Blaze Star Vega (or “Star”) was the tail wagger in a litter of basset hound puppies. For 12 years, she turned out to be the best dog a girl could have. Sweet. Great with kids except when she knocked them down. Mellow. The perfect cuddler. She died in 2007 and I miss her to this day. Do not believe the rumors. Basset hounds are not dumb. They understand what you ask them to do. They simply choose not to do it.
Here she is in my old beloved Miata.
Curled up in her blanket (it still smells like her).
The Alliance of AIDS Services – Carolina hosts Drag Bingo to raise money to support those living with HIV/AIDS and their caregivers. You play bingo (not that fun in itself) while watching high-heeled, lipstick-laden, bejeweled he-women pounding the stage (that’s the fun part). Trust me, you’ve gotta experience it at least once. Watching the audience is part of the fun. It’s a mixture of all gender preferences. The leather-clad gentlemen, in particular, are fun to observe.
For each event, there’s a different theme. TV Moms. Madonnarama. Pop stars. Viva Las Vegas. Here’s Marilyn Merlot belting out some showtune. I really like the blurry watercolor effect…and those glistening red lips.
Mom and I met in San Francisco in July 2010 to tour Napa Valley. We spent a day driving around the San Francisco area, visiting John Muir forest, Fisherman’s Wharf and, of course, City Light Books, former literary home of the Beat writers. Three floors of Heaven, the site of Allen Ginsberg’s historic reading of Howl. Such a rich history. Imagine who stepped into that bookstore in the past — Kerouac, Neal Cassady, Burroughs!
One morning I wondered around the Cyril Magnin and Ellis area as dozens of people rushed to work. I wanted to take a picture of one of the homeless folks asking for money. The toothless woman was belligerent, so I decided to move on.
Then this guy came along. Not sure how I introduced myself to a homeless man. Perhaps “Hey, do you mind if I take your picture?” sufficed. I asked a few questions about how he got there, the answer to which consisted of the words “Fresno,” “prison,” and “parole.” He moved slowly and seemed so worn down, poor guy, and understandably so. Sand peppered his beard, as if he’d been sleeping on a beach. I wanted to know more if he cared to talk but felt I’d worn out my welcome.
Friends ask me what I like about traveling alone. I’ve enjoyed it so much, I wondered myself. Am I a closeted misanthropist? Why not spend these great moments with a friend?
Here are a few of my favorite aspects of solo travel:
The ability to get lost in the sights, sounds, and sensations around me
The freedom to do what I want at a moment’s notice
The sense of accomplishment at finding my way alone, relying on Google Maps and my questionable navigational skills
The gratitude for surviving scary moments alone
Solo travel drives home the silver lining of being geographically lost. In Pune, India, I walked off the beaten path near a popular shopping area and found myself the only white American girl in a Muslim neighborhood. Sadly, I know little about the Muslim faith other than through sensationalized stories on the news.
Stern men, congregated outside the houses, stared as this lone woman wound her way through the streets, trying desperately to remain calm. My heart beat madly even after finding the main road. How thankful I was to feel safe again.
The stern men most likely wondered how this stranger ended up in their neighborhood. Here’s the “beaten path” I enjoyed exploring before wandering off.
Neighborhood I enjoyed *before* walking off the beaten track
I traveled to India with a friend, however, wandering around alone was essential.
Getting lost in the moment is essential for taking good photos. I can take pictures with friends, but I want to be with them, not trying to capture the moment with someone or something else. For example, walking down Madison Avenue alone, I escaped into the reflections of this Ralph Lauren window display.
Ralph Lauren window display
Capturing the moment is most satisfying, whether I’m alone or with someone else. I was sitting next to Jessica near the Vatican when this photo presented itself.
Aimee and I spent a long weekend in New York City in May. We both love art and wanted to see the Whitney Museum of American Art in its new Chelsea location. The new building has spectacular views of Manhattan. If you’re forced to visit (say, with a friend or partner), spend your time enjoying the views from one of the balconies or inside on one of the comfy couches overlooking the city.
View from the Whitney Museum of American Art
In An introduction to NYC from Airbnb, I described my first Airbnb adventure in a $60/night room with a shared bathroom. This time, because I was sharing the expenses with Aimee, we splurged on an apartment on the Upper East Side. The apartment was on Lexington near 72nd. We passed dozens of expensive clothing stores and restaurants to get there.
