Exhibit F: The Freeze - Can You Come a Little Closer?

Baby, it's cold outside!!

Why oh why must the thermometer bottom out overnight in this wonderland we call Manhattan?  Seasons come and go so quickly here!

Does anyone else remember a time when Mother Nature would give us at least a few moments of warning? A hint of a cold snap in the air, a few leaves on the ground, the heat gradually getting stronger and stronger on the buses and subway cars...those dog days are over.  I woke up this morning, and it was winter.

In an earlier post (you know...like...two years ago...the last time I wrote in this....being a teacher keeps you really busy these days...), I waxed poetic about the delights of the cold weather giving way to springtime, outdoor dining, flip flops, etc.  But what about the reverse?  I am the first person to start counting down the days until Spring, but... what about when it's time to break out the Uggs and the black Northface, cast your eyes downward while you shield your face from the teeth of the wind...is there anything remotely sweet-core-ish about that?

There has to be, I told myself.  Just because I've been away from this blog for two years doesn't mean I have lost one speck of love for my city, and I am hellbent on finding something sweet and valuable in a New York City winter.

And then, it dawns on me.  In a city where people are paying over half of their earnings for just a few more square feet of closet space, where we do our best to find a little breathing room as the MTA barks at us to STEP ALL THE WAY IN FOLKS ALL THE WAY IN, and where finding a seat at Starbucks is an accomplishment comparable to getting a promotion, winter is the one time when we are actually trying to get closer to each other, to the heater, to the train, anything- and eliminate the spaces that lets in the extra icy air.

Let's be honest- space is power in New York.  Whether it's the size of your bedroom (you have a bedroom?!), the amount of elbow room on the subway, or the entire bench you managed to snag at the park, having enough room to actually maneuver around in can be a rare and desirable thing.  We spend huge amounts of time fighting each other for space.  Running to get the application in for the apartment before the next guy.  Slipping past that girl for a coveted seat at the bar on a Saturday night.  Whatever and wherever, New Yorkers know that the extra square foot can make all the difference in the world.

Except, that is, during a true New York City cold front.  On those chill-you-to-the-bone kind of nights, this city dweller suggests you take advantage of that rare moment where you, my dear fellow New Yorkers, actually desire closeness because it is just so f*cking cold.  Whether it's a closeness from a blanket, a mug of peppermint tea, a glass (or 2...) of red wine, or another person, grab him, her, or it and hunker down until the warmth sinks in and melts the ice beneath your skin.  It is so, so unusual in this city to want to eliminate what little personal space Manhattan is allowing you, and that you have fought and paid so dearly for.  Drink up those moments because in a city this crowded, they simply don't last.

Take advantage of the freeze.  Get up close and personal with someone or something you love, and say thank you to New York for giving you a hot (cold) second to come a little closer.

Exhibit E: New York City Al Fresco

Though we probably can’t hold a frozen candle to the winters of Alaska, or the Decembers of Syracuse, ask most New Yorkers what winter in the city is like and the words “brutal, God awful, miserable” are likely to find their way into the description.  Between the skyscrapers, the wind has teeth.  Snow and ice turn to mud and slush quicker than the department stores can sell Hunter boots, and gloves/scarves are thin and often useless barriers against the temperature, as much as street vendors try to convince us otherwise.

All that being said, the moment we feel a hint of Spring in the air…we lose it.  As soon as we can feel the sun, and the thermometer breaks 50 degrees, all bets are off.  Girls are in skirts and flats (the bravest of us graduating straight to flip flops), convertible tops go down, the parks are teeming with cabin fever stricken kids and their grateful parents, and coffee goes from hot to iced.  Mid-March?  Whatever.  As far as we’re concerned, July 4^th is just around the corner.

So yes, it’s true, New Yorkers are passionate warm weather enthusiasts, and there are signs of it all throughout the island.  However, there is one particular trend that truly seals the warm weather obsession, and helps to change the mood of nearly every sidewalk: outdoor dining.

The moment it is at all feasible that one might be able to enjoy a meal outside, restaurant walls disappear and rows of tables materialize from nowhere.  There’s no longer a need to peer inside a large glass window, or look over a menu on the front door; the calling card becomes the diners themselves.  You can stroll down 2^nd Avenue and literally see what looks good.  Better still, you can go from Thailand, to Italy, to France, and back home to the US for a burger without even crossing the street.  However, when the cold finally starts to recede and Manhattan goes al fresco, I find that I notice less about the noodles and greens, and more about their consumers.

