Back from Home

The week at home was absolutely magical. In fact, it was honestly too good - if I can make a comparison to people being shipped overseas for various purposes, it feels like it was actually that much harder to come back once I remembered all the comforts and pleasures of home. The four days spent in Columbia gave me a taste both of what next semester might hold, as well as what this summer could have been - both a tragic and incredibly comforting realization. I won't lie, I'm struck by the same panic that hit me right before I left. Maybe worse, even, because I have even slightly different priorities than the ones I left with.

Obviously the most striking difference between New York and South Carolina is the people (my people, if I can be so bold). But besides that, I think the thing that I find most different is the struggle to be in New York. South Carolina has an ease of existence for me - both because I've grown up there and because the city itself is just structured differently - and one which is entirely lacking in New York. Just the fact that I can drive places in South Carolina is a major time and energy saver; waiting on the train, waiting on a connection, walking from the train, waiting even longer on the train on the return journey . . . although I really enjoy the subway, spending an hour getting somewhere that would be a 15 minute drive is a little inefficient. Getting places outside of one's own neighborhood is just generally difficult, in my mind, being as I am the product of a regular-sized city where you could drive anywhere on a whim with little or no effort. Traffic? ha. Maybe some of that has to do with the apartments I've occupied in South Carolina as well, with their full kitchens and roommates/neighbors and puppies and on-street parking and close restaurants.

And now that's enough whining. Because I may be scared and lonely, and I may feel like I've lost my adventuring spirit (did I have one to start with?), but I'm in the most exciting city on the East Coast, and I'm making good money (assuming I ever see any of it) - I'll be fine. Anyway, here are a couple of moments over the last week that I thought were worth sharing, in no chronological order whatsoever.

When I went through security in Charlotte (coming back to NY from home), they had me walk through this crazy X-ray machine. You have to stand, hands raised over your head like in a cop movie, feet spread shoulder width apart, and wait for seven seconds while the machine scans you for God-knows-what. I'm a fairly innocent looking person - Sarah would probably dispute that with her patented Sarah Allen eye roll, but most people don't know any better - but apparently something looked odd in my general chest area. This middle aged woman walks up to me with a stern look on her face and says, "you have anything up in here?" and gestures towards my breasts. "Umm, no," I say, confused but already amused at this situation, "that's all natural." She lightens up and laughs, but then tells me she's about to feel me up ("check you over" was her particular terminology, or something like that), and does so with great thoroughness. She turns to the woman operating the machine - "her back?" she says, and makes a special point of rubbing between my shoulder blades - and then shrugs and sends me on my way. The bra I was wearing must have confused them. It's got an odd clasp, I'll give them that: it's a large single clasp off to the side rather than the regular double-clip variety. Maybe they saw that and thought, "tiny crazy white girl packin' heat gonna kill us." Or maybe not. Who knows.

There were swallows in JFK. Mind you, I'm walking out of the terminal with my jaw set against any quivering, just keeping my head up and my mind on my bags. Just as I shifted my eyes up towards the ceiling, I saw a couple of swallows racing above me. As much as I realize that those swallows were probably hopelessly trapped in the airport, and their situation was somewhat dire, it was a little like the moment with the coyote in Collateral - it was like a brief interlude in the rush of emotions and disappointments, like a lapse in the normal function of time for just a split second. If you've seen the part in Collateral that I'm referring to, you understand the poignancy of that moment. Kind of melancholic.

Breaking into my family's house was a lot of fun. I made Sarah come get me on Wednesday, and after bumming around Columbia for a few hours, I finagled her into taking me out to the parents' house. Smart kid that I am, I forgot to bring my keys. We get there, and I'm like, "oh snap, Sarah, we can't get in," and I'm feeling really bad because I dragged her all the way out there. She goes, "girl, just get the spare key!" And I'm like . . . spare key? She then proceeds to not only show me the spare key, but then inform me of my family's whereabouts at the time and tell me why I hadn't gotten a response e-mail from my dad. My faux-sister now officially knows more about my family than I do. They'd totally adopt you, by the way, Sarah - ask them if you can steal that guest room whenever you need a break from your own family. I bet they'd say yes.

I experienced the perfect morning last week. I woke up slowly for the promise of coffee and Honey Nut Cheerios, then curled up on the couch, lazily switching between Wimbledon and the World Cup. With the window AC blowing cool air on us, and light streaming in the windows, and a cat padding around behind us, those few hours were spent in absolute bliss. If this is what summers can be - if this is what next semester will be, then I'm sold. It's a beautiful laziness, and these memories will keep me strong until I can come home to their reality.

Anyway, I'm sure there's a lot more to talk about, and I'm sure I've left off a lot of the last week that will stick with me or come back to me later. It was lovely to see my family again, to get to hug my nieces (even though they didn't really want those hugs) and pet my puppy. I was thrilled to see my closest friends again, who were troopers and came to pick me up and drop me off and ferry me around. Absence, in this case, makes the heart even more grateful.

Work Stuff

So I walked into the Farmacy Soda Shop today - the place right across the street from Naidre's that got renovated just before I got here - just to pick up some old-fashioned iced tea mix to bring home to my peeps. It's a super cute place, all old-timey and beautifully old-fashioned and whatnot. Anyway, when I got up to the counter, the owner (who frequents Naidre's) takes a good long look at me and goes, "I was thinking about talking to you today." I'm like, umm . . . He says, "I want to offer you a second job." I must have looked perplexed, so he goes, "I know your shifts end over there at three, we start over here at three. You seeing my drift?" I'm like, umm . . . And he says, "you have a husband? Kids?" Umm . . . "Good, then you can work like crazy!" So at this point I finally pipe up and say, well, I'm going home for a week, but after that . . . He says, "going home? Perfect. Spend all your money. Don't save a thing. Spend all your money, then come back and work like crazy." I'm still just pretty much smiling, holding the tea in my hands, and he goes, "take it, take it! Before I change my mind! And remember, spend all your money at home! Save nothing!" So when I get home, I have a second job all lined up if I want it. Which I do. At this point, it seems as if I might actually be saving up some money this summer rather than just blowing it all on living cost (and not too cheaply, because I'm me).

