had the rest of the room tossing and turning, trying their best to fall back asleep while she herself was in the depths of Lala Land.
Because my nerves were already shattered I could barely fight the urge to do her harm. So, with what little restraint I still had I dragged myself from my bunk and into the reception area where I asked if I could please change rooms. The receptionist was not happy about my request but understood by my manner that I was not going to take ‘no’ for an answer. And so, minutes later I was in the comfort of a new, quieter bedroom.
Except, as I was on the edge of sleep once more - at the point where I was about to be enfolded by dreams, the woman on the bunk below me fired up her engine.
It seemed that my decision to relocate had been the wrong one. This woman was twice as bad as the one in the previous room.
The thing I hadn’t appreciated about snoring is that it is cunning. It ebbs and it flows, stops and starts so that every time there is a lull in the tide you believe the last gasp to have been the final one. But just as you fall towards sleep once more, it starts all over, shaking you out of your reverie.
It goes without saying therefore, that it was a terribly long night and when I woke up in the morning I was no ray of sunshine. The lady, it turns out, was well aware of the fact that she is a snorer and even went so far as to explain why: her two nostrils had been sewn up to become one in a horror operation that went very wrong.
She apologised for her bad behaviour and despite the fact that all I really wanted to do was kill her, I tried to be as gracious as possible and told her through grinding teeth that it was ok.
And then I went to the pharmacy and bought some earplugs.
‘Good idea’, you may be thinking, but the problem with plugs is that they are not always as powerful as the snorer and sadly these ones failed me. There I was, later on that night, tucked into bed, ears blocked with bits of foam, looking forward a peaceful eve. But it was not to be. Her snorts and snarls were way more powerful than my plugs and I spent another night tossing and turning, wishing my bed would collapse on top of her and silence her for good.
And so, the next morning when it was light enough to escape I went back to reception and requested to be moved again. ‘Third time lucky’ I thought.
But again I was wrong. It seems that all the female snorers in the world have migrated to London and they are all staying in the same backpackers as me. In fact, I am convinced that I am the only one among them who is not guilty of such a sin. Because of this revelation, in the days since I arrived I’ve spent a lot of time being amazed by just how many women are snorers.
Honestly, I had always believed that women who snored were a rare breed, like nearly extinct animals. And truth be told, I liked it that way. In my mind that was how we women were supposed to be: quiet and dainty while asleep. Not like raging sawmills. As I said, this week has changed me and I’ve come to believe that snoring women are, in fact, the norm.
Therefore, I can only admit that my school gave me misguided information and I am, in fact, the exception. Do I come from a family with defective female genes, and am I therefore set apart from all other, normal women? From my experiences this week it certainly seems to be that way. On top of stomaching the fact that I am miserable and sleep deprived I now also have to come to terms with the knowledge that I am far less of a lady that I had once believed myself to be.
L
Perfect as pie!
In New York when it comes to food you’re never spoiled for choice and, with it being ever-present there is little point in either Tom or I cooking. Not that it’s a mission to do so, it just seems silly when there are so many wonderful eateries right outside our door. These days we spend most evenings in one or other local cafe picking up a take-away something that we ferret off home and enjoy in front of the T.V.
Sometimes we get romantic and instead of getting it ‘to go’ we sit down: Tom, me, formica table, cheap cups, sticky floor.
We’re not big spenders, we can’t afford to be. Every once in a while though, we break the bank and treat ourselves to something a little more upbeat than cafe/diner fare. Like last Saturday. Keen to get out of the flat, Taylor and I went on a date. Because we’re not yet that familiar with our neighbourhood we browsed the net for places with good reviews and an average price list. Tom was in the mood for pasta and when he found a spot offering home made spaghetti, rustic sauces and real eye-talian waitrons he said that we simply had to give it a go. And who was I to argue?
We got wrapped in our winter warms and braved the cold in search of the spot. Except that in his excitement Tom had forgotten to make a note of the restaurant’s name or where it was. All he could remember was that it was close. This didn’t narrow it down and so without this particular spaghetti house in sight we canned the idea and decided to find another Italian restaurant somewhere else. Which we soon did.
The view through the window showed a cosy space filled with small tables and pastel blue walls - fresh from the forties. Not the most becoming of places but it looked homey and comfortable so we ventured inside. We didn’t bother to look at the menu in the window and simply assumed that because of its Italian name it was a foregone conclusion that pasta was on the list of things to eat. Wrong!
On arrival our waitress introduced herself and presented the menu, a tiny thing little bigger than the length of my hand. It needn’t have been any larger otherwise the three meal choices would have looked out of place floating around in all the white space. Like I said, there was no pasta. Only pizza and a riveting array at that:
Standard margarita: basil, no garlic
Other margarita: no basil, garlic
White margarita: no napolitana
All ended off with a polite note at the bottom:
NO ADDITIONS, SUBTRACTIONS OR VARIATIONS OF ANY KIND.
AT ALL.
EVER.
- MANAGEMENT
I’ll admit that I was a little irritated. Suppose I didn’t want a margarita, or a pizza for that matter? When I eat out I like a bit of choice. Not so much that it overwhelms, but enough to create an inner debate about what to choose. A menu with four of (basically) the same thing isn’t exactly up my alley. Furthermore, all four offerings were pretty much bottom of the list on my food chain. Here I was, about to order a dish I barely wanted for the equivalent of R200. Excuse me for my apprehension.
Furthermore, I also don’t like being told how to eat my food and I reckon that if I’m paying the bill (and tip) then I should be allowed some leeway in how I’d like it to be served. However, Tom’s death stare warned me not to launch into a rant and I didn’t want to ruin our date. Instead, I sat peacefully drinking my wine and came to terms with the fact that since they’d been around for fourty years and were obviously popular for their pizzas I wasn’t going to be disappointed by my meal.
And do you know what? It was a good thing that I did bite my tongue because otherwise I would have felt a fool trying to take back my caustic words.
In no time at all two pizzas couriered directly from Italy were placed on our table. Ok, there’s some poetic license there, they weren’t actually from Italy but they may as well have been they were so authentic. Unlike most pizza nightmares these were icons of perfection.
They weren’t only pretty to look at they tasted damn good too. The crust had been home made and hand-rolled. Not too thick in the middle but nice and chunky around the rim. On top of a bubbly base of napolitana and melted buffalo mozzarella sat halved baby tomatoes, a few ribbons of basil and a drizzle of olive oil. That was it.
In the heat of the oven the tomatoes had sweetened and as I bit into my first slice, olive oil dribbled down my chin and angels sang inside my head. It was almost perfect. All it needed was a sprinkle of black pepper. There was none on the table so I asked the waitress if I could please have some.
And that’s when the angels were momentarily interrupted. In answer to my question the waitress huffily declared that there was none. ‘We don’t have any’ and she turned on her heel. Apparently pepper qualifies as an ‘ADDITION, SUBTRACTION OR VARIATION’. Slightly affronted but not willing to let it get in the way of my pizza orgy I continued eating and the angels resumed their song.
