L: 14th Street/8th Avenue, Manhattan

Friday, March 18, 2011

This trip feels oddly important. It’s the first time we’ve finished both ends of a subway line, but more than that, instead of exploring new ground it’s a return to my old neighborhood—I lived on 14^th Street and 9^th Avenue from 1996 to 2006. I know the station and the neighborhood very well, but I try to see them with fresh eyes. Anyway, it’s been a minute since 2006, and things change fast in a New York minute.

The L train pulls to a halt to the familiar conductor’s announcement, but we’re not in the station yet. We stop in the tunnel, perhaps waiting for another train to pull out and make room. Damaso stands to photograph the “Last Stop” sign, and a heroin-chic six-foot tall Asian woman in skinny jeans, tattoos, headphones, and a torn white t-shirt asks him why he’s taking her photo. He says he isn’t; he’s shooting the sign over her. She gazes languidly through over-sized sunglasses (it’s actually not that bright on the train), clearly convinced that he’s lying.

“You can’t use my photograph without my permission,” she says. I bite my tongue.

“What is this for?” she continues.

“It’s for a blog,” answers Damaso.

“What is it about?

“Food.”

“Why do you need my picture in a food blog?”

"We don't need your picture. I was shooting the sign above you."

“Where can I find it?” She presses on. “What are you doing it for?”

Damaso says that it’s not up yet. I remember that the neighborhood was always full of models, who of course make their living from having their photos taken and from those photos being used for commercial publication. Damaso and I both are in professions that people often expect to volunteer. She may actually be confused by his project not matching her expectations as well as suspicious that it actually does. Once the train pulls into the station we walk away without incident.







The station is the same. I’m no longer surprised by Tom Otterness’ playful bronze figures, although they still charm. On autopilot I choose the southwest exit, which is closest to my old apartment. I’m selfishly disappointed not to see the drunk homeless man who used to propose to me each morning, but if he had been there I would have been selfishly disappointed when he failed to recognize me, as he surely would have. Heck, I’m not sure he recognized me even when we spoke to each other regularly. Every day he would ask me to marry him, and every day I would ask where my ring was, but the next day when he proposed, he still wouldn't have that ring.

The terminal lets out on Eighth Avenue, but it doesn’t feel like an end of the line because the island itself only extends for two more blocks; Tenth Avenue is definitely the end. I make a faint effort to play by the rules, but the only real restaurant I see is a grill, and we’re both sick of cheeseburgers. We walk west, and if there were any new restaurants on the block, I would have gone, but when there aren’t, I suggest going to the Hog Pit for barbecue.

As we walk, I tell Damaso about the last time a stranger told me I needed permission to take his photo. I was walking past a construction site on Bowery around Bond Street, and I passed what looked like a Port-o-San amid the construction rubble. As I walked by, I noticed a man sitting inside on what looked like a bench without a toilet. The man wore a stained t-shirt and tan slacks that were too big for him but cinched in with a ragged belt. He was a white guy of about 60 with a grizzled and dirty face, crew-cut white hair, and several missing teeth. And he was working on a laptop.

I passed him but then stopped in my tracks. He couldn’t have seen me even if he had looked up from the computer because the white plastic walls surrounded him on three sides. I pulled out my phone, got ready to take a picture, and actually walked backwards the few steps till I could see him, at which point I snapped the photo.



He looked up. He didn’t look happy. I decided to disarm him, so at the exact moment that he asked, “Are you taking my picture?” I asked, “May I take your picture?”

He repeated his question.

I repeated mine.

He said, “You can’t take my picture without my permission. It’s against the law.”

I responded, “I’m asking you whether I can take your picture.”

He refused to give me permission and launched into a tirade about how you can’t take someone’s picture without his permission. What are all these people afraid of? In any case, I already had his picture; I just wanted another one because I didn't make it all the way to the door before he looked up and I snapped prematurely.

