I have decided to do a series called A Bite of the Big Apple within my blog to give you a taste of the things I feel are uniquely New York. These blogs will describe events, theatre, restaurants, night life and anything else that can only be found in this bustling city. And for those of you who plan on visiting, this could be used as a great tool to help you pick some potential destinations. So...Bon appetit!
Have you ever wondered about those models who say they love burgers but weigh a mere 95 pounds? If you ask me, I don't buy that "I eat anything I want" bit. But if they were to succumb to the temptation of fried food like the rest of us, I'm sure they would pay a visit to Pop Burger.
Who can resist the guilt free goodness of a bite sized burger? Its not like New York city McDonald's give you the option to feel good about your nutritional choices when the calorie count is posted right on the menu. Big Mac meal...600 - 1200 calories. What's with the variation; is that with or without the special sauce? I say, skip the complicated and go for the smaller joys in life. Pop Burger makes portion control easy, and easy to afford. With two mini burgers you have the option to think about Larz, your personal trainer, before you break your diet; or, you can give him your second burger. And if Larz is completely against beef, you can opt for a chicken burger which has the same amount of flavor but lacks of cuteness - chicken burgers don't come in the mini size.
As a single woman, being new to the city inevitably makes you new to the dating scene. Yet, it seems as though the men of New York are much like Rubik’s cubes. They look fun and colorful, but they’re not as easy to figure out. For instance, do some men intentionally bypass chivalrous acts, or do they forget to open doors because they are so used to subway and building doors opening automatically. Don’t get me wrong, there is always a man willing to help me carry my heavy grocery cart up the subway stairs or carry my rented ladder from the hardware store to my apartment door. But those things are obvious. Opening doors or walking on the outside are those less obvious acts that really set men apart.
Another thing I have not figured out is when I should consider going out with a man a date…or something like it. I recently met up with a guy I met on New Year’s and had accidentally – my touch screen phone would dial his number in my handbag when my key lock was off – kept in contact with. He is a Brooklyn native, and I had planned on spending my Sunday afternoon at the Brooklyn Flea Market, so we decided to get together. A thunder storm cut our trip to the flea market short and we ended up at a near by sushi restaurant. After wowing him with my sushi knowledge, which was nothing more than a well memorized list of all the things Bond used to order when he took me out for sushi, we went to the movies. Afterwards, we made an impromptu visit to Home Depot, which was followed by a second meal. I had not planned on going on a date, as a matter of fact I’m not interested in dating right now, but as I sat at the bar eating my hot wings listening to him tell me about his last serious relationship and the number of children he wanted, I started to wonder if this had inadvertently turned into a date.
My mind instantly flashed back to an uncomfortable moment Dez and I had a week earlier while having dinner with the Mayor. In the midst of all the great food and small talk the Mayor’s colleague blurted out the most unexpected comment, “This is a great place to have a first date.” With out hesitation Dez and I, in unison, replied, “THIS AIN’T NO DATE!”
I was hoping I could avoid repeating that scenario with my Brooklyn ambassador. And thankfully, I did. There was absolutely no “date” conversation prior to, or during our meeting; and I assure you I am not one to make assumptions. However, it made me wonder about these New York men. At what point does going out with one of them turn into a date? Is it after the third hour, or after the third destination? Is there a financial cap that mayor Bloomberg put into place which allows men to spend only so much before they are automatically considered “on a date?” Or is the idea that a man will ask you out, and allow you the chance to say yes or no, SO retro it is being auctioned off in the vintage category on eBay?
Many years of school have taught me how to be a scholar. If there is a book worth reading, I want it. So when it came time for me to relocate to New York, I did what I know to do best; I read a book entitled Relocating to New York City and Surrounding Areas. Unfortunately, there is no book or amount of advice - or weekend seminar for that matter - that could have prepared me for such a transition. Although the book was helpful, it lacked some very pertinent chapters. As a result, I feel it is more than necessary to provide you with some personal supplementary chapters.
Chapter One - "All Cried Out"
I'm not typically inclined to burst into to tears, - I'm still waiting for The Notebook to trigger a reaction - but for some reason I couldn't stop crying the day I moved. I was finishing the last of my packing when I had a brief moment in my room; I assumed that would be the end of it, but I was far from being done. When “Bond” (that unpredictable man who finds a way to do something sweet a moment before you consider deleting him from your contacts) came over to help me ship my boxes, I started to notice a pattern. Every time we transitioned from one phase to another, I would cry. I cried when he moved all of the boxes out of my room. Then I cried when he loaded all of the boxes onto the Uhaul. I cried when he unloaded the Uhual and put my boxes on pallets at the Amtrak station, and again when I gave the foreman the money for my shipment.
Afterwards, we returned the Uhaul and headed back to my house. I was confident the crying was under control because there was nothing left to do besides wait for my mother to take me to the airport. When we arrived at my place something strange occurred. It seemed as though my tear ducts became larger and I lost the ability to hold back the tears because I realized it was time for Bond and I to say goodbye. A few months prior I had told myself that this moment would not be like the end of Casablanca; it would be swift and easy. Our goodbye was nothing like Casablanca. It was better. It pretty much encompassed our entire relationship. Honest, funny, and deeply emotional. Somehow, it caught me by surprise. I knew I was going to miss him, but I didn’t know he was going to react to the emotions and the crying so perfectly. I think my love for him might have grown deeper in that instance. After an hour or so of multiple failed attempts to leave, he finally managed to walk out the door.
