Friday, 29 June 2012
Tuesday, 12 June 2012
Gratitude in the Bronx.
Every day my train to the city goes through the Bronx and East Harlem. Last week I noticed a billboard above the warehouses. Gratitude it says. It makes me smile, and perhaps that's its purpose. Or perhaps not, but you have to admit it is kind of ironic to have it written in orange against the brown blocks of one of the New York's worst neighbourhoods.
The pictures are a series of random shots of East Harlem and the Bronx, taken from the train one afternoon.
K.
Rhode Island, 2012.
The next morning we drove through Connecticut to Rhode
Island. Settled in 1639, the city of Newport is surrounded from one side by New
England’s green hills, and Atlantic Ocean from the other. Paradise for
Victorian Houses lovers like myself. And a playground for the XIXth and XXth
century gazillionaires, who built their mansions here. The Astors, Rockefellers
and of course Vanderbilts. If you had an equivalent of 350 million dollars for
a summer house, you’d definitely be hanging out in Newport. I’m still working
on my New Year’s resolution to win the lottery this year, and though I’m trying
hard (played all three times) for whatever reason it’s not working out. Plus,
everyone can have a good time staying in seventy-bedroom mansion. Try staying
in a back of the truck, with seven people and managing, not only not to kill
each other, but to actually have fun – that’s a real trick. And so we did. We played volleyball[2],
walked miles, including the Cliff Walk – path with cliffs on your left and
fences of the mansions on the right. Free Ocean view included. We hanged out in
Newport’s downtown, with its port, ships, seagulls and smell of fish. We took the ferry to Block Island and rented bikes and rode all over
the tiny island. Magnificent views, wonderful weather (I still have marks of a
lobster-looking charm on my skin). Finally – the beach – the feeling of sand
between your toes, catching the sun, screaming when dipping the feet in the cold,
cold ocean water. We even built a sand castle and were so inappropriately happy
not to see skyscrapers for a while. And in the evenings there was some cooking,
some card playing and some drinking. Till the Monday hit so quickly and Gabbi
and I sneaked out early in the morning to actually see the Mansions. Hunter House, Chateau sur Mer, The Elms,
Rosecliff, Marble House – are the names of the finest of the houses, which
some of them are still private properties. The most famous and biggest of them
all, is called The Breakers. Built
between 1893-95 by Cornelius II Vanderbilt, is a fine example of 6000m2 summer
cottage. The house comes with 13 acres of gardens, lime-stone and iron fences
and Ocean view. If you like that kind of stuff. The house was designed by
Richard Morris Hunt (the same who designed the facade of Metropolitan Museum in
New York) in Gout Rothschild style. What can I say - it’s gigantic, impressive
and very, very pretentious. If Louis XIV lived in America during Gilded Age,
he’d probably be staying with the Vanderbilts for the summer. It’s like a
mixture of Italian Palazzo and Downton Abbey. The marbles imported from
Switzerland, the whole library brought from France. Hand-painted wallpapers,
three dressing rooms, I don’t remember how many, beautifully furnished (literally)
bathrooms. Makes you want to run to New York and propose to Anderson Cooper
immediately. I loved seeing the kitchen and the pantry with all the original
furnishings and equipment, and imagining what the life must have been like in a
house like this. The Breakers belongs
now to the Preservation Society of Newport but the third floor and the
furniture still belongs to the Vandebilt family. They stay on the third floor,
which is of course closed to the public. Gabbi and I lied down on the grass
outside, took some pictures and tried to process the ostentatious amount of the
wealth that we have just seen. But what I was also thinking about was – as very
impressive as the Breakers is – how I’d
love to take my friends to Europe. To show them the castles and palaces of
France, Italy and England. Even Poland. To show them the originals. They say money can’t buy you class. But it can buy you
style – at least in architecture. But among the many things that money can’t
buy, there are history and true cultural heritage. And that’s something I’m
very glad I can come back to. Someday.
[1] Nelson is Anthony’s childhood
favorite stuffed animal. He deserves a separate chapter, or a comic book
rather. The Adventures of Nelson. All
you need to know for now, is that Anthony’s love for Nelson has no limits. When
the hurricane Irene had hit New York
and Anthony’s district was under mandatory evacuation, he packed his toothbrush,
shoes and Nelson. One time, I fallen asleep at Anthony’s, cuddling with Nelson.
I woken up at 3am when he (Anthony) was trying to take Nelson away from me. If
somebody tells me, that men are big babies, I believe it.
[2] The true version of a story is- the
boys and Tamra played volleyball while Gabbi and I were too busy sipping our
drinks and taking pictures of THEM playing. Then we made an ambitious attempt of
playing badmington (bare-foot on the grass!), and I’m telling you, these small
rackets are vicious things after several caipiroskas in the sun.