When he wouldn’t give me permission to take a photograph, I walked away, but I didn’t get far. I felt a familiar roiling in my head that happens when I can’t let something go. Did the grizzled, toothless, Port-o-San dweller know something I didn’t? How could it be illegal to take someone’s photo? I’ve seen front-page pictures of thousands of people, for example at a demonstration on the capitol lawn, and it doesn’t seem likely that, say, The New York Times would either not know a law like that, not follow it if there was one, or get signed waivers from every demonstrator.

A friend of mine recently told me about his nephew telling him, “You know, Uncle Tim, the problem with your generation is that you spend too much time fighting about facts.” The kid was right. I had the technology clenched in my fist, and instead of wondering or arguing with a homeless Port-o-San-dwelling laptop-user, I could find out what the law actually said about taking someone’s photograph. I stopped on the sidewalk about two blocks past the construction site, did a quick Internet search, and determined that the only restrictions in American law apply to the use of the photographs not the taking of them; anyone can take a picture of anyone else any time they want to. In fact, I stumbled on a bunch of laws protecting photographers from assault by photo subjects who don’t want their picture taken!

I stood there, arrested on the Bowery under one of its many sidewalk construction bridges and tried to talk myself out of what even I knew was a stupid and possibly fatal mistake, but I’m not as persuasive as I am, and I’m also apparently stupid and stubborn. I turned around and marched back to confront Old Toothless.

He was, understandably, surprised to see me.

"Hey, you know what?” I began amiably, “I just did a search on the Internet, and it turns out there is no law prohibiting someone from taking your picture without your permission. There are a few restrictions on where you can publish the photos, but you can take any photos you want.”

There was a long pause. I felt adrenalin coursing through my annoying and self-righteous veins.

Then, to my vast relief, the dude shrugged.

“Huh,” he responded. “Guess you learn something new every day. Thanks for telling me.”

I was astounded. I got very lucky. I may not know how I’m going to die, but I’d always thought my last words would be, “this looks tasty. Is it edible?” Now I think maybe they might be “You may think that, but actually…”

Anyway, back to 14^th Street, back to the present.

Where the Hog Pit used to serve pulled pork sandwiches and fried pickles is a new restaurant that serves only… burgers. Forget it. We decide to get take-out at Chelsea Market and eat outside on the High Line. Sure, it’s cheating not to stumble upon our locations, but it’s the first beautiful day of spring, and nothing else would represent the neighborhood better.

Chelsea Market is swarming with teenagers who are dressed in some odd combination of Japanese cosplay and American goth—wigs with large bows, skull-n-crossbones printed skirts over large petticoats, tiny Hello Kitty backpacks, argyle knee socks, and high-heeled Mary Janes. They don’t look Japanese, and I fantasize that these are their Purim costumes, but I don’t ask. The last time I was at Chelsea Market was at Halloween, when I was hired to walk on stilts. The cosplay kids have committed more to their roles than most of the trick-or-treaters had to theirs.

We order take-out noodles at Chelsea Thai. As we’re waiting for our food, Damaso walks around shooting the scene, and I gaze into the kitchen. Four men in aprons and caps face four woks, and I imagine it as an assembly line, with one man frying, say, onions and then flipping them into the next man’s wok where he would add mushrooms or whatever ingredient came next. I realize they're each cooking separate dishes, but while I’m still imagining the assembly line, the man closest to me looks up and smiles through the window. I smile back, and as he returns his focus to his wok, the next man, probably sensing the movement, looks up and smiles at me. When he looks down the third man looks up and smiles. I am childishly delighted at the serial smiles and imagine them as part of the assembly line, but the pleasure isn't entirely childish or innocent anyway. Sharing the private smile with each man feels naughty, especially while Damaso isn't looking. I start making faces trying to get the fourth guy to look up so I can complete the set, but he’s too far away. The second guy looks up at my antics, and although he smiles again, I imagine I’ve outstayed my welcome. I step away from the window to browse the palm sugar packets and Sri Racha sauce bottles for sale in the tiny store along one wall.