If there’s anything New Yorkers love more than the first sigh of Spring, it’s high quality food.  Combine the two and you have a recipe for true urban bliss.  No longer hidden behind hats and scarves, and forced to stare downward as we try to shield our faces from the biting wind, finally, everyone is looking up.  It is the first time I have seen people truly looking at each other outside, smiling, since November.  Eating outside forces us to get back in touch, as we are reminded; oh, that’s right, it’s beautiful out here.  Everyone sitting at an outdoor table looks carefree and serene, people-watching and toasting happily as they enjoy the company of family and friends.  Fresh food looks better when it’s being kissed by the sunshine.

So, fine, call us food snobs.  Tell us we don’t really know what a “bad winter” is like, since we don’t live upstate, and that we are being dramatic when we lose our socks at 55 degrees.  But the next time you happen to be in the city on a newly warmed Spring day, do a little diner watching…and I think you’ll find we’re anything but snobby.

Exhibit D: A Lesson in Survival at the Park

While Central Park is certainly New York City’s best known patch of greenery, and well deserves its high status, Manhattanites know that there are plenty of smaller, just-as-much-fun parks sprinkled throughout the city.  They may not boast the acreage or running space that Central Park does, but most of them contain playgrounds and swing sets that can be transformed into pirate ships, mermaid coves, or whatever its young users desire that day.

Though these areas are frequented by pint sized New Yorkers on a regular basis, especially during the warmer months, earlier this summer I was introduced to a subset of this population that prefers a plain, open field to monkey bars and twisting slides.  Sometimes, I observed, mini New Yorkers don’t want to climb or hide.  Sometimes, they just want a lawn.  Pure, undisturbed grass. 

A little boy had darted right past a jungle gym where many of his peers were playing and straight to what was seemingly a familiar spot on a grassy field.  Won’t he get bored over there?  I thought.  Positioning himself directly across the way from his big brother, before I could blink a soccer ball  was seamlessly sailing back and forth between the two of them, moving so fast that it took me and other onlookers a moment to process that one of the players was barely five years old.

Giggling but focused, black curls flying and falling into his eyes, this little Beckham-to-be nailed every kick, blocked every pass, and more than once gave his older, taller sibling a challenge as the ball went clear over his head, or through his ankles.  Their mother sat on a nearby bench, glancing up every once in a while from her magazine, smiling and occasionally reminding the smaller of the two boys to “take it easy on him, Marco.”

I sat watching this child in awe for over half of an hour, long past the last sips of my iced coffee.  I’ve never been a huge soccer fan, but this was impressive.

After some time the boys began complaining of thirst, and ran off with mom trailing behind towards a nearby water fountain.  As they ran, their previously nimble lower appendages became tangled, causing our young soccer pro to lose his balance and fall, hard, on his knees to the rocky concrete below.

After watching his athletic skills for a while, part of me had started to forget how young this kid was.  However, we were all instantly reminded as his face contorted into that familiar I’m-about-to-scream-so-loudly-they-will-hear-me-in-Staten-Island shape, mouth wide open, waiting for the shriek to arrive from his throat.  Here it comes, I thought, wincing in anticipation, watching as his tiny fists clenched.  However, his fit was interrupted and halted by an oncoming New Yorker, a girl probably in her late twenties, who had also been watching him play, and had seen the fall as well.

Now, typically, our instinct is to run to the child, prevent the screams, snuggle and coo and show him that it’s not really so bad, take out some fancy band aids and help him back to his feet.  Right?

Common people.  This is New York.  Even I, your sweet core defender, know that we are all of the unspoken understanding that if you fall around here, waiting for someone to come around and pick you up will most likely get you nothing except run over.  Of course, there are always kind people around to help you back to your feet, but in order to survive here, we must have the skill of getting ourselves back on solid ground.  We expect this of each other, regardless of our willingness to help.