The apartment was sandwiched between Swifty’s restaurant and Lexington Gardens floral/antique shop. The narrow glossy black door opened to two flights of steps and a 500-square-foot apartment. Two spartan rooms and a renovated bathroom. A teensy kitchenette with a small refrigerator occupied one corner of the front room. I figured this was the typical Manhattan apartment.
People spend thousands of dollars a month on such tiny living spaces, surrounded by elegant restaurants and clothing stores they can’t afford to step into. What’s it like to have those constant reminders as you walk to and from the subway every day?
Aimee and I walked alone from the Theatre District to the apartment on 10 p.m. Friday night. Businesses and even restaurants had closed.
The apartment was clean, quiet, and safe. Only $250/night. The tiny apartment in this sleepy area is fine if you rely on the rest of the city for food and entertainment. Visit Airbnb to take a look.
Stay tuned to read about my next Airbnb experience in Greenwich Village, one of my favorite areas in Manhattan.
My first trip to New York City, and I chose to stay in a $60/night room in Brooklyn through Airbnb. Google Maps and Street View showed me a desolate world of graffiti-lined warehouses and a trucking company. I couldn’t imagine being safe walking those streets at night from the subway to the apartment. What had I gotten myself into? The owner insisted that it was safe, so I took my chances.
Tiny room I rented on Airbnb in Brooklyn
The room turned out to be one of several off a common area and kitchen, all sharing a small bathroom. The only other inhabitant was some guy in the next room who came in after 11 p.m. and coughed all night. One night I heard him jostle the door handle on my room, trying to see if I were still there. I tell myself he just wanted to know if the apartment was empty, not that he wanted to do me any harm. He could have easily broken down the flimsy door.
Those graffiti-lined warehouses had been converted into stores I’d find at home — a health food store like a mini Whole Foods, a coffee shop, wine store, restaurants, etc. And the famous Roberta’s pizza was just around the block. This being Williamsburg (though near Bushwick), the streets were filled with young “hipsters” in their skinny jeans and tattoos. I felt perfectly safe walking alone three blocks from the subway to the apartment at midnight. (Yes, I went alone very happily! I’ll write more about solo travel in another blog.)
Graffiti-lined warehouses turned into “hip” little stores.
Every morning, I’d walk a few blocks to the L at Morgan and Bogart and ride 20 minutes to Manhattan. I spent all day walking, taking pictures, and discovering places that would become my favorites. Washington Square Park and Greenwich Village. Strand books. Ben’s pizza. The dimly lit Bemelman’s bar at the Carlyle Hotel — magical moments with an incredible dirty martini and a live pianist playing Gershwin. Stumptown Coffee. The Whitney, Met, and MOMA. The Gargosian art gallery. Central Park. By the time I got back to the apartment late every night, I was spent. Garbage trucks at 1 a.m. every morning didn’t keep me awake.
Would I stay in this $60/night apartment with a shared bathroom and invisible roommate again? No, but it sure made for a memorable introduction to New York City.
Ralph Lauren window displayMy first afternoon in Central Park, I happened across this protest, a great opportunity to take pix.
First, I want to admit to you that I’m in a long-distance love affair.
With New York City.
It’s a magical place for me — full of energy and possibilities and history and renowned architecture. Just walking around Manhattan makes me happy. I’m really into photography and constantly visualize photographs whether or not my camera is handy. NYC is full of great photographic moments. Here’s one such moment I captured in Washington Square Park, one of my favorite places:
Handsome man in Greenwich Village
On my second trip to NYC, my friend Leah and I were walking in Chelsea. It was about 6 p.m. Two scantily clad young women and a guy were arguing. In particular, the blond with twig-like arms and low-slung skinny jeans stumbled toward us, drunk, crying and yelling at her friends. She appeared to be incredibly distraught.
“I just want to die,” she screamed.
With the bitterness of a scorned woman, I said “I bet this drama is over a man. Let’s go talk to her.” We’ve all been there, right, ladies?
Leah’s motherly instinct took over. We ended up talking to the anorexic woman (let’s call her Marie) from Denmark, sitting on the sidewalk, for about an hour as the sun set. Leah stroked Marie’s hair and arm and listened to her plight. She explained why suicide wasn’t the answer, that the guy wasn’t worth Marie’s time. Marie had been hospitalized for anorexia for six months. We knew she was in bad shape.
