Reaching my limit

The other day I was feeling desensitized, but today I'm fully acknowleging my inability to realistically deal with the things around me. There's just too much going on at any given point to digest, so inevitably your brain shuts off to minimize events that don't really need to be dealt with. Unless someone's making a big deal around me I hardly notice them -- even if we're inches away from each other on the subway. I feel a bit like I'm in a tunnel. Not sure if I'm just worn out or this is how everyone around me feels. The ironic thing is that the more used to this state I get the more I notice how involved everyone is in their surroundings. Normalcy is completely ignored but everyone, and I mean everyone, has their eye on the weirdos or anything out of order. For example, this afternoon we saw a nasty fight between a couple and no less than 15 people ran over to make sure things didn't get further out of hand.
I'm beginning to think that Laurie and I were ignored before, and now, because we're immediately identified as a non-threat and simply not entertaining enough to pay attention to.

We spent most of our day at Bryant Park enjoying the sunshine and free wireless. It's a great place to work -- mostly quiet with the occasional interesting event to divert our eyes from our laptops. I have a feeling that the park (more of a big quad really) wasn't always this way. There are several policemen on patrol at all times and I saw them making a poor little asian lady on her lunchbreak being woken up from her nap on a park bench. Regardless, it's really nice now, with ample comfortable chairs, school desks, and tables lining all sides of a well cared-for deep green field.

We had a nice lunch at a little French bistro where French waitstaff actually served French food in a French atmosphere -- felt like many of the places we visited in Paris. Our lunchtime entertainment was provided by a neighboring table -- a snotty Ohioan who has developed a (supposed) snotty New York attitude and this annoying habit of raising her voice an octave or two anytime the French waitress came over. I even see this attitude developing in my friend Ann, but I can't quite put my finger on a description of it. Not sure why people would move from all over the country to come to New York to be snooty to one another.

We finally left the park, dropped off the laptops, and headed over to the East Village. Since we had such a fun time rumaging through the vintage shops last time we decided to head back. Continuing my earlier theme, the experience was different this time. The clothes seemed too expensive and the shops were hot and crowded. I would explain this all away as grouchyness, but I really wasn't grouchy. We did have a nice coffee across from Tompkins Square park at the coolest, if you're a computer geek, place around: alt.coffee. Really, that's the name (only old-school usenet people will really appreciate this). Rebounding with a little coffee, but tired of shopping, we headed further down the East Village for dinner.

The place we selected, The Elephant, was highly recommended, but, perhaps due to my mental state, was really disappointing. Thai food is my absolute favorite and I've had it all over the country in many different places and feel like I have a pretty good idea of the various styles. The Elephant was a French take on Thai food -- yep, you guessed it, a "fusion" restaurant. This place seemed to take on very little actual Thai, but plenty of the worst of French food -- lots of needless vertical fluff and basic meats served at exorbitant prices. I have to admit what I had was quite good, but not the wonderful and lively flavored take on peasant food I've come to expect. There's a mild "scene" in the place, the tables were jammed together (you literally had to pull out your table from the wall to get to it), there was nothing under $20 on the menu, and the service had that French condescension about it. Oh well, I guess places can't be good to everyone every time.

If nothing else, the experience sparked a good discussion about different places in New York and what we've liked and haven't liked. I still don't feel like New York is that expensive, but it is really easy to get hoodwinked into spending a lot of unnecessary cash (yeah, and everything is cash -- no credit cards anywhere). Anything with a theme or scene is going to set you back and rarely are you paying for the food. My favorite places aren't necessarily cheap, but I can certainly recognize a good value when I come across it. I love food (just look at my gut to confirm), but I really dislike when I have to pay for someone else's idea of what my experience should entail. Make it reasonably tasty, fairly priced, and served by not not nice people (see Laurie's waitstaff key) and I'm happy.

A few blocks later, we came smack dab with a completely different experience. I'd read about a bakery with outstanding coconut bars and I actively decided to eat away my earlier displeasure. Skeptically, we entered the door and the nicest midwestern grandma-type came out to greet us. What in the world is this lady doing in the East Village of New York? Out of coconut bars, she recommended cupcakes and, though nowhere as good as Magnolia (which I think we've visited 5 times now), definitely improved the mood.

We continue on our trek towards home, but, like a lighthouse on a foggy night, come across the McSorley's entrance framed perfectly at the end of a side street. We head in for four darks and luck out on a table right in front. Though still a little full from earlier we decide we have to see what a "cheese plate" is all about. I'm not sure what's going to happen when I order this -- I sort of either expect a bucket of water on the head or the bar to break out in song. In other words, the butt of an inside joke. I hate to spoil the surprise of what a "cheese plate" is, but here goes (so if you care stop reading). I, somewhat timidly, ask for a cheese plate and the waiter simply responds "right away". Cool, made it this far. In a few minutes we get our surprise: a big pile of little slices of white New York cheddar, a few slices of white onion, and a sleeve of saltine crackers. Yes, a full, still vacumn-sealed, sleeve of saltines. Served with the absolute hottest mustard (think Wasabi) on the planet. We overdo it the first few times and Laurie and I enjoy laughing at each other sit up really straight, become immediately quiet, and have our eyes fill with tears. The best part about the mustard is breaking through the crust that forms after sitting out for who knows how long on each table. Much happier, we leave McSorley's with plans to head home.

On the way, we decide to check out this little Asian place on the way home with creative, and supposedly some of the best, drinks in the city. The place is really relaxing and I enjoy watching the bartender's effecient movements from a great perch on the side of the bar. I suck down a good mix of vodka, green tea, and heavy cream (really good) and am then rewarded with some type of anise mix the second time around (what is it with anise around here?). Reflecting on the day, and our experiences up to this point, quickly passes the time. I'm still caught up in the energy and excitement of the city, but I'm positive I couldn't live here for any length of time and I really miss home. I'm trying to live in the moment, but I'm finding that frequently means keeping my head down and staring at the corner rather than actively engaging in the things around me. From the distant stares around me I know that I'm not alone, but I wonder how long it takes to get used to this.

We wander home and another minor, and hardly worth mentioning, event occurs. I really don't feel like it's that interesting, but Laurie's been giving me a hard time since it happened and I better lay out the facts before her memory further inflates the events. So, we're walking home (and nearing Chelsea) and I can tell by the line ahead that we're approaching a happen' place. As we near, we notice the line doesn't include any women and we shrug off the not-uncommon occurance in this part of town. Nearly past, a call come's out from the crowd, "Well . . . hello cutie!". Laurie and I turn to look and there's a nice fellow looking back . . . and up, and down . . . and not at Laurie. A little bit shocked I don't say much for a few blocks, but Laurie enjoys the field day of harassable comments for the remainder of the way home. So, for the record, I've determined that the problem is that Laurie let me buy this really gay hat. Yep, it's the hat. Wearing a potato sack tomorrow.