Friday, 11 May 2012
One night in Park Slope.
The
doors open. You enter the room and see a bunch of
hat-skinny-jeans-wearing kids around the table. It’s covered with red
cups. Holy shit, you’re the oldest one here. You’re birthday is
coming up. You’re about to hit the quarter. It seems ridiculous, but
it’s not funny at the moment. You already have couple of margaritas and
a subway ride behind you. What the hell. You brought a bottle of Haitian rum with you, and at this point you’re in desperate need of it. Show me the way to the next whiskey bar…oh don’t ask why oh don’t ask why…The
brown color of a drink in the glass, one sip and another and just one
more…makes it all better. The music is playing and the room is still -€“
still. Somebody hands you a cup and a ball. No thanks, I’m still working on it. You
look up. He’s tall and handsome, he hands you a cup and a ball, you
play. One cup, and the next one, and just one more…The room starts to
spin just a little…You wander to the kitchen, the window is opened to
the concrete-covered back yard. The girl sings while you inhale, hold,
and let the smoke out of your lungs. Little cough. It’s been a while. If
there is anything that hipsters know, is how to party.
But the next thing, you know is that you’re sitting on the stairs outside. The voice gets to you Sweetheart move your shoes, you don’t want to ruin these nice shoes. Your hair is being held.
The
face of some man, telling you it will be ok. He’s short and black and
smiling. He tells your friend the cab back to Manhattan, would be 120$.
The angry voice, of the next door neighbor, growling she’d call the
police. You don’t want to get your friends into trouble. You have to
move.
You’re
on the cold bathroom floor, breathing heavily and shaking. All you want
is for the shaking to stop, but it wouldn’t. You know what’s going on,
but your body refuses to work. The ceiling is circling round and round.
Your knees are made of cotton wool, and you do know there is no
possibility you’d make it to the subway. Another kind voice. I’m alright - you mumble. You lean on his shoulder. Long narrow corridor. The light coming out from the rooms. It’s getting emptier, Where did everyone go?
Somebody’s bed. Garbage bin next to your head. He covers you with a
blanket. He has white remains of powder under his nose. Blanket, bin,
kiss on a forehead. He’d be coming back to check on you for the rest of
the night. Sip of water-sleep-through up. Cup-bed-bin. Eventually you
wake up. The bin is filled with something you’d rather didn’t belong to
you. You hear the music and recognize it. Katie?- Gabbi’s voice - I’m fine. Goodnight. I’m sorry.
Morning.
Gold earrings at the table. Yellow-purple stains of vomit (fucking
chili) on the brown swade flats. The stairs outside. They seemed higher
last night, when you were leaving the remains of your stomach on the
pavement. Subway. Shower. You throw the shoes out. Bloody hell. You partied like an 18year old.
Wednesday, 2 May 2012
Parlez Vous Français?
For Gabrielle,
who inspired me to dig out
my inner French girl.
The book has arrived! It’s massive, the pages are
yellow and smell of old paper, and it’s falling apart but I don’t care, I just
love it. Thanks to Amazon.com I have purchased Mastering the art of French Cooking by Simone Beck, Louisette
Bertholle and Julia Child, the 6th edition, form 1961. No worries, I
haven’t given up on the regular bookshops. You can still find me at the Strand, browsing through 18 miles of
books (it’s a process) or at Barnes and
Noble on 86th and Lexington Avenue, with cup of coffee,
accompanied by my friend Gabrielle, fashion magazines, and piles of books on
Interior Design. We decided to cook, but we won’t blog about it. Somebody has
already done it, and not only wrote a book about it, but also turned it into a
movie. Julie and Julia -
surprise-surprise - the book was better than the film, though the lack of
Meryl worked for its disadvantage. The idea came to us, while hollowing out
tiny holes in salmon fillets so we could put garlic in it. Thinking, that
several years ago, I hardly knew how to boil an egg. Anyway, the cookbook is
fifty years old, which is not a lot, but old enough to have history to it. The
history I am really curious about. I wonder which owner am I? Who were the
previous ones? Where are they now? (Under the ground I know, hopefully not all
of them). It was sent to me, by Abigail.A from Santa Cruz, California. It’s
surprisingly clean. Except for the dedication at the front page (From 1964!) it
has no notes or marks or even stains. It won’t be a problem at all, to make my
own, of course. I’m a master at stains. One night Maria and I wanted to open a
wine bottle without a wine opener (things tend to magically disappear when you
need them). So we pushed the cork to the inside of the bottle. I was
finding wine stains all over the kitchen for a week, including the ceiling and
the inside of the cabinets, even though they were closed at the time. I wrote to Abigail.A.
