An Unusual Bond

The relationship between a tenant and a landlord (or landlady) in New York City is often a tenuous one. Rentals, after all--with the notable exception of rent-controlled apartments--are temporary. Everyone aspires to own a piece of property eventually. And there's often an innate tension between a tenant and landlord since the latter extracts a lot of money each month in rent (in NYC it's often the equivalent of one-third to one-half of a month's salary) from the tenant for the priviledge of remaining in the apartment, however small it may be. So any resentment a tenant has about paying $1,600 for a 600-square-foot studio in the East Village, for example, is often directed at the person who's collecting the money.
My husband and I are fortunate to have an unusual, and cherished, relationship with our landlady and landlord. We feel so close to them, in fact, that they were guests at our wedding.
Victor discovered our apartment more than seven years ago through our landlady's niece, who worked in his office at the time. She knew Victor was looking for an apartment and that her aunt was looking for a "suitable tenant" (defined as someone who was polite, reliable, and childless) for the two-story rear apartment behind their home in Brooklyn.
Needless to say, he has never left. And when he and I began dating seriously in the spring of 2000, there was no question of who would move in with whom. (I had been paying more than $1,000 a month to share a three-bedroom loft in SoHo with two male friends).
The apartment is not officially rent controlled, but our landlady and landlord (Blanche and Louie) kept our rent stable for so long after I moved in that Victor and I actually volunteered to pay $100 more apiece each month--a move that is practically unheard of in this city (and was met with absolute astonishment from friends who learned what we'd done).
But we didn't want to damage the relationship we'd built by then with Blanche and Louie. We've been with them now through Sept. 11, a wedding, three job losses, and several holidays. When they learned we were home alone one Christmas Eve (we were flying out the next morning), they insisted we join them and their family at dinner. When I walked through the front door in shock with tears streaming down my face on the morning of Sept. 11, having witnessed the second plane slicing through the building where--until that morning--I had been working as a freelancer, Blanche met me in the entryway with a hug and a plate full of food (she is Italian, after all). And I cannot count the number of times I've walked through the hallway of that front apartment to find a plate of steaming food for us on the table where they leave our mail.
In the mornings, I take comfort in the sounds of Louie puttering around the concrete garden that separates our apartments. He and Blanche have transformed the space with hand-decorated planters filled with blossoming plants. They've managed to coax grapes and tomatoes from vines they've cultivated in concrete planters. Pots of pansies and peonies hang from the awning or our porch. In the summer, and well into the fall, the garden is awash in a rainbow of colors: fuschia, purple, orange,lime green and yellow. And almost every morning, Louie is there, humming to himself as he tends and rearranges the plants, or adds another angel to the thigh-high shrine to the Virgin Mary that he erected at the bottom of our steps. Often Blanche is with him, offering her suggestions and opinions in a mix of Italian and English.
So it was unnerving when I woke up one morning last week to silence. I peered out the window. The garden was empty, their blinds were shut, and the lights were off. For nearly three days, we didn't see them. Their son came by to sort the mail. But the blinds remained closed. The garden empty.
Finally on Sunday, we came home to the comforting smell of tomato sauce wafting through their open doorway. We were happy to glimpse them through the open blinds eatng at their dining room table with their son and daughter-in-law and granddaughter.
We always worry when they're away from their apartment for long because they rarely travel (Blanche got on a plane for the first time in her life last year to fly to Florida, and said she wasn't sure she would do it again). And we know, from reports from Blanche's niece and from the bills we see when we sort the mail from radiologists and medical centers, that Louie has health problems. Once he collapsed in the garden and bumped his head and spent a day in the hospital.
But I couldn't remember when they'd been gone more than a night or two (at least without giving us warning). So both Victor and I were worried last week. And it turns out this time we had some reason to be.
This morning, when I left for work, I saw Louie in the garden. He was leaning heavily on a cane, and there was a large bandage wrapped around his throat. I was so happy to see him back in the garden that I nearly hugged him. "Buongiorno!" I said. "It's so nice to see you. We missed you last week."
He nodded and I could tell he was struggling to talk. Finally, in a hoarse voice, he managed "Hello."
I kept smiling and added, "See you later, Louie," then turned away quickly so he couldn't see the tears welling up in my eyes.

