Once Upon a Star

The all too brief time that I spent living in New York City was in many ways life altering for me. This was the city that I always wanted to have as a part of my unwritten biography. Even though I may not have stayed very long in The Big Apple, my time there was significant, largely due to the people that I came across. The Wall Street crowd, that I saw some but not too much of, worked their days and nights with the sole purpose of making excessive amounts of money. When you looked into their eyes, you could almost see dollar signs. This post however, is not about them. 

It was really the others who were of greater interest to me. The artists, the actors, the dancers, musicians, writers, comedians etc. Some of that abundant talent would make it to the Lincoln Center, Broadway or a hip bar in The Village, while many would perform at parks, subway stations and other public places, reaching out to a larger audience, making a lot of folks happy, most waiting to be discovered and some who were satisfied doing just that. This post is about one of those performing artists that I know absolutely nothing about.

A lady, who I’m guessing was in her mid to late eighties, lived in an apartment building close to mine on the Upper West Side. Small in stature, possibly having shrunk a few inches over the years, her companion was one of those pocket sized dogs that she’d have on a tacky jeweled leash while holding a walking stick in her other hand. 

The thing that always struck me was how even on a bustling Manhattan sidewalk, there was no way you could miss her. Although she probably had no specific place to go to, each time she stepped out of her apartment she looked like a million bucks. Not a single strand of auburn brown hair out of place, her face a little theatrically painted, always in the sharpest of outfits with shoes and a purse that looked expensive. I had seen her getting into the neighborhood Thrift Store a few times, so even though she may not have spent much money, she certainly knew how to put herself together. 

I usually made it a point to go up to her and say hello. After a few times, she began recognizing me and I’d get rewarded with a smile. There was this one time when she looked especially sharp in a black turtleneck, black pants, a shocking pink blazer, matching shoes and a glittery black bag. It was a sunny day and her eyes were covered with fashionable sunglasses. When I made a comment that she looked like a movie star, she giggled. Her speech was a little incoherent but I’m pretty sure she told me that she used to be an actress. 

We never exchanged many words during the time that I lived there. It was her presence that always fascinated me. How even in her twilight years, she continued to be a star. I wondered if she was a leading lady in the grand old days, when people would dress up to go to the theater. I could picture her in a shiny gown, cigarette in hand, signing autographs and having her picture taken. Or was she a struggling actor who couldn’t make it past the bit parts, but still performed on stage every night? 

A couple of weeks before I left New York, I followed her into a diner where she would always go for her mid-morning coffee. The diner was in the same block as my apartment and I myself was fairly regular there, usually for a beverage and sometimes a slice of pie. The owner, Mike and one of the servers, Ralph, knew me by name and were also aware that I was heading back to India soon. 

I walked over to the next table in the same line as hers, facing her back. Upon entering the diner, I had told Mike that I would be paying for the lady’s order. It was the only way I could think of establishing some sort of connection with her. She ordered a coffee and along with it Ralph brought her a slice of peach cobbler that he knew was her favorite. When she protested that she hadn’t asked for it, he said that it was compliments of the gentleman sitting behind her, who happened to be a fan. She turned around to look at me and with those lips painted bright red, gave me the biggest smile I had seen coming from her. 

At that hour of the morning, the diner was mostly empty - Ralph brought over my coffee and sat down across for me. 

“That was a nice thing you did,” he said. “I can see how special you made her feel.”

It was an emotional time for me. While I knew that my fling with the city had come to an end, I was in so many ways not ready to let go of it. In fact I was clinging on to everything I could, making new memories and savoring old ones in the little time that I had left. That lady had been a part of my New York adventure, brought a smile to my face several times without her even knowing it and all I was doing in return was buying her coffee. On my way out I asked Mike if he knew her name. 

That was the last time I saw Evelyn. 

The next year when I went back for a two month visit to New York, the economy was in shambles and I was shocked to see that the diner had shut down. I had specifically gotten there at 10:30 am, the time that Evelyn would usually drink her coffee. Where could she possibly be now? I waited around for a while, expecting that she would walk by and show me a glimmer of recognition. 

I continued to wait at the corner of 75th Street and Columbus Avenue, which is where I would see her most often, hoping I’d get a glimpse of the star making a special appearance just for me.

Corner of 75th Street and Columbus Avenue (Picture Google Maps)

When Sharing isn't Caring - A Facebook Story

It isn’t that old, but I’m going to reminisce about the good old days of Facebook, when there was no Share button. Yes my Facebook child, I’ve seen those days and they were pretty wonderful. 

The Share button basically is how we used to get spammed with Forward’s on email. I’m sure every one of you remembers those. Wake up each morning to a bunch of emails with jokes, inspirational quotes, why bananas and cucumbers are good for you, why you shouldn’t drink Coke (it’s always Coke and never Pepsi), 10 exercises that will give you 6 pack abs, 15 places to see in Bolivia, 20 ways to avoid getting diarrhea ... you get the gist. Basically those emails that you never read are now ‘shares’ on Facebook and even if I scan past them, I sort of know what they are about.

So now you have a picture of a girl who wants 10,000 shares and 1 million likes for her father who has cancer. How is that helping in treating the disease? And if I don’t share or like the picture, will her father get sicker? 

You have the person who shares a picture saying that if you have a parent/sibling/child/nephew/niece/neighbour’s dog that you love, you should let the world know. If I don’t share it, does it mean that I don’t love my neighbour’s dog? 

The vegetarian who tells you how awful you are because you’re eating meat. Yes I’m aware that a couple of days every week I turn into a monster.

The vegan who tells you that being vegetarian isn’t enough. Stop consuming dairy. Oh wait, I’m a monster every single day of my miserable existence.