If I manage to discover anything about the story of the book, you’ll read about
it soon enough. I know already we won’t try all the recipes. There is no way I
would pull a knife down the back of some poor lobster. Therefore there is
absolutely no way, I would put my body through digesting 60 pounds of butter.
For the past months, I have been becoming a
Francophile. The interest was always there[1], but
the fascination…I think the real fascination, has started with this book I had
read on Chanel, and well, one thing lead to another. I tend to go through the
phases of an absolute interest about things. And I’m totally aware and unaware
of it too (I can listen to the song that I like ten thousand times in a row,
till I’m so sick of it, I can’t listen to it anymore). Recently I have been
stalking online Jim and Jules, developed
a crush on Louis Garrel, made a third attempt to read Proust, even bought my
first French dictionary. Speaking of the language. There are many reasons, why
one would learn a foreign language. It could be fascination with nation’s
culture, cuisine, history etc. For me the reason is simpler than that. Three of
my French friends forget how to speak English when they’re wasted. After they
have several drinks, I can’t understand the word they’re saying. The reason good
enough to learn, if you ask me. As a revenge (when they’re sober) I molest them
with questions like - Gabbi, how is bread
in French? – Pain - Aww that’s so
cute!! It is scientifically proven, that everything sounds better in
French.
Oh the little plaisirs.
Making an omlette while listening to Serge Gainsbourg’s and Bardot’s Comic Strip
(BAM ! POW ! BLOP ! WIIIIIZZ !) and dreaming to look like Catherine
Deneuve in her young years ( and older ones for that matter). The sensuality ;
the correlation between food and sex. They are making me a little bit less
neurotic and obsessive in my New York ways. I figured, I’m already a
Polish-speaking-with-a-British-accent-New-Yorker-obsessed-with-India. My sense
of nationality is fucked up as it can be. It won’t harm to add a bit of Parisien to it, would it?
Wish us good luck with the recipes. Hopefully we won’t
burn the kitchen down. If we do, well, the only thing to left to do, will be to use
our je ne sais quoi on the landlord.
C’est la vie!
K.
[1] I have visited Paris twice, and as
much as I love New York, esthetically – Paris
is the most beutiful city in the Western Word.
Tuesday, 1 May 2012
Friday, 13 April 2012
Starbucks a year and a half later.
Starbucks a year and a half later[1]
Dear Starbucks,
I’ve been thinking about it for a while now… and I think we should break up.
And as every -a little bit selfish-moving on type of a girl- I’m thinking - being with you, made me ready to be with someone better. But I’m saying it’s not you, it’s me.
I was so in love, I used to look for you, while wandering the streets of Paris, and London. I was asking strangers, where, where, could I find my Carmel Macchiato?! Turning the corner, thinking that Maybe You’ll Be There[2].
See, I’ve changed the sound of passing trains, for a monthly pass to Grand Central. I replaced the green of your arm chairs, for the green facade of Café Reggio in the Village. Your Pumpkin Spice Latte, seemed not enough, comparing to the discovery of (literally) orgasmic vanilla yoghurt with ice cream and fruits. It’s so delicious it causes When Harry met Sally kind of reaction. If you know what I mean…I do remember how happy I was, when you kept giving me the outrageous oatmeal cookies, but hey, I can have warm ones delivered home, from Insomnia Cookies. Instead of quoting Tom Hanks, I figured I’d pop in La Lo Café, where he was sneaking on Meg Ryan, in You’ve got a mail ( btw. the place is not as cute as in the movie, but it’s still lovely). I started meeting others. Le Figaro, where Jack Kerouac used to hang out. Café Angelique in the West Village, with its tiny chairs, and amazing pastries, and Madeline Patisserie in Chelsea, with around fifty flavours of macaroons (fuck the diet). And then, you know, I got drunk in White Horse Tavern, where Dylan Thomas kicked the bucket. Eventually, I switched the sounds of jazz in my headphones, for the occasional concerts at The Blue Note and Vanguard. I became friends with bartenders at Vespa, where I met the taste of Brandy Alexander[3] (always get me into trouble) and Nutty Irishman (Bailey’s, Frangelico and cream - the recipe for even more trouble). And Jeffrey’s, and The Meadow… And, Wow, I really sound like a slut cheating on you with all these gorgeous places but you understand that I needed some space right?
And you’re not that perfect either! You do smell nice, but you also can be dirty and loud. You tend to make me overeat. You look exactly the same wherever I go. You get nice and cosy, but let’s be honest, you get smashed by this cute French Café around the corner (oh the French). La Moulin a Café, became my Sunday morning routine, and I just can’t help it. You make me write, but hey you seem pretty shallow, comparing to Nuyorican Poets Café, which Allen Ginsberg called ”the most integrated place on the planet”.
I think we really got to the point, where there is nothing left for us, but to stay friends.
K.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)