Bruising and Boozing

"I want to hold a cold beer against my sore foot and then drink it."
This from my husband, who went to karate fight class today despite a bad blow to his left foot a few weeks ago that has not yet healed, and came home with a matching bruise on the instep of his other foot (not quite as severe as the initial injury, he told me, but it hurts more since it's fresh). So I took the cue and we walked--or hobbled, in his case--to "Beverage World," a warehouse-sized beer store about six blocks away that sells everything from Budweiser kegs to magnum-sized bottles of imported Belgian beers. Even with his injuries, Victor insisted on carrying home a 12-pack of one-liter club soda bottles and a 12-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon cans (we like to stock up our fridge for a couple weeks at a time). I was amazed at how easy he made it look, even holding them up as he dug for his key then opened the front door. I'm not sure I could have carried much more than the magnum of Maredsous , four-pack of Ommegang Abbey Ale, and six-pack of special edition Brooklyn Pennant (Go Yankees!) Ale that he also generously bought. (Did I mention we like to stock up?)
When we got home, I tried to figure out how much he'd carried exactly. And, according to my sources (someone please correct me if I'm wrong), one liter of seltzer water weighs 1 kilogram, which is the equivalent of 2.2 pounds. So, by my calculations, Victor lugged home 26.4 pounds worth of seltzer alone--and that's not including the 12 cans of Pabst. Between his beverage runs, laundry pick-ups, and grocery shopping, he'll never need to lift weights in a gym.
After we'd unloaded the beer and seltzer water, Victor ran out to pick up some chicken pizza (my favorite) from Sal's, which is about six blocks in the opposite direction from our apartment. Of course, even the most mundane errands can sometimes seem impossibly hard in NYC (and it is at times like this that I sometimes envy you all in Texas and Arizona, with your cars and drive-thru windows).
Less than a minute after he'd left, it started pouring rain. By the time he got back, his shirt and shorts were soaked through and his sneakers were squeaking. But the pizza box--though sagging from the water it had soaked up--was still surprisingly intact, and the slices within were still hot. Delicious.
I felt a tad guilty that while he ran through the rain umbrella-less, I was sitting at home comfortable and dry in my tank top and shorts and slippers typing away. But Victor swore he didn't mind the rain.
I'm really amazed sometimes at how he's able to maintain such a positive attitude when he's lugging a 40-pound laundry bag home in the rain (as he's done on more than one occasion) or carrying bags of groceries along with a backpack full of karate and fight gear home on the subway. He told me that he got his training when he backpacked through Europe and the Middle East in the early 1990s, when he was living and working as a journalist in Riga, Latvia. He traveled mostly alone, with all his belongings in his pockets and backpack. He said he used to make it a "physical challenge" or "mission" to get to the train or the hostel or the bus on time because he figured if the train or bus had left or the hostel was full or closed by the time he got there, he'd be stuck. And, as he put it, "Plan B, if there was one, wasn't very good."
After watching him in action today, I'll bet my beer that he never had to revert to Plan B.