I got cafe-recognized today for the first time. I feel like that's a bit of a momentous occasion - when you're recognized from your workplace for the first time. As I was walking up the street to stop in at Farmacy, I saw a woman who comes in at least twice a day and gets iced coffee. She was coming from the opposite direction, so when she got close enough, she looked up at me and waved. It was a little bit touching, to tell you the truth. I feel like, very slowly, I'm opening up the doors to the community. It's really just sad that I'll be leaving them pretty much as soon as I open them wide enough to get through.

I got oddly taken advantage of today at work - I got the server slice of tips (that is to say, 10%) rather than the swing slice of tips (which would have been equal share) because I was working for Casey (this big ox that literally just takes people food and clears dishes). Yet I ended up doing actually most of the swing work on top: stocking, cleaning, making teas and coffees, and sticking around as long as needed. I would have been more annoyed had I not actually had a really nice time hanging out with work-Sarah the last several hours, talking about movies, and music, and boys, and whatever else. That girl is sharp as a tack, and really has a lot of stories I'd like to unlock - turns out she worked as a DP (director of photography) for the Power Rangers TV show for a couple of years, but decided to get out of the lifestyle before she got addicted to it. Really an interesting girl.

So I walked outside tonight to sit on my stoop for a few minutes and enjoy the night air, and all three of the Irish girls from upstairs were sitting out there. I was a bit taken aback at first, because I'd just been expecting a few quiet minutes to myself, but decided the best thing to do would be to just go chat with them. So I sat outside with them for about twenty minutes, discussing how we felt about being outsiders in New York, the struggle to get a summer job, what we were studying, so on and so forth. They have these beautiful lilting accents, and they use slang that I'm really intrigued by. I invited them to my birthday shindig, which at this point has very many attendees and currently no plan of attack whatsoever. I need to work on that . . .

Times - They Were Had

I think that a regularly recurring realization that you're a dumbass is probably a healthy way to exist. I'm not saying you need to be reminded every day, or even every week, but it's probably sometimes a very good thing to be brought back down to a level where you can see yourself in a more realistic light. Or maybe that just goes for me. This entire summer has been an exercise in humility for me, which I'm both coming to terms with and becoming grateful for. It's good to be reminded that the world is so much bigger than me, and that there will always be someone somewhere better at anything than I am. I'm not necessarily talking about anything particular - although realizing last night that there was a subway stop so much closer to Park Slope than I thought there was certainly made an impression - just that I'm often forced to recognize talent and intelligence far above mine.

Yesterday was a bit of a rough day. I was sent over to the Park Slope Naidre's - the smaller one, but the one which does more business - to close train with Jesse. Having really considered the situation deeply, I still just can't get a read on Jesse. You guys know how rare that is; I form fairly accurate opinions of people very fast. So I don't like him. But I also don't dislike him exactly - it's a very odd reaction that I have to him. I think maybe it's because I feel like he's very fake? The only moments yesterday that I wasn't completely "askew" with him were moments when we were discussing the special people in his life. On the one hand, I think my canted impression of him may be very reasonable - I'm mostly certain he's married, but in talking to him fairly in-depth about his "special someone," he never once referred to her as his wife. He talked about her as being "complicated," repeatedly. Yet when I asked the woman on the other end of the work line who was calling, she fairly clearly said "his wife." He's incredibly flirtatious - which I'll mostly write off as being a byproduct of essentially flirting for tips, something all good baristas will admit to doing - but I don't think that's it exactly. Something about him just makes me wary.

Getting back on track, working an eight hour shift at a fairly busy, completely new-to-me location while having a micro-managing sketchy manager over my shoulder the whole time, while being the most home-sick I've been so far - that was not a fun night. I shouldered through with minimal pathetic texts to people I needed comforting from. After that, I walked up to Perch (which is about four blocks away) and spent the next three or four hours hanging out with Joe (the bartender), who was working his last shift. Joe's a super great guy, and we've always had a great rapport (as you should always try to have with your bartender). So I ordered some penne pasta with scallops and spent some time relaxing with my book. Quite lovely.

So I stayed around while he and Kate (the really sweet server) were finishing up, and by virtue of the fact that they both really like me and I offered to help with a few details, I stayed post-closing. Everyone's out, the door's locked, and Joe goes, "alright, Rachel, we're doing a shot." Now mind you I don't really drink - I've had bottles of alcohol laying around my house for months at a time (all left by other people) that I haven't touched, since my only craving is typically a few inches of red wine to complement my dinner. That's not to say I'm a lightweight, but I've certainly never done shots before (lack of urge, not lack of opportunity). But it seemed appropriate, so I took my first-ever shot of bourbon with the first person I've ever termed "my" bartender, in celebration of his last day. It seemed a bit like a moment - we had times. He said I took it like a pro, which made me a little bit proud. I still don't exactly have a taste for it - give me my liquor on the rocks, to sip slowly - but it felt like a moment I'd kind of like to remember.

Point of interest - walking over the gates that line the New York City sidewalk makes me inordinately nervous. I'm fully aware that those gates swing up and not down, and that it's actually basically impossible for one of them to collapse underneath me. And yet every time I walk over one of them, I think to myself, "not this time, not this time," and try to step lightly. I guess I find the fact that there are giant holes cut through the concrete walkway kind of intimidating, even though there are giant steel doors covering them just as securely.

Also, I find smiling at train conductors to be incredibly rewarding. I feel like they really get ignored at best - whether because some of them suck or because their job seems easy on the surface - and often times treated worse. So when I see one of them going by while I'm on the platform, I make direct eye contact with them and smile. I swear to God I think it brightens their day.

Thursday Afternoon

Jesse asked me today whether the sun on my hip was a marijuana leaf. I mean, okay, yes, he could only see a sliver of it while I was stretching up to get something, but apparently he saw the rays and thought, oh, marijuana leaf! I had this momentary breakdown in anything resembling sense and gave the poor guy the dead-eyed glare that I normally reserve only for people who couldn't fire me at a moment's notice. Sarah knows about this look - this one has melted faces before. It's no joke. I remembered my station and played it off, but my confidence was incredibly shaken for a few minutes there. It doesn't look like a pot leaf. I know that. But still, the fact that he thought so at all worries me a little bit. I've got no problem with people smoking pot, but getting it tattooed? Absolutely not. That's legitimately one of the trashiest tattoo ideas I've ever heard.

