5 years in the making

If someone, a decade ago, had suggested that I'd have had the experiences I've had over the last few years I would have called them insane. But, who am I to argue with the hairy hand of fate? Late November, just a few days ago in fact, I was walking down one of the neighbourhood streets, brown leaves curling on the cold concrete, when I realised that it was the anniversary of my arrival here and I was now in my fifth year of living in New York. How could that be possible? The memories of home are frozen for me from the day and time and year that I left and moment that I left. I know a lot has gone on, people grown up, kids stretched taller, some re-located, others fallen away - but funnily enough I do find it hard to believe that when I go home things won't just be as I left them. An Australia preserved, waiting for someone to press pause. Of course, this won't be so. Walking down the street thinking on all this, I began to focus too on some of the details of this journey that I wouldn't ordinarily spend time considering. Random things about people and places and homes and streets and staircases and jobs - all the experiences, everything that has put the last five years together. The smell of the cab from JFK when I arrived late one night in late November. The flash of lights of the city. Climbing the stairs, all 68 of them, in Reade Street, Tribeca. Being in love. Suddenly delivering Christmas trees - pounding the pavement and erecting the trees in gorgeous downtown lofts. Being paid in tips. Working in bars. Understanding how bars work, how regulars work, how tips work. Late nights walking home down Broadway in the snow. Getting married in Central park. Navigating the world of expat visas. Moving to Brooklyn. Realising that moving to Brooklyn should have happened earlier. Loving Brooklyn. Becoming a part of a great neighbourhood. It boggles the mind to really contemplate and to try to articulate the minutiae that has been the last five years. A good friend of mine said that it took about 18 months living in New York before you really found your feet. She was right. Almost to the month. Have I found my foothold completely? I'm not sure. Are we ever? Experience has equipped me to survive this city more than it had in the first few years, but it's also had its toll. I could do with a holiday home. It's been three years since I've touched that soil, stirred under that sun, sat with mates and laughed. Many friends and family have visited and the yearning felt for home after their departure is magnified. Do I have friends like them over here? I'm not sure. Mostly, the friends here are Australian and European and ever thankful for that I do miss being able to drop around to friends and family or run into them down the shops. Will we be home in year? Probably not. Two? Not sure. Ever? Yes. For the moment here is home and it's been possibly one of the toughest and challenging and yet embracing and magical places I've been lucky enough to call home. I'll forget details of it. I'll forget names and places and faces and tales and I'll no doubt bore people with sudden and momentary recollection. But for the moment, while it's rushing at me like a New York minute, it's good to pause and think about what it's been and how it's gone and what there is to look forward to. For me right now, it's diving into Lake Eacham sometime in March.

Bit more Obama

How do you do Mr President

Sometimes it's just best not to think too hard. Go with the flow. Who knows, you might even meet the President of the free world.
Which is exactly what happened to me, the other day.
It all started when a group of my neighbours got together in the hope of making a short film. See: http://onmyblockfilms.com/
I just wanted to participate in making something with some local people, make a few contacts, get out of the house and do something positive...The film was okay. A fun enough exercise. However, one of the women who worked on the film just happens to work for President Obama. He knows her by name. Though I'm not sure what job she has. She did though send out an email a few days in advance asking if anyone wanted to meet him at a location as of yet to be advised. After forwarding her your name, which no doubt was checked out by the powers that be, she'd send you an email with instructions on where to go. Which in this case was a very remote airstrip on the outer area of JFK. In fact the airstrip and hanger looked abandoned.
So a mate and I travelled out by train to JFK then simply walked over a highway, crossing carparks and smaller side roads until we came to the hanger in question.
Wandering for a bit we were approached by a gentleman in a non-descript sedan. 'Help you boys?' he said. 'Ummm we're here to greet the President...'Which if you've never said that before sounds really quite odd when actually speaking it out loud to a secret service agent. Directed as to where to go we then found about 50 other people, like us, being security screened and waiting in the shade until we were led onto the tarmac. After a couple of hours and with now tired feet we were ushered onto the tarmac and behind a small crowd-control barrier. Finally, Air Force 1 came into view and the excitement, after waiting a few hours, grew within the small crowd. It took about the ten minutes it took to land and taxi, then turn and bank right in front of us. Naturally, the security was heightened, snipers positioned on hanger rooftops, secret security and not-so-secret security agents everywhere.
The President emerged and waved to the small assemblage. Trotted down the steps, light as ever on his feet and strode purposefully toward us. Even watching him draw closer you couldn't help thinking that you're watching a giant tv screen. That in fact the whole thing was not real. But within seconds he was there, a gaggle of media in his wake, and even more secret security enclosing around him.
He moved down the line at speed yet engaged with everyone of us he met. Eye contact and a smile. You could easily miss out on shaking his hand if you were slow or simple not in a good position. Fortunately, almost everyone shook his hand and managed to bluster out a few words. Mine were, 'It's a pleasure to meet you Mister President.' What else could be said that he hasn't heard before. His response was simple; 'Thank you, thank you.' Warm yet firm handshake and on to the person to my left, then another and another...Within a couple of minutes he was off, striding as purposefully as ever toward the Air Force 1 Chopper, a diversionary one motoring up and departing simultaneously as his ascended.
And it was over. Then after a couple of pics in front of Air Force 1 and two momento Air Force 1 glass tumblers bearing the seal of The President of The United States, we began to hot foot it back to the JFK Air Train...We had two friends, girlfriends of the woman that had teed the whole thing up, intending to return with us by train. None of us were really looking forward to the twenty minute walk back in the hot sun to the station. But we needn't have worried. A non-descript sedan pulled up beside us, driving it, the head of the secret security operation, responsible for orchestrating the tarmac experience; 'You all need a lift?' he said, smiling. His secret service lapel badge catching the sunlight. 'Sure do.' So we climbed in and drove away. What an amazing end to a fantastic day. I said I'd buy him a beer sometime when next passing through his JFK jurisdiction. And I bloody well will.

All in a day

So...I've lost the will to really devote much time to this old blog but every now and then I think, 'I should write this down, otherwise I'll forget about it...' The following is one of these times. So...last Friday, during the heatwave - approx 103 F = approx 40 C...I began my day by trying to make an appointment for a health check up. This required that I phone a lab and mention my Dr had referred me to them. I was told to then fax my details to them. Now, I don't know about you but the last time I saw a fax was in probably 1986. Who uses faxes these days!! So I asked if they had an email address I could use to do the same thing. I was then given an email address...actually that's not quite true. You see, there were language issues that came between me and the person I was talking with. No-one's fault and non-english speakers get enough grief about that one BUT c'mon, if you are aware that you're not being understood, try to do a few things like speak clearly, slowly, anything that will help convey the info. And don't get frustrated with the person on the other end of the phone line who has had to ask 6 times to repeat the email address. Needless to say, the email didn't work. So..I phoned back and was put in a queue for ten minutes and then when I got through to someone the phone 'mysteriously' dropped out...Phoning again, I got through to someone that actually cared about their job and I was able to book an appointment for that day. I set off for the subway, as I had to go to the upper East side. It was about 1pm by the time I got on the subway and all seats both side of the carriage were taken. There were maybe a half dozen people standing, including myself. There was a backpack on the seat beside a lady and as the unspoken rule goes, seats are for backsides not backpacks. So then I asked if she'd mind moving it as I had a half hour ride. Turned out the backpack didn't belong to her nor the lady on the opposite side, but it did belong to a man who was standing half way down the carriage, flapping his undone shirt back and forth like wings, trying to cool himself down. I should mention that the air-con in the carriage was on and everyone else seemed comfortable. The man let's just call him DickHead, gestured from where he was standing and said, 'Oh, that's my bag.' I said, 'oh thanks, do you mind if I sit down?' To which he replied that the bag was taking up the seat so if I wouldn't mind...thanks all the same...and he turned and kept flapping his wings. I told him, 'No, I do mind, can you take the bag off the seat because I want to sit down.' DickHead looked immediately aggrieved. As though some enormous injustice had been done and he came striding toward me like a dancing Brolga. I don't know if you've ever had moments in your life where you think, 'Right, this is it, looks like we're coming to blows.' I should add that I'm a lover not a fighter...(debates not included) and the last fight I got into was in an under 10s soccer game at Endeavour Park, Cairns. Anyway, DickHead strode forward like a flummoxed brolga expecting me to move I suppose. And yet, I did not. He was an older chap than I and it must be said that he had a better reach, but even should the merciless bout spill blood and end in defeat, I knew that I'd get a few good wallops in before the bell rang! Anyway, DickHead approached and lifted his bag and said 'Well I'll sit there then...' Heads shook and eyes rolled and it was only seconds before I heard DickHead pipe up to exclaim 'But the seats too hot, I don't want to sit down.' I swear if I hadn't been looking at him I would have thought it was a little schoolboy complaining to his mum! So I said, 'Well you're a big boy mate, you're a fully grown man, I'm sure you can figure out what's best for yourself...' A woman standing beside me started laughing and said that she hadn't witnessed a man of his years act so blatantly idiotic for some time, and that isn't it funny how people impose their logic on the rest of the world. I heartily agreed. A gentlemen alighting from the subway, alerted me to his seat and added, 'that was great, have a nice day.' DickHead left the subway after a few more stops and I made my way a number of stops after, to my Dr's appointment where not only did I have to wait an Hr before being seen but my appointment time was put under the wrong name, substituting the double S in my surname for double F, and was also for the wrong Dept. It took a further twenty minutes to rectify this. After all that I needed a walk. The heat had abated somewhat and I figured I could walk across Manhattan, through Central Park and over to the West Side. I shopped for a pair of summer shorts and then made my way to midtown to meet CW for an afterwork drink. Which we consumed at the bar at The Ace Hotel, where we spent our Honeymoon Night. We then phoned a friend who had recently arrived in town and asked if she wanted to meet us in the Indian area of town (approx W26 and 6th Ave). It'd been ages since we'd had Indian food and the place we found was great! Ate too much and with bloated bellies started to stroll back toward the subway. But the day wasn't done with me yet. On W23rd St I heard the voice of a girl screaming out. Yet looking ahead I couldn't locate the source. I figured some kids were having fun. Nope. Suddenly a man carrying a medium sized dog in his arms came bounding along the pavement toward us, the dogs lead following and dancing like a snake. The girl, some twenty metres behind him, screaming, 'Help, he's stolen my dog!!' Help! Help! There was another couple beside us and the guy and I exchanged looks, turned on our heels and started chasing the guy. We quickly ran him down and forced him to stop. He said that he passed her in the street everyday and that she was mistreating the animal. I asked him if it was indeed his dog and he said that it wasn't but he was taking it to the ASPCA. The dog looked healthy and happy enough. Two more guys stepped in and soon someone was trying to call the cops and the girl had arrived. She was distraught but relieved. I left before the cops arrived. Home, air-con and a cool drink. And that's the end of the story.

