MotherSister Brooklyn

Life has been very very full, chickadees. Full of solitude and dear friends, English gardens and Quebecois playgrounds, Pema Chodron and Colette, trucks and trains and buses and planes. A truly terrific little boy, a truly terrific full-time gig, and an existence as a 33-year-old single mom I’ve settled into nicely (not that you’d believe such a thing is possible from American media; hint: watch French films).

At home, in my treehouse, there are lots of things to love: The Scamp’s awesome nursery school; unexpected sweet things (so far, a ring, a butter dish, and a great dress) found at the Brooklyn Flea; Rice’s Thai coconut curry chicken over sticky rice; mint and basil plants from Root, Stock & Quade; Fresh Gardens’ nectarines and grapes; the underappreciated Threading Place; the Pratt Sculpture Park, always; fatoosh salad from Zaytoons; french fries and milkshakes from 67 Burger; interlibrary loans picked up from the Clinton Hill branch. Best of all, and the reason I moved here nearly a decade ago, are long, leafy walks — priceless.

Yeah, I know. It seems like a mighty long time. Fact is, these days I’m writing when people pay me or where no one else can see it, and if I ever want to sleep, I don’t get time for much else.

But my pal Hilary Davidson tagged me, and I can’t ever turn her down. So, briefly, seven random things about me [that I’m willing to post on the internets]:

1. I agree with Charlie Parker that you just really need to listen to Hank Williams.
2. My first apartment in Fort Greene — a ground-floor, rent-stabilized studio on Washington Park — cost $683.50 per month in 1999. I should’ve taken the 1-bedroom in the Clinton Hill Co-ops for $800.
3. When I was pregnant with The Scamp, nothing in the universe tasted better than Cocoa Pebbles in ice-cold whole milk. I seriously ate it for dinner for days straight during my first trimester, which was in the summertime. And hey, the kid loves chocolate now.
4. I am addicted to the Thai coconut curry (with chicken and sticky rice) at Rice and the elderflower water at Smooch.
5. My hair is cut by a well-tattooed California surfer boy named Michael.
6. Whenever I walk over the sidewalk subway vent on Lafayette Avenue near the former Video Basket in warm weather, the smell of the underground that wafts up along with the cool blast of air transports me to July 1999 immediately, every time.
7. I had — and still have, rest their souls — crushes on Orson Welles (Citizen Kane and F Is for Fake — please!) and Robert Rauschenberg (not on my team, I know, don’t care). Warm, open, generous spirits paired with a sexy voice/drawl are irresistible. Hmm…maybe that explains something of why I also adore Peter Falk.

It’s been a trying time: The Scamp has started nursery school in central Fort Greene, and despite the warm and friendly environment, sweet classmates, and excellent teachers, he’s not going easy. If you don’t know firsthand, believe me when I tell you that there is nothing more gut-wrenching than walking out on your kid when he’s screeching in apparent terror and scratching at the air in your wake. And though my nerves would probably drive me straight to Frank’s, they’re not open at 9am, so my feet take me to Academy Restaurant instead.

I’ve been camping out in this diner all week, waiting for a “come get your kid” phone call; forcing myself to eat — even though I have no appetite — in order to justify my butt in the booth; amping up with coffee and finally putting my wrung-out emotions aside, digging into my work, currently a rewrite/update of a travel guidebook. When I first ducked into Academy on Monday, I had no needs other than a warm place to collect myself and pass an hour; now, I can’t imagine a better diner in the city and I don’t know why I didn’t start coming more often a long time ago.

In this gilded New York City of $2,000 one-bedroom apartments, $20 one-course brunches, and $2 one-way fares, it has been easy to undervalue the charms of the diner. After this week, I won’t again. I walk into Academy and I can seat myself immediately, whether in a booth by the window or at the counter. The no-nonsense, nicotine-stained waitresses bring a menu, take my order, bring my food, and drop my check easily and efficiently, without leaving me to wait for anything. I’m left in peace to sit staring out of the window, reading a New Yorker article on Michelle Obama, writing new restaurant reviews from my collected notes, checking my phone anxiously to make sure I haven’t missed the nursery school’s call. And the banter all around, words falling like confetti, every fragment of conversation an inspiration: Tommy Konstantakis with a wry word for everybody coming in and out; a young gringo who lays out his plan to move to Central America and live on the cheap with a full staff of hired help; a drummer on a break who pounds absently on a barstool with his sticks while waiting for his order; the middle-aged guys who point to Madonna as the beginning of the end of the age of sartorial grace (”The pants are falling off their butts now — of course they’re violent!”), but insist they’d vote for a woman politician (”Just not Hillary! And I told her, ‘You only like Obama because he’s black!’”).