Being five, he was still unaware of this need for toughness (when you’re at knee-level most of the time, its hard to pick up on this sort of thing).  But, of course, being the amazing New Yorkers that we are, just at that moment there was someone there to teach him.  The aforementioned pretty young lady locked her eyes on his, and before he could make a sound, she held out one finger and silently mouthed the word “no.”  Standing a few feet away from him, she stayed upright, not even so much as crouching down.  He looked up at the stranger with a similar focus that he had displayed during his hour of soccer.  “Come on, you’re okay,” she said, this time loud enough for him to hear.

He issued sort of a gurgled, surprised sound and unclenched his fists.  “Come on,” she continued to encourage him, not moving any closer or changing her position.  “Get up, it’s okay, you can do it.”  The same gurgle came out of him as he pressed his palms to the concrete, relaxed his facial muscles and slowly, slowly rose back to his feet.  His teacher smiled at the stunned expression on his small, chubby face.  “See?!  Good job!”  She beamed at him, gave him the thumbs up, exchanged a knowing grin with his mom as if to say “now he knows” and continued on her way.  He watched her go until she was out of sight, then got his drink and went back to playing; wiser, stronger, and better equipped to face our city.

Especially in a place like New York, kindness can often come in the form of tough love.  How much more effective is it to teach the kid that he is capable of getting back up on his own, than immediately running to do it for him, reinforcing the idea that when you get knocked over, the best thing to do is just…wait?  Scream until someone notices you?  This city is filled with screaming people, screaming car alarms, jack hammers; cries are doomed to be lost among the chorus. 

Rather, from one New Yorker to another…

Brush it off.

You’re okay.

Get up!

Exhibit C: Samba in the Subway

As New Yorkers, we excel at nonverbal communication.  Think of all of the signals you send out and receive daily in the city without ever uttering a word.  One step to the left can mean, yes, you can have this seat on the bus.  You take out a debit card, the person behind the counter pushes a button and swipes, you sign and pay, and never say a thing.  Just the other day, it was raining and two girls about my age walked past me, and we all immediately noticed that we were wearing identical turquoise rain boots.  We made eye contact and all fought back laughter as we past each other, rolling our eyes at our lack of uniqueness.  (Though…I was proud to see other New Yorkers wearing something other than black!)

And then, of course, there are the less pleasant forms of wordlessness that we toss at each other far too frequently.  Frustrated sighs as we swerve around tourists gaping at skyscrapers.  Nasty hand signals to cab drivers ignoring red lights.  Dirty looks to the person that cut in front of us on line.  The list goes on and on.  We have all seen it and, at one time or another, been guilty of it.

 The subways are one of those places where we see the best and the worst of our wordlessness.  Whether it’s a step to the side on the escalator, a dollar tossed into a bucket as the guy playing guitar on the platform starts strumming your favorite song, or a shifting of shopping bags as the train crowd swells, we are constantly communicating with each other underground.

Having just moved to the side myself to avoid a hurried Queens – bound passer by, I hopped off the escalator to begin my usual shuffle down to the middle of the NRW platform.  I had only taken a few steps when I spotted them.  A couple, probably in their 30’s, stood silently in front of each other, moving their feet in perfect mirror images, fingers intertwined and hips moving to (what I had to assume was) salsa music.  Only, I couldn’t hear the music.  Nobody could.  Except them, that is.

Together they stood, not only mirroring body motions but also donning matching ear buds; the universal signal that somewhere in their clothing hid mp3 players.  Even without wrecking their private dance practice and demanding to see their iPod screens, I was sure they were listening to the same song.  Not a word passed between them, only tiny smiles and head bobs as they cha-cha’d away to what, at first glance, appeared to be the clangs and bangs of the subway cars, ignorant of the small crowd forming around them.

As she was mid-spin, the R train came barreling into the station and they stopped in unison, still silently, and stepped through the sliding doors.  I had to follow them… would they continue while the train was in motion?  Alas, once we lurched forward, a quiet kiss ended the performance, their headphones came off and they settled into a conversation. 

Though the dance was over, and the silent salsa music was no more, these New Yorkers had proven that we can use our expert powers of wordlessness for good.  For art, even.  So the next time you have the urge to use your New Yorker-given power of silent articulation for something less than sweet, even if they really have it coming, don’t waste your talent on them.  Wait until you have a moment to samba in the subway…and then show New York that just because you walk the walk, you don’t always have to talk the talk.    

Exhibit B: Is that you, Gene Kelly?

I'm singing in the rain,
Just singing in the rain...