All too quickly it was gone and had there been room for more I may have ordered another. I fought hard not to pick up the plate and lick up all the drippy bits and if I hadn’t been afraid of getting another row from the waitress I would have asked her to give me something to help me mop up the last of the crumbs. It was that good.
And so, after all the brow beating and initial disappointment our date had been a success. As tough a bargain as these guys drive, it had been worth going with the flow and letting them do what they do best - simple pizza. It’s not often you get handed a menu with next to nothing on it and the threat of expulsion if you dare try and change course and wind up getting one of the finest (albeit simplest) meals you’ve had in a while. It’s all part of the eating experience, I guess. I’m not saying that it sits well with me but in return for one of the best ‘pies’ I’ve ever eaten it’s a fair compromise… but then again, I guess you’d expect that when forking out R200 for a bit of dough with cheese and sauce on!
L
Sometimes we get romantic and instead of getting it ‘to go’ we sit down: Tom, me, formica table, cheap cups, sticky floor.
We’re not big spenders, we can’t afford to be. Every once in a while though, we break the bank and treat ourselves to something a little more upbeat than cafe/diner fare. Like last Saturday. Keen to get out of the flat, Taylor and I went on a date. Because we’re not yet that familiar with our neighbourhood we browsed the net for places with good reviews and an average price list. Tom was in the mood for pasta and when he found a spot offering home made spaghetti, rustic sauces and real eye-talian waitrons he said that we simply had to give it a go. And who was I to argue?
We got wrapped in our winter warms and braved the cold in search of the spot. Except that in his excitement Tom had forgotten to make a note of the restaurant’s name or where it was. All he could remember was that it was close. This didn’t narrow it down and so without this particular spaghetti house in sight we canned the idea and decided to find another Italian restaurant somewhere else. Which we soon did.
The view through the window showed a cosy space filled with small tables and pastel blue walls - fresh from the forties. Not the most becoming of places but it looked homey and comfortable so we ventured inside. We didn’t bother to look at the menu in the window and simply assumed that because of its Italian name it was a foregone conclusion that pasta was on the list of things to eat. Wrong!
On arrival our waitress introduced herself and presented the menu, a tiny thing little bigger than the length of my hand. It needn’t have been any larger otherwise the three meal choices would have looked out of place floating around in all the white space. Like I said, there was no pasta. Only pizza and a riveting array at that:
Standard margarita: basil, no garlic
Other margarita: no basil, garlic
White margarita: no napolitana
All ended off with a polite note at the bottom:
NO ADDITIONS, SUBTRACTIONS OR VARIATIONS OF ANY KIND.
AT ALL.
EVER.
- MANAGEMENT
I’ll admit that I was a little irritated. Suppose I didn’t want a margarita, or a pizza for that matter? When I eat out I like a bit of choice. Not so much that it overwhelms, but enough to create an inner debate about what to choose. A menu with four of (basically) the same thing isn’t exactly up my alley. Furthermore, all four offerings were pretty much bottom of the list on my food chain. Here I was, about to order a dish I barely wanted for the equivalent of R200. Excuse me for my apprehension.
Furthermore, I also don’t like being told how to eat my food and I reckon that if I’m paying the bill (and tip) then I should be allowed some leeway in how I’d like it to be served. However, Tom’s death stare warned me not to launch into a rant and I didn’t want to ruin our date. Instead, I sat peacefully drinking my wine and came to terms with the fact that since they’d been around for fourty years and were obviously popular for their pizzas I wasn’t going to be disappointed by my meal.
And do you know what? It was a good thing that I did bite my tongue because otherwise I would have felt a fool trying to take back my caustic words.
In no time at all two pizzas couriered directly from Italy were placed on our table. Ok, there’s some poetic license there, they weren’t actually from Italy but they may as well have been they were so authentic. Unlike most pizza nightmares these were icons of perfection.
They weren’t only pretty to look at they tasted damn good too. The crust had been home made and hand-rolled. Not too thick in the middle but nice and chunky around the rim. On top of a bubbly base of napolitana and melted buffalo mozzarella sat halved baby tomatoes, a few ribbons of basil and a drizzle of olive oil. That was it.
In the heat of the oven the tomatoes had sweetened and as I bit into my first slice, olive oil dribbled down my chin and angels sang inside my head. It was almost perfect. All it needed was a sprinkle of black pepper. There was none on the table so I asked the waitress if I could please have some.
And that’s when the angels were momentarily interrupted. In answer to my question the waitress huffily declared that there was none. ‘We don’t have any’ and she turned on her heel. Apparently pepper qualifies as an ‘ADDITION, SUBTRACTION OR VARIATION’. Slightly affronted but not willing to let it get in the way of my pizza orgy I continued eating and the angels resumed their song.
All too quickly it was gone and had there been room for more I may have ordered another. I fought hard not to pick up the plate and lick up all the drippy bits and if I hadn’t been afraid of getting another row from the waitress I would have asked her to give me something to help me mop up the last of the crumbs. It was that good.
And so, after all the brow beating and initial disappointment our date had been a success. As tough a bargain as these guys drive, it had been worth going with the flow and letting them do what they do best - simple pizza. It’s not often you get handed a menu with next to nothing on it and the threat of expulsion if you dare try and change course and wind up getting one of the finest (albeit simplest) meals you’ve had in a while. It’s all part of the eating experience, I guess. I’m not saying that it sits well with me but in return for one of the best ‘pies’ I’ve ever eaten it’s a fair compromise… but then again, I guess you’d expect that when forking out R200 for a bit of dough with cheese and sauce on!
L
Two left feet and other such fun
Looking out of our flat window on Saturday night we saw the first snowfall of the season cascade onto the concrete below only to hit the ground and melt. Like a pair of kids Tom and I huddled by the window and stood transfixed as we watched it fall. It feels as if Christmas really has arrived.
The festive season in New York is far more so than back home. People here really celebrate it. Houses are decorated with abandon, streets are ablaze with Christmas lights and shop owners and taxi drivers play carols with little shame. In fact, I’m convinced that the U.S. has passed a law that orders all store keepers or service providers to play carols all day, every day. It’s weird.
For the first time since I was little I truly feel the magic of Christmas. When you’re in a place where everyone believes as strongly as the next it’s hard not to. And, it’s a surprisingly nice feeling. If the Christmas cheer continues I may be a little disappointed to wake on December 25th to find that the gifts under the tree weren’t actually delivered by Mr. Claus himself.
To celebrate what Tom and I christened as the start of the season we joined a fellow pair of ‘Saffas’ at the Bryant Park ice-rink for a morning of open-air ice fun yesterday. It seemed as if much of the city had the same idea because the rink was full of skaters and there was a snaking queue outside of the entrance. Rather than call it quits we sucked it up and joined the line and unsurprisingly, found ourselves inside in next to no time.