Ten minutes later, my mom came home to find me lying on the bed, eyes swollen, looking pitiful. She gently placed her hand on my back and asked, “Baby, are your cramps that bad.” I chuckled. Then I cried because it was time for me to say goodbye to the greatest person in my life. My mom means the world to me, and I think the world knew. Why? Because I cried all the way to the airport, through the baggage check-in line, during the security check, and in the diner where I had dinner. I basically cried until it was time for me to board the plane. I was so exhausted from crying I slept through my entire flight.
I woke up the next morning with a head ache and a new roommate. We were so excited to be official residents of New York City. We grabbed our bags, hopped on the Super Shuttle, and headed to Harlem. As we stood in front of the door of our new apartment I was hit with a number of feelings. I was excited and scared, but mostly anxious because I had never seen the place. Dez opened the door and this is what we saw… Well, that’s just the bathroom. But the entire apartment was cluttered, dark, and filthy. And when we opened the door to my room we found living beings asleep in a fully assembled bed. I called my mom to let her know I had arrived safely. She knew something was wrong because I really didn’t have much to say. I immediately called Jas to ask if we could come over to take a shower and nap – there was no way I was doing ANYTHING in that apartment. I stood in the middle of the living room as my mind raced. I had to sit on the edge of the rancid futon just to keep from losing it. I finally broke. I put my face in my palms and let it rip. Dez followed with a barrage of tears.
Chapter 2 – “Little Child Runnin’ Wild”
There we were, two women, roaming the streets of New York looking like lost children. We were hungry, tired, and funky. I had a backpack, my money mug, and the same “Cali Girl” shirt I had worn while moving. Dez had her small rolling luggage and a dirty sun dress. The only thing appealing about our appearance was our new haircuts. We were the definition of high class homelessness.
We finally satisfied our hunger with chicken and waffles at Amy Ruth’s. Just as we were getting ready to leave, the men at the table next to ours struck up a conversation. Coincidentally, one was a general contractor and the other two were electricians. They offered to pay for our food, but we were hoping that they would offer to do an extreme make over on our apartment. We struck out. However, the general contractor did offer to take us to dinner when he saw us wandering the streets shortly after our initial conversation.
Chapter 3 – “We Live in Brooklyn Baby”
I love Brooklyn. The streets are lined with trees and there is a peace – West of Malcolm X Boulevard – that is a little harder to find in Manhattan. When we got off the A train I was praying that Dez would instantly fall in love with Bed Stuy and agree to ditch our dump and move to Brooklyn. She had more hope in our place than I did.
During my nap at Jas', Dez received a call from the general contractor about dinner…
Chapter 4 – “I Run New York”
Fast forward a bit… “the Mayor” (the gentleman formerly known as the general contractor from Amy Ruth’s) opened the door to Philippe’s Restaurant (no, no, you want to click this link). We started calling the general contractor the Mayor because everyone seemed to know and love him. He walked over to his business partner and a few moments later they were leading us down the stairs, through the kitchen, and behind a curtain. Apparently, the upstairs dinning area was for commoners; people like the Mayor eat in the wine cellar.
The waiter brought over hot lemon scented towels for us to wipe our hands with and the Mayor proceeded to order every possible animal that ever roamed the earth. Somewhere between our second and third course I realized that Russell Simmons was sitting across from us at the next table. I laughed to myself. In less than 12 hours I went from hating my life and wanting to move back home to loving my life…until I had to clean our apartment the next day.
♥ J’aime Bianca
And Bond, thank you for everything you did that day, you were amazing.
I have dreamed about living in New York City for years. I believe it started at a MESA (Mathematics Engineering Science Achievement) competition when I was twelve when I met a recruiter from Cornell University. At that age I hadn't realized that Cornell was in Ithaca, New York - and no where near the Statue of Liberty - but the idea of pursuing higher education at such a prestigious university (in what I thought would be the Big Apple at the time) fascinated me even then.
Now, twelve years later, here I am. I live in a cute two bedroom apartment in Manhattan, with my dear friend Dez, for an outrageously low price. However, knowing that this is exactly where God wants me to be at this time in my life is more satisfying than my rent-controlled apartment.
"So what's the story behind the blog?"
Well, if you know me, you know I'm not the kind of girl who likes to spend countless hours on the phone. As a matter of fact, I don't like most forms of modern technology and communication. My attention is too divided to hold a suitable phone conversation, my email and Facebook responses are few and far between, and don't even bother texting me. I always say, "If you want to be close to me, you have to be close to me!" Translation: You have to be in my presence to know who I really am. So what happens when you and your presence moves 3,000 miles away...you blog!
Currently, the title of my blog is This Ain't Sex and the City. Although Sex and the Cityis one of my favorite shows, I want people to know that this blog, and more importantly, my life does not play out like that well written series (Note: I have watched many hours of Sex and the City, however, at no point did delusion set in). So until I find a title that fits the personality of this blog, it will remain.
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