Reel

I fear I may be people-watching myself to death. My style-envy is breaking me down to a nervous wreck. Look how beautiful! Everyone is beautiful! Shiver, shiver, gnash.

That more or less summarizes my feelings in Manhattan, which is really out of this world. But last night I went on that date (I know, I’m crazy to go on a date in a city I’ll be leaving in 3 days) to Brooklyn. Ahhh, what a relief. Brooklyn is normal, at last, by Montreal standards. I was trying to get a cocktail (vs a mixed drink) and it was almost as hard as getting one on St. Laurent. Every bar we tried was really a pub. And when I decided we should find girls in heels and ask them, it was actually really hard to find any of those. It’s like the real-life version of everything unreal across the river. Anyway, we found two great places: one where we had dinner, I can’t remember the name, and the tiniest waitress took our order; and the bar we finally settled on. Loved it. I think it’s called Charleston and it’s only a couple of months old. The walls are covered in red pleather, with mismatched buttons. The bar stools are each covered in a different and exciting (yes) pattern. The barman is an Argentinean ex-pat who looks like a collision between Robert Smith (of the Cure, for you young ones who don’t know who that is) and Severin Snape (of Harry Potter, for you old ones). Luscious. The jukebox was all Depeche Mode, Pogues, The Slits, Pulp, Roxy Music, and I can’t remember what else I chose. I had a million Cosmos and Robert Snape gave us one on the house, I have no idea why.

Other things I’ve done lately: took the Staten Island Ferry; went to the free night at MoMA; took the M1 bus all the way from Battery Park to the Museum, crossing all neighbourhoods in between and thereby giving myself a little tour; skipped going to the Museum of Natural History to go shopping instead; got a DKNY cashmere scarf from my cousin’s roommate because she doesn’t like the colour on her; and saw a great exhibit at the Museum of Art & Design by the Droog group.

Tired of Titles, still in New York, 4 whole days left

I always forget how un-pretentious Montreal is until I come to New York. I'm in this cafe I found on my second try looking for free wireless access and no hassle. Maybe everyone in this place comes here everyday and knows each other by name, but somehow I doubt that's why I became the instant focus of all the patrons as soon as I walked in. I think, and this is just a theory, that they were scoping me out, because that's what hipsters do, don't they? They size you up (clothes, hair, attitude, accessories) so that they can compare and allot you a space on the ruler either above or below themselves. Or... maybe that's just what *I* do. Heh.

Anyway, they play really good music that I don't know and the guy behind the cash IGNORED me for about a minute and then was simultaneously attentive and morose. Funny. He has professionally "just out of bed and still hungover" hair. I can see the product in it. But he did offer me half-and-half so that was nice.

I went to Soho today to check out a building I read about in the Village Voice. It's 11 Spring Street, and apparently it's been some sort of focus point for all kinds of street artists (visual, not performance) in the city. There's some legend behind the whole thing, but the point was that this is where I'd find my favourite flavour of expression in a city that's progressively cracking down on it. In the article there was also a reference to another building in the area that might replace this one as graffiti mecca once it gets turned into condos. But there was no address for the second building, only something about an "old candy factory" and the name of the street it's on. I was walking along it, looking for a plausible ex-candy factory, when I saw a guy who looked like he could help. An artist. I mean, he was wearing paint-stained clothes, aviator glasses and was rolling a cart full of canvases, I assumed he was an artist. Good guess, eh? He pointed me in the right direction, gave me another address, and invited me to an opening on Friday night. He also invited to an exhibition he's already showing at, and said to drop by the corner where'd he be trying to sell some old paintings, but I didn't do that. I might go to the opening though. One of the guys I met at the dinner on Christmas Eve texted me about going out this weekend, so that might be an option.

The other thing I've done a lot of here is see movies. I just saw Notes on a Scandal, which opened today. It stars Cate Blanchett and Dame Judi Dench, as well as the guy who played the aging rocker in Love, Actually. Judi Dench is impressive. She gave me the willies. It's my second Cate Blanchett movie this week. She's also in The Good German, which I think I wrote about below. God, is she ever stupid in this one ("Notes..."). I mean, her character, of course. Stupid, stupid. Tonight I'm going to see Shortbus, which IMDB describes as "A group of New Yorkers caught up in their romantic-sexual milieu converge at an underground salon infamous for its blend of art, music, politics, and carnality." Great. Besides those, and just to keep track, I also saw David Lynch's latest, Inland Empire (bee-zar) and one with Judy Garland where she marries an alcoholic hasbeen actor.

Ahh, anyway, gotta leave to see that Shortbus one. I heard it snowed in Montreal. I am truly jealous.

email para mi mama

Que mas? A veces me pillo pensando que no he hecho suficiente, y luego me recuento lo que he hecho y me doy cuenta de soy muy exigente, porque en realidad, he hecho harto. Claro que siempre se puede mas, y todo depende del temperamento.