Admittedly, as much as I liked the idea of skating I wasn’t as excited about it as my other skating friends. Any one of you who knows me well enough will know that I was born with minimal co-ord. All my life I’ve made my way across playing fields and races on my knees, having tripped over undone laces or my own shoes. So imagine how proud of myself I was when I found my wary feet sliding almost gracefully across the ice.
Ice-skating, it turns out is a far more dangerous activity than I had understood. Because it holds universal appeal a range of ‘types’ frequent the rink. Old and young, beginners and pros. And when you throw them all onto the ice at the same time it becomes a battlefield. Christmas cheer ebbs away as staying upright becomes a fight for survival. Yes, it’s a ruthless game and in a quest to stay on two feet, humanity evaporate as you vow to take anyone down with you if needs be.
Upping the ice-skating stakes are the kamikaze-kids winding in and out from between novices’ legs, pushing those in their way out of it. Children are wondrous creations, their lack of fear both amazes and maddens me. Yesterday it maddened me and I declared war on any and all who dared push me out of their way. If it was going to be my bloody nose or theirs then I sure as hell wasn’t going to go down without a fight, no matter how young they were. Fortunately it didn’t get to that.
On the ice after a few minutes I gained confidence fast. This however brought more problems. Not only was I having to dodge the kids with death wishes but now I also had to swerve the beginner-beginners. Like babies learning to crawl these scrabbling wrecks carved a humorous site. The fact that I was like them minutes ago didn’t enter my brain, instead these annoying epileptic ice-fits that I was having to avoid began to piss me off.
And then there are those who burned out too fast. Those that thought that they’d pinned the art of skating down and who were now in the middle of the rink flailing for their lives. With no banners to hold themselves up they grabbed for the next best thing - the person sliding past them. More than once I almost became that pillar of support but was way too unsympathetic to care, or to be their cushion for that matter. I almost felt bad as I glanced over my shoulder and saw them meet the ice. Almost, but not quite.
We left before there were any major casualties… except for the little girl who was carted off the ice in a wheelchair and for the puddle of sick some over-excited, over-indulged youngster had evacuated. As for me, my declaration of war paid off, I managed to glide my way around and around and around and by the time we wrapped things up I was terribly proud of my intact limbs and dry bottom.
Not bad for an old lady! I may just get the hang of this winter sports thing. And, because Christmas in the States comes as a package deal, part of the festive cheer includes other magical activities like tobogganing, skiing and snowboarding. Now that we’ve acquired a taste, Taylor and I have agreed with our other South African friends that come the first proper snowfall we’re heading to the mountains. Yup, we’re going skiing! As thrilling as this seems, it does hold a manner of implications for my two left feet. I have to confess that I am feeling panicked. Still, I took myself by surprise on the ice-rink, perhaps I’ll do the same on the slopes. Or not.
I’ll let you know.
L
The festive season in New York is far more so than back home. People here really celebrate it. Houses are decorated with abandon, streets are ablaze with Christmas lights and shop owners and taxi drivers play carols with little shame. In fact, I’m convinced that the U.S. has passed a law that orders all store keepers or service providers to play carols all day, every day. It’s weird.
For the first time since I was little I truly feel the magic of Christmas. When you’re in a place where everyone believes as strongly as the next it’s hard not to. And, it’s a surprisingly nice feeling. If the Christmas cheer continues I may be a little disappointed to wake on December 25th to find that the gifts under the tree weren’t actually delivered by Mr. Claus himself.
To celebrate what Tom and I christened as the start of the season we joined a fellow pair of ‘Saffas’ at the Bryant Park ice-rink for a morning of open-air ice fun yesterday. It seemed as if much of the city had the same idea because the rink was full of skaters and there was a snaking queue outside of the entrance. Rather than call it quits we sucked it up and joined the line and unsurprisingly, found ourselves inside in next to no time.
Admittedly, as much as I liked the idea of skating I wasn’t as excited about it as my other skating friends. Any one of you who knows me well enough will know that I was born with minimal co-ord. All my life I’ve made my way across playing fields and races on my knees, having tripped over undone laces or my own shoes. So imagine how proud of myself I was when I found my wary feet sliding almost gracefully across the ice.
Ice-skating, it turns out is a far more dangerous activity than I had understood. Because it holds universal appeal a range of ‘types’ frequent the rink. Old and young, beginners and pros. And when you throw them all onto the ice at the same time it becomes a battlefield. Christmas cheer ebbs away as staying upright becomes a fight for survival. Yes, it’s a ruthless game and in a quest to stay on two feet, humanity evaporate as you vow to take anyone down with you if needs be.
Upping the ice-skating stakes are the kamikaze-kids winding in and out from between novices’ legs, pushing those in their way out of it. Children are wondrous creations, their lack of fear both amazes and maddens me. Yesterday it maddened me and I declared war on any and all who dared push me out of their way. If it was going to be my bloody nose or theirs then I sure as hell wasn’t going to go down without a fight, no matter how young they were. Fortunately it didn’t get to that.
On the ice after a few minutes I gained confidence fast. This however brought more problems. Not only was I having to dodge the kids with death wishes but now I also had to swerve the beginner-beginners. Like babies learning to crawl these scrabbling wrecks carved a humorous site. The fact that I was like them minutes ago didn’t enter my brain, instead these annoying epileptic ice-fits that I was having to avoid began to piss me off.
And then there are those who burned out too fast. Those that thought that they’d pinned the art of skating down and who were now in the middle of the rink flailing for their lives. With no banners to hold themselves up they grabbed for the next best thing - the person sliding past them. More than once I almost became that pillar of support but was way too unsympathetic to care, or to be their cushion for that matter. I almost felt bad as I glanced over my shoulder and saw them meet the ice. Almost, but not quite.
We left before there were any major casualties… except for the little girl who was carted off the ice in a wheelchair and for the puddle of sick some over-excited, over-indulged youngster had evacuated. As for me, my declaration of war paid off, I managed to glide my way around and around and around and by the time we wrapped things up I was terribly proud of my intact limbs and dry bottom.
Not bad for an old lady! I may just get the hang of this winter sports thing. And, because Christmas in the States comes as a package deal, part of the festive cheer includes other magical activities like tobogganing, skiing and snowboarding. Now that we’ve acquired a taste, Taylor and I have agreed with our other South African friends that come the first proper snowfall we’re heading to the mountains. Yup, we’re going skiing! As thrilling as this seems, it does hold a manner of implications for my two left feet. I have to confess that I am feeling panicked. Still, I took myself by surprise on the ice-rink, perhaps I’ll do the same on the slopes. Or not.
I’ll let you know.
L
Baby, it's cold outside
As you can see from Tom’s posts below, New York is not warm at the moment. The locals refer to is as chilly while us sun-loving Southerners prefer to say that it is ‘effing freezing’. Honestly speaking, we’re closer to the truth that the New Yorkers.
When we left Cape Town, Taylor and I prepared for cold weather as best we could but soon learned that none of the clothes in our wardrobe were going to do justice to the weather. No matter how many layers we put on there’s always some part that we forget to cover or just can’t: hands, nose, ears. Short of walking around with a thermal sleeping bag over our heads (feet coming out of the open bit at the bottom) we’re destined to be cold, always.
