love in the face of fear.

The past few days have felt like a blur and every morning when I listen to the news, I feel a lump in my throat as my grip on events in this world gets ever looser.  By some miracle, Niamh left Paris early on Friday afternoon to spend the weekend with family in Dublin.  I am grateful for her safety, for that Friday evening she spent sipping champagne with Megan instead of out at her usual haunts, for fortune and fate.  I try not to think about the plain fact that it could have been different.  Niamh has written about returning to her adopted home this weekend and her words make me feel at once sad, thankful, and very very far away, both physically and emotionally.

And here, on a beautiful November day in New York City, I feel a heavy sadness like I have rarely felt before.  Uncertainty has taken the place of comfort and stability.  A man in a van almost ran me over as he turned right into the pedestrian crossing where I walked outside Riverside Park yesterday.  He shook his fist at me in frustration.  Five minutes later, a man yelled at an elderly woman to shut up after she asked him to look ahead instead of down at his phone.  Tears sprang to my eyes.  Why can't we all just get along? I thought.  It's a platitude but since Friday I've been saying it with heart.  Why can't we all just get along?  Here we are in our magnificent neighborhoods, cities, countries, on this incredible planet with countless opportunities to love rather than hate every day.  Too often, too many people choose hate.

I saw someone mention this phrase this morning on social media and it's all I can think about.  A new mantra.  Love, in the face of fear.  Because that's all we can do.

LOVE IN THE FACE OF FEAR.

rules of civility

On an October weekend in Beacon, after the most picturesque train ride in recent history, in between leaf peeping and microbrews, we stumbled into a little used bookshop on the main drag. Once the older woman sitting at the little fold-up table told me all the stores's profits went to the upkeep of the library next door, I was sold.  So were two gently used paperbacks.

Much to my surprise, this novel I picked up on a whim and for the greater good of the population of Beacon, NY was an incredibly enjoyable read.  Love, jealousy, parties, regret, success, and crosswords all set against the backdrop of New York in the Thirties.  I kept a pencil tucked behind my ear every time I pulled the book from my bag.  Herein, some of my favorite lines.

----

"Anyone who has ridden the subway twice a day to earn their bread knows how it goes: When you board, you exhibit the same persona you use with your colleagues and acquaintances.  You've carried it through the turnstile and past the sliding doors, so that your fellow passengers can tell who you are -- cocky or cautious, amorous or indifferent, loaded or on the dole.  But you find yourself a seat and the train gets under way; it comes to one station and then another; people get off and others get on.  And under the influence of the cradlelike rocking of the train, your carefully crafted persona begins to slip away.  The superego dissolves as your mind begins to wander aimlessly over your cares and your dreams; or better yet, it drifts into an ambient hypnosis, where even cares and dreams recede and the peaceful silence of the cosmos pervades.

It happens to all of us.  It's just a question of how many stops it takes.  Two for some.  Three for others.  Sixty-eighth Street.  Fifty-ninth.  Fifty-first.  Grand Central.  What a relief it was, those few minutes with our guard let down and our gaze inexact, finding the one true solace that human isolation allows."

---

"Uncompromising purpose and the search for eternal truth have an unquestionable sex appeal for the young and high-minded; but when a person loses the ability to take pleasure in the mundane -- in the cigarette on the stoop or the gingersnap in the bath -- she has probably put herself in unnecessary danger."

---

"... I had the house salad -- a terrific concoction of iceberg greens, cold blue cheese and warm red bacon.  If I were a country, I would have made it my flag."

---

"... each city has its own romantic season.  Once a year, the city's architectural, cultural, and horticultural variables come into alignment with the solar course in such a way that men and women passing each other on the thoroughfares feel an unusual sense of romantic promise.  Like Christmastime in Vienna, or April in Paris.

That's the way we New Yorkers feel about fall.  Come September, despite the waning hours, despite the leaves succumbing to the weight of gray autumnal rains, there is a certain relief to having the long days of summer behind us; and there's a paradoxical sense of rejuvenation in the air.

... that somehow, despite the coming of winter, autumn in New York promises an effervescent romance which makes one look to the Manhattan skyline with fresh eyes and feel: It's good to live it again."