Where is that coming from??  Eyes forced to the pavement by the driving drops under the cover of my umbrella, I could scarcely believe my ears.  Maybe I imagined it; nobody would be singing in this rain.  Third Avenue is a disaster in a bad rainstorm.  The puddles span several feet wide and are ankle deep at the corners, and if you have the misfortune of getting caught at a red pedestrian light…watch your boots and pants, folks; you’re bound to get splashed by a passing taxicab.  I had the soaked jeans to prove it.

What a glorious feelin’,

I’m happy again

I’m laughing at clouds,

So dark up above…

Now this time, I was sure I’d heard it.  With the ghost of Gene Kelly nowhere in sight, and knowing my propensity toward pointing out musical references, I was confident that my ears were not playing tricks on me.  After some umbrella shifting, I managed to remove my stare from the sidewalk, dizzy from staring at the polka dots on my boots but now able to look around.  My eyes were up just long enough to watch my umbrella flip upside down in a fresh gust of wind, and after a slew of cursing and wrenching at the flimsy metal spokes, I managed to get it back down, showering my hair with cold raindrops.  And that’s when I saw it.

A flash of bright yellow against the grey concrete and the sea of black rain boots.  It was a small flash, but I knew what I’d seen.  One hand firmly holding the top of my umbrella down, I bravely gazed downward again to look for its origin.

“Sing it again, daddy!”  The yellow galoshes belonged to a pint sized New Yorker, who was now tugging at his father’s trench coat, giggling all the while.

I’m signing in the rain,

Just singing in the rain…

And there he was, the source of the background music: Tall, bespectacled, hoodless, umbrella-less, and smiling as people zoomed and dodged around him and his son. 

“See, we don’t need an umbrella!  Just keep singing!”  The little boy jumped into a nearby puddle, splashed both of them, and gave the song a try.

“No ‘brella!  Just sing!”  They laughed and laughed, and I laughed with them, sad that I was now only a few feet away from the subway station, and would have to part from their musical interlude.  I had to wonder- was mom back at the apartment, shaking her head at the forgotten umbrella in the hallway?  Was he just trying to keep the kid from complaining about the weather?  Or, was it intentional…had this New York dad, rather than hopping in a cab to stay dry on the way home, seen an opportunity to spend a little extra time with his son, and maybe even teach him a song along the way?  And to teach him that even if it’s true, than when it rains it pours (and trust me, it was pouring), sometimes we have to just accept it, and try to enjoy getting soaked?

As I reached the stairs and they moved on, before I even had the chance to shuffle down to the platform, my umbrella once again fell victim to the wind and flipped up to show its useless underside.  But this time, rather than wrestle it back to neutral and bemoan the drops down my neck, I decided to let it go and try their method.  ‘Brella in the trash can, and rain on my face, I quietly sang down the stairs.

Let the stormy clouds chase

Everyone from the place

Come on with the rain,

I’ve a smile on my face

Just singing in the rain…

Exhibit A: Patience on the Scaffolding

Though this took place in November, I had written it down so that I wouldn’t forget it had happened, and as I would like for these entries to go in chronological order…I’ll start here as Exhibit A to prove existence of a sweet core!

If you hail from outside the New York City area, you might guess that our biggest (and, perhaps, only) feel-good event of the year is the Thanksgiving Day Parade.  I wouldn’t blame you; balloons, kids on parent’s shoulders, Broadway performances and Santa at the end…what’s not warm and fuzzy about that?  But if you do happen to be from the Apple, and have been to the parade, you know the truth.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love the parade just as much as the next tryptophan addict.  Yes, it’s fun.  Sure, the marching bands are great.  But if you’re watching street level with the tourists (which probably means you got there at the crack of dawn to grant yourself a few inches of standing room, or camped out overnight), after about an hour of the screaming, cymbal-crashing, stay-standing-in-your-spot-or-lose-it-forever mayhem, it starts to lose some of it’s warm and fuzzy feeling.  You’re better off watching it from a rooftop, or on NBC curled up on mom’s couch with your cousins while the turkey’s getting ready for roasting.

