The Power of Complaint

I’ve decided it’s time to start writing on a more broad selection of topics. Hence, my site has undergone a mild makeover (no plastic surgery) and is ready to receive some new blog posts based more around my endless thoughts and musings.

Every time I talk on the phone with my mum, she tells me that I complain too much. My response is that it’s her fault for raising a child who is part American and part British. The English are expert complainers over anything frivolous and will begin most conversations with a complaint about the weather or something their hairdresser did wrong. However, we will rarely complain to those that can actually make a difference, such as that hairdresser who did wrong. The Americans on the other hand will hold their complaints only for the people who matter (or twitter). My mother was never one to shy away from telling the waiter that we were seated at an insulting table or sending back a plate of food as it was not up up to her standards.

However, due to my mixed nationality and having lived in America for the past 3 years, I have become a dangerous mix of the two. I’ll complain to my friends about something I complained about earlier. Even if the matter has been resolved, I’ll still follow up with my British-style complaint as though this were my only way to handle the matter.

Growing up, I was not this way at all. I was always embarrassed by my mother’s willingness to complain to get her way, and thought the best way to deal would be to suffer in silence (the British way). However, after having moved to America, I began to see the beauty of my mother’s ways. I was already an expert complainer after years of doing it in secret, and now I was able to put my skills to good use. I complained to the bank and got given $20 (owed to me) on the spot, rather than waiting weeks. I got IKEA to deliver furniture parts that were missing without having to return to the store where we had picked them up from. I learned that if you actually complained about things, your problems were resolved.

It wasn’t until I began working in the customer service department of a New York establishment that I realized what I had actually been doing. I had thought complaints were just the way people dealt with problems and everyone’s matters were fixed in America because of this. However, it turns out I had just entered myself into a select group of “problem people”. At my new job, whenever there was a problem, our orders were to calm the individual and then try and appease them by explaining the situation. We were also told that if someone was getting angry or was not appeased by our explanations, we should transfer them to our supervisor who would make special allowances.

special allowances.

That’s what all these people I’d interacted with had done for me. I was their problem customer who had to be appeased by going the extra mile. I wasn’t being treated like everyone else, I was being treated like a crying baby who needed to be shut up. I wasn’t so much disappointed in my own behavior but that of the industry itself. Those individuals that were nice to us and patient were told to wait another few weeks for their product, and those that complained and yelled and made us feel like lesser humans were given expedited shipping and invites to special promotions.

I realized how backwards the whole system is; the people who are kind get nothing, and those that are belligerent get special treatment.

It becomes an issue of should I be nice and get nothing, or be a little angrier and get what I am owed. Whilst I am not proud personally to say this, I still do demand to speak to managers to get my own way. I am aware of the lack of power in the person who answers the phone and I know that their job is to get me off the line with understanding but no changes made. So I’m not proud to admit it, but sometimes I get a little mean to get what I want.

An apology to anyone I’ve talked to on the phone if I’ve gotten a little mean.  

The Catcaller

I feel a need to disclaim for this post that anything expressed in this blog is completely my opinion and I do not mean to speak for anyone other than myself. This is a forum for me to express my own personal struggles, beliefs, and opinions, and I do not want others to think I am trying to speak for their own experiences.

With that being said…

I have recently been dealing a lot with the notion of race from many different angles. I am taking an anthropology class which deals with the biological aspect of race, and how no individuals are any different due to “race” as has been defined by society. I have also dealt with race from a film aspect and how fears of “the different” and “the unknown” are expressed in horror films; and how race is used as an aspect of fear. I have also dealt with it from a social justice side. How are different races treated differently, and specifically what it means to be a person of color who is dealing with the justice system.

In the latter of the aforementioned situations we have also been dealing with gender, and how women are treated in the justice system. I more directly associated with this conversation being a white female.

Thus, with these ideas racing through my mind daily, I have become very aware to how I deal with race on a daily basis. I would like to believe that I am completely colorblind to each individual I meet. This is true for the most part if I am being introduced to someone who is known by others. But living in New York, we are told to be constantly aware of our surroundings for our own safety, and it is (unfortunately) inevitable that the we notice the race of each individual we pass on the street. This also requires women, specifically, to be more aware of the men in their surroundings. Women today have to develop the skill to know whom to trust, to know whom to avoid and to know when situations that seem harmless, can advance to much more than that.

Today we “played a game” in which we mentioned something about ourselves and if this were true for others in the circle we would each take a step forward. Things very quickly became fairly intense and the conversation of race and gender was brought into the forefront. However, I found myself gravitating towards statements such as “I have felt lucky to be who I am” or “I have been proud of who I am”.

Thus the interaction i just had certainly made me take a step back from my conversations about race and gender in the classroom to realize that I am very much in this conversation in society. I just reached my apartment after walking home from a friend’s party. On my way home I first encountered a group of three people of color whose front license plate had been knocked off of their car. We caught eyes and laughed together at the situation. Then I continued on my walk and I encountered another car in which four men of color sat. The one male in the passenger seat hollered to me “You sure are lucky you’re cute…not”.

First I must mention that I recently sacrificed any hope of looking “cute” this winter to go for the far more practical warm. I was not offended by his comment as he stared at my alien type face that peeked out from between my beanie and my scarf. I have also been catcalled in the past; having someone mention my appearance for merely walking down the street is not a new and unsettling situation. However, it was the word “lucky” that got me thinking. The most recent time I had used this word was to remind myself of the privilege and fortune that I come from. To remind myself that whatever dark things are being spoken about in the moment do not define me as a human being and I am not misfortunate because I have confronted issues in my life.

However, in this situation, I did not think “lucky” was being used in the same manner. It was not about my privilege in this instance. The way I interpreted his comment (which my be completely erroneous) was that I was spared today due to the fact that this one individual, one who had the strength to overpower me, did not find me physically attractive enough to put me in a harmful situation.

Whilst “not” jokes are completely passé, and I have learnt to toughen my skin to insults hurled at me from the street, this phrase struck a chord with me. As you may remember from a particular previous post, I tend not to shy away from confronting sexual harassers and I have found myself injured due to this conviction. This was different, I felt targeted due to my gender. I felt disdainful towards a race due to one arrogant individual. I felt the need to reconsider my definition of lucky. I questioned everything I had thus far appreciated and made to wonder what “luck” really means. Does it mean growing up with opportunities, or does it mean being fortunate enough to be too ugly to be worth sexually (or possibly) physically harassing.

These questions will not be answered. I don’t know. I walked away from the situation. I learnt from the past that whilst women need a voice, it’s not enough to speak back alone. We are not strong enough to have one voice be enough to combat society. We need to speak together. Heck, we need to scream together, if that’s what it takes for our voices to be heard, and for actions to be made.

I am proud to feel lucky. I will never feel lucky that because of how I chose to dress I evaded sexual assault. I will never understand luck the same way again.

A retroactive introduction

Every morning after a party I end up having a fairly similar conversation with one of my friends. It goes something like this

Friend: Where were you last night, I hardly saw you
me: Oh, I ended up speaking to fill in name here
Friend: How is it that every party, you find the one person that no one knows, and end up speaking to them for the entire night?

Whilst I usually follow up this comment with an “I don’t know”, this is a lie. I do know.

I have never been the best at keeping friendships. There are very few people in my life that I can honestly say that I speak to regularly. Yes, there are the best friends out there who I will always cherish. But these amount to only a few of the many people I encounter on a daily basis at University or at home in London. I have always been that friend that forgets to tell them I’m back in town, or will do so right at the end of her winter vacation when everyone has already gone back to school. It is not that I don’t cherish the friends I have made over the years…I just am really bad at showing it.

However, I have always been a friendly person, someone who meets lots of people, I just don’t text them the morning after and ask to go to coffee. However, I do consider many of these to be friendships, even if they last for merely a night (which they often do)

This blog is a way for me to show that these moments do matter to me, and that all the people that come and go from my life do matter to me. They each have their own effect. Whether it is a conversation I witness and am not a part of. A person with whom I exchange a mere sentence or two, a person who I chat with for twenty minutes, or maybe that new person that comes into my life for an extended period of time. I take every interaction I have seriously, and I reflect on what each new person offers me, whether they realize this or not. And that is the reason for this blog. It’s not even really meant to be read by others, though I do try and throw in an amusing quip every now and again to show people just how hilarious I am. This blog is for me, to be read by me, to remind me to cherish these people, and encourage me to put down in writing the reflection that takes place in my head after each encounter.

End of rambling.

Le Personne di Firenze

I feel that it is unfair if I leave my only post about Florence to be the horrifically negative encounter of a few weeks ago (or maybe it was months, time here seems to be moving at this strange speed where every day flies so fast, yet I feel that I have been here forever). Whilst I do not typically enjoy the classic “here’s my blog post from the amazing things I do, learn about my life” I must say Florence has been wonderful; I cannot doubt that. Whilst I do miss my strained relationship with New York, I can’t ignore my blossoming one with Florence and the wonderful people that I have met here and I think it only fair that I dedicate something to them.

Unfortunately, there are a lot of American people here, so many that I sometimes forget that I am indeed on a different continent and that there are other languages spoken around me. However, once my Italian was decent enough here (as in when I realized that grazie has an E on the end which must be pronounced), I did try and blend in with the locals. Being asked for directions in Italian, as though you’re a real Italian, is quite a feat here as most people just assume American due to the herds of tourists that flock to the city each month. But once this started happening, and once I could respond not only with the right directions, but the right directions IN ITALIAN, I decided it was time to try out my Italian on some real people.

And I’m glad I did. Every person I have met here has changed me in some way, whether it was the guy at the pizza place who protected me from yet another angry encounter, or the bartender at our favorite bar who cared for each of us so dearly, even when one of our friends had a slight mishap in the bar…I won’t go into details on this one, but it wasn’t nice. There were so many people who opened their city to me and allowed me to truly experience this city for what it is. We received the local treatment at the restaurant at the back of our apartment (this included 3 euros off our meal so that my friend and I could easily halve the check), we got free samples of wine at the classier place down the road because we took the time to get to know these people, and I cannot express how thankful that I did.

Whilst, yes, my Italian wasn’t perfect enough to have real in-depth conversations with anyone, as evidence by our disgraceful tandem in Italian where in English the Italian high school students could talk to us about being arrested and their favorite music, and all we could conquer in Italian was what we like to do in our spare time (apparently I read a lot of books), I did manage to break through with a few people. The wonderful friend we met at Santo Spirito, who invited us to his restaurant and showered us with free alcohol, later became a wonderful Italian friend, one with whom we could not communicate perfectly (his English was only a little better than our Italian). However, I will always remember standing outside the Duomo, practically playing charades so we could communicate that we had eaten too large a panini to be able to climb the hundreds of steps of the dome.

Then there was the creepy Italian guy who I foolishly allowed to add me on facebook and woke up every couple of days to “ciao, tesoro, come stai?” to whom I tried to explain that I could not speak Italian, but eventually just allowed the Italian messages to flood my inbox never to hear a reply. However, Florence is small, and chance encounters happen more than one would hope. There was many an evening where our paths would cross and I would be stuck too drunk to flee the encounter. However, he was harmless, and strangely will be missed when I move back to a country where completely ignoring someone is more acceptable and pretty much expected.

However, the size of this city often worked to my advantage. There were few evenings where I could leave my apartment and not run into a friend to have a quick chat with on the street, and then there was “Bun Guy”. Bun Guy actually quickly became a true friend because of these chance encounters. It started with a random meeting at our favorite bar, which then turned into surprise run-ins at multiple bars after that, and evenings spent chatting in Santo Spirito, the most crowded square in Florence where you would assume chance encounters to be night impossible. However, Bun Guy and I became friends. His English was far superior to my Italian, and quickly pleasantries became the only thing we would say in Italian before rocketing into real conversations in English. Bun Guy has become someone I will truly miss upon my departure, and in all honesty I cannot believe that we will ever see each other again.

Thus my departure, which is set for a week from now, has become bittersweet fairly quickly. Florence has changed from “the place I didn’t really want to be to begin with” to “the place I will wholeheartedly miss”, and I think a lot of that is due to the wonderful people that I have met here. And so, with this melancholy spirit I say goodbye to my home of four months, and move on to experience new encounters elsewhere.

Goodbye people of Florence. Arrivederci (maybe)!

Green Leather Jacket

I first off would like to apologize to my zero person fan-base for not having written in a while. Unfortunately I have been having so much fun here in Florence that my blog seems to have taken a backseat to my incessant photo taking and borderline alcoholism.

I come here today to write of a less uplifting story than my usual hilarious random encounters and would like to speak of something that has really affected me here in Florence. I am so fortunate to meet so many wonderful people, and have continued to do so, including multiple bartenders, a DJ that made a feature spot in one of my posts, many students, and other fantastic people that I have met on my many adventures in this wonderful city.

Unfortunately, not every person someone encounters can be one of the nicest people in the world, and I was unlucky enough last night to have one of the worst encounters of my existence thus far and I feel the need to spread to my (again) zero person fan-base, but also hopefully a few people who find this post randomly on the internet, of the events of my last night. I do not intend this post to attack anyone or write off my actions as wholly acceptable, but merely want to spread my story as I am sure there are thousands out there similar and most definitely worse and more horrific and I would like this post to act as my calling out to the entire human race about the dangers of both a foreign city and of certain types of people that do exist in this world.

Last night my friends and I decided to frequent one of our more popular bars here in Florence, Kikuya, home of great beer and truly wonderful people. I had already had a certain amount to drink and was feeling great and slightly boisterous. However, out of nowhere a friend of mine shouts that a young gentleman had just stuck his hand under her skirt and fully groped her behind and ran away. Naturally, both of us were fuming at the audacity of such a person and fueled by our drinks we decided we had a duty as women to call this man out on his actions- to show him that he cannot merely get away with such lewd behavior. Although we were insistent that we were going to “punch this man in the face” this is not what ended up happening.

We ran down the street asking bystanders if they had seen “the man in the green leather jacket” [GLJ] (and might I add, having people say that they would be said person and then instantly retracting this statement upon our divulgence of wanting to punch him in the face). We ran a few hundred meters down the street and had decided to just walk back and enjoy our evening when we spotted him walking towards us. As I said, we did not go up to this gentleman (if I dare call him that) and punch him in the face. I, mildly aggressively, told him that what he had done to my friend was unacceptable and that he should apologize. He merely responded with “ciao, grazie”, clearly unapologetic for his heinous (yes, heinous) crimes. I politely told him “vafanculo” (look it up) and we continued to walk away, sure that we were going to get no serious response from this Jackass.

However, he decided he was not done with the confrontation. GLJ comes up to me from behind and grabs my right arm (rather firmly might I add) and then proceeds to grab my left thumb which was equipped with an ornate dragon ring. He twisted my thumb causing my ring to cut into my finger and leaving me both arms caught within his grasp. Now, I have grown up with two older brothers who would often play fight with me and my advice from my brother was always that if I truly was caught in a situation where my arms were incapacitated I should instantaneously knee my attacker in his more private regions. And this is exactly what I then decided to do, not before asking him is he was “f*&^ing serious” and to “look at what he is doing”. The asshole responded with a rather unexpected and rather painful throwing back of his head to, and I am completely serious here, head-butt me in the face before sprinting away from the scene of the crime.

I honestly could talk about the aftermath of this event for hours as I remain shocked and appalled at this man’s actions. To turn any verbal confrontation into a fight, no matter what gender or age you are is a serious action, and when we add in to this equation that this MAN had a good 10 years on me (a young WOMAN), there is truly nothing excusable about his actions.

I am fortunate to come out of this event with merely a mild bruise and a small cut on my thumb, but this does not diminish the actions of this man. A man should not sexually harass a woman, a woman has every right to tell a man that his actions are unacceptable, and yes, I do admit that yelling at such a fellow to get my point across was probably not the most democratic of responses, but this does in NO WAY excuse his actions. To everyone out there who has continued to read to this point, thank you. The point of this post is yes to get my story across, but also to raise awareness of the violence that still exists in this world. Women everywhere are overpowered by men in the physical sense, and whilst I am all about female equality, it is an indisputable fact that women merely are weaker physically on average than men. Everyone needs to play their part to reduce violence (to ANYONE) in this world. Physical violence should not be the response of any confrontation, no matter how heated a fight, or how fueled by alcohol or emotions.

There are people taking action against violence against women and whilst I am not a pusher or an advertiser, I will here take a second to promote UNite, UN’s campaign to end violence against women. You can learn more about UN Women and UNite here: http://www.unwomen.org/en/what-we-do/ending-violence-against-women/take-action

And finally I would like to add that I know not every male is guilty of this and this is not an attack against the male gender. To the guys who were with me who wish they’d stepped in: Thank you. Thank you for letting me fight my battle, and thank you for wanting to protect me, and thank you for caring for me afterwards. SOLIDARITY people!

Florence Encounters- The DJEnglish

I must firstly apologize for my lack of posting- with the stress of moving into a new place and plus trying to avoid the creepy italian men my interaction with random people has been sparse to say the least. We were told that basically talking to an Italian man was invitation for him to seduce someone so we, as a group, have been trying to keep our distance from foreign men. Thus our random encounters have been all but limited.

With this being said, there has been the odd meeting here and there, a stranger in the street greeting me hello; someone trying to help me find my secret destination. However, my finest encounter has been with DJEnglish.

My friend and I were trying to find our way home from one of Florence’s Secret Bakery’s (these beautiful places that sell chocolate croissants at 2 euros a piece at 2 in the morning) when we came across DJEnglish. He had been playing music at the club we had been at earlier and I had found his dreadlocks more than impressive, thus when we passed him on the street my friend’s joking suggestion that we went and talked to him could not be taken as it was intended and I immediately went up and introduced myself.

I thought this interaction would last a few minutes….me complimenting this beautiful man on his fantastic taste in music (which literally threw me back to my younger years as a 14 year old sitting in the park at 12am)…and then we would go on our merry way back home. However, this guy decided we were just about worthy of his time…we stood talking with him for a good half a hour. He was from Oxford but had moved to Florence recently, and I explained that I was from London and had moved to New York and was spending the semester in Florence.

We spoke in depth about the types of people one meets in New York and Florence and he opened my eyes to just how open-minded the florentines can be about people they meet, and I did the same for him about New Yorkers (or so I hope, i’m not too convinced to be honest). I can’t say he convinced be too thoroughly on the depth of the personalities over here but it was nice to talk to someone who understood where I was coming from. Someone who understood that Rihanna is not the center of the universe and that Beyonce is not the only person worthy of my time at a club.

After the multitude of creeps I have encountered in Florence- it was heartwarming to meet a true English Gentleman and I only have DJEnglish to thank for that, so thank you DJEnglish for reminding me that pretty much everyone sucks, and we can all be sarcastic whenever we want–and also being British in a foreign place will always be cool, no matter where you are

London Encounters: The Bearded Brit

Going out in London, you are far more likely to encounter chatty drunk people than I think anywhere else on the planet- unless you are around a group of British people partying in Aiya Napa (There is a very distinct seasonal change in this however). Last night out in the suburban town of Richmond was no different. After having been harassed by a group of drunk “lads” outside, my friend and I returned to our other two friends and drinks inside.

We were warned that closing time was in 15 minutes and we were asked to finish our drinks (side note: this is at 11:45 mind you, everything closes at midnight on a wednesday- London is not New York) when a fairly drunk guy comes up to us asking if we wouldn’t mind giving him some advice. He proceeded to tell us that he had just decided to grow a beard and wanted our opinion on its length. We gave him our suggestion (1mm shorter, lose the fluff under the chin). We had been a bit short with him as we weren’t exactly looking to chat to someone as it was our first night altogether in London this summer. However, the guy did not pick up on the hint and continued to ask us where we were from, where we went to Uni (the British version of college), and what we were studying. 

Whilst initially we were dubious of this guy- he actually turned out to be really nice and did seem genuinely interested in what we had to say, and whilst he did seem a bit drunk- he wasn’t the typical belligerent person you are likely to meet at Vodka Revs on a Wednesday (I am indeed ashamed of my whereabouts, let’s not talk about it). As we began chugging our beers to leave, he finally got the gist and apologized for intruding on our evening (what a gentleman?!) and wished us safe onward journeys.

I have to say, whilst this guy was not the most interesting person I’ve spoken to in my existence and whilst I really don’t care where he is now or what his name is (didn’t even think to ask), it was refreshing to just have a chat with someone who boldly comes up to you and your friends and not have to think about how you’re going to break it to this guy that there will be no nudity for him in the foreseeable future (at least from any of us, not sure how he fared after he left), but that didn’t even seem like his intention. This may not seem like it should be a big deal but for the group of Londoners that we had encountered earlier in the evening, and with my general knowledge of the London bar scene, this is a rare encounter in the wild and one that should be cherished.

So thank you Bearded Brit for not trying to hit on us- there is hope in the world  

My new Uber boyfriend

I ordered my Uber driver to take me to the airport when its estimated arrival time was in 4 minutes. I immediately went downstairs with my friend and we commenced to smoke our final cigarette together for the next five months. Of course, the driver was early and within 30 seconds of scorching the tip of my cigarette I can hear a man calling over my shoulder announcing himself as my driver (I already recognized him from the far too close head shot that had been sent to my phone). The driver agreed to wait for my friend and I to finish our cigarettes and to have our last goodbye.

Upon stubbing our cigarettes on the ground and a near-to-tears hug, I am beckoned by the driver to the car to put my bag away and have the door opened for me as he strokes my side to direct me to my seat. A very kind man, even if a bit keen, he immediately points out some water in the door pocket that I can help myself to and every sentence he utters is introduced and concluded with a “please” or “thank you”.

I wave goodbye to my home for the past summer and capture a mental image of the beauty of New York that I will be returning to as I find myself being hurled up the FDR. The driver and I begin our pleasantries- where am I going…how long will I be gone…why am I in New York…why is he in New York…where is he from…where am I from- the natural beginning to every Uber ride, especially one headed to the airport. However, this one fairly quickly turned more personal. He asked if the boy I had just said goodbye to was my boyfriend- I told him that he was not. “Why is he not your boyfriend…you’re so pretty…no boyfriend?…you will find a boyfriend in Italy…I’ll be your boyfriend”. I politely denied this man’s proposition and he explained to me that because he was from Uzbekistan his English was not very good and he asked me to speak to him. Just speak, say anything. A hard ask for someone who is not only already emotional to be leaving New York City but also was hoping to enjoy her drive in silence, or potentially with some background music to cut the awkwardness.

This however, was not allowed by my very kind driver- who only seconds before followed up his offer of water, with that of gum and candy (I know, don’t take candy from a stranger…), and instead I was being hurled multiple questions and was told maybe 15 to 20 times how beautiful I was. He asked me to leave him a kind review on Uber because he doesn’t want to lose the job and when I agreed that I would, we secured our new friendship with a fist bump followed by (finally) silence. Leaving the car at the airport after a very quick drive (only 30 minutes to JFK compared to the 2 hour drives I have previously suffered) I was left with a lingering hug from my driver, and an almost pleading request that I text him upon my return to New York City- I’m assuming not only so that he can get the money from my return drive, but also so that he can drive me off into the sunset in his Honda, fully stocked with water and candy to last us a 3 year road trip around the continental US, ending in our marriage in a small chapel in Vegas to begin our small family life in rural Idaho (I’m just assuming this though).

I left the man with mildly mixed feelings- I was touched by this man’s kindness and generosity and appreciated that he just wanted someone to talk to, but I was also concerned by his forwardness to someone he had previously assumed was 18 years old- and his creepy insistence that I was just so beautiful but was living my life wrong- I should not be smoking, I should be dating someone who appreciates me- I should not be leaving the States- I was even insulted for only having lived in New York for two years- I should have been here longer by now. But I couldn’t be truly annoyed or creeped out by this man who was just trying to be nice to me- even if it didn’t always come across that way. But instead of being insulted deeply at these moments of weirdness I learnt to just take them as he intended them- and I found myself weirdly appreciative of this man’s intensity and mild-to-medium infatuation. Maybe I will text him when I get back to New York…maybe.

Farewell NYC

So, last night was my second to last night in New York City. Clearly if I didn’t get blackout drunk and talk to at least 8 people the night would be deemed a complete failure. The night started innocently enough. I greeted my friend back to the city for her upcoming semester by meeting her at East Village Social (EVS) after work. Only one drink in we expected to leave but instead awaited the arrival of another friend who had also just landed back in manhattan. We decide to move to a bigger table to accommodate the group of people supposedly coming to meet us. However, after waiting 10 minutes, there was still no sign of our friend, so we decided instead to brave another $6 beer. 

I continue catching up with my friend who I haven’t seen all summer and begin telling her about my evening at High Dive in Brooklyn, a bar that not only offers unlimited free popcorn but also a vast selection of old school board games. That evening we had chosen to play Jenga, so I told her about the competition we had gotten into with the table of men next to us who had attempted to out-shine our precarious tower that had only 5 minutes early been sitting on our table. Not two minutes later, a group of 3 guys sitting next to us at EVS challenged us to a game of Jenga. Seeing this as a sign we proceeded to let these men join us. 

10 minutes of awkward conversation, one fake phone call, and both of us realizing these men were neither fun, nor interesting, we decided to go meet our friend outside Lucy’s to continue on to a party he had been invited to. Needless to say, this encounter did not intrigue me, nor do I wish to reflect upon the poor company of that time. We met our friend and he led us to an apartment on 13th and B (I believe, can’t say my memory is too crisp of the entire evening). On our way, we encountered a silent disco taking place in a small bar on 13th street. A speedy 5 minutes of borrowing a set of headphones from a group standing outside and briefly enjoying the DJ’s that played to us through them without anyone else hearing, we headed onwards to the apartment. We had vowed to come back and fully enjoy the silent disco, however, I realized that it would have to wait until January until I found myself living in Manhattan again. 

We found our way to the apartment, enjoyed several shots, some other friends came to join us, and we found our way on to another party. At this point we were mildly intoxicated, and we found ourselves with a set of portable speakers. If you can’t be obnoxious on your second to last night in Manhattan for a while, I’m not sure when you can be obnoxious. We continued to blast music from the speakers and harass people to dance with us in some sort of impromptu dance party. We enjoyed the company of those that accepted and recognized that you can make friendships on the street with only the aid of music and no words, and scoffed at those who glared at us for being so childish. Regardless, we relished the few friendships we made, danced our asses off, and continued on to our friend’s party.