Little bit of fun

I'll get you one of these days....

A little bit of old New York in Red Hook

The BQE (Brooklyn Queens Expressway) is a multi lane mass of ever moving vehicular traffic. It divides our leafy, brownstone neighborhood of Carrol Gardens from the waterfront area of Red Hook, a tough, no-nonsense, semi industrial pocket of true New York, where until quite recently it would have been ill advised to loiter, unless of course you were loitering with dubious intent. Red Hook was home to Long Shoremen (Brando in On The Waterfront), mob bosses: Capone was born in the area and married at a local church; and 'Crazy Joe Gallo' whose headquarters were draped in inch thick iron - a remedy against machine gun attacks. Then in the eighties gangs came and Red Hook was dubbed by Time magazine as the worst neighborhood in America. Businesses closed down. A bar, one of my favorites, simply shuttered up, leaving full bottles of alcohol and glasses, everything behind. Then a decade and a half later re-opened for business when the city during Gulianis time, cleaned up. Red Hook is one of my favourute areas. It's still run down in many parts and there are pockets which after dark I wouldn't go but it's also changing. Artists moved into loft warehouse spaces paying little or no rent and then as happens over time the area became re-discovered. There are small galleries, terrific restaurants, cafes and a couple of wine bars. One of which has opened up within a hop, skip and jump over the BQE (via footbridge) and where a couple of nights ago I was perched with a mate having a glass of wine when an American guy approached the bar with all the swagger of Tony Soprano, his frame too of similar stature. The barman ran through the choices of wine listing with a certain flamboyance the characteristics of each variety and finishing by offering the final choice of Pinot Noir..."and we also have a lovely Pinot Noir which is soft and subtle, which you might prefer..." were his exact words. After a pause of several seconds in which not a word was uttered the burly American finally spoke up. His eyes boring down at the young bar keep, the sound from his throat rumbling like an iron cannonball rolling through cement pipes way underground. "Do I look soft and subtle?" he asked. The bar man poured him a whiskey. Red Hook might have undergone some cosmetic changes lately, but it's heart is still very much the same.