Speaking of tattoo ideas . . . this city is bad for me. I keep coming up with things I want to get done. And two or three of them are legitimate, easily concealable, and cute. Not to mention cheap. That's bad news, because that means that getting them wouldn't be such a stretch this summer. It's New York, guys. There are surely some of the best tattoo artists in the world up here.

I served Jenny Slate a large skim latte today. Jenny Slate, one of the newer additions to Saturday Night Live, and one of the actually-funny ones. She ordered, and although I recognized her, I just figured she had "one of those faces." Sinclair made a special point of making the latte himself - and although I'm still not considered a good drink maker, he's started letting me do stuff more lately. After she left, Sinclair turns around and goes, "I make her lattes." Very distinctly. I laugh and am like, mmkay why? And Sinclair says, "because that's Jenny Slate, and I have a wicked crush on her." Ohh. I'm still in the Columbia mentality, I think - I see someone who looks famous and I'm like, "oh, that looks like a famous person" rather than "oh, that's a famous person." Sinclair informed me that a decent number of famous people live around here, including Alexis Bledel. He also told me that she's kind of a bitch, but I'll choose to ignore that statement.

Boys don't take rejection well. This is something I know well, but even so, I typically try to think the best, and that if I just do it really nicely, that it'll be fine. Mr. John Bryan Davila showed up in Naidre's today, but patently refused to look at me and didn't order anything. After the third message he sent, I figured the right thing to do would be to let him know as nicely as possibly that I wasn't interested. I thought I'd done a pretty good job of being gentle, but apparently not good enough. Do guys not understand that they could make situations less awkward if they just weren't so awkward about the situations?

Five days until I come home. I found out today that I actually have to get my shifts covered myself, which I hadn't expected - I was guessing that my full-disclosure early on would mean that Janice would take care of stuff for me. Apparently I had assumed too much, and am now scrambling to get shifts covered for a flight I already have tickets for. I'm coming home one way or the other, dears. But the amount of doing it takes might be a little more significant than I'd expected.

So the blog got locked down - you noticed this. I need some thoughts on this, though. I locked it down in case Davila could track the link back to my blog and read derogatory things, or in case one of my co-workers would stumble on it and see what I really thought about them. But I also don't like that the blog isn't out there for people to stumble on, or for anonymous readers to check out. I know you guys don't really comment often at all, but let me know what you think about this situation. I'm willing to open it back up again, maybe on the condition that I'd start veiling the names a little bit more or something. Poll time!

Long Gaps

I've been slack, I apologize. I'll explain why - Saturday evening, unexpectedly, I got a knock at the door. Standing on my stoop, surprisingly steadily for someone who'd just driven twelve hours with nary a stop, was my lovely ex-neighbor, carrying with him an external hard drive and a long hug, two things I was very in need of. Anyway, between the difficult task of keeping him entertained for three days and working another couple of shifts at Naidre's, I've stayed pretty busy. Also, although I could blog to my heart's content about workplace drama (which I can smell from miles away, according to Sinclair) and frustrations with bosses, none of these things are really what I'm guessing you're interested in reading - for the moment at least, my Big City New York Adventures are on hold. Which obviously I'm fine with. So be prepared for lots of boring, mundane things that you'd hear me talk about in Columbia.

Funny story - I'm not sure if I mentioned that I got turned down for the Journeyman grant. I don't think I did, because it would have ended up being a four-page rant on what Sarah very accurately (although more often tongue-in-cheek) calls the "effing honors college." Basically, the decision whether to give grant money depends on a board, and the board took a look at the two names - mine and Simon's - and decided not to even look at the grant since the two of us were already getting money for the Magellan. Despite the fact that the Magellan was an entirely separate project, and had nothing to do with what I applied to the Journeyman for. Simon - God love him - took the initiative and called them on it,telling them to look again, although we were told that the budget for that year was probably already fully spoken for. This morning I got an e-mail saying that we would be given the grant money after all, and apologizing for the mess involved in getting it. That's another 2900 dollars coming my way - it feels great to know that I will be able to get an apartment when I get home, that a steady job this summer is necessary for my sanity but not so necessary for my survival. That was a really unexpected development, to say the least - I hadn't expected to hear back from the Honors College at all on that front.

Monday was a strange day. Less than half an hour after getting to work, in walks the health inspector. I've been through inspections before, but things are different up here, and the laws are legitimately really odd. For example, in Columbia, if you carried a bucket of ice from one room to another without a lid on it, there's an automatic letter off. Apparently that's not a thing here, because I've carried buckets of ice from the basement up the stairs, outside, around the corner, and to the cooler in the rain with no lid on them. Kind of weird. Anyway, Abby let Janice know, and next thing we know, she's running around like a crazy person shoving hats on our heads, whispering things to us while the inspector's back is turned, and generally being what we refer to in the industry as Annoying Small Business Owner.

Long story short, milk in NYC has two dates printed on it - the regular expiration date, and the NYC expiration date, which is usually five or six days earlier. I know this, I've been told this. I brought up 4 skim milks that morning, checking the dates beforehand, but apparently the two that were brought up the night before were expired. We got fined 250 dollars for it, and for lack of any better explanation - or anyone asking me - I got blamed. It wasn't a big deal, and because I'm new I don't mind taking the fall for some things, but what sucked is that Drew, the manager, got in some trouble for it. And even though I'm 99% sure that none of it was my fault, and that he was in fact the one who'd brought up the expired milk, I still feel bad - Janice knows how to deliver a tongue-lashing. So much so that one of the regular customers came up after Janice left and asked if we could leave an anonymous comment about her yelling at the staff and making customers uncomfortable. Apparently that comment has been on Yelp! for a while, though, so it seems kind of unnecessary.