There is something about the New York nip that fascinate me though. Firstly, it’s only ever cold outside. This may seem a no-brainer but in SA during winter it’s bitter both inside and out. Being a warm climate none of us seem to have been able to wrap our heads around the fact that the weather will ever be otherwise so we don’t prepare for it. None of us have central heating or double-glazed windows and only the privileged few have underfloor heating. As a result, winter back home is a little like dipping back into the Dark Ages - although I’m sure that back then they were warmer than us.
Despite the chill here in New York, it seems that there are always going to be those who don’t feel it… like women for example. This phenomenon of the female species is not unique to this city, I’ve seen it the world over and I never fail to be floored by these tough old boots. Us female folk really are amazing, some more so than others it would seem. We can multi-task, give birth and the rare few can even prance around in the minus degree weather with next to nothing on. I envy these women. I figure that in order to be able to brave weather this icy in nothing more than a mini-mini skirt, heels and hip-length jacket they can only be creatures of god: angels on earth. In fact, the only telltale sign that the cold may in fact be getting to them just a little bit is the snot-sickle* on their upper lip.
Streets aside, people here expect the cold and thus are well prepared for it. Houses are warm, offices are warm. It seems almost perfect until I get to the topic of the subway, which is also warm. A little too warm in fact. You see when you are in a house or an office the plan is usually to stay awhile so, removing your layers in order to acclimatise is normal. In the subway the opposite is true. You are not going to be like a pressed-ham sandwich for too long so it’s best to stay dressed. Which, truth be told can be an absolute nightmare.
I bet that none of you have had nightmares of being stewed in your clothes. Well, come to New York and spend ten minutes in the subway and you too will start suffering from them. Initially the warmth is a welcome respite but as the defrosting cycle begins you start to notice that your inner thermostat is malfunctioning. Your brain is not able to compute the fact that the process needs to end once you’re thawed. It can’t understand that you don’t want to get any warmer than that because it will mean you’ll need to take off your umpteen layers and that’s no good. Why? Because in five minutes time you’ll be back out in the cold. Your brain can’t understand the need for a middle ground between cold and cosy and as a result you go from thawed to well cooked in a matter of minutes.
Like I said, it’s uncomfortable hot. While you are being quietly poached from inside your jacket, your face is turning puce and you’re beginning to notice dripping sensations everywhere: the back of your knees, under your arms, off your eyelids… Someone once said to me that ‘ladies don’t sweat, they glow’‘. All I can say is that is a load of crap… we perspire like hosepipes if the temperature’s right. And in the subway it definitely is.
No, winter certainly is not one of the sexier times of the year. I’m willing to bet that statistics show a severe drop in the amount of ‘public affection’ that is shown during these months. How it is possible to find wilted women attractive is beyond me. Nope, public transport definitely does little for the loins.
Gosh… what an old brat I am. See how quickly my head has been turned? Just over a month ago I was living in a land where people dreamed of public transport and now I’m whingeing about it. Tut, tut!
My natural reaction is to blame it on the fact that I’m a cynic (as you may well have noticed). But, if I mull it over, another thought pops into my mind. One that’s far more palatable than admitting that I’m a grumpy cow. Perhaps it’s me settling down, becoming like a real New Yorker. You know the saying: ‘when in Rome’? well perhaps I’m simply doing as the Romans - or in this case - New Yorkers do. Perhaps my colours are changing and I’m becoming one of them. That may be a thought that appalls you, but for a lady like me who seeks an international life it’s a very appealing thought indeed.
* For those of you not ‘in the know’, when it gets cold your nose turns to water and often drips. Sometimes you’re not aware of it running and therefore when it’s exposed to the chilly air it freezes, creating a not-so sexy ’snot-sickle’. I kid you not.
L
When we left Cape Town, Taylor and I prepared for cold weather as best we could but soon learned that none of the clothes in our wardrobe were going to do justice to the weather. No matter how many layers we put on there’s always some part that we forget to cover or just can’t: hands, nose, ears. Short of walking around with a thermal sleeping bag over our heads (feet coming out of the open bit at the bottom) we’re destined to be cold, always.
There is something about the New York nip that fascinate me though. Firstly, it’s only ever cold outside. This may seem a no-brainer but in SA during winter it’s bitter both inside and out. Being a warm climate none of us seem to have been able to wrap our heads around the fact that the weather will ever be otherwise so we don’t prepare for it. None of us have central heating or double-glazed windows and only the privileged few have underfloor heating. As a result, winter back home is a little like dipping back into the Dark Ages - although I’m sure that back then they were warmer than us.
Despite the chill here in New York, it seems that there are always going to be those who don’t feel it… like women for example. This phenomenon of the female species is not unique to this city, I’ve seen it the world over and I never fail to be floored by these tough old boots. Us female folk really are amazing, some more so than others it would seem. We can multi-task, give birth and the rare few can even prance around in the minus degree weather with next to nothing on. I envy these women. I figure that in order to be able to brave weather this icy in nothing more than a mini-mini skirt, heels and hip-length jacket they can only be creatures of god: angels on earth. In fact, the only telltale sign that the cold may in fact be getting to them just a little bit is the snot-sickle* on their upper lip.
Streets aside, people here expect the cold and thus are well prepared for it. Houses are warm, offices are warm. It seems almost perfect until I get to the topic of the subway, which is also warm. A little too warm in fact. You see when you are in a house or an office the plan is usually to stay awhile so, removing your layers in order to acclimatise is normal. In the subway the opposite is true. You are not going to be like a pressed-ham sandwich for too long so it’s best to stay dressed. Which, truth be told can be an absolute nightmare.
I bet that none of you have had nightmares of being stewed in your clothes. Well, come to New York and spend ten minutes in the subway and you too will start suffering from them. Initially the warmth is a welcome respite but as the defrosting cycle begins you start to notice that your inner thermostat is malfunctioning. Your brain is not able to compute the fact that the process needs to end once you’re thawed. It can’t understand that you don’t want to get any warmer than that because it will mean you’ll need to take off your umpteen layers and that’s no good. Why? Because in five minutes time you’ll be back out in the cold. Your brain can’t understand the need for a middle ground between cold and cosy and as a result you go from thawed to well cooked in a matter of minutes.
Like I said, it’s uncomfortable hot. While you are being quietly poached from inside your jacket, your face is turning puce and you’re beginning to notice dripping sensations everywhere: the back of your knees, under your arms, off your eyelids… Someone once said to me that ‘ladies don’t sweat, they glow’‘. All I can say is that is a load of crap… we perspire like hosepipes if the temperature’s right. And in the subway it definitely is.
No, winter certainly is not one of the sexier times of the year. I’m willing to bet that statistics show a severe drop in the amount of ‘public affection’ that is shown during these months. How it is possible to find wilted women attractive is beyond me. Nope, public transport definitely does little for the loins.