And at a time when I feel almost paralyzed by multiple pathways that lead to I-don’t-know-where, and I second- and triple-guess nearly every choice I make from the time The Scamp jolts me awake (”Muh-MAH!”) in the morning till the time my mind finally wears its battery out and lets my eyes close too late at night, it’s comforting to know that “scrambled hard” means the egg will come scrambled hard; that asking for a decaf will get me a cup of instant Sanka, so I’d better buck up and drink up the real deal; and that I am alone together with a steady stream of working stiffs, artists, and those without a trust fund who just want a fill-up kind of meal and a smile for under $10 (or even $5) ‘cos that’s all they got to spare and they just want to make it through the day like anybody else. Some things are too good to change.

The bitter winter cold makes me think of my two-year lost weekend in Southern California, and thoughts of SoCal plus watching The Scamp toss his lithe body around into yoga poses makes me think of surfing. Which I never attempted, to my regret; I opted to live vicariously through my then-boyfriend, a dedicated surfer practically since he could walk. It was a boys’ club and an exhilaratingly fun one, though I longed to meet other women who weren’t part of the beached girlfriends brigade.

That’s why Andrea Kabwasa is an inspiration. The California-born, Europe- and Africa-raised Kabwasa is a diplomat’s daughter and special-education teacher who first stood up on a surfboard at the age of 32. She’s been a dedicated surfer since (her 40th birthday is next August), and the first black woman to surf longboard competitively; she’s even building her own surfboard now. She teaches free surf clinics with the Black Surfing Assocation – “I’ve taught a lot of moms, which is so cool,” she says – and she’s an ambassador to the easily intimidated (like me), noting that she hadn’t been swimming for 10 years when she started (“You don’t need to be an excellent swimmer,” she says encouragingly).

My complete chat with Andrea is after the jump.
(more…)

Back in Brooklyn, and I’d hoped to return from Orlando with a special gift for my sweet landlords, who live across the street and are unflaggingly helpful. Something beyond a standard tacky souvenir — citrus fruit, maybe? And then it occurred to me that I could simply order that online and have it shipped, sparing me from lugging it on the plane.

Which inspired another thought: In the age of the internets, can traveling still provide a special shopping opportunity?

Oh sure, not everything is available online — but a lot is, to a degree I never would’ve imagined growing up in the Old Country. As a little girl, I used to read books with characters who ordered clothing and rare luxuries from the Sears Roebuck catalog; I wasn’t doing anything far removed when I admired the copy in a J. Peterman catalog (I mentioned I was young, right?) or breathlessly awaited the arrival of Scholastic books ordered from those onion-skin-thin paper flyers or imagined a shopping trip to New York or Los Angeles to buy the cool products I saw in Sassy. When I was old enough to venture forth alone, I looked forward to buying John Fleuvog shoes in New York, Muji notebooks in Covent Garden, Nuxe dry oil in a Parisian pharmacy; the men in my life might gift me with carved turtles from Mexico or flower tea from Shanghai. Now there isn’t a single one of those things that you can’t purchase online; there’s even a great shop in SoHo devoted to the idea.

I know people still take shopping trips to major cities; where would Suzy Gershman be if they didn’t? And when I think about it, the thrill isn’t gone for me — it has simply changed. It remains my custom to buy a book in every place I visit, some famous (Shakespeare & Co. in Paris, where I purchased Edmund White’s The Flaneur; City Lights Books in San Francisco, where I purchased a copy of Allen Ginsburg’s Howl), some not (such as a nameless shop in Norfolk where I scored some vintage Françoise Sagan novels for 50p a piece). When I last returned from Paris, it was with a stem of a gorgeously scented (but totally poisonous) flowering plant from the balcony of my hotel room; from Rhode Island, a passel of freshly picked sweet corn. An acquaintance comes bearing mint leaves plucked from an Armenian field for tea; an old friend presents me with a particular type of English dime-store fountain pen that I like.

The best souvenirs are always the most personal, anyway; that’s a piece of the travel experience that the Internet will never deliver, wherever else it may transport you.

In Florida again for the holidays. I’m over my need for face-breaking cold weather in order to enhance the Christmas spirit. A tannenbaum looks just as festive in the sunlight, Santa looks even jollier with nut-brown skin and sunburn-red cheeks.