We take our food to the High Line’s strange little amphitheater of wooden benches that face a window onto Tenth Avenue and settle down for a picnic. The amphitheater breaks the wind a little, but we still wind up chasing napkins a few times. I drench my wide, flat noodles with basil sauce (pork) in hot sauce, but it’s still fairly bland. Damaso enjoys his chicken pad Thai. Of course everything always tastes better outside, and anything would taste good today. This is the first time one of these outings has felt more relaxed and romantic than businesslike, and I’m sorry Damaso’s leaving the country in two weeks. I even let him take some photos of me.











We might have stayed there all afternoon, except we were getting too thirsty, so we threw away our garbage and set off to find drinks. I remembered pushcart vendors, but the only one we saw was selling glass jewelry, and I was already happily wearing the $2 blue and red plastic ring I bought in Chinatown last week. We didn’t find anything to drink. Even the water fountains were still turned off for the winter. After a few blocks we stopped to sit on a bench and watch people walk by. A gaggle of pre-teens held court on the bench facing ours, recognizing and merging with other kids in threes and fours, Most of the girls wore lightweight short skirts with bare legs, but one had miscalculated and had a long black skirt, opaque black stockings, and a jacket tied around her waist. I was half-and-half; I’d worn a dress with no stockings but still had on boots and a jacket. The fresh air felt great hitting my bare legs for the first time in months, and my feet yearned to trade in the boots for flip flops.

Eventually Damaso had to leave to meet a photography student, and I wanted to go back to Chelsea Market for a People’s Pop. We descended, walked back through the Meatpacking District, and said our goodbyes on the street. Despite the sign, People’s Pops didn’t have a store in the market anymore. In no hurry to head home, I walked though a few sample sales with uninspired clothing by designers I hadn’t heard of. At one, I talked a woman out of buying a shapeless blouse that looked like a hospital Johnny. I may not know fashion, but I know she didn't need to look like an escaped patient. Eventually I left the market and went back to the deli in my old building where I bought a pomegranate-cherry FrozFruit for the subway ride home. It's sticky and delicious, and I finish it before I even make it back to the subway, just half a block away.

Photographs by Damaso Reyes

L: Rockaway Canarsie, Brooklyn

Sunday, March 13, 2011

After 18 years here, the cultural associations of this city are still stronger than my personal impressions. When I wait for an uptown A, Duke Ellington's Take the A Train runs through my head unbidden even after hundreds of real-life A-train commutes. Just seeing the signs for subway lines can fill my head with music: on the 6 I hear J-Lo's Jenny From the Bronx. Battery Park makes me think of the Beastie Boys' An Open Letter to NYC as often as Frank Sinatra's New York New York. Some rap refrain about "uptown baby, you get down, baby" can hit anytime I'm headed in that direction. Unfortunately I have no control over these associations, so I'm equally likely to hear Uptown Girl. Doesn't Billy Joel seem like he should be from New Jersey? Turns out he was born in the Bronx (although raised in Hicksville). Born in the Bronx? I have to admit that's some serious cred. Or maybe it just demotes my opinion of the Bronx.

Sometimes the associations are more of a stretch. I hear Sex and Candy by Marcy Playground as I pass the Marcy stop on the J train and Hard Knock Life when I exit the G train at Flushing Avenue just because Jay Z grew up in the projects near that stop. Non-musical aspects of pop culture also occasionally seize my imagination without warning. In Times Square, I picture sailors dancing On the Town and one grabbing a civilian nurse to kiss her in celebration of V-J day. In Queens, I look for the Bunkers' house, convinced I can identify it; on the upper east side I scan high rises for the Jefferson's deluxe apartment in the sky. Every block of Park Slope could be Sesame Street, and giant bugs are always trying to launch those "space ships" in Flushing Meadows.