Gosh… what an old brat I am. See how quickly my head has been turned? Just over a month ago I was living in a land where people dreamed of public transport and now I’m whingeing about it. Tut, tut!
My natural reaction is to blame it on the fact that I’m a cynic (as you may well have noticed). But, if I mull it over, another thought pops into my mind. One that’s far more palatable than admitting that I’m a grumpy cow. Perhaps it’s me settling down, becoming like a real New Yorker. You know the saying: ‘when in Rome’? well perhaps I’m simply doing as the Romans - or in this case - New Yorkers do. Perhaps my colours are changing and I’m becoming one of them. That may be a thought that appalls you, but for a lady like me who seeks an international life it’s a very appealing thought indeed.
* For those of you not ‘in the know’, when it gets cold your nose turns to water and often drips. Sometimes you’re not aware of it running and therefore when it’s exposed to the chilly air it freezes, creating a not-so sexy ’snot-sickle’. I kid you not.
L
It's all down to the rules
Being on the darker side of twenty-seven I feel I’ve earned the right to certain freedoms. Things like no longer having to abide by a curfew or being able to make my own decisions (be they wise or not). I’ve earned the right to drive, the right to buy, the right to do pretty much as I please so long as my choices fall within the lines of the law.
However, last Friday night I most certainly wasn’t free to do as I pleased. Quite the opposite actually.
As most people do on the weekend, we went out. It’s how we de-stress, learn to live and love this city, it’s how Tom and I bond best. The pair of us had no big big plans, we were happy to fly with the wind and see where she took us so long as it was in the direction of food, booze and atmosphere. Not a big ask in a place like New York.
The evening began at Tom’s office. For those of you not in the know about The Mill, it’s the playpen of all posthouse playpens and therefore a pretty good place to start any night on the town. Over a few drinks and some idle chit-chat a group of us hatched a plan: tacos followed by Sweet and Vicious.
Sound ominous? It’s not. The taco part is easy enough to understand but Sweet and Vicious is the name of a very nice bar in Soho, a few paces from The Mill. Like the Soho in London it is filled to the brim with trendy bars and ‘must eat in’ restaurants. It’s noted as one of New York’s more colourful (and slightly more affordable) suburbs.
Having been to Sweet and Vicious before none of us thought anything would be different from the previous occasion. That was the time we were able to breeze right through the front door. So, off we went.
As I mentioned, dinner was the first port of call. One of the chaps, ‘Other Tom’ suggested we do Mexican, a favourite in these parts. Please do not think that the Mexican here is anything like the poor excuse we get for Mexican at home. No, no fellow friends and blog readers. Mexican here is made by… wait for it… actual Mexicans and therefore carries the stamp of authenticity.
A taco here is unlike any other piece of goodness that’s ever passed your lips. For starters, they are soft, not hard, made of real cornflour which serves as a backdrop for tender meat (of your choice) and a dollop of salsa with enough heat to tickle your tastebuds as it slides on down towards your belly. A true delicacy.
I digress, however. All I meant to say was: ‘Supper was good. We enjoyed it. The end’.
So, dinner done we made the short walk onwards, stopping when we arrived outside Sweet and Vicious. Why did we stop when we had not done so on the previous visit? Well, because this time there was a large, unearthly looking bouncer staking his claim outside the door. ‘No problem’ we thought and flashed our friendliest smiles as we tried to make our way past him and into the bar. Except that neither Tom nor I made it past his bicep which he thrust in front of us as we moved towards the inside.
‘ID’, was all he said.
‘ID?’ was all I said.
At which point I turned around and moved out of earshot to consult Tom about this. ‘Taylor, is he serious? This is bar, not a club.’
Tom explained that he was serious. And, as I cast a sly glance out of the corner of my eyes I saw that we had apparently thrown a spanner in his normally smooth-running works. I could tell because suddenly he was gently fingering his knucklduster and gnashing his teeth at us.
Being the hothead that I am known to be at times I chose to ignore the signs of danger and tried another tack. ‘Um, excuse me sir. Even if the pair of us don’t have ID but are obviously well over 21 - we’re 24 and 27 and three quarters, actually - surely we can get in for simply looking as if we’re well over the legal age of entry?’
This time around I didn’t even get a response. Instead he bared his teeth once more, put his arm across the door in case I dared try and re-enter and left me standing baffled on the step.
And that was that. Our mates were in and we were out.
In the past few years I’ve joked with friends about getting carded at a club door. Although, my story is centered around the theme of being bounced because we’ve gotten too old to be in a club. We’ve gone past the years where it’s still ok for us to stalk young men and drink too much in public. Unknowingly turned into embarrassing elders.
On Friday however, I felt as though I had been taken back to the days where I was neither old enough or cool enough to be granted entry into a nightclub. They were difficult times for a sprog like me and, when I was finally old enough to use my ID to back up my claim that I was in fact eighteen, my life changed forever. It’s one of those freedoms I was talking about before.
But here we were, cast aside neither for being too young nor too old, simply because that’s the way it goes here. Apparently we’re not a rare case, I’ve heard that even people over fourty have been turned away for the same reason. Isn’t that ridiculous?
The idea behind this carding trick is, I’m told, to ensure that no underage kids slip through the system. Bars here are rapped over the knuckles more fiercely than back home and as a result are forced to be more strict about who does and doesn’t get in. But I ask you, for goodness sake, what authority of the law is ever going to call a bouncer out for having let a fourty year old whose forgotten his ID at home into a club? It’s simply ridiculous.
Still, who am I to argue with the law? Or picky bouncers? As an average lady on the streets I either fit in or don’t. And if I don’t, I lose out. Like I did on Friday. Simple.
I suppose the moral of this story is to get smart. Not smart-mouthed which is my forte, but mental smart. I, like all the other clever clogs in New York need to learn that when it comes to nightlife I’m nothing special. My eyes may be bluer, my hair blonder, but that’s about all. And, even that isn’t enough to convince the big guy at the door to let me in sans ID. I need to be like every other simple Simon out there and carry proof that these breasts and this wizened face do in fact belong to a twenty-seven year old.
As pragmatic as I try to be, however, there is still something terribly belittling about being turned away because I didn’t know the (petty) rules. Twenty-seven and I got bounced. Now isn’t that humiliating?
L
However, last Friday night I most certainly wasn’t free to do as I pleased. Quite the opposite actually.
As most people do on the weekend, we went out. It’s how we de-stress, learn to live and love this city, it’s how Tom and I bond best. The pair of us had no big big plans, we were happy to fly with the wind and see where she took us so long as it was in the direction of food, booze and atmosphere. Not a big ask in a place like New York.
The evening began at Tom’s office. For those of you not in the know about The Mill, it’s the playpen of all posthouse playpens and therefore a pretty good place to start any night on the town. Over a few drinks and some idle chit-chat a group of us hatched a plan: tacos followed by Sweet and Vicious.
