Small Things

Around 5.15pm, I know I have to take a break from work. Otherwise there'll be no getting through til ten. I spend eight minutes dreaming up exactly what it is I want to fill my empty stomach.

Chai latte and a muffin. Perfect.

The sun is still bright and warm as I round the corner to my favourite coffee place. I saw Julianne Moore here twice. Once buying soup (non-vegetarian).

At this time of day the smell of bleach overpowers the coffee beans, and the only person sitting at the tables is a barrista on a break. I am just in time. A man I've never seen before serves me.

Medium Chai, extra hot. Please.

He doesn't say anything as he takes his time heating the milk. Then he fills a large (New York LARGE) cup with my latte.

Is that for me?

He gives a friendly shrug and charges me for a small. I also get the last muffin, but it's low fat which is not so much fun.

I'm just about to leave when suddenly;

Is that perfume Samsara? I nearly miss it, with the accent.

Oh, yes! How did you know?

Now he smiles, from a long time ago.

It's one of my favourites.

He just nods. Still smiling.

In three weeks today I will be finished the first year of my MFA. Until that day, I will be rehearsing every night and sleeping very little.

In fact, my work-life balance is so skewed, that in some of the more delerious moments of my tedium, I have seriously considered pursuing a few of the following self destructive diversions:

1. Recycling past dates (in the absence of any fresh romantic prospects) including the New York director who made Woody Allen look like a secure, emotionally mature, self actualized human being, and the party guy, who when I asked for a cigarette (to distract me from one of our less than enthralling conversations) offered me cocaine (in hindsight, probably much more useful!).

2. Taking up residence in my new living room (otherwise known as the bar at the bottom of my building), which as well as fueling the delusion that my apartment is suddenly six times bigger, is populated with a cast of colourful and extremely friendly bartenders, who I have come to think of fondly as annoying brothers. Except for the Irish owner, who is Irish, and by default sexy. Am tempted to make the economically rational dating decision of trying to ramp up a flirtation with him, but given he already gives me my drinks for free, this could be unwise. If things turned sour I could be down a local watering hole... and a living room.

3. Emailing ex-boyfriends... who live uptown.

I'm hoping the act of writing these things down will snap me back into some semblance of rationality. And following that, some semblance of a work ethic.

Yep, back to it.

See you May 16th.

So, okay, New York...


Every so often in New York, you are abruptly reminded you live in THE city. The city that songs, poetry, legend and sitcoms are made of. Most days, it actually feels quite normal, quite real. And before you know it, you've become one of those head-down kinds of people, no loose jaws marvelling at the skyscrapers, no fold-out maps and digital cameras. You're busy and important, there's no time for the dally or the dilly.

And then there are those nights when odd things happen. The universe might even give you a hint that something is in the air. Let's say it begins with you being invited to the Upper East Side, to hang out at the brand new pad of an actual working actor. An actor who's just secured a soap opera contract, and can now afford to live ''just off Madison''. So, he's cool, but not too cool to contemplate being part of one of your projects, and he invites you over for the initial script reading, providing food, wine and all sorts of metrosexual appetizers as part of the package.

Flash forward three glasses of wine. It's just hit the witching hour, and you are walking from Union Square back to your very downtown, very loveable shoebox. The journey takes you through Washington Square Park (think famous white arch), notorious for satisfying the extra curricular cravings of NYU students. Tonight, they are shooting a movie. There are huge floodlights, and vans and white reflectors, but this is part of the every day now, so you keep your head down and walk on through it.

A good looking and affable black man is suddenly beside you. He's on for a chat. He tells you Robin Williams is such a lovely man. So this is a Robin Williams film. My companion tells me Robin is remarkable. All that talent, but still so grounded. We talk easily, then about two thirds of the way along the path, we see a young couple bailed up against the fence. The young man is being accosted by another man, it's the traditional fist-collar grip, and something about the night is so surreal anyway, it's hard to place immediately what's wrong with the picture.

It is enough to register as odd however, and something in me feels the need to react. I don't know whether it's the wine, or my new companion, but in an unwavering voice I ask,

''Are you guys okay?''

The girlfriend looks at me wide-eyed (more deer in headlights, than deer in Disney), 'No... he's bothering us'

It's hard to explain the choreography here, but completely boulstered by a false sense of my own power, I step around beside the girl and look the assailant in the eye. My companion takes his cue and steps around the other side of him.

I say, ''Man... leave them alone.''

(When I started using words like 'Man' I'm not entirely sure. I guess around chardy number two. Anyway...)

He looks at me, he looks at my friend. And he lets go.

We stand there and watch to make sure he doesn't move as the young couple regroup and head off in the other direction.

Like I, personally, own Manhattan, I tell them to have a good night.

Then we head off again.

It's only now that I find out my new friend's name is Gregory. He tells me he is just divorced, and is homeless. He asks me if I can help. I think about what just happened. I wonder if he might be Jesus disguised as a homeless, black man. A modern retelling of the best seller.

By the time I actually walk away from him, we have hugged three times and convinced ourselves there is indeed goodness in the world.

At home, I stop in at the pub at the bottom of my building. I hope the owner, Denver (who knows me only as ''love'' and who refuses to let me pay for my drinks) will be there, so I can down a Cosmo and tell him my extravagant story. Alas, the pub is busy, and Denver is nowhere to be seen.

And so I write it here. Because I'm sure tomorrow I will be convinced it was all a dream. Man.

A few of my (new) favorite things.


1. The Times: The Times. The Times. If I only had 3 dollars and 50 cents left in the entire world, I would spend it on the Sunday Times. That and a grande chai latte make for the perfect Sunday brunch date. (Sadly my front runner for 2006 anyway!)