---

"What a transcendent diversion a crossword can be.... no matter how vestigial these words are in the body of common English, watching them fit so neatly into the puzzle's machinery, one feels as the archaeologist must feel when assembling a skeleton -- the end of the thighbone fitting so precisely into the socket of the hip bone that it simply has to confirm the existence of an orderly universe, if not divine intention."

---

"-- How does that happen?  How do you stop telling people where you're from?

  -- By inches."


From Rules of Civility by Amor Towles

grand mal on the G train

I left the office early yesterday afternoon to take care of some errands and work from home for a few hours.  The air was warm.  This autumn has been warmer than usual, which I know makes some people really happy but mostly makes me really upset about the inevitability of climate change.  Just call me Debbie Downer.

I followed my usual path home to Greenpoint, joining the construction workers at the subway station finishing their workdays inside Upper West Side brownstones that never seem to be finished.  I hopped on the downtown 2 express to Times Square.  I really do my best to put myself in the shoes of that tourist holding a map and blocking the stairs and on a good day, the perspective makes me shove a little less.  On a less-good day, I'm another commuter with places to be.

The 7 train platform was more crowded than I expected for a Thursday afternoon but I remembered the construction workers' shift and joined them on the train toward Flushing, where the air is spicy and exotic, especially for Queens.  My crossword app wouldn't download any new puzzles which is incredibly frustrating, but it was only 3:30 after all and I was on my way home.  At Court Square, I surrendered my seat and made my way towards the G train.  Instead of boarding in the usual place, I followed the cars all the way to the opposite end so that the post office would be a short walk from the exit at Nassau Ave.  The seats were all taken, but I was happy to post up by the door, leaning my back against the silvery surface to work on a Tuesday crossword from July.

The train lurched out of the station after a few minutes and somewhere between Queens and Brooklyn, the lady sitting across the train car dropped her red tote bag.  It was one of those reusable bags they used to give out at Falvey Library at Villanova when I had too many books to check out for my thesis research.  She seemed not to notice the bag fall, which was surprising considering the thump of it.  A minute passed, and then I made a move to see if she was okay as the guy leaning against the door next to her did the same.  She wasn't okay.  Her face turned and from the books I've read and the episodes of E.R. I've watched, I knew she was having a seizure.

The train car moved to action.  We consulted each other on the merits of pulling the emergency brake versus waiting for the train to pull into the station, and decided to wait rather than be stuck underground.  In the meantime, the woman had slipped from her chair and we gathered around her to catch her as she slumped to the floor.  When the train halted, we banged on the door of the conductor and ran to the window.  She lifted her walkie-talkie and sent for help.  A young guy chewing gum pulled a bandana from his gym bag and then gently slid the bag under the woman's head.  He held her hand and wiped her mouth where spit had gathered and spilled.  I was struck by his kindness.  An older woman came up beside me to see what was going on and told me it looked like a grand mal seizure, not a petit mal one.

After what seemed like an eternity, paramedics arrived and I moved to give them space.  The woman was responsive and seemed understandably freaked out by her new fetal position on the floor of a G train car.  I could only make out moans, but felt relieved to hear something.  Something is better than nothing.

There was nothing more I could do except get in the way, so I began to walk towards the stairs and outside into the Greenpoint evening.  I gulped at the fresh air and blinked back tears.  I stood for a moment, the image of that woman slumping to the floor fresh in my mind, and willed that memory to come forward next time I am on a delayed subway or waiting endlessly for a train to arrive, rolling my eyes and scoffing at the "sick passenger on a train up ahead".

fourteen.

Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees going nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.

Adam Zagajewski, "Try to Praise the Mutilated World" from Without End: New and Selected Poems, 2002.

--

This morning I woke up slowly, savoring the sounds of the whirring fan above and the kids on their way to school on the street below.  Kevin being away for the weekend and a rainy evening last night meant I could finally sleep without the constant hum of our air conditioner taking up the small window in our bedroom.