Thus, I have to say that NYC’s biggest and best feel-good annual event is the New York City Marathon.  You simply will not find another day where New Yorkers across the boroughs come together for one simple and beautiful reason; to cheer on loved ones, and perfect strangers, and people who are maybe somewhere in between.  That’s it.  Thousands of people (many New Yorkers, some just “posing” for the day) line the streets to encourage runners from all over to just keep going.  And last marathon Sunday, as I stood out on the corner on First Avenue watching and cheering away, I witnessed something beautiful.      

There was a guy, maybe in his late 20’s/early 30’s on the opposite side of the street perched high up between two poles of scaffolding.  I could just see a few renegade brown locks poking out from beneath a blue bandana atop his head.  He donned black jeans and a puffy coat, but I was getting colder just watching him.  As the wind nipped and bit at my face, I imagined how the ice cold metal must sting against his legs (and his rear, for that matter), and how the chilly air must be even sharper higher up- wasn’t he freezing?

Every time I moved my gaze from the throngs of runners to the scaffolding, he was still there, staring down the avenue and waiting.  For over an hour he sat, shifting his weight every so often, just staring.  This guy is out of his mind, I kept thinking to myself.  He hasn’t even taken a break to go to Starbucks.

Then, suddenly, he bellowed: "CYNTHIA!" And scrambled down from where he had been watching.  A girl in a bright blue vest and brown pony tail bouncing behind her jogged over to his side of the street. He looked so proud and happy as she swung her arms around his neck, kissed him (practically mid-stride) hard on the mouth, and then re-joined the sea of joggers. He leaned over the railing to watch her go until she was unrecognizable among the numbered runners, beaming and cheering until there was no way his cheer could have reached her ears.

Then he turned and left and disappeared up 64^th street. And I thought… how amazing it must be, to have someone who would do that.  Who would sit and wait for over an hour in the cold, simply for a kiss and to root their special someone on.

Many of us will never run the New York City marathon.  We may not even know somebody who did or will someday.   But perhaps we can learn something from our determined, scaffolding-bound boyfriend; that even in New York, a place infamous for rushed citizens and zooming cars, we can find the patience and make the time to ensure we are there at the split second a loved one needs us.  You can be from the city and still have the capacity to wait for that moment, even if it takes over an hour on a 20 degree November afternoon.  We are not just professional time savers, people-dodgers and subway hoppers.

New Yorkers are tough enough to wait.

Opening Arguments and Statements

New Yorkers get a bad rap. Ask anyone from far enough outside the metro area (or even some proud natives) what New Yorkers are “like,” and you are bound to hear a slew of anxiety-producing adjectives and less than flattering phrases. From informal research and asking friends and family outside of the city what comes to mind when they hear the phrase “New Yorker,” here is what I have heard:

We are always in a rush. Impatient. Inconsiderate. Flustered. Constantly on cell phones. Downright rude. Self centered. Partial to black and grey garments. Stubborn and pig headed. Most of us carry briefcases. We are the only ones who know what pizza and bagels really taste like. Cocky. Stylish to a fault. Cold.

Beside the predisposition towards identifying the best bagels and pizza on earth, none of these descriptions are anything I’d care to be associated with. But in spite of it all, when I get asked where I’m from and “Manhattan” slips from my lips, nothing makes me prouder.

I love being a New Yorker. I love living in a place where dinosaur bones, priceless works of art, and high quality sushi are within walking distance of each other. No two streets smell the same (I’m talking hot dogs and roasting nuts here, friends, not unpleasant alternatives). Sometimes, the hum of the car horns and jackhammers is overcome by musicians and poets. The food here is, in a word, unbelievable. When timed correctly, I can get from one side of this island to the other in under 8 minutes. There are giant stone lions outside of our library. I can hear a slam poet, dine at an elegant restaurant, and see horses in a park all on the same night.

And above all, this city is filled with amazing, beautiful, loving, and simply kind people who too often go unnoticed among the trench coats and Blackberries. People who are doing considerate, thoughtful things for each other every day but still get stuck under the “heartless New York” umbrella just because they share a zip code with a few other city-dwellers who might better fit the aforementioned descriptions.

This is an attempt to break our bleak stereotype of chilly attitudes and frenzied habits. To report and recount acts of human kindness that warm up our concrete sidewalks, and to show that we New Yorkers not only have hearts, but that we possess ones for which the Tin Man would creak down on his knees and beg Oz. To prove that, if you bite down deep enough, and chew thoughtfully enough, you will find that this Big Apple really is sweet at the core…