2. The Laundry Service: Moving into an apartment building with no laundry, and not convenient to any DIY laundromats I discovered a most marvelous thing; there are women in this city, in tiny shops, who will wash your clothes for 60 cents a pound!! Drop off in the morning, pick up in the evening. Washed, dried, folded. Works out to about 8 dollars a fortnight. Brilliant - once middle class guilt at having someone wash your clothes subsides... happened quicker than I expected.

3. The Gay Boyfriend: Certainly not a phenomenon exclusive to New York, but on the advice of a friend I have acquired two (just in case). Perfect for seeing movies, plays, listening to diatribes about the sorry state of dating in this city, and cooking meals utilizing actual stoves and ovens. Something I'm yet to experiment with.

4. The Bartender: Specifically, Brian, the bartender at my local 'gin joint'. They have half price happy hour all night Sunday through Tuesday, and until Karaoke begins on Wednesday. (That's right, you heard me!). Half price happy hour means five dollar martinis... which makes aforementioned Karoke far more appealing and likely.

Stay tuned... in this city the list is set to expand by the minute!

I couldn't help but wonder...

Having lived in New York six months now, and having spent four of those six months most unexpectedly single, I am forced to wrestle with the following, deeply philosophical question for the ages (or at least for women, ages 18 - 35); In 2006, is it possible for four girlfriends to gather in the name of a martini, without being asked, "which one of you is Miranda?" (Miranda being the redhead from Sex and the City, for those of you not of this planet. For the record, nobody is ever Miranda. Every woman, everywhere believes herself to be Carrie.)

'SATC' (as it is referred to by the sort of fans who threw final episode parties complete with pitchers of cranberry juice and vodka) without doubt set new standards for dating, fashion and female friendships the world over. But what about in the microchosm of Manhattan itelf, where not only does a single white female explore the same themes, but she has the whole themepark in which to do it.

From my recently acquired position on the inside, I can report that it is, just as they say it is. The same restaurants, clubs, taxis, cupcake shops and unaffordable footware. I can also report that it is a world peopled with characters, and that most of them are indeed only worth a single (dating) episode.

My cast to date includes:

The Actor (Actually 'The Acting Student'... important difference, and not a good idea when you're bound to the same institution for at least the next three years.)

The Director (AKA the 'real New Yorker', in other words, one who has lived here long enough to hate everything. Being from the land of sarcasm this initially had some appeal. The novelty wore off much more quickly than expected.)

The Performance Artist (what exactly that means I'm still not sure, except I know he spends a lot of his time dressed up as a large bear, and sometimes a 'glow puppet', and that neither make particularly good conversationalists.)

The Porter (actually, not so much dating, as 'avoiding his phone calls'... not because he is a porter, but because of a text message received two nights after initial meeting informing me that he 'loves dick'. Can only assume one of his well meaning mates thought it would be amusing to share the happy news, but have cut off all contact so as not to run risk of having to spend time with said mates.)

I am yet to analyse the official demographics, which may shed some light on this strange and frenzied world of dating I find myself in, but if there's not something in the numbers, there's got to be something in the water. Maybe it's just the scale of everything. The compressed space somehow manages to compress time as well - how else would so many dates and introductions be squeezed into those infamous New York Minutes?

If I had to take a guess, I'd suspect it has something to do with the fact that very few people in New York are actually from New York. We all leave families, friends and loved ones to come in search of something bigger and brighter than the world we once knew. To become someone bigger and brighter than the self we once knew.

But no woman is an island, even if she chooses to live on one.

And so we beat on, to door lists at clubs with names like 'Crobar' and 'Bed', and invite lists to exhibition openings at galleries with four white walls and free wine and cheese, and opening nights of plays, and birthday parties at Karaoke bars, and dinner parties at sushi restaurants... and every once in a while when you need to catch your breath, to anywhere that will serve four girlfriends a cosmopolitan without judgement.

Sex and the tennement.

It's the fourth time I hear them having sex in five days. And I'm hardly ever home. I say them, it's really only her I hear. As far as I know it's a different him every time. I'm actually not complaining. You'd have to say that anybody who moves into a 300 sq ft apartment above New York's most famous sex shop relinquishes her right to become indignant at the nature of the noise transfer. Besides, there's part of me that gets a secret thrill at any reminder that here I am, pulsing along with the beating heart of Manhattan - the bars, the clubs, the cabs, the theatre - and the thin walls.

I can´t believe I'm already half way through my sixth month in the city (I just counted). All the way from the land down under ("I've always wanted to go to Australia... but it's SO FaRRrr"). Off the boat, chasing the bright lights of Broadway, but for now, safely protected within an acting institution, which means I can breathe, step outside and take a look around.

Last night my roomate (by all reports and as evidenced by the few indecipherable DVDs in our apartment, a Finnish movie star) and I threw a 'Housewarming'. Which meant jamming everything we own into cupboards, pushing all the furniture up agains the walls and requiring that our 15 guests hold their breath all night, so as not to take up too much space. Actually it was the perfect soiree, and as if by magic, the apartment does feel warmer, and more expansive.

Good timing, as the snow has been coming down since yesterday evening, and now the world is covered by a most beautiful blanket of the whitest white, best viewed from the inside. I haven't even made it downstairs to buy the Times, or a 'caawfee', but it's nice to hide inside for just a day. Manhattan is a city that demands life be lived full throttle on the streets, which is good for your figure, but sometimes taxing on your soul.

Still, out there on the streets there's quintessential New York fun to be had... like managing two dates in one night. But more on that next time!