The comparison between Cool Beans and Naidre's is an odd one. Each have their pluses and minuses, and although the staff as a whole seems more talented at Naidre's, I think there are a lot of things about Cool Beans that make it the better work environment. I really enjoy working with Sarah and Sinclair, and the rest seem like fairly honest, hard-working folk, but if nothing else, I miss not being the new girl, not being ignorant and confused all the time. The differences between the forms of elitism taken in Columbia and New York means that I can make drinks quickly and efficiently in Columbia where I can't do the same up here. People complain about the slow service but then get angry if their latte isn't a work of art every time. But I'm learning, and although I'll never use both wands at once to make drinks up here, I assume eventually I'll get faster.

I mentioned something to Sinclair yesterday about his distaste for one of our other coworkers. He stopped suddenly, clammed up for a minute and said, "you know, I don't like how you pay so much attention to me. You should stop doing that. I think you must watch how people interact. That makes me nervous." Made me chuckle. Then I quoted back to him something he'd said to me one of the first days: "once you've been somewhere long enough, you realize there's not much else to do but watch how people interact, right?"

Odd Vignette

So I had a funny little experience today. There's this guy at the coffee shop that - even this early on - had kind of been eying me. Now admiring or hitting on baristas is one of the oldest traditions in coffee. There was probably some adorable little Ethiopian girl serving coffee that got proposed to by a prince and thus escaped a lifetime of poverty, as I'm convinced that those who deliver your coffee are quite often the people you're most attracted to. So I'm not oblivious to these things, I just typically try to ignore them and hope they go away (which, as in many other situations, doesn't often seem to work), and even sometimes, as in this case, do my patented "not interested" smile tactic. That is to say, I walk past, see the eying as it's going on, give my too-brief no-teeth smile and look down at the floor. All business, people, all business. That's supposed to work on everyone, but I'm starting to think that it quite possibly might have the opposite effect. I need to work on that.

Anyway. He'd introduced himself before, but tonight on the way out, seeing me alone behind the counter and thus vulnerable to his advances, he took a moment to chat with me. Coffee shops walk a very fine line - talking to your barista is good. Discussing where your barista is from, how they ended up in New York, blah blah blah, all good. If you intend to stake your claim on a cafe, go ahead and get to know the people who are pouring your lattes. Odds are it'll end up saving you some money down the road, or at the very least getting you better coffee. He asked my name again (I'm calling bullshit on that one, I bet he remembered just fine) and proceeded to ask me where I was from. He said he was actually an L.A. guy, but that he was here "for a couple of projects," and was very vague about it. He asked if I'd just moved into the neighborhood (be real, could I afford that neighborhood?) and told me his mother had gone to Puerto Rico for the summer, and that he was staying in her apartment just up the street for part of the summer. All well and good. "You Facebook, right?" he says. Yeah, okay, Facebook is fine. He's got no creepy-stalker vibe on him.

But then he comes out with it: "so gimme your number," he says, and I say something slightly less than smooth like, ohh, just Facebook me, I only have my phone on about half the time . . . This tactic? Also supposed to work. When you decline to give someone your number and tell them to Facebook you, that's basically a "let's not be gettin' crazy" that asks them politely to make no further advances. I don't want to walk around wearing a "screw off I'm not interested" sign on my back, but . . . yeah, that's pretty accurate.

Anyway, less than an hour later, I get the two-sided strike. He wrote me an e-mail and a Facebook message. The Facebook message says "I'm an ex-chef and I want to cook you dinner. What do you like?" And the e-mail - even classier - leads off with "I have some bomb-ass medical marijuana if you want to smoke some. (:" To which my first thought is basically . . . what? Are you not getting my drift over here at all? Also, I'm no traditionalist, but I definitely think you should give a little breathing room between getting the name and actually putting it to use. An hour is sincerely not enough time for you not to come off as overwhelming.

But yet something's still not adding up. He's too confident, he makes the attempt too soon, he looks too . . . something. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I knew there was something strange about it. So when I get home, I take a look at his profile. This, ladies and gentleman, is the guy who wants to cook me dinner: John Bryant Davila. Someday, when homeboy is famous for playing "Blackbeard's Crew" in "Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides," or when "Latin Boys Go to Hell" becomes a gay/lesbian cult classic, I can say that, back in the day, that guy asked me out. Young Jim Caviezel wants his barista's body. How about that, right? That's my first brush with anything resembling star power, and I find it wildly amusing.

Day Three of Gainful Employment

Today just once again proved without doubt that learning something depends very largely on the person who teaches you. Maybe it's not anything as simple as passion or apathy, knowledge or ignorance - I think a lot of it comes down to the way people interact, and the way aspects of people's personalities mesh together. There are things that I value very highly in a teacher other than just knowledge of their particular skill, and I feel like that's wonderfully illustrated in the differences between Jesse's and Abby's abilities to re-teach me the basics of latte-making. It's a similar, helpless frustration to getting braces, or having a restricted driver's permit, or not being able to go into an R-rated movie. Basically what I'm saying is that being retaught the most basic of skills is like being turned into an adolescent again, all awkward and embarrassed and unsure, but doing so now at the loss of any kind of excuse other than the fact that the most urbane of people that you make lattes for couldn't tell the difference between one of your South Carolina lattes and one of their New York lattes.

Abby really did reform me, though. More importantly, she made it not a big deal while doing so. She showed me how to navigate a right-handed machine without losing my own style, how to interpret the complex language of pours, how to tell when milk is just there for a good latte. Most important of all, though, she told me several times not to stress about it, and offered me as much encouragement and praise as critique. I know I still have a long way to go, but she told me that my three tries on shots and three tries on milk were both admirable, and told me that great progress had been made. With a little more practice, she told me, I'd be an excellent barista.

Funny thing - they don't wear aprons here. Which, after my five years of working steadily in an apron, is sort of like trying to do drive with your left foot (ohh the lame metaphors today). Instead, the Naidre's employees just carry a rag with them, most often tucked into a pocket. I chose my back left pocket (as it never holds anything else, and as it makes the most sense when holding an espresso filter in my right hand). Within minutes of my choice of placement, though, I noticed myself paying more and more attention to how I was walking - because I really, badly wanted to see how much I could get that stupid rag to swing when I was walking. So if you ever make it up to Naidre's to see me, and you notice me walking around the corner to go down into the office, keep an eye on my walk - I'll be popping my hips just a little extra to get that rag to swish.

Sinclair and I are quickly befriending each other. More than anything, it's just good to know there are people in this city who will have my back if I need it, and he is clearly willing to do so. Also, funny thing - when sitting in this cafe, I'll see a shape moving out of the corner of my eye, and for just an instant fully expect that person to be one of my regulars from home. Sometimes being so far away is great, sometimes it's awful, and sometimes my tired mind just thinks it's absolutely strange.

I went to the Kuniyoshi exhibit at the Japan Society tonight after work, which was really amazing. I honestly wish I'd been less tired and there'd been less people, because it was absolutely incredible - his prints are brilliant, the lines are so dynamic, everything just looks spectacular. Right after that, I went up a few blocks and got some udon at a cute, cheap little place on E. 47th street - a full meal for nine bucks is a great deal, and this was some magnificent udon.

Have Job, Will Make It In New York

Hallelujah.

I wanted to wait a day before blogging about my work experience, because I figured a second shift was necessary before I really set down my impressions on the whole thing. I'm still not sure how I feel about the experience in its entirety, but I'll put down my thoughts on Naidre's at Carroll Gardens and hope none of my co-workers ever read it.

First and foremost, it's intimidating, working with so many people who have such high skill levels in something I used to take pride in doing. I mean, I still take pride in being a good barista, and being both quick and - for a certain sphere - talented, but these people are brilliant. They draw swans in their lattes just by pouring them a certain way. They count their shots and shun them if they start in less than 4 seconds or last longer than 35. They expect you to be able to steam milk right-handed . . .

I worked almost 12 hours yesterday with Drew, who told me amazing stories about himself, his wife of four weeks (who he'd known for 25 years, had gone to boarding school in the UK with, had been in love with for a very long time, and who threw a glass at his laptop screen because "she's Spanish, she's feisty like that"), and the espresso machine that he owned at his coffee shop in Ontario that he showed me pictures of. He also claimed that Canadian = snow Mexican. Which of course made me laugh like crazy. We spent those hours together because the closer was sick, so the swing shift - the one they're training me for - slowly fused with the closing shift and left him there for three more hours even than me. I stayed because I wanted to stick it out with him, but knowing that I had to be there early the next morning, decided to go ahead and go right about when he was closing down.

It poured down rain the entire way home, and naturally I was wearing my Toms. It was like a tiny wave pool in my shoes.

Today I was set to shadow the swing again, but there was no swing, technically - Jesse, the manager at the other location, took the first part and managed to simultaneously make me feel entirely inadequate and really hopeful for my future adequacy. Then Janice, the owner, came in to cover him, but ended up leaving a few hours early and just pointing at the closer (Abby) and telling me that we'd figure stuff out between the two of us. Umm, thanks.

There are very few things that I hate quite as much as I hate workplace tension. Bosses are most often the cause of it, as in this case - when Janice came in, her issues with Sinclair basically "sucked all the air out of the room," in his words. Dealing with that, my own inadequacy, and the fact that there were four of us bumping around behind that small counter space eventually made me break down and half-jokingly asked Sinclair for a hug. He was incredibly sweet and obliged me, eventually saying that he probably needed it too. Right before he left, he wrote his number on a piece of paper and told me that if I ever wanted to come hang out with him and "the lady," that I'd be more than welcome. That's a great guy right there.

I feel okay about things. I feel like the work they want me to do - a lot of stocking, a lot of being-a-body - will come easily to me, and now that I know what I'm up against, I'll start paying a lot of attention to my steaming and foaming techniques. More than anything else, I'm just so glad to be doing things again, to have a schedule and defined "work" and "play" times. It feels good to go home tired, to order my days around something, to interact with people on a semi-professional basis again. I realize with increasing certainty that I can only really be at peace with myself when I feel the physical effects of my productivity. Maybe I was actually meant to be a dock worker or something mind-numbing and laborious like that.

Good News

At least, I think it's good news. I'm sort-of starting at Naidre's tomorrow. My follow up e-mail yesterday to Janice (the owner) was answered with her basically saying that she was "on the fence" - that she thought I'd make a good barista, but she wasn't really willing to spend two weeks training me for two months of work. I understand this, I get why I'm not desirable (all too well I get this point), I don't begrudge her that point. But she went on to say that she'd be willing to put me in a few swing shifts, see how quickly I pick up, and maybe keep me on from there. I answered (in nicer words) that any bone at all she'd be willing to throw me, I'd be more than grateful to take. She sent me back an e-mail this afternoon giving me a shift every day for the rest of the week, with the promise of more shifts next week. This seems incredibly promising, but I'm at the stage now where I just don't want to get my hopes up. Especially when their standards for everything (most especially the barista arts) seem very high.

This morning was quite lovely. I spent most of it in bed, enjoying the perfect weather through my windows. Lovely.

When I finally dragged myself out of bed, I decided to go down to Prospect Park, as the 20 steps I'd taken into it yesterday were enchanting. Funny thing - I saw the dog-walker twice. I sort of ducked my head down, because to some extent, she has every reason not to be pleased with me (although I swear her commitment times weren't posted in that ad). But the second time when I actually saw her walking a dog, I really wanted to pull her aside and say this to her: "you know, you should be glad you didn't hire me. Because if you had, in those two and a half months I would have spoiled those dogs by acting like I cared, not being on the phone all the time, and not just ambling around looking bored with them. All the commitment length in the world isn't going to find you someone who cares about those dogs any more than I do."

But my time at Prospect Park was lovely. It's absolutely beautiful there, and also huge. I walked through some of the park, taking pictures of things that caught my eye, and then laid out in one of the giant greens for a little while, watching the kids play and the dogs walk by. It was the perfect day for it - it's only barely broken the 70s here, and the wind was blowing, so laying in the sun was just perfect. I had plans to spend more time in the park for the next couple of days, and maybe even go back to Coney Island and get some more sun. But it's much better to get some work in, get my days a little more structured first, so I'm pleased. I've always found that I appreciate my days off so much more when I actually have days on.