Una cosa que me doy cuenta es que me gusta estar sola en Nueva York. Claro que seria rico un poco de compania para ir a tomarse algo, conocer algun club, etc, pero si tuviera que elegir blanco o negro, prefiero estar sola que acompanada en esta ciudad llena de posibilidades y divagaciones. Asi puedo siempre hacer lo que yo quiero sin preguntar que le parece a otra persona, sin miedo a latear. Por ejemplo: hoy me levante tarde, sin culpa porque estoy de vacaciones, me puse bluyines con el piyama y sali a buscar la nueva edicion del Village Voice que esperaba con ansiedad. Me servi un cafe con leche, jugo y tostadas y lei. Despues de la ducha, fui al Carlton Arms a ver si encontraron mi mascara para dormir que no encuentro. De ahi, cruce la plaza Madison y los turistas sacandole fotos al Flatiron Building, y baje a Soho a buscar un edificio acerca del cual lei en el Voice, cubierto de grafittis. Como no lo encontraba, pare a un artista en la calle para pedir direcciones (tenia la ropa manchada de pintura y llevaba varios cuadros, supuse que era artista). Me invito a una inauguracion el viernes en que expondra una pieza. Pasando por las boutiques del barrio (que creo es el de Felicity), encontre el edificio y le saque hartas fotos, que luego pondre en Flickr. Hoy hacia frio y me congele sacando las fotos asi que entre a un cafe frances y pedi un croissant y un te, deliciosos. Camine al cine Angelika y vi la muy nueva pelicula Notes on a Scandal, con Cate Blanchett y Dame Judi Dench. Ella, espectacular en su rol. Me dio escalofrios su personaje. Entonces se habia hecho oscuro y tome el metro devuelta al departamento, me hice algo para comer y lei un par de capitulos de la novela de Ernesto que me regalaste. Esta super buena. Me llego un mensaje de texto de un chileno que conoci en la comida de navidad, invitandome a salir manana o pasado y me llamo la Pepi para ir al cine esta noche, quizas. Ahora tome el laptop y me vine a un cafe a la vuelta y escribo esto. Te parece poco?

(creo que ahorrare tiempo y copiare esto mismo que te escribi en mi blog)

Isabel

Navidad neoyorquina

(nota: los acentos son al gusto del computador, y no reflejan mi capacidad de reconocer donde debería haber uno y no hay)
Supongo que esto se esta convirtiendo un poco en un travelog para los propósitos de este viaje a Nueva York. Resumiendo lo dicho anteriormente en ingles, vine a pasar navidad y ano nuevo, diez días. Había conseguido una reserva en mi hotel favorito pero a ultimo minuto se acordó que podía quedarme en el departamento de mi prima en el East Village mientras ella esta de visita en Chile. En realidad, el departamento es de su roommate, Josefina, también chilena.

Anoche fui a una cena de navidad a la que fui muy gentilmente invitada por mi amiga Pepi. También eran principalmente chilenos, con la excepción de españoles, argentinos y un americano. Lo pase divino. La comida, hecha por un amigo chef de la Pepi, incluía gnoccis caseros, salmón a punto con salsa de mantequilla y alcaparras, y peras asadas con crema de postre. Delicioso! Podrán hacerse una idea del grupo por el hecho revelador de que la parte baile de la noche consistió en un montón de videos de “divas” (Liza Minelli, Grace Jones, Shirley Bassey, Cyndi Lauper, Raffaella Carra, etc). En un pequeño intercambio de regalos, me lleve una botellita de champaña, hurra! La voy a guardar para el ano nuevo, lógico.

Ah, y a las 5am me di cuenta de que había perdido un mensaje de mi hermano, desde Santiago, recibido a las 11pm. Ups. Ultra desconectada.

Esta mañana me fui a la catedral de San Patricio, la famosa y bella iglesia con un altar diseñado por Louis Tiffany, a oír la misa del mediodía. Llegue a la hora perfecta, cuando todo el mundo de la misa anterior iba saliendo, así que conseguí un excelente asiento. A mi lado se sentó una señora (de pelo blanco, muy de peluquería), con un tremendo abrigo de piel, y una cartera Gucci (creo). A la hora de la colecta confirme que era neoyorquina, del barrio, porque uso uno de los sobres que entrega la parroquia, y le había puesto una estampilla con su nombre y dirección. Muy tierna la señora, le ayude a ponerse el (pesadísimo) abrigo al terminar la ceremonia. La misa estuvo muy cantada, lo cual agrego emoción a toda la situación de estar ahí, en la misa de navidad de San Patricio, cantando Hark the Herald Angels Sing, rodeada de gente de todo el mundo.

Volví al departamento después de comprarme una tajada de pizza cubierta de zini, esa pasta en forma de tubito. O sea, cerdