mrs-roboto's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Homeward Bound So you may remember I went to New York. Brooklyn to be exact. The place where I was born and raised and where most of family still resides. The place where I feel least at ease in my own skin. I went to visit my grandmother and that was accomplished. I spent three days at her home mostly talking about things I needed to know the details of. Things I want to remember long after she is gone. And oh, do I have stories but not for telling today. Maybe next time. There's something else I want to talk to you about. Something that will probably earn me a bit of hate mail from Big Apple lovers. Something I have been trying to write constructively about for some time but tend to get too fired up to remain objective about. You see, New York and I have a long and sordid history. We spent seventeen bitter and loveless years together, and even had a short lived reunion when I was in my early twenties where we tried to work out our differences, but we're like oil and water. Truth be told, we hate one another. New York gets angry at me for my slow, relaxed stride and dopey, innocent grin and I get pissed of at it for the hustle and bustle and noise and rush. I say to New York "slow your roll" and New York says to me "why don't you retire to Boca Raton already, granny?" I always try to be civil with my hometown but our differences are too great. After a day or two, we need to be separated to keep from clawing each others eyes out. The first night I was in New York I attempted sleeping with the windows open. You see, I am not a big fan of air conditioning (it always makes me wake up with a sore throat) but I do like a little cool air when I am getting some z's. It wasn't too surprising to hear the cars with the booming bass cruising by out front. This is par for the course in Crooklyn. What was a bit shocking was the hour long intellectual debate happening in the street. It went something like this: Vinny Bagodonuts: "Maria, you're a retard. Longuyland *is* the country. It is no way a borough." Maria Elena Casteliana" "Vinny, dontcha even know nothin'? It is *so* a borough. Just like Staten Island except without such a good mall, ya know?" Vinny B.: "Hey Paulie, tell this broad that Longuyland is not even a part of New York, wouldya? She's a stupid, skanky retard for thinkin' otherwise." Paulie Gombats: "Yeah, what he said." And so on. I think you get the idea. Close those windows and on with the a/c. After about three hours of solid sleep, I rose and readied myself for the day. My plan was to drive my dad's extra car to my grandmothers house and spend the day helping her in any way I could. My mother accompanied me. Did I mention I was staying with my parents? Did you know my mom gets up at 4:00 AM? And that I am a very light sleeper? And that she is a very loud walker? And that they have wood floors? Yeah, good times. On the fifteen minute trip to my grandmothers house, I was honked at four times. Once for not putting the petal to the metal the nanosecond the light changed, another time for not pulling into oncoming traffic so that the asshole behind me could get around me (he was sick of me driving the speed limit I guess), and twice for things I am completely unaware of. It was barely 7:00 AM on Saturday. Where was the fire guys? But then I remembered that in NY the horn is not a way to indicate to other drivers a potentially harmful situation, it's a comment system. It's a way to say "hey, you suck" and "move it already." It drives me nuts. On a more positive note, my little sister had just gotten her license and thus was chomping at the bit to drive. She gladly became my chauffeur thereafter, navigating the car into tricky parallel parking spots, down narrow streets filled with double parkers, and even to the ultra busy Park Slope where I felt I stood the best chance of getting decent groceries to snack on for the airplane trip back. In case you are not familiar with the food stores in NY, let me tell you most could be called Ghetto Mart. They are filled with products you've never heard of unless you subscribe to Beer Frame. Gross, disgusting food stuffs in cans with torn labels covered in layers dust, bananas as brown as dirt and carefully guarded by fruit flies, cheese so unnaturally yellow it almost glows (available only in brick form of course). Park Slope proved fruitless too despite it's yuppie upscaleness. Yes, even Dag's failed me. No goddamn Pria bars anywhere in Brooklyn! What's up with that? While out cruising with lil' sis, we were flagged by a car full of men who insisted they could get the dent out of our fender for a mere $50.00! And they'd do it right there on the street as we waited. They claimed that said dent was slowing us down (once again the need for speed seems a selling point to NYers) and causing damage to the engine. It's a tiny dent ferchrissakes! It affects nothing at all. It's not even near the engine. And these losers were driving around in a beat up old hoopty to boot! Does anyone actually fall for this scam? We also had another man (this one high as a kite on crack) stick his hand into the car window in a clearly "no good" maneuver but my sister was quick on the draw and hit the automatic window roll up do-hickey almost amputating this creeps arm. I forgot how terribly exhausting it is to be on alert at all times. There were other adventures, like the search for a decent cup of coffee but that's just way too Northwest of me to discuss. Instead, I'll leave you with this thought: when I returned to Seattle, he was waiting with peach colored roses and blue skies for me. His arms were open and at once I felt the tension melt away. This is home. 8:57 p.m. - 2003-09-16 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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