My uninvited associations aren't all from pop culture. I experience nostalgia for events that affected my family, even ones that took place before I was born. I've found the East 9th Street apartment my parents sublet for six months when they were first married; it's now a Japanese hair salon. When I was little they referred to it as the "Sludge Pump." The only two facts I remember are that they threw a hose over a pipe to shower into a galvanized steel tub (and would often show up with shampoo in hand when visiting friends for dinner dates) and that twice they were robbed by someone punching through the particle-board walls. Passing the Arthur Ashe Stadium I try to imagine my father as a young ball boy for the USTA, and on Christopher Street I scan the windows trying to figure out which apartment my mother spent a summer in.

The word “Canarsie” fills me with images of vaudeville and borscht, and it was the one subway terminus I was most looking forward to visiting. That word’s inexplicable associations are so powerful that I’ve written 500 words already just to delay the gratification of getting to say… Canarsie. What a beautiful, ugly word. It lilts like a canary then slams home with a rhotic R that I imagine its residents don’t pronounce. It’s a word Bugs Bunny might say in his carefully designed voice that combines a previous era’s Bronx and Brooklyn accents. It’s a place that a 1930s street trolley operator who worked during the day calling out stops at “Toity-toid and Toid” might go home to at night to get a beer from the ice box and listen to the Dodgers game on the radio. I’m pretty sure my father’s late brother’s now also late widow’s late “uncle” grew up in Canarsie. To tell the truth, I’m not sure Uncle Leo (no relation to anyone) was even from Canarsie. Maybe he went there once. Or maybe he had a canary. In any case, he'll always be Canarsie to me. Nowadays the LeRoy Sisters do a vaudeville-burlesque show called Canarsie Suite. I’ve never seen the whole thing, but I have seen a stand-alone routine in which one wore a gorilla suit. Have you ever seen a sexy girl’s fishnet-clad legs and dance heels poking out of a hastily donned gorilla suit? No wonder Canarsie stuck in my head, and now, finally, I was going to travel back in time to see Canarsie for myself.

So on a cold Sunday night, Damaso and I set out to ride the L train to the end. In Chicago, people refer to the public transportation system as “the El” because many tracks are elevated. In New York, most of us refer to even the elevated tracks as “the subway.” I used to experience a moment of cognitive dissonance facing an elevated "subway," but I’m over it. Apparently those personal associations don’t last as long as the cultural ones. In Brooklyn, the L does travel above and below ground, and it ends at ground level. The platform runs parallel to the bus terminal, so if you ignore the signs telling you not to enter, you could walk right off onto the sidewalk (or, presumably, from the sidewalk onto the subway platform without paying the fare). It feels like you’re walking off an interstate train instead of just exiting a subway station. The station is small and bare, but the inside boasts a beautiful sign welcoming travelers to “Canarsie: A Caring Community,” and the outside is topped with gorgeous, widely spaced art deco letters surrounded by the familiar green subway entrance globe lights.







After we’re done admiring the station entrance, we turn around to face modern Canarsie, a perfectly normal working class neighborhood that experienced white flight towards the end of the last millennium (I’m lazily taking this from Wikipedia with no cross-referenced support) and now supports a large West Indian community (witnessed that myself). I wonder where I got the Jewish immigrant-vaudeville-time warp idea. More importantly, I wonder whether hard reality will replace my fantasies, or whether “Canarsie” the idea will maintain its allure even while Canarsie the actual place solidifies in front of me. Well, a lot of that may be decided by the restaurant, and standing in the cold, I was relieved to find a bustling business district, but closer inspection revealed a dearth of non-chain restaurants, and we didn’t travel all the way to Canarsie for Golden Krust, McDonald’s, or Popeyes!

Peering to the left, a sign beckons “Tastee Pattee,” so we head towards it. I’m not sure I’ve ever met a patty that wasn’t tasty. Hey, wait a minute—the real words already end in the same letter. They didn’t need to change the Y to an EE to make them match! It’s like that N.W.A song that rhymes “toofless” with “roofless” as though toothless didn’t already rhyme with ruthless. Back, pop culture, back. Get out of my head now; we’ve got some eating to do.