When I decided I'd had enough sun, I started walking back to the subway. Or so I thought - I took a wrong turn. I realized it almost immediately, but for lack of anything pressing to do, decided to go ahead and walk around the entire park. I won't lie, I didn't actually realize how long a walk it was going to be. Luckily, though, I was wearing my Toms (also luckily, I didn't step on any syringes), so I made it fine. It's actually really interesting to see how the neighborhood transforms around the park - Prospect Park West is more upscale housing, while Ocean Avenue is distinctly less classy. I also found the apartment I'd like to own in New York someday - it's got a terrace and a garden and the whole nine yards. And it's across the street from the park.

Last thought: I miss my dog. Funny how they subtly insert themselves into your life, and then you find that they're probably the most indispensable part of it. If I lived anywhere other than the middle of nowhere - basically if there were a park within striking distance - I wouldn't hesitate to go get her. Nine and ten hour shifts have never really mattered to her, and although I don't know if she'd do well with the bus and truck traffic in my neighborhood, I'm finding it less and less easy to cope with the fact that she's 700 miles away. I imagine turning my lower bunk (which is really actually a futon) into her space, putting toys in it and a bed-shaped rolled-up blanket, and then coming home at night to something cuddly and familiar.

Early Afternoon Thoughts

I just had literally the shortest interview ever - and not for lack of liking, or for lack of being enough qualified for the job, but as always, for lack of time. She seemed to like me, she seemed to like the way I interacted with her dogs, but when I told her honestly that I'd have to leave in two months (damn honesty, and the fact that I can't do it any other way), she basically cut me off and told me she needed six months at least, ideally a year. Two minutes, twenty steps into the park . . . and as I walked out of the park on my way back to the subway, I realized that this entire job hunting thing might be one of the most frustrating that I've ever experienced.

Sometimes I really wonder what possessed me to come up here on the promise (not the actuality, even) of two unpaid internships, and to assume that it's "just gonna work out." What the hell was I thinking? I can't get a job because the timing's all wrong, and nobody wants anyone - server, barista, dog-walker, street-cleaner - that's only going to last two months. It's not even entirely about the money anymore - there's a part of me that's just frustrated by not being productive, not being able to structure my life around anything other than meals and train schedules. And it's a little bit about my pride, too. I've never not been able to get a job before. I've never not been desirable by a boss. It kind of stings.

So I came home right away, climbed up in my top bunk with my computer, and started an applicable 30 Rock - Jackie Jormp-Jomp, the one where Liz is frustrated by being on leave (for normal reasons). It's already making me feel better. So today will be my follow-up day.

Closing the play went pretty well. We had a completely dead crowd (texted to Simon during the show: "D. E. D. dead") that literally responded to nothing whatsoever, including the Captain's striptease. You can't not laugh at that! They asked for a second curtain call, though, so I guess they must have liked it. I then spent three hours climbing around on the grid dropping cable for all the projectors, which was something I'm actually a little bit glad I did - there's a great fulfillment to overcoming fear, and fear of being literally on top of a 12-foot ladder hanging perilously from the rafters is a pretty significant one (maybe also not a bad one to have).

Now that I've done my duty to the theater, and it's all said and done, I actually feel a little bit sad. Mind you, there were times of intense boredom and annoyance during this process, and I'm not sad to be done with a lot of it, but I've abandoned something I spent many hours on, and there's a little bit of sadness there. Not having so much interaction with those specific people, not having someplace to be at 7:30 every night, is going to be a little strange for a few days.

But hey, I got a job through it. A paying job, even. Paul asked me to go ahead and edit together all the footage so he can have a clean, documented form of the play. It's "a couple hundred dollars," whatever that means, but more importantly, it's something to put on my reel for later, and it's experience that I need. I won't be able to start on it for a while, but I'm pretty excited about having several angles, several takes, and several tracks to work with. Should be quite an experience.

"Heavy is the head that eats the crayons. Going to take a nap. See you in ten hours."

Crafty

Julia told me last night about this magical park in Brooklyn that was hosting the Renegade Craft Fair, so I dutifully headed up there this afternoon to see what was up with what seemed to be the largest gathering of indie and cutting-edge graphics that I was likely to see anytime soon. As it turns out, totally worth it. I got my sister's birthday present, along with a few other little things. The place was totally addictive - if there was one every week, I'd have to go soak in all the hipster art and eventually join their ranks in appreciation for those arts both retro and new. Typewriter key jewelry is really in right now, and that should give you a fairly accurate idea of the kind of people here. I am continually amazed by the variance and quality of tattoos in the Brooklyn area, although Williamsburg (hipster capitol, if I'm not mistaken?) seems to have the highest concentration of really unique, beautiful tattoos.

Point of interest about Williamsburg, and one which I think could say a lot about the people living there: it's basically detached from the rest of Brooklyn. I mean that very literally - to get to Williamsburg from the part of Brooklyn I live in, you have to cross into Manhattan, go to Union Square, and catch the special train (that must have been built expressly for this purpose) to cross back over. Google showed this park to be a 15 minute drive from where I live, but fully an hour commute by subway. The area definitely exhibits a cooler-than-thou persona, although in some respects it's justified in that belief. The magical sandwich Julia brought in the other day was from a butcher near the park, so I went and got easily one of the best sandwiches I've ever had. Then I walked next door to the Beaner Bar (a coffee shop owned by a Mexican family), got some cold-brewed coffee, and sat out front to unwrap my sandwich from the butcher paper and scarf it down. Then I walked one more door down and admired the kittens in a little pet shop where the employee knew the names of the dogs that walked in the door. I've never been cooler in my entire life than sitting on that front porch area eating my Williamsburg sandwich.

I have a slight revision to make after my post yesterday: nobody defaces True Blood advertisements. Literally everything else I've seen has been mangled in some way except for the True Blood posters. Because really, who doesn't love a show that can boast serial killers, orgies, religious cults and smokin' hot vampires? In other news, season 3 premiere in one week . . .

Spatial relations are one of the most interesting aspects of subway people-watching. I'll probably want to think more on this one more later, but watching the distance people position themselves in relation to one another is really fascinating for me. There are so many factors involved in both the initial positioning and the conclusions you can draw by watching the positioning - age, gender, all the visual indicators of their socioeconomic status. I guess more than anything, I enjoy writing stories in my head about the people I see, but to some extent, I like to think that a better scientist than me could see a snapshot of two people sitting side by side in a train, and know whether they knew each other, how well they knew each other, so on and so forth.

Last thing: I want Si Scott to design a back piece as my next tattoo. Coming in 2014 or something like that, when I'm rich and can afford that kind of ink.

More Art Ramblings

So I woke up with basically no direction whatsoever today, not wanting to spend a whole lot of money but just not quite sure what to go do. It occurred to me after a little while, though, that the Packard Exhibit of Japanese Art exhibition was going to be taken down in a matter of days, and that I should probably go see it today lest I actually get an employment call tomorrow. It's about an hour trek, so I only managed to get out there around 1, but I also knew that I wasn't even going to try to see more than a single wing of the Met this time around, if even that. I adore all the art, but it's better to take my time and experience it slowly than to go and get totally burned out by four hours of intensive amazement.

I hadn't even actually been in the Asian wing before, which turned out to be probably the most glorious thing on earth. I've always had a distinct fascination with Asian cultures - their weapons, their ornaments, their art - but never really had an opportunity to geek out in this grand a fashion before. Everything in it was absolutely awe-inspiring. I started off trying to take pictures of the things that inspired me the most, but I ended up realizing that there was just no way to take that many pictures, or to do the subjects even half the justice they deserve. The way the Tang Dynasty envisioned their horses - dynamic, powerful creatures with beautifully exaggerated features - amazes me every time I see it. It's all just brilliant.

Entering the Packard Exhibition proper was breathtaking. I've never seen any art that spoke to me with quite the soul that this did. Something about the delicacy, the intricacy of the lines, and the way each stroke so elegantly suggests a shape made me fall in love. There's no way to describe how beautiful some of these scrolls were, and even the pictures fall short - the scroll itself, the fabric it's anchored on and the patterns that tie it all together are absolutely stunning. I can't even begin to describe the desire I feel to buy every single print I can find of them, to build an entire decor around some of it. I just don't think I've fallen for art quite like this before. If I ever find a Nakabayashi Chikutô or certain of Kano Sansetsu's prints for less than five hundred dollars, make no mistake I'll go without eating for two months to own it.

I think on some level I'm actually really sad that I'm not a part of that culture, that I can't claim that my people have been a part of something so spectacular. I'd really like to find some books on the Kano school of painting, which seems to have trained some of the best Japanese artists that I could see.

What really strikes me at any museum, though, is seeing something so . . old. There's a poetry to it that I'm finding hard to put into words, but the fact that something can be preserved essentially from the dawn of human civilization is so amazing. There are parts of the Met devoted to the Sumerian, Mesopotamian and Syrian cultures, from as far back as there have been civilizations. It's such a humbling experience to see what human hands made thousands of years ago, both how far we've come and yet how little changes.

Anyway. Still no call from Naidre's, which is worrisome. Show tonight, two tomorrow, last one on Sunday - after that? It's an entire book of blank pages.

Good Day

I'm developing what I'll lovingly refer to as a bag tan - that is to say, the inner part of my left shoulder, the shoulder that my messenger bag hangs on, is still about as white as my tragically fluorescent legs. But my right shoulder, as with the outer part of my left shoulder and my chest, has developed into a nice brown color. I always get weird farmer's tans, since only parts of my body will actually tan at all, but I think this summer will make a new record. My right shoulder has that classic bra strap line, and the clear outline of the tank tops that I wear most of the time. My left shoulder . . . white. It's ridiculous.

One thing I was thinking about today, in a very Cooley-like fashion, is that the subway houses hundreds upon hundreds of layers of perception, in a way that I think is totally fascinating. For example, looking between the struts right next to my train, I saw another train. When the struts and the other train's windows lined up, I could see people inside that next train. Even further, I could see what was behind that train (more struts and lights, or the opposite wall of the station), anytime those already multiple layers were synchronized. What especially interested me today was seeing all of these things reflected on the opposite window of my train - it was happening behind me. It's a hard thing to describe, and I'm sure I'm just reiterating what I've already mentioned, but it's a beautiful, mysterious thing.

As long as we're on the subject of the subway, there's an incredible amount of hating going on in regards to the posters and ads. I mean listen, nobody really likes Katherine Heigl, but only a small number of us would go so far as to horribly deface an ad for her new movie (Killers?) and write nasty words about her. The ads are okay, but what's far more interesting is people's reactions to them - and for some people, it's pretty visceral. Either they like imagining that their graffiti is more clever than anyone else's (which it's not), or they really, truly hate Drop Dead Diva. I'm not sure which.

I finished up what I'll consider to be my first Magellan test today. I'm not going to lie, I'm absurdly proud of the eight cuts and three effects that I strung together, mainly just because they're mine, and they're the first time I've really had complete creative control over something. Premiere Pro has officially won my heart, especially since it interfaces naturally with Photoshop and After Effects. I'm either about to figure out a way to keep this 30-day trial, or I'm going to start saving my sad little behind off so I can have this thing for real. Live at home for a few months to own CS5? Maybe . . . I'm just saying it's possible.

I sat across from pseudo-Giovanni Ribisi today (who was pretty legitimately staring at me the entire time), and he had green toenails. It was awesome.

Really, really good news. I went in for an interview at Naidre's today, and I think it went well. The owner told me she'd talk to her top manager and get back to me tomorrow, with the intention of getting me in for a few shifts in the very near future to see how well I gel. One thing I realized right off the bat - these people are way more serious than they are in Columbia. All bragging aside, I won't be the best drink maker at Naidre's - I'll in fact have a lot to learn. My first foaming attempt on their machine didn't go brilliantly, so Sinclair, one of her favorite employees, stepped in and made some of the most beautiful foam, explaining what the sweet angle was and whatever else. I learned a lot about correct pulling times, which just excites me to no end. The thought of learning more about cappuccino art makes me very happy.

Disappointments

I actually got an interview today - you'd think that'd be forward progress, but the fact that my honesty about my availability (i.e. my availability ending for good in two months) lost me what would have been an instant hire actually made everything a little bit worse. It's one of those situations where I feel like I did the right thing, but the fact that I was punished for it made it sting worse. The manager told me in no uncertain terms that if I'd even promise him six months, or anything at all longer than two, he'd have hired me on the spot. There was wine and chocolate at this place, too. Triple loss (I'm totally picturing a banging work-mate party for my 21st birthday right now).