This did not turn out as we expected and instead we had to make other arrangements to move on to somewhere else. We joined some friends at their apartment on 11th and A and after more drinking, migrated to my friend’s apartment with a small group of us. We reflected on the bizarre string of events of the evening; the seemingly casual night turning into what can only be described as a “shit show”, and recalled the moving of friendships from a group of people playing Jenga in a sedate and orderly fashion, to the absurd harassment of unsuspecting people on the street.

I reflected this morning on how in most of my stories I have been the passive receiver; I accept the weirdness that New York throws at me without me being aware. However, last night, I was the pursuer; I was the person that people would write about in their own similar blog- I became “that weirdo that accosted me on the street and forced me to dance to Kanye West and Pharrell”. Heading off for my next adventure in life, I realized that I do not need to let life come at me- I can chase it with my own will- and I hope that upon my arrival in Florence in a couple of weeks I will continue to chase down life’s adventures and not only allow the craziness to come to me, but bring the craziness to others around me.  

The Solicitor

I am not a mind reader. I do not claim to be one and I would like to make this perfectly clear. However, my two years of being a psych major and specifically one class in social psychology has taught me that we, as human beings, are pretty adept at intuiting a lot of information about people from only a short interaction by picking up on both verbal and non-verbal cues. The line “do you come here often?” could be read as a guy hitting on you or he could merely be interested in the demographics of the people that frequent such a watering hole; but you can generally gauge said man’s intentions by reading his body language (did he five minutes ago try to grab your rear end? or has he been standing at the bar for 5 minutes tallying the age and gender of each person that has entered the establishment). I digress. What I am trying to say is that the story that follows has another side, and what I read as someone’s intentions may in fact not be their intention at all. However, I am also saying that people can read people: I may be right. 

A few nights ago a friend had invited me to see his new place in Brooklyn. I agreed to go once I finished work; leading me to take the L and forcing me to walk the 11 minutes down Bushwick ave. rather than the 3 minutes from the J at Halsey St. I don’t know if you’ve been to this part of town at night (after 11pm), but things quiet down and whilst it is not “scary” per se, I refused to put in my headphones and deafen myself to my surroundings. 

I had completed around 7 of my 11 minutes of walking when I was waiting at a crosswalk (whilst there were not many people, the streets were busy with cars [not taxis as you would find in manhattan]). As I’m waiting, a car drives forward in front of me; however, he does not keep up his close to daredevil speed. Instead the bordering elderly gentleman in the front seat (around 70) slows down his pace so that he is able to not only gain my eye contact: but maintain it for the proceeding 20 seconds. In this time, the man pulls out about 5 or 6 $100 bills, continues staring, and raises one eyebrow as if you say “you interested?”. 

Yes, this could be an assumption- but my mind would only allow me to read this look as meaning that this guy had mistaken me for a “woman of the night”. I am not lacking in experience with the opposite sex- and I have seen this face before- and I know what it means- and I am not inclined to think that I had completely misread the situation. Maybe this man was just trying to impress me and was not offering me said money. Maybe he’d mistaken my converse and dungarees not to think I was a hooker, but a homeless person in need of a little generosity, and he was there to give it. All I know with absolute certainty is how this moment made me feel- regardless of this man’s intentions. 

I was not suddenly plagued by an onslaught of intense thoughts about how this man could make such an error. This encounter did not make me rethink all of my life’s decisions. In fact, it really did very little to affect me; I’m almost inclined to delete this whole post and move on with my life. All this granted me was a hilarious story to bring with me to my friend’s apartment in Brooklyn (side note: Brooklyn housing prices are SO much better than Manhattan- just, don’t live in manhattan kids- live in Brooklyn- you’ll live in the abode of a rich person for the price of, well, a slightly less rich person). I may have arrived at his apartment empty handed- but I was not lacking in comedy material to get a good chuckle for what had transpired in my walk. 

Sometimes, that’s all that matters in life. Sometimes, you need a strange encounter with a random person on the street waving a wad of cash at you to bring you a little closer to the friends you already have.