A cool breeze floated through the room and I lay there listening to the familiar cadences of Morning Edition.  I considered a run but decided instead to stay put, the cat cuddled next to my feet.  I felt a sense of wonder at how quickly 14 years go by.  I can't believe that it's been so long; in some ways, it feels just like yesterday.

Snippets of memory: fifth day of freshman year of high school, clear blue skies, sun shining.  Mr. Castle bumbles an announcement that something has happened in New York, that we had to go home.  Glued to the television, mouths agape, transfixed.  Classmates still relative strangers, but some with fathers working in New York.  Being sent home early, opening the front door to see Mum crying on the couch.  Family back home hearing "Pennsylvania" on the news and panicking.  No cellphone service, no school, just those photos and videos playing over and over again.  The memorial services, the stunned silences, the tears.

Ten years later when I moved to Brooklyn. my running route took me through Brooklyn Bridge Park and up along the Promenade, parts of the borough that lie closest to the Financial District.  I remember seeing a memorial plaque along the wrought iron fence of the Promenade for the first time and realizing, "Oh yeah, I guess the twin towers would have been right there."  That's the first time I saw that empty space on the skyline as empty, as a hole.  My mind drifted back to a trip to New York City, the "Big Apple", when my Nana was still alive and able to visit.  Mum took a photo of Nana and me standing together on the ferry.  We only noticed later that the twin towers loomed in the background.  That photo was one of the first things I saw every time I walked into her house.  Photo from the ferry, frantic phone calls on that day, the hole in the sky.  The passage of time is a strange thing.

This morning, I stopped in at my favorite coffee shop before getting on the bus and bought a latte.  It felt like a celebratory gesture on this first cool, blue-sky day of September.  On the subway at Times Square, the train was held in the station as a group of firefighters boarded the car, looking regal and handsome in their shiny polished black shoes, white hats, badges of honor on their sleeves.  A lump rose in my throat.  I stepped out of the train at 72nd Street onto Broadway, yellow cabs whizzing by, latte cool now in my hand, sky so clear and blue overhead.  I live here now.  Fourteen years earlier and my day would have been so different.  I felt grateful at that moment; first for the coffee in my cup and the cool breeze, and then for the the resilience of this city and its people, for the memory of that day and the fragility of the human experience, and for the opportunity to call this place home.

New York, I love you.

the story of a new name

I said to myself every day: I am what I am and I have to accept myself; I was born like this, in this city, with this dialect, without money; I will give what I can give, I will take what I can take, I will endure what has to be endured.

From The Story of a New Name by Elena Ferrante

N.B. If you read the first of Ferrante's Neapolitan novels and didn't love it, persevere and read the second.  I think I enjoyed it a million times more than the first and I'm already looking forward to reading Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay after a few weeks' break.

the ones who know me best.

The other evening after a lucky break working from home for the day, I sat on a blanket with my sister Niamh in Transmitter Park, one of my favorite spots in Greenpoint.  The sky was blue and the most perfect clouds hung suspended above the city skyline.  The air smelled faintly of the sea, as much as East River air can, I guess.  The later the evening became, the young couples and tow-headed kids on scooters from the neighborhood overtook the tourists toting large-lensed cameras and shopping bags from distant designer stores.

As we sipped rosé, we chatted on the phone with our younger sister Megan, who was in the airport waiting to board a flight to Dublin.  Next month she will be starting her Masters in bioengineering at Trinity College.  The baby of the family, the one who knew all the words to the "Star Spangled Banner" before any of us, is the one returning to build a life in Dublin.  We threatened to laugh if she had adopted an accent by the time we visit in December.  It's inevitable she retorted.  She spent the last of her dollars on a book at the airport which left her with none for a glass of wine.  I loved that.  I will miss her weekend visits to our Brooklyn apartment, where she takes up residence on the couch after seeking out her favorite throw blanket.  I don't know if we will still be living on Noble Street when she comes home.  If she comes home.

But for now, there is another sister living on the couch.  Niamh has left her adopted home behind and is home for the month.  Sometimes I think we have been sustaining ourselves on a WhatsApp-based relationship for so long that spending lots of time together in person will be weird, or challenging, or tiresome.  For the most part, I am wrong on that count.  It has been so nice to revisit our jokes and hang out with the cat and share my Brooklyn life with her (even if we are both due for a serious diet come September).