The organic eater who tells me that I’m going to die. I already know that I’m going to die. Does this mean that I’m going to organic hell? 

The Inspirational Quote post-er(s), who tells me that I should be nice all the time (because being nice doesn’t mean I’m weak), forgive everyone I know, that I should be outside jumping in puddles while it’s raining, make others happy (because that in turn will make me happy and of course it’s eventually all about me), blah blah blah. Yeah I get it. I haven’t lost my memory that I need to be reminded every single day. 

The one(s) who are constantly saying that they are going to do whatever the hell they want regardless of what anyone else thinks. Do it, don’t post it. 

And then the one’s who change their diets based upon the latest studies. And want you to do the same. Eating carbs makes you fat (no carbs for me). Not eating carbs makes you forgetful (oops I forgot to eat my carbs). I just ate a giant chocolate chunk cookie and you just ruined it for me by telling me for the millionth time how bad sugar is for me. Meanwhile, let me drink some red wine so I can bring down my blood pressure. 

Let me not forget the ‘remedies’. How some fruit in South America cures cancer but the pharmaceutical companies don’t want you to know. If you catch a cold because you were dancing in the rain (hey the inspirational quote said that I should), then here’s a list of foods that will help you get rid of it. I honestly hate those trips to the grocery store.

And what’s the deal with ‘posting for an hour’. You know the ones that go ‘please post this on your timeline if you or someone you know has been bit by a mosquito anytime in your life etc etc’. And how they give you specific instructions to not ‘share’ but ‘copy and paste’. What the heck is that all about? If I don’t post it, will I get bit by a mosquito? If I share it instead of copy/pasting it, will I get malaria?

Let me not forget the spouses who wish each other a happy anniversary on Facebook. And to make it worse, share each other’s posts. He/she is sitting right in front of you and just because you’re seeking attention, I am going to ignore your post. I'm trying really hard to be nice but you're not helping. 

And all those pages that friends and friends of friends and family and family of friends create on Facebook that I feel compelled to Like. It’s just so complicated. 

While I’m a fairly regular Facebook user (half hour in the morning and evening), I get this feeling that I’m not going to last too much longer. I miss those days when people’s statuses would be about themselves. Even if it was stupid or mundane (because everyone can’t be clever and funny), it still made me feel like I was in touch with the person for a moment in my day. 

Can we start a campaign to get rid of the ‘Share’ button on Facebook?

The Big Snore

Let me start off by saying that I have slept with more people than most people I know. Before you begin to raise your eyebrows and go ‘hmmm’, the keyword here is ‘slept’ and for the purposes of this post, no more than that. Which makes me wonder when it was that ‘sleeping’ with someone began to mean ‘having sex’. But that’s a topic for another day.  

Recently I travelled to Ladakh with a friend whose name begins with the letter ’N’. Our first night was spent at the Ibis Airport Hotel in New Delhi since we had a ridiculously early morning flight to catch. A few minutes after we went to bed, our room began to shake with N’s snoring. For those of you that haven’t stayed at an Ibis, they have small, efficient, capsule like rooms which allow snoring sounds to bounce off of every close wall. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep for a moment the entire night and just to get back at N, I woke up at 2:30 am, turned on the lights, banged on doors and took a shower. Yeah dude, I’m going to punish you by being clean early in the morning.  

The next night wasn’t much better, after which I decided that if I didn’t get my own room and a proper night’s sleep, N would probably not make it out of Ladakh alive.

Save your sympathies for now because I’ve been on the other side, driving my sleeping partner crazy. Eight of us had once gone to Dehradun, where we were staying in a fabulously charming bungalow with enormous bedrooms, 4 poster beds, sunken baths, definitely one of the warmest and most tastefully done up places I have ever stayed at. There were 4 bedrooms with 2 of us sharing each one. The first night apparently went off okay because my roomie didn’t complain. The next two nights however, my snoring was so loud that he had to sleep on a daybed in one of the other bedrooms. Which actually worked out pretty nicely for me as I could spread myself across that king size piece of antique. 

The funniest snoring story though brings me to when I was living in Chicago and was driving to the Smokey Mountains with my friends Mike and Elsa. We began our journey at around 8 pm with the idea that we would drive for a few hours, spend the night at a hotel and continue on in the morning. Except that when we were ready to call it a night, there were no rooms available at any of the hotels we were stopping at. We were pretty much in the middle of nowhere, there weren’t a lot of hotels to choose from in the first place and apparently a movie was being shot so for miles and miles everything was booked.

Finally at about 4 am we got to a Howard Johnson and the three of us, tired but still nutty and goofy, got off our car in our sunglasses (don’t ask) and walked over to the reception desk. Elsa was in the middle with her arms around Mike and I. She looked at the lady at the front desk and asked in her most serious tone, “honey, do you have a room we could use for a couple of hours?”

Of course the 3 of us burst out laughing and at that unearthly hour, our laughter sounded really, really loud. Anyway, a few minutes later we got ourselves a room, Mike had brought a sleeping bag and Elsa and I got the bed. I don’t remember how long we had slept but all of a sudden every light in the room had been turned on and Mike was standing at the foot of our bed going, “would you guys just knock it off with your snoring?”

How exactly does one do that since a sleeping person has no idea that he/she is creating havoc? 

The good news is that the last few people I have slept with during my travels have not complained about my snoring keeping them up. It’s probably because I now have a relaxed life and get (more than) adequate sleep. So if at some point you’re thinking of sleeping with me, it’s pretty likely that you won’t be disturbed. 

Oh and by the way, how many people have you slept with?