Sound ominous? It’s not. The taco part is easy enough to understand but Sweet and Vicious is the name of a very nice bar in Soho, a few paces from The Mill. Like the Soho in London it is filled to the brim with trendy bars and ‘must eat in’ restaurants. It’s noted as one of New York’s more colourful (and slightly more affordable) suburbs.
Having been to Sweet and Vicious before none of us thought anything would be different from the previous occasion. That was the time we were able to breeze right through the front door. So, off we went.
As I mentioned, dinner was the first port of call. One of the chaps, ‘Other Tom’ suggested we do Mexican, a favourite in these parts. Please do not think that the Mexican here is anything like the poor excuse we get for Mexican at home. No, no fellow friends and blog readers. Mexican here is made by… wait for it… actual Mexicans and therefore carries the stamp of authenticity.
A taco here is unlike any other piece of goodness that’s ever passed your lips. For starters, they are soft, not hard, made of real cornflour which serves as a backdrop for tender meat (of your choice) and a dollop of salsa with enough heat to tickle your tastebuds as it slides on down towards your belly. A true delicacy.
I digress, however. All I meant to say was: ‘Supper was good. We enjoyed it. The end’.
So, dinner done we made the short walk onwards, stopping when we arrived outside Sweet and Vicious. Why did we stop when we had not done so on the previous visit? Well, because this time there was a large, unearthly looking bouncer staking his claim outside the door. ‘No problem’ we thought and flashed our friendliest smiles as we tried to make our way past him and into the bar. Except that neither Tom nor I made it past his bicep which he thrust in front of us as we moved towards the inside.
‘ID’, was all he said.
‘ID?’ was all I said.
At which point I turned around and moved out of earshot to consult Tom about this. ‘Taylor, is he serious? This is bar, not a club.’
Tom explained that he was serious. And, as I cast a sly glance out of the corner of my eyes I saw that we had apparently thrown a spanner in his normally smooth-running works. I could tell because suddenly he was gently fingering his knucklduster and gnashing his teeth at us.
Being the hothead that I am known to be at times I chose to ignore the signs of danger and tried another tack. ‘Um, excuse me sir. Even if the pair of us don’t have ID but are obviously well over 21 - we’re 24 and 27 and three quarters, actually - surely we can get in for simply looking as if we’re well over the legal age of entry?’
This time around I didn’t even get a response. Instead he bared his teeth once more, put his arm across the door in case I dared try and re-enter and left me standing baffled on the step.
And that was that. Our mates were in and we were out.
In the past few years I’ve joked with friends about getting carded at a club door. Although, my story is centered around the theme of being bounced because we’ve gotten too old to be in a club. We’ve gone past the years where it’s still ok for us to stalk young men and drink too much in public. Unknowingly turned into embarrassing elders.
On Friday however, I felt as though I had been taken back to the days where I was neither old enough or cool enough to be granted entry into a nightclub. They were difficult times for a sprog like me and, when I was finally old enough to use my ID to back up my claim that I was in fact eighteen, my life changed forever. It’s one of those freedoms I was talking about before.
But here we were, cast aside neither for being too young nor too old, simply because that’s the way it goes here. Apparently we’re not a rare case, I’ve heard that even people over fourty have been turned away for the same reason. Isn’t that ridiculous?
The idea behind this carding trick is, I’m told, to ensure that no underage kids slip through the system. Bars here are rapped over the knuckles more fiercely than back home and as a result are forced to be more strict about who does and doesn’t get in. But I ask you, for goodness sake, what authority of the law is ever going to call a bouncer out for having let a fourty year old whose forgotten his ID at home into a club? It’s simply ridiculous.
Still, who am I to argue with the law? Or picky bouncers? As an average lady on the streets I either fit in or don’t. And if I don’t, I lose out. Like I did on Friday. Simple.
I suppose the moral of this story is to get smart. Not smart-mouthed which is my forte, but mental smart. I, like all the other clever clogs in New York need to learn that when it comes to nightlife I’m nothing special. My eyes may be bluer, my hair blonder, but that’s about all. And, even that isn’t enough to convince the big guy at the door to let me in sans ID. I need to be like every other simple Simon out there and carry proof that these breasts and this wizened face do in fact belong to a twenty-seven year old.
As pragmatic as I try to be, however, there is still something terribly belittling about being turned away because I didn’t know the (petty) rules. Twenty-seven and I got bounced. Now isn’t that humiliating?
L
Things that go bark in the night
This is a city, I know that. I know it well. Were there any confusion all I’d need do for confirmation would be to peer out of our flat window to see the sea of yellow cabs crawling past or to listen for the treading feet below. Being a city therefore, you’d think that I’d be well aware of the noise factor. And I am. I appreciate that people live on top of one another and that walls are thin. It’s terribly hard not to be all too aware of your neighbours: on top, below and on either side of you. All of this I get.
What I don’t get however is that the noise is never ending. People laughingly say that this is the city that never sleeps (myself included) but when it’s past midnight and the world outside is still going full throttle it ceases to be amusing.
The irony of the noise problem is that it really only becomes one when you want to go to sleep. I promise you this: New York is at her most quiet in the hours leading up to bed time, but the moment you crawl into bed and shut your eyes it starts.
At home noise could be blamed on rowdy young ‘uns returning from a successful night out or in our case, gangsters breaking into the cars lining the streets or the morning prayer in Bo Kaap. Here, night time noise is strictly reserved for two participants: builders and the neighbour’s dog. Seriously.
I’m baffled by it. I’m not sure whether the traders here in the Financial District have had some kind of restriction put on noise-making during the day or whether in fact the builders are directly related to Satan. Either way, they are thoroughly spiteful people content on keeping the world from sleep.
Lorries roar up and down the road during the late hours of the night, tyres screeching as they race one another through the thin alleyways. Rules include having some loose metal bits in the back of your truck that will rattle and roll around during the race. Extra points are given to trucks with more than six wheels and for hooting. Lots and lots of hooting.
Being late and dark, one wonders what on earth they could find to hoot at and the answer is easy: anything and everything. If some resident has had the audacity to park in an empty bay on the street, damn him and his sleeping self, they will simply wake him up with their oversized horns.
It’s not a quiet hand on the hooter, it’s an angry fist pummeling away at the horn. ‘Damn you man. Damn you for almost being in my way!’ And, because the alleyways are narrow and the buildings tall the sound gets caught between the layers of concrete and reverberates all the way up from street level, up each storey and finally it escapes into the black night air - but only after it’s shattered your nerves and ensured you’re awake.
And if it’s not race wars outside your window it’s the endless games of pick up sticks - with metal poles. It’s a game none of the builders in this area seem to be terribly good at judging from the amount of falling sticks there are. Again, it’s not a quiet ‘clink’ in the night it’s a bone-shattering thud. Why? Because they are playing it from the twentieth floor which means that the poles have an awfully long way to fall.
Were all of this not enough there’s also the neighbour’s impolite ‘dog’. Dog is in commas because it’s not really a dog. It’s one of those creatures made popular by Paris Hilton, too small to be of any use, too ugly to be cute. And they yip, they don’t bark. An annoying expulsion of wrong notes from their silly little mouths. Yip yip yip.