Marie planned to move into a house in Brooklyn, where she lived for free with other young women. The only requirement was to hang out at the owner’s bar a few times a week. I asked “Do you have to have sex with the customers?” She said “no”, however, I knew. Later I learned that my hunch was probably right on. Sex trafficking is a big problem in NYC.
I was most impressed with Leah’s compassion towards this stranger. While I would have stopped to talk and listen to the woman, I probably wouldn’t have touched her. I have to know a person fairly well to go that far. Haaa.
We ended up persuading this young bony model to eat dinner at a nearby diner. Marie first ordered a wedge of iceberg lettuce topped with plain tuna fish. “I don’t care if I get fat!” she repeated in her Danish accent. “It doesn’t matter” as she ordered a piece of chocolate cake. To “get fat”, this woman would have to eat a cake a day for two months. Leah and I tried not to laugh.
Marie’s friend from Brooklyn picked her up from the diner, and Leah and I caught a cab back to the hotel.
We spent three hours trying to help Marie, and yet I knew her future looked bleak. A few weeks later, Marie texted Leah a photo of her with the sleazy boyfriend. Some lessons are hard to learn.
I wonder why a lot, trying to make sense of all kinds of things. Usually, an answer makes itself apparent. Now, I’m flummoxed.
On March 16, 2013 at Artspace in downtown Raleigh, I walked into a gallery to find a wall lined with dozens of small watercolors, each fastened with tiny nails. Several things about this art struck me as unique. The simplicity of nailing unframed art to a wall. Vivid color breezily layered over nostalgic photos. Sardonic, some suggestive, subtitles penciled in all caps. Obscured faces and headless bodies and bodyless heads.
The painting below, in particular, captured my imagination. Why?
Everyone Has a Riot Inside Them by Pete Sack
I don’t know what this painting signifies for me. But it made such an impression, I took this photo and posted it on Flickr and Pinterest. The image has haunted me ever since.
That was several years ago. I later wandered into Artspace and discovered the friendly artist in his workshop. (I expected a menacing man with a dry, dark sense of humor.) And the painting shown above — Everyone Has a Riot Inside Them — was buried in a stack. Now it’s hanging on my wall, fastened atop a white matte in a simple black frame.
Now that I think about it, Warhol’s more interesting portraits come to mind. Elizabeth Taylor with her smeared red pout and Marilyn with the Pepto Bismol mask. Could this explain the fascination? No, it’s not that simple.
The best art captures one’s imagination and doesn’t let go.
Last Sunday, I listened to a string of Harvard Business Review podcasts while raking the yard. This was the first raking of the season. Even with a tiny yard and a wide rake, I was out there until sunset.
Photo ~ Bill Gates, dyslexic and a criminal. There’s hope for everyone.
HBR interviewed cognitive psychologist Scott Barry Kaufman regarding his latest book, Ungifted: Intelligence Redefined. The most important point is that labeling kids as “dyslexic”, “shy”, “autistic”, etc. disregards their innate gifts. And dysfunctions can trigger a different area of the brain to compensate. Today’s dyslexic child might be a new incarnation of Bill Gates.
Some kids never get past the label. Others fight hard to overcome the barriers erected by family, friends, and society.
I’d been thinking about the topic of overcoming labels after watching the documentary Diana Vreeland: The Eye Has to Travel, the story of the infamous and fabulous fashion editor.
Diana (pronounced dee-ahna) Dalziel was labeled the “ugly” sister. Alexandra Dalziel bore the traits of a classic beauty — symmetrical proportions and sunny blond hair. Diana, with her dark hair and large nose, never measured up. Her mother proclaimed, “It’s too bad that you have such a beautiful sister and that you are so extremely ugly and so terribly jealous of her. This, of course, is why you are so impossible to deal with.”
Photo ~ Fashion editor and icon Diana Vreeland: the “ugly” sister
Diana spent life promoting the innate beauty and unique qualities of women, and celebrated her own uncommon beauty. The pages of Harper’s Bazaar and Vogue featured women with prominent noses and gapped teeth rather than only cookie-cutter beauties.
Undaunted Diana Dalziel Vreeland overcame the “ugly” label. The women who pored over those magazine pages were forever changed.