Comings and Goings

On Friday, my husband and I headed to Musical Box, a bar in the East Village, to say goodbye and good luck to Jen (another one), a good friend of mine from college who was leaving NYC to spend six weeks traveling through Central America. Then, after a short stopover in the city to pack up her belongings and bid goodbye to those of us she's leaving behind again, moving to L.A. for good to pursue acting (or a Masters degree, depending on how the acting goes).
The next day, we spent the afternoon with another pair of peripatetic friends, Justin and Sue, who were visiting from Vancouver (their second stop after leaving Brooklyn a few years ago-the first was Paris, for a year and a half) with their three-month-old son. A friend of theirs in Fort Greene had thrown a small party so they'd be able to see all of us at once. She called it brunch (though it beagn at 3pm, which is perfectly normal for NY on a weekend). But it was a real feast: plates of grapes and olives and crackers and goat cheese, sandwiches of French or foccacia bread with sliced beef, fresh egg salad, or chicken with caramelized onions and roquefort cheese.And homemade ice cream sandwiches. Delicious. And, of course, beer and wine; though I stuck primarily with water. It may be fall (unofficially, though in NYC, everyone behaves as if summer runs from Memorial Day to Labor Day weekend) but it still felt like summer. The temps were in the upper-80s and my sleeveless sweater clung to my back.
We were all peppering Justin and Sue with questions about Canada. They struggled to describe Vancouver to us and, finally, came up with "quiet." They don't walk in Vancouver--well, not like they did in NYC--and they pay a lot less rent there than they did here for a much larger apartment with a terrace. They didn't miss the rent in NYC. But they did missed the energy, they said. And the irony. Canadians, they concluded, did not understand irony. New Yorkers thrive on it.
And so I thought it was a bit ironic that New Yorkers spend so much time kvetching about the high cost of living here, and the nuisances (subways that are sometimes smelly or slow or even stalled, as mine was for five mintues tonight; taxi drivers that cut you off as you cross the street then honk and/or swear at you, though you had the walk light; literally picking up groceries or laundry or dry cleaning, and carrying it home because you don't have a car to put it in). And yet, once they move away, they can't stop talking about how much they miss the city--and when they might come back. And I do hope Justin and Sue come back with their Canadian-American son in tow.
We left the party around 5:30 and rushed back so we'd be home in time to greet Victor's old college roommate who was visiting from Las Vegas (where he'd recently moved from Florida). Ted is about six-foot-four with the body of a professional linebacker but not the attitude. Ted, who'd come out early for a Monday business meeting, has a sweet demeanor and the gregariousness of a Floridian and a successful salesman (which he is). He has been out here so many times that he's pretty familiar with the city; but he hasn't picked up any of our cynicism, which is refreshing.
We kicked back at the apartment on Saturday. But last night, Victor and I already had plans to go to dinner at Mario Batali's midtown seafood restaurant, Esca, and then see a sold-out show, Avenue Q, at 7pm with my mom (a belated birthday present). A raunchy puppet show (sort of an NC-17 Sesame Street set in Brooklyn), but very funny. So we met up afterwards, around 10, with Ted and a colleague of his, Amy, who had spent two years in NYC but now lived in San Diego. I thought about bailing (it was Sunday after all) but they convinced me to go out to a local bar we like,Spuyten Duyvil, where I nursed an excellent Belgian beer for the next 2 hours and listened to Amy tell me how much she missed the pace of life here and the raw ambition. In San Diego, she said, everyone is so relaxed it makes her nervous. I told her I missed the ocean out there, watching the waves. But she laughed. It can become boring, she said. And repetitive. The waves go out, the waves come in, out, in, out, in. The predictability of the tides gives me comfort. But I could see how it could lull those who live nearby into a state of complacency.
Would she move here though? Unlikely. I told her that she had almost the best of both worlds, since she came out here for work pretty regularly. She could look at New York like an injection of caffeine (appropriate, since she and her husband have started a coffee roasting business) or ambition, when she was feeling complacent. You can't be complacent in NY. Or you'll literally get run over. You can't stop. Even if you just `went with the flow' here, the tide of agressively ambitious residents will push you further than you ever imagined you could go. It's what I love about NY: the energy, the opportunities, and the sense that anything is possible here (but not without hard work and perserverence). There's little that's predictable about NY beyond those three things (well, besides unbelievably expensive rent for incredibly small apartments). Just when you think you've figured the city out, or its residents, it surprises you (more often than not, pleasantly).
But there are times when I crave the ocean, and the sunny climate of southern California. When I just want things to be a little easier. The perfect solution, I think, is to spend half the time in NYC. And half the time in California. Though NYC would always be home to me.

An Emotional Week...