Tastee Pattee has only a counter and a few seats, but a sign promises hot meals, and the glass cabinet front is clouded with steam from soupy chafing dishes full of what looks like jerked goat, barbecue chicken, and other comfort food. Damaso orders jerked goat, and I’m under-dressed and freezing so I ask whether we can close the front door while we eat. The woman behind the counter first tells Damaso they’re out of jerked goat, and then tells me I can’t close the door because they’re about to close anyway. Maybe she would have let us order hot food to go, but it’s way too cold to stay outside very long, so we ask for patties to snack on while we look for someplace we can sit and eat. The sign in the window advertises, among other tasty patty treats, Lead Pipe, Tennis Roll, and Choice Bread. I’d be happy to make a meal of mysteriously named patties, but she only has one veggie patty left, and the tone of her voice does not imply that she’s interested in selling it to the likes of us. We head back into the cold, empty handed.

What I’d taken for a business district appears to be only one street wide and maybe four blocks long. Tastee Pattee is on one end of it, so we headed back past the subway station to check the other side. In front of the station is a gyro cart and a concrete plaza. If it were 20 degrees warmer, I’d be so happy to eat cart food and sit outside, but instead I hug my hungry stomach for warmth and keep walking. Another patty shop is closed. Inside we can see leftover patties filed on baking shelves and luridly colored cupcakes in disordered rows on wax paper.

Finally we spot the word “Yummy” on an awning and head towards it. Yummy food is actually my favorite kind, and anyway we’re out of options. Yummy turns out, not surprisingly to be a Chinese take-out storefront of the kind that usually divides customers from employees with bulletproof glass. Here the kitchen is exposed, and a few stools face the front window. We study the food photos over the counter as well as the offerings in the paper menu, although like any other New Yorkers, we know full well what’s available without needing to see. We order combo platters—egg roll, pork fried rice, and sesame chicken for him, General Tso’s for me. I spent a lot of time in China asking people about generals and chicken, and that guy just didn’t exist.





The food was—well, if you’re a New Yorker, you know how the food was. If you don't, well, it had a lot of corn starch in it and was gluey and bland. I was so cold and hungry that I nibbled off the end of my egg roll as soon as it came and then had to put it back in its paper wrapping so Damaso could take a photo of all the food. Before I had a chance to put it back though, he somehow stole a photo of me clenching the egg roll like a starving waif. The egg roll is mostly dough and cabbage, but it’s hot and fried, so I enjoy it. Neither of us manages to finish our main course though. Damaso tries to engage the deliveryman in small talk about how the neighborhood’s changed, but the reticent local isn’t much help. I’m pleased to see a uniformed MTA employee picking up dinner, as we’ve seen on several of our trips. Maybe I should have waited to see what he ordered.











Back on the cold street we pass African and West Indian supply stores, for-rent signs, and a plethora of beauty supply stores selling human hair. As usual, I’m not satisfied and insist on stopping in a deli before heading back. I want dessert, and I want it to be more exotic than the meal. The deli doesn’t disappoint. I load up on three-for-a-dollar homemade coconut-ginger clusters, tamarind chews, and mint squares. I also buy a bag of Grace brand plantain chips (platanitos), a package of Busta almond-coconut candy (everything has coconut!), one large bottle of premium aloe vera drink (the word “juice” does not appear on the bottle), and, at Damaso’s suggestion, a box of Tunnock’s caramel milk chocolate wafers that come in a beautiful red and gold foil package. On the subway home we savor the chewy wafers, and I just washed down the plantain chips with aloe vera juice, oops premium aloe vera drink, while writing this. Guess Canarsie wasn’t a total wash, but neither was it a vaudeville paradise. I’m ready to hop on the next train to the end of the line.



Photographs by Damaso Reyes