And what is so annoying about these non-creatures is that they too get woken by the builders but instead of being like clever dogs that say, Ridgebacks or Labradors are they think that the banging and crashing is their cue to join in. So they do.
At first they are unsure of themselves so their song starts off cautiously. Only a quiet little ‘yip’ here and there, but as they gain confidence so too does their ‘tune’ and becomes a series of successive yelps. Over and over again. It becomes so passionate that the throes of ecstasy make its little eyes bulge so hard they are close to popping out their sockets, white foamy flecks form at the corners of its black lips and its body shudders from the excitement of its song.
Screeching tyres mesh with the sound of howling dog and the noise is punctuated by hoots and metal hitting metal. A united force, they destroy the night for all.
All except for the neighbours it would seem.
They, unlike everyone else on John Street sleep soundly throughout the cacophony. I know this because the creature’s song does not stop. From the other side of the wall there is no sound of newspaper on animal, no slipper on furry behind, no yelps of pain as hand hits snout as one would normally do to quiet a dog. There is no silence either.
You are left trapped in your world of sleeplessness, waiting for morning to come or for the nightmare to end. Whichever comes first. You see, like all creatures from hell, this particular variety of dog and builder is afraid of day and so when the sun crawls over the horizon they will retreat to their hovels to rest. It’s simply a matter of waiting it out.
Sadly, what you lose while waiting is your necessary eight hours and your will to live.
However, when finally the morning alarm sounds you inevitably pull your shattered self together, paint on a smile and go out into the world to enjoy another day in this your dream city, New York.
L
What I don’t get however is that the noise is never ending. People laughingly say that this is the city that never sleeps (myself included) but when it’s past midnight and the world outside is still going full throttle it ceases to be amusing.
The irony of the noise problem is that it really only becomes one when you want to go to sleep. I promise you this: New York is at her most quiet in the hours leading up to bed time, but the moment you crawl into bed and shut your eyes it starts.
At home noise could be blamed on rowdy young ‘uns returning from a successful night out or in our case, gangsters breaking into the cars lining the streets or the morning prayer in Bo Kaap. Here, night time noise is strictly reserved for two participants: builders and the neighbour’s dog. Seriously.
I’m baffled by it. I’m not sure whether the traders here in the Financial District have had some kind of restriction put on noise-making during the day or whether in fact the builders are directly related to Satan. Either way, they are thoroughly spiteful people content on keeping the world from sleep.
Lorries roar up and down the road during the late hours of the night, tyres screeching as they race one another through the thin alleyways. Rules include having some loose metal bits in the back of your truck that will rattle and roll around during the race. Extra points are given to trucks with more than six wheels and for hooting. Lots and lots of hooting.
Being late and dark, one wonders what on earth they could find to hoot at and the answer is easy: anything and everything. If some resident has had the audacity to park in an empty bay on the street, damn him and his sleeping self, they will simply wake him up with their oversized horns.
It’s not a quiet hand on the hooter, it’s an angry fist pummeling away at the horn. ‘Damn you man. Damn you for almost being in my way!’ And, because the alleyways are narrow and the buildings tall the sound gets caught between the layers of concrete and reverberates all the way up from street level, up each storey and finally it escapes into the black night air - but only after it’s shattered your nerves and ensured you’re awake.
And if it’s not race wars outside your window it’s the endless games of pick up sticks - with metal poles. It’s a game none of the builders in this area seem to be terribly good at judging from the amount of falling sticks there are. Again, it’s not a quiet ‘clink’ in the night it’s a bone-shattering thud. Why? Because they are playing it from the twentieth floor which means that the poles have an awfully long way to fall.
Were all of this not enough there’s also the neighbour’s impolite ‘dog’. Dog is in commas because it’s not really a dog. It’s one of those creatures made popular by Paris Hilton, too small to be of any use, too ugly to be cute. And they yip, they don’t bark. An annoying expulsion of wrong notes from their silly little mouths. Yip yip yip.
And what is so annoying about these non-creatures is that they too get woken by the builders but instead of being like clever dogs that say, Ridgebacks or Labradors are they think that the banging and crashing is their cue to join in. So they do.
At first they are unsure of themselves so their song starts off cautiously. Only a quiet little ‘yip’ here and there, but as they gain confidence so too does their ‘tune’ and becomes a series of successive yelps. Over and over again. It becomes so passionate that the throes of ecstasy make its little eyes bulge so hard they are close to popping out their sockets, white foamy flecks form at the corners of its black lips and its body shudders from the excitement of its song.
Screeching tyres mesh with the sound of howling dog and the noise is punctuated by hoots and metal hitting metal. A united force, they destroy the night for all.
All except for the neighbours it would seem.
They, unlike everyone else on John Street sleep soundly throughout the cacophony. I know this because the creature’s song does not stop. From the other side of the wall there is no sound of newspaper on animal, no slipper on furry behind, no yelps of pain as hand hits snout as one would normally do to quiet a dog. There is no silence either.
You are left trapped in your world of sleeplessness, waiting for morning to come or for the nightmare to end. Whichever comes first. You see, like all creatures from hell, this particular variety of dog and builder is afraid of day and so when the sun crawls over the horizon they will retreat to their hovels to rest. It’s simply a matter of waiting it out.
Sadly, what you lose while waiting is your necessary eight hours and your will to live.
However, when finally the morning alarm sounds you inevitably pull your shattered self together, paint on a smile and go out into the world to enjoy another day in this your dream city, New York.
L
Flat spin
The past week Tom and I have spent our free time flat hunting. Initially it seemed an exciting task that symbolised the proper beginning of our life here in New York, however it fast became something I dreaded doing.
The process here is far more virtual than back home. You search websites, send a request for info to the agent representing the desired flat and wait by the phone for ‘the call’. Or at least that’s how the process began. However, after the first five calls (from the same agent and within minutes of the last) my enthusiasm began to wane. Fast.
You see, being the go getting ‘Saffas’ that Tom and I are, we like to spread our eggs in many baskets. This therefore meant finding as many prospective flats as possible and sending out ‘a please call me’ message for all. Wrong thing to do. Agents are like vultures. They are shameless pesterers and will push their (mostly shitty) wares on you just to make a sale.
I discovered that engaging with agents is a little like entering a very intense love affair way too fast. Except that it’s an entirely one-sided relationship. Your mild interest is misread as a ‘let’s jump into this headfirst’ signal and suddenly you’re stifled. Calls come in at all hours of the day, emails pile up in your inbox and little love messages get shoved under your door…
Dear Laura,
Haven’t heard from you in a while. Is everything ok? I’m worried. Are you still interested? Keen? I’m scared I’ve lost you. Get in touch. ASAP. Please. We need to talk.
Regards your ever loving, all faithful agent.
It’s creepy and I’m come to view them as the tow truck drivers of the States.