this has been. Last weekend, I turned 33, and I celebrated with my husband of a year (and 2 months) and some of the best friends a girl could ask for. But there was one friend who was conspicuously absent from my birthday dinner. Stacie, the first friend I'd made in NYC and still my closest, had just learned that the headaches her brother had been complaining of for weeks were the result of an inoperable cancerous tumor that had lodged itself between his skull and his sinus cavity. By the time he was correctly diagnosed, the tumor had grown so large that the neurosurgeons at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center refused to operate for fear the risks far outweighed any potential benefits. Instead, he will begin seven weeks of radiation therapy that, in a best case scenario, will only cost him his vision in one eye. In a worst-case scenario, of course, the radiation regimen will damage his healthy cells but will not kill the cancer cells. We've been told he has a 30-percent chance of survival. This, I told myself and Stacie, is better than a zero percent chance. But it is still a pretty bleak prognosis. Stacie, who is already juggling her responsibilities as a new mother and a full-time pharmaceutical representative, is now trying to squeeze in regular visits with her brother as well.
On the day we'd planned my dinner (which I'd nearly cancelled after hearing the news--it seemed almost frivolous to celebrate my birthday over wine and tapas when a friend of ours was in so much pain), Stacie was shopping for pajama pants and sweatshirts for her brother to make his convalescence more comfortable.
And she still thought to send me a flowering plant the next day (she didn't want to send flowers that could be dead by week's end) with a card apologizing for missing my birthday dinner.
I am blessed to have such friends in my life.
Of course, the same day the plant arrived in my office, Hurricane Katrina landed on the Gulf Coast. We all know now what happened next. Suddenly the pain that Stacie was feeling was multiplied by 1000s. For the next week, I would see images of hurricane refugees crying over lost relatives, pets, homes. I would see images of stranded and starving residents clinging to their roofs and to the narrowing glimmer of hope that they would soon be rescued. I would see images of people who'd survived the hurricane and ensuing floods dying in their lawn chairs from dehydration or starvation because we, as a nation, had failed them.
I sat in my air-conditioned office at work, watching these images on TV from the relative safety of my midtown building, taking reports from our correspondents and interviewing those who'd been there or were on there way. I had never felt so helpless. I watched hurricane refugees pleading for help, for food. "We're dying!" they shrieked at the cameras. And I could do nothing but write about it.
I sat in my office on the phone with Stacie as she gave me the details of her brother's treatment and I could do nothing but listen. I kept asking her, what can I do? But I could not do what she needed most. I could not save her brother. I can only pray that the doctors will.
On Wednesday, my best friend from college, AJ, called me from Orange County, where she had moved four days earlier. And when I asked how she was doing, she burst into tears. She'd been in a car accident that afternoon. Her small convertible car was totaled. All I could think was, she is okay. She is okay. She is calling me so she must be okay. And, relatively speaking, she was. She'd badly strained a muscle in her neck and shoulder and had suffered a concussion. But she was more shaken up than anything. The worst part, she said, was that she had no one to call after the accident. She didn't know anyone but the staff members in her new office, whom she'd met three days earlier. She'd felt so alone, she told me. And my heart ached. I reminded her that I was only a phone call away. But I knew that was little comfort. Even if I'd jumped on a plane, I wouldn't have been there for hours. By then she'd already been to the hospital. It was her office manager who drove her there and then back to the extended stay hotel that is serving as her temporary home.
Finally today I got a call from Denise, a good friend from grad school. She apologized for not calling me on my birthday. But she'd gotten some bad news that day. I braced myself. Another friend of ours from school had lost her father, suddenly, that day after he suffered a stroke and hit his head, causing severe damage to his brain. "Oh God," I said. And the tears started again.
So many people suffered so much this week. And in the end, I can only count my blessings and pray for those who have lost so much this week. I thank my God and my fortune that AJ is alive and will recover. And that Denise and Stacie are strong women who will provide the support that our friend and Stacie's brother will need in the coming weeks and months.
The best gift I received this year for my birthday was the reminder of all the gifts I have already: my friends, my family, my health, my job, and my loving husband.

Back from my Summer Vacation

And what a week to start blogging again.
My professional position prevents me from fully articulating the anger I feel with our administration right now. Let me preface my upcoming rant with this: I am a registered independent, I have voted for members of both major parties, and in my job I do my damnedest to remain unbiased (or at least, not to let any personal biases affect my reporting).
But regardless of your political affiliation or personal feelings about our president, it's hard to believe that anyone who's been to the areas affected by Hurricane Katrina in the past 5 days or read the stories of the survivors (some of whom ended up dying anyway from lack of food, water, or medical treatment) or seen the images can say that the state and federal government is truly doing all they can. Our president remained on his ranch for two days after the hurricane first struck the Gulf Coast. TWO days. While literally thousands of victims waited to be rescued as the flood waters rose around them. Some would succumb. And the police officers and rescue workers in New Orleans were so overwhelmed that they could not even stop to count the corpses floating past them. They were focused, rightly so, on saving those who were still alive.
Why weren't our state and federal officials similarly focused on such a goal? When President Bush said today -- without apology -- that the efforts thus far were "unacceptable," he accepted none of the responsibility for the failure. His pledge to finally get help to those who needed it was almost cruel in its timing. Because those who'd needed it most were now dead. More than four days after the hurricane hit, he finally set foot on the ground in Louisiana. More than four days after the hurricane hit--days in which literally hundreds, maybe thousands, of refugees had gone without electricity, showers, and with little food or water--the convoys finally began to show up. The airdrops began. The sandbags were dropped into the breaches in the levees. Military units were activated.
What is "unacceptable" is that our nation has an abundance of food and water, and clothing--and we had the means to get those resources to the hurricane refugees three days ago--and we didn't. And people died because of it. It is tragic to lose hundreds, or thousands, in a natural disaster. But it is criminal to lose hundreds or thousands more to incompetence.