I'll hopefully have an interview with a dog walker this week, though. I was fairly honest about the fact that I knew it was a long shot when I responded to her Craigslist ad, but I think my love for dogs probably attracted her anyway. Plus anyone who can boast living with an Australian Cattle Dog mix is probably worth hiring, I think (hard-headed little brats that they are sometimes). Honestly, if I can't have coffee, dog walking is something of an ideal job for me - I can walk the city, take lots of pictures, and get paid to play with dogs. That's just about perfect. Temp agencies are still on my mind, though - I guess I'll aim for that tomorrow.

Maybe, despite the fact that it annoyed the snot out of me when she said it, I do need to follow my mom's advice and just chill a little bit. Yes, money's going to be really tight. Yes, I'm going to be uncomfortable and frustrated not having a job and not really having anything better to do. But I'm in the most photogenic city in the country, and I'm to the point now where I can actually explore a little bit and have some idea of what to do. I function best (maybe more accurately, function at all) when my time is naturally compartmentalized into work- and leisure-time (heavy on the former, light on the latter), but since that's not really an option right now, then the smart thing to do is to relax and enjoy all the time I have to do . . . stuff.

I wrote some kind of letter of support yesterday for Simon, and to be quite honest, I'm really proud of it. Call me crazy, but I feel like I wrote some really stellar stuff about him - all of which I meant, as you guys know from reading this - and I really hope he gets whatever award it is he's nominated for. And speaking of Simon, I think I'm going to ask him today about the Independent Study option that's on Blackboard under the Media Arts section - it occurred to me that I really don't want to take a totally pointless "Producing for Media Arts" class if I could work closely with one of my favorite professors instead. I just don't want to come off like I only wrote the letter of support to get something out of him. Eh.

My schedule next semester is almost really awesome. Here's my conundrum, though: I really want to take the photography class in the same semester as the lighting class. I could get into the photography class, but it would mean dropping my Chinese film class. One non-Western film class is necessary to graduate in the program, and I was warned that there may not be one the spring semester of my senior year. I'd love to take the narrative class as well, but that one would mean dropping History 109. Which I could take the next semester, but each semester I delay a history means an extra one the next semester. It's like a giant jigsaw puzzle that I didn't plan quite enough in advance for.

Yet Another Unemployed Weekday

Post offices in New York are very different from the ones where I come from. Let me get that straight, first and foremost. So when I walked into the post office today and attempted to mail my package, I had every right to be confused - things just don't look the same up here. There was a woman standing in front of the counter who motioned me forward, telling me to go to a specific window. Between me and the postal service worker, there's a large sheet of glass, and I can only just barely hear her on the other side. But the woman wasn't really trying to talk, she was just motioning at me and pointing at the package. "Raise the gate," the woman nearby said, and I managed to figure out what she was talking about before looking like too much of a dumbass. Beside the part of the counter that you talk through, there's another sheet of glass that's basically a double gate - I put my package inside, and on being motioned to do so, shut my gate, and the employee then opened her side and weighed the package, took it away and shut her gate again. This is like some sort of medieval system with gates and pulleys, and to top it all off, I practically had to throw all my weight against my gate. So strange.

Before the transaction proper was done, though, the woman in front of the counter said something about building muscle while in the post office. I laughed, and, playing the Little Southern Girl Card, offered the explanation that I wasn't from here, and this was completely different from my home. "They don't have bullet-proof glass in South Carolina?" the woman asked, smiling wryly. Not exactly. I asked her if it was necessary, or if it was more just a precaution (wondering a little, too, whether the postal workers needed protection or whether it might be vice-versa), and I thought her answer was actually really profound. She shrugged and said, "it's just New York."

I got called a troublemaker by the bartender at Cafe Perch today, which was absolutely hilarious. Joe and I struck up a pretty easy friendship when he realized that he was going to see a lot of me, and that I was probably going to tip pretty well. At some point today, after talking a lot of shit about the guy who calls in a smoothie order to go (and nothing else) and then sits out front to drink it, I guess I felt comfortable enough to say something in jest, to which he turns around and responds, "Rachel, you're a troublemaker. I see that now." I got quite a kick out of that.

I've sent a number of e-mails over the last few days to various Craigslist ads, and I'm just hoping something sticks. I've gone back in to check on submitted resumes, to no avail, and now I almost feel like my hands are tied. Maybe I'm not going about this the right way - is there some way to get a job quickly and easily in New York? I was told today to look into a temp agency, a totally novel concept to me. Small steps.

I also shot footage of the play tonight, which was also a very new experience for me. The camera was fixed, but changing the iris, the focus, the pan and the zoom from scene to scene, attempting to make it fluid but knowing that this was essentially B-roll, put me in a state of intense uncertainty. Any time I'm given a task to do, but not given any real direction for how to do it, I get nervous, and this was no exception. I don't think I did a bad job - not like there are real standards to it - but I have little or no way of knowing until I'm handed a chunk of footage and asked to edit it.

Uncertainty: something you just have to learn to deal with in life. That uncomfortable feeling of not-knowing and not-knowing if you'll know anytime soon . . . it's a hard place for me to be in, being accustomed as I am to things being stable, unquestioned. Although I can't quite explain why, Metric's "Too Little Too Late" really struck home today - the lyrics don't singularly convey the melancholy energy of the song, and I'm too removed from my intensive music-theory days to explain why that two and a half-step slide catches my ear the way it does. Listen to it, but check out some of the lyrics:

"You can burn your paper fingers in the ashtray
Place your swollen lips on mine
You can shave your heavy head in my carpeted hallway
Sure for the first time you're wearing the right clothes

Now take them off/Meet me on the band room rug
Tie my right hand to the ride

You can take a live wire into the bath with you
For a feeling you can't find
You can entertain your childhood friends with a tour of the bedroom
Laugh to erase the dirt on your mind

Oh let's move out/Meet me at the motel
Tie my right hand to the Bible"

Emily Haynes is quite the poet.