It’s added balm for my sin-sick soul to ride around in a car with my brother blasting music, like we used to do when he was 19 and I was 12. We’re less bored now, with weightier subjects to talk about; it’s a convertible Pony instead of various ’70s and ’80s-era Chevys; more crunk and less P.E. or N.W.A.; and a Scamp in the backseat approving of the beat and clutching his curls to stop the breeze from tendril-whipping his face.

“OK. Where are we, again?”

“We’re going north, and we’re about to turn west on State Road 50, which becomes Colonial Drive in the east –”

“Oh, gotcha. Gotcha. Something about Orlando just ruins any sense of direction I have.”

“Well as long as it doesn’t fail you in New York, I’m glad.”

But New York looks like somewhere, I think, as we pull into a mall like every other mall I’ve been to in Florida, with the same architecture, anchor stores — hey, this Dillard’s even smells like the Dillard’s in Little Rock, with the same peculiarly fusty but practical clothing –

“–but it’s in Orlando,” laughs my big brother.

“Yeah.”

Back in the car and on our way to the tattoo studio to check in with the artist who’s going to ink my brother’s arm, I only begin to regain any sense of place near downtown, close to the crumbling ghetto of Bahamians and Jamaicans living in plantation-ish shotgun shacks that remind my brother of New Orleans and me of the Caribbean. There are also bungalows that, given some care, would be lovely places to live.

“But the money’s coming and these will all be –”

“–swept up and the area gentrified soon?”

“Right.”

Living in New York, I am convinced that the paradigm shift that made people of means realize that inner cities and their bungalows and rowhouses and commercial/residential density and centralized transportation were more desirable and interesting than 1-hour car commutes to disconnected suburbs is complete. But then I visit the rest of America and remember how narrow my view has become. I wonder, now that the Little Rock I remember looks more like Orlando looks more like Dallas looks more like nowhere and everywhere, will there be a movement to restore character to the sprawling landscapes littered with the same big box stores and gas stations and parking lots and strip malls? Someone’s trying.

Tuned-in readers may know that one of my wickets is travel writing and editing. Whenever I take a trip, I’m in the habit — whether I’m on assignment or not — of taking along several guidebooks, to compare and critique the writers’ perspectives and the quirks of the brand/series. On one of my trips to Paris in 2004, my parcel included a guidebook by Haas Mroue, a writer I’d worked with previously. Typically, after my trip is done and if I’ve worked with the writer in the past and plan to again, I send a note full of constructive criticism and updates — nothing gnarly, hopefully helpful. For Haas, however, I had only two words: Thank you.

Y’see, Haas’s guide to Paris was what you always hope a guide will be but so rarely is: reflective of a shared sensibility, one that nudges you gently towards fresh discoveries (even in a place that would seem to have few left, like Paris), and appreciative of the traveler’s experience. I found myself relying on Haas’s guide in ways that I hadn’t relied on a guide before, to help me find the cafe to suit my mood, the store to satisfy a desire, the experience to ground myself in a dislocated moment. Thanks to Haas, I found at least two places that make me feel at total ease in Paris, one of which I’ve mentioned before, the other I won’t reveal, and every time I go to both or lead other people there, I think of Haas fondly and say a silent “thank you” again.

There will be no new recommendations from Haas; I just got the news that he suddenly passed away last month in Lebanon at the age of 41, the same age his father was when he died three months before Haas’s birth. Do read the obituaries about him and his poetry. And if you ever run across any travel guides written by Haas Mroue, snatch ‘em up and use ‘em. You probably won’t find a more elegantly attuned traveling companion.

So I was reading this article about Martha Plimpton yesterday, and you know what stuck in my mind? Not her refreshingly old-school New York style, but the fact that she still lives in the rent-stabilized two-bedroom apartment she shared with her mom, who raised her on her own on the Upper West Side. “That’s what I gotta do!” I thought, my mind racing. “I’ve gotta secure a two-bedroom apartment now that The Scamp and I will never want to leave. Otherwise, our ship is sunk!”

Because I mean, really, tone-deaf articles like this one aside (married, high-earning white women buying real estate? oh, we’ve come a long way baby!), I don’t understand how any single woman with caregiving responsibilities — for a wee one, say, or an elderly parent — manages to find a decent place to live in this town anymore. (I’m emphasizing women here because it’s usually women who are paid lesser salaries, and it’s usually women who bear the caregiving load.) You usually legitimately need a 2-bedroom place, however small, but you don’t have another hard-chargin’, 60-hour-a-week warrior to split the rent with — so $2,000+ a month is astronomical, no matter how fancy the fixtures. Added to that are the time (spent not working) and expenses of child or elder care, and, well, you’re probably robbing Peter to pay Paul on a weekly basis. I also don’t understand volunteering (as people on the hunt essentially do when they advertise that they “can pay up to $2XXX…”) at least two large a month in rent, but I guess I’m showing my age on that point.