Once you’ve taken your virtual relationship with the agent to the next level and you’ve endured the umpteen phonecalls you go on your first ‘date’ with them. Given that this is the part where they lead you to your Eden it has the potential to be a somewhat romantic affair. You meet at the designated spot and then walk side by side to the perfect place. Except that it’s not.
When you sent in your email specifications (and spoke to them on the phone) you made a point of mentioning that light and space are two very important things for you. It’s so important in fact that you went so far as to write LIGHT AND SPACE in a 20 point font with bold type and capital letters. Just in case they missed it.
And so, as the pair of you walk to flat number one the agent chatters away about how much you’re going to love this place. ‘I just know it. It’s so you. ‘It’s perfect. It’s huge and it has a lot of light too. Plus it’s got this that and the next thing. Yadda yadda yadda’. And you believe him because:
a) he’s done his research
b) you’ve both spoken extensively about what it is that you’re looking for
and
c) because you’re stupid
Why? Because as the flat door swings open, realisation dawns. He has neither done his research nor paid any attention to your brief. Everything about the empty space you’re looking at is wrong.
Suddenly you understand why it is that the man at the front desk is wearing a headlamp and handing out torches. When an agent tells you that the flat has a lot of light what they really mean is that if you flick all the switches in the room at the same time and buy seven or eight high powered lamps for each room there will indeed be plenty of light, even during the day. Apparently being able to see your hands in front of your face is not a necessity in these parts.
The entire room itself is little bigger than a size two pair of shoes and this includes the bathroom, kitchen and bedroom cum living area. It’s easy to understand why there are not many large people in New York… their oversized frames won’t fit into any of the apartments. They simply wouldn’t be able to get their child-bearing hips through the front door’.
And the ‘view’ that he described as being over the roofs of New York is really one looking out over the broken roofs of the shanty flats next door. The side of the building where your flat is, is actually in some deadbeat little street where the only signs of nightlife are the rats scurrying in and out of trash cans.
And he thought that this pile of rot was going to blow my mind? No, more like it’s going to make me blow my breakfast. All over his polyester suit.
In situations such as these it really is hard to keep your temper at bay. The thing about us South Africans though is that we’re generally a mild mannered group of people. Rather than ruffling feathers (especially in a country I hope to make my own) it’s easier to smile wanly and to move onto the next crap heap until you’ve seen all the dives on his list. And then, finally you can take your defeated self home and look forward to repeating it all again with some other guy the following day.
For the most part, finding somewhere to live in New York is a thankless task. However, like most things if you persevere eventually you will reap what you sow and the upside to my whinging is that as of yesterday Tom and I are the proud new renters of a place in East Village. It’s ‘vast’ by New York standards and actually has loads of light too. Real light. Streaming, beautiful yellow light. We’re so happy with it. Not because it matches our criteria but because it really means that our ordeal with the agents is over. No more dodging calls or ignoring mails. The only thing I’m worried about is now that I’m no longer on the market how on earth am I going to break up with them?
L
The process here is far more virtual than back home. You search websites, send a request for info to the agent representing the desired flat and wait by the phone for ‘the call’. Or at least that’s how the process began. However, after the first five calls (from the same agent and within minutes of the last) my enthusiasm began to wane. Fast.
You see, being the go getting ‘Saffas’ that Tom and I are, we like to spread our eggs in many baskets. This therefore meant finding as many prospective flats as possible and sending out ‘a please call me’ message for all. Wrong thing to do. Agents are like vultures. They are shameless pesterers and will push their (mostly shitty) wares on you just to make a sale.
I discovered that engaging with agents is a little like entering a very intense love affair way too fast. Except that it’s an entirely one-sided relationship. Your mild interest is misread as a ‘let’s jump into this headfirst’ signal and suddenly you’re stifled. Calls come in at all hours of the day, emails pile up in your inbox and little love messages get shoved under your door…
Dear Laura,
Haven’t heard from you in a while. Is everything ok? I’m worried. Are you still interested? Keen? I’m scared I’ve lost you. Get in touch. ASAP. Please. We need to talk.
Regards your ever loving, all faithful agent.
It’s creepy and I’m come to view them as the tow truck drivers of the States.
Once you’ve taken your virtual relationship with the agent to the next level and you’ve endured the umpteen phonecalls you go on your first ‘date’ with them. Given that this is the part where they lead you to your Eden it has the potential to be a somewhat romantic affair. You meet at the designated spot and then walk side by side to the perfect place. Except that it’s not.
When you sent in your email specifications (and spoke to them on the phone) you made a point of mentioning that light and space are two very important things for you. It’s so important in fact that you went so far as to write LIGHT AND SPACE in a 20 point font with bold type and capital letters. Just in case they missed it.
And so, as the pair of you walk to flat number one the agent chatters away about how much you’re going to love this place. ‘I just know it. It’s so you. ‘It’s perfect. It’s huge and it has a lot of light too. Plus it’s got this that and the next thing. Yadda yadda yadda’. And you believe him because:
a) he’s done his research
b) you’ve both spoken extensively about what it is that you’re looking for
and
c) because you’re stupid
Why? Because as the flat door swings open, realisation dawns. He has neither done his research nor paid any attention to your brief. Everything about the empty space you’re looking at is wrong.
Suddenly you understand why it is that the man at the front desk is wearing a headlamp and handing out torches. When an agent tells you that the flat has a lot of light what they really mean is that if you flick all the switches in the room at the same time and buy seven or eight high powered lamps for each room there will indeed be plenty of light, even during the day. Apparently being able to see your hands in front of your face is not a necessity in these parts.
The entire room itself is little bigger than a size two pair of shoes and this includes the bathroom, kitchen and bedroom cum living area. It’s easy to understand why there are not many large people in New York… their oversized frames won’t fit into any of the apartments. They simply wouldn’t be able to get their child-bearing hips through the front door’.
And the ‘view’ that he described as being over the roofs of New York is really one looking out over the broken roofs of the shanty flats next door. The side of the building where your flat is, is actually in some deadbeat little street where the only signs of nightlife are the rats scurrying in and out of trash cans.
And he thought that this pile of rot was going to blow my mind? No, more like it’s going to make me blow my breakfast. All over his polyester suit.
In situations such as these it really is hard to keep your temper at bay. The thing about us South Africans though is that we’re generally a mild mannered group of people. Rather than ruffling feathers (especially in a country I hope to make my own) it’s easier to smile wanly and to move onto the next crap heap until you’ve seen all the dives on his list. And then, finally you can take your defeated self home and look forward to repeating it all again with some other guy the following day.
For the most part, finding somewhere to live in New York is a thankless task. However, like most things if you persevere eventually you will reap what you sow and the upside to my whinging is that as of yesterday Tom and I are the proud new renters of a place in East Village. It’s ‘vast’ by New York standards and actually has loads of light too. Real light. Streaming, beautiful yellow light. We’re so happy with it. Not because it matches our criteria but because it really means that our ordeal with the agents is over. No more dodging calls or ignoring mails. The only thing I’m worried about is now that I’m no longer on the market how on earth am I going to break up with them?
L
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