This summer has felt somewhat like the summers of childhood, when my sisters and I would crowd back into my parents' lives (and they into ours) after the last day of school.  We have spent more time together as a family of five -- and sometimes six -- than we have in years.  The days lifeguarding at the community pool have been traded in for more indoor and grown-up pursuits, but it has felt really good to spend time with my favorite people.

First there was Megan's graduation weekend at Goucher College, which Niamh snuck home to attend much to my shocked surprise.  One emotional ceremony, a sweaty move-out and frenzied AC-free road trip, and a few too many drinks later, Niamh was back in Paris for final exams, Megan was taking hundreds of selfies in Lisbon and Berlin, and I was wrapping up my last few weeks at work.  Mum and Dad took off for France not long after and sent lots of photos of the pool and rosé and sunsets that awaited us.

In June, I flew to Paris to see Niamh and after Megan had arrived from Lisbon, we spent two weeks in the French countryside at Monet Les Blanchardieres, my parents' idyllic cottage in the Loire.  Kevin came along just in time for Fourth of July and despite a brutal canicule, or heatwave, we spent many happy days relaxing by the pool and wandering the local markets.  It felt nice to get away and be together in a distant place, and despite the physical and cultural distance, the rhythm of the days still felt very much like home.  I hadn't been to stay at the house since after my college graduation in 2009 so there was a bit of a disconnect between my experience and that of everyone else who visits more regularly, but when 5:00 came each day, someone would pop open a bottle of crémant and we would enjoy the long sunny evenings around the table.  I didn't even have to charge my phone every night.  What a concept!

After a stopover in Brooklyn and an incredibly fortunate scheduling mishap, Kevin and I spent five days on the beaches of Bermuda with his parents.  Though I was sad to leave my scooter and the rum swizzles behind, I looked forward to soaking up the remaining weekends of the summer in the city.  Niamh flew into Philadelphia on the 1st of August and we jointly celebrated my parents' birthdays the best way we know how: a delicious feast, stinky cheese, and carrot cake for dessert.  Dad was a good sport and slaved away over his signature cocktails all weekend.  I don't think there are any lemons or limes left in the state of Pennsylvania.

Since that first weekend of August, the days have been a whirlwind.  There have been ferry rides and subway rides, an inaugural Yankees game, lots of pizza and bagels, rooftop cocktail hour, cuddles with the cat, morning runs, and egg sandwiches.  There have been group chats with Megan about the angst and eventual resolution of her apartment hunt, followed by more angst about that Dublin rain.  Niamh spent a few days at home in-between and I am already looking forward to a weekend there with Mum after Labor Day.

I thought that all the time I would spend with my family this summer would err on the side of too much, but then I remembered that for 18 years these were the people with whom I toughed out the days.  Ten years on and many miles in-between, they are still the ones who know me the best and I feel so grateful to call them mine, all mine.  There is no one I would rather go through life with.

When all is said and done, I think our time together this summer will have been too short after all.

a regular.

Where you been?  Long vacation or what??

Milk no sugar, right?

--

I hadn't been to the diner on the corner near my office since June, but they still knew my order.  I swooned a little and tried, failing spectacularly, not to smile too much.

The humidity has lifted and I love this city again.  I suppose that makes me a fair weather fan in the most literal sense of the word.  The clear skies and cool breeze has got me antsy for sleeping with the windows open and crunchy walks to the subway, cardigans and scarves and wrapping my hands around a warm cup of tea.  There is nothing like New York in the fall.

But in the spirit of not wishing my life away, as I am wont to do, I am focusing on these waning bright mornings and being able to bare my arms without a chill.  In these last days of August, I'll paint my toenails and pack bathing suits and sunscreen for a trip to Cape Cod next weekend, and close out this memorable summer with clam strips and wine coolers on the beach and hopefully a few more freckles.

I'll certainly be ready for the change when autumn comes.  But I'll be ordering the same coffee because, in this city of so many strange faces, it's nice to be a regular.