My cold sweat has been patted dry for the moment; I’m in the process of moving into a cozy 2-bedroom, by some miracle still here in Clinton Hill. But I doubt The Scamp will still have the keys to the place when he’s 37 years old like lucky Martha. Before my search was happily resolved, I was seriously considering Madame X’s tips to burst the NYC real estate bubble. Rather than waste time praying for a miracle, I’m just going to step up my hustle and scrimp and save every dime so I can seize the first good opportunity I find to join the owner class. Even if it doesn’t happen till I’m 62 and I only need a second bedroom for my walking stick collection.

I haven’t spent much time nursing my broken heart, but revisiting the neighborhood where I got married (Park Slope) in order to set the divorce process in motion today was a big vat of salt in a seeping open wound, so I need a soundtrack to help me along. The last time I ended a relationship, I remember listening to “Don’t Ask Me Why” by the Eurythmics on repeat at top volume for days, perhaps weeks. This time, nothing has hooked me so strongly — though now I have an impossibly deep understanding of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours and Tusk (ehr, the Stevie songs, not the more vindictive Lindsey songs) — but I’m healing with lots of José González (listen to him even if your heart is intact) and Fink (his new one, Distance and Time, is particularly appropriate). Besides that, a modest playlist for the many moods of the moment:

1. Don’t Come Around Here No More, Tom Petty: Classic. And the Alice in Wonderland themed video is nearly as perfect.
2. Your Heart Is Gonna Pay, Alton Ellis: Mr. Ellis always makes you feel it in your bones, but the timing of the tangled knot of broken-heartedness and righteousness in his tone as he chokes out “You’ll be so sorry” after the second chorus is like a punch in the face.
3. It’s Too Late, Carole King: Another classic from the generation that would know.
4. Let It Die, Feist: To wit, “The saddest part / of a broken heart / isn’t the ending / so much as the start.” Plus so much more.
5. Lost Cause, Beck: At least he’s honest.
6. Forget the Flowers, Wilco: Just send me the bill.
7. I Know It’s Over, Jeff Buckley: Another exquisite cover by the late Buckley, wedding that angelic voice to Morrissey’s typically world-weary yet emotionally naked lyrics.
8. I Never Will Marry, Linda Ronstadt with Dolly Parton: Good policy.
9. Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right, Bob Dylan: The freewheelin’ Bob Dylan has written many, many excellent break-up songs (everyone knows to go straight to Blood on the Tracks by now), but the flippant gather-no-moss style of this one makes it my favorite.
10. You Never Miss Your Water, Lightnin’ Hopkins: No, you don’t, do you?
11. Another Lonely Day, Ben Harper: Wow. He really goes there.
12. I Will Survive, Cake: There’s a special twist in this cover — perhaps it’s the snarling of the line “I should’ve changed my f**king lock” — that makes it a revelation to listen to even if you’ve heard Gloria Gaynor’s version a zillion times.
13. One, U2: When you want to find the shared humanity even in the bitterness of a break-up.
14. Piece of My Heart, Janis Joplin: Strength in vulnerability.
15. Irreplaceable, Beyoncé: I used to hate this song. Oh, it’s catchy as hell, in that special way that Beyoncé songs usually are, but I thought the lyrics were incredibly cynical and hard-bitten. Well, guess what? Presently, I am cynical and hard-bitten, so now it hits the spot. Plus, the production is pretty sweet.

It’s been a long time since I paid attention to rental prices in the neighborhood; I’d been too distracted by watching my dream of home ownership soar well out of my reach with the escalating prices of the past 7 years. But now that I’m on the lookout for a new apartment, I’m amazed by how! expensive! everything has become. Fort Greene is out of the question, and I’ll be lucky to hang on in Clinton Hill by a fingernail. And it’s not just this area; no longer can you say, “Oh, I guess I’ll look in Kensington,” or “Maybe I’ll check out Midwood.” Sunnyside? Nope. Inwood? Forget it. ‘Cos apparently Masters of the Universe, highly paid DINKs, and affluent students able to pay $1,000 a head for a share are ponying up deep into Brooklyn, Queens, and upper Manhattan, too. Freelance, single-income, or limited-income households don’t stand a chance. MotherSister Brooklyn might become MotherSister Albany, at this rate.

So it was with great interest that I read this week’s New York magazine article on the degentrification of Red Hook, if only because it’s a distracting intellectual exercise to consider what might make a supposedly “hot” neighborhood stall along the way to having its streets paved with Starbucks and Gaps. A sidebar in the article points to Philly, Buffalo, and Baltimore as up-and-comers, but it seems like that’s been the word for several years now. Besides, what do you do for a living when you move to one of those cities? Isn’t the point of being in New York to take advantage of opportunities — professional, social — that don’t exist elsewhere?

I’d forgotten about the New York City Marathon, so I was pleasantly surprised this morning when The Scamp and I headed out to run some errands and found ourselves at the Lafayette Avenue piece of the route. We happened upon the scene as some runners with disabilities were heading up the crest of the hill near Clermont Avenue; their faces were determined, exhausted, exhilarated. As The Scamp and I gave ‘em some applause, the air filled with the strains of a ragtag rendition of “New York, New York,” played by a band set up on the edge of the Bishop Loughlin High schoolyard. I stood at the corner, gripping The Scamp’s stroller and watching the racers power themselves up and on, and I thought about how to continue my own New York City marathon, which I’ve slowly realized isn’t necessarily the one I thought I was running. (That’s life for you.)

I remembered that my friend Rico ran the New York City Marathon several years back; we cheered him on and met him after he crossed the finish line in Central Park, having made it there in 5 hours or so. He had the ultimate runner’s high and the pride of his accomplishment. He had been inspired to do it by his parents, especially his mom (he was thrilled to see them along the route in Queens). I asked him what he was thinking while he was in the thick of the race. “This is so stupid. This will never work. I’ll probably vomit bile.” How, I wondered, do you put one foot in front of the other, keep going? “You just do. You keep going.” He said it helped to have the people of New York City cheering the runners on from the sidelines. “You’ve gotta put your name on your shirt, so they can shout your name. Although,” he laughed, “if I had to do it over again, I might’ve used a different name. Like ‘Magnum.’ So they could cheer, ‘Go Magnum!’”

Your Brooklyn correspondent is MotherSister Orlando this week, having traded the high-priced confines of New York City for the House of The Mouse, where three-quarters of a million dollars will get you more than a studio apartment — a 6-bedroom, 4-bathroom house with a 3-car garage and a swimming pool, in fact. Of course, you also have to drive absolutely everywhere.  Can’t have everything, right?

After the disappearance of my friend Claudia Kirschhoch during a press trip in Jamaica, I developed an aversion to flying. (I’ll spare you the psychological analysis.) I’m better about it now — with the help of Calms Forte — but I still try not to fly. I hate the hassle that air travel has become, especially with a small child in tow.

I adore train travel, however, and have often thought of permanently relocating to Europe for the sole reason of enjoying the benefits of the continental network. I’m still wide-eyed with amazement that I can board a train in London and emerge in Paris just a couple of hours later; it’s a journey I’d like to do over and over again. Railing it seems far less sexy and convenient in the United States outside of the northeastern corridor, and I haven’t been enticed to do an Aretha Franklin whenever I need to cross the country. But the discovery of The Man in Seat 61 has turned me right round. Mark Smith, a career railman in the UK, has created a fantastic resource for people who would gladly recapture the romance and the enjoyment of travel by trading planes for trains and ships. Whether it’s a trip across southern Canada, from London to Bologna, from Havana to Santiago de Cuba, or from New York to Orlando, Mark provides current routes, timetables, and prices — no mean feat, given the sometimes hopelessly confusing resources we’re usually stuck using.

Mark was game to answer a few questions not already addressed in his informative FAQ. Find out why transcontinental trains are better in the United States than in Europe and why taking a train is an ideal way to travel with children after the jump.

(more…)

At not quite 2 years of age, The Scamp has an awesome t-shirt collection, including robots, squirrels, and turntables, all emblems of this Brooklyn boy’s life. I feel a little twinge of sadness every time I cull his closet for outgrown clothes. I’ve been setting aside the most memorable of the t-shirts, though, to make into a quilt.

T-shirt blankets and quilts are popular practical keepsake items; sports and band t-shirts seem to be especially common material. Unfortunately, I didn’t learn to quilt from my grandmother before she died, so I’m going to have to figure out how to put it together myself. There are instructions online, as well as classes in the area for quiltmaking. I suppose if I feel truly at a loss, I could always outsource it, but it feels important to me to attempt to do it myself. I know how special I feel when I curl up in a quilt made by my grandma’s own hands, and I hope The Scamp will feel the same way about his t-shirt quilt, even if he becomes a surly teenager.

Photo above of one of the better t-shirt quilts I’ve seen, by Beverly St. Clair at Genome Quilts. If I were to commission a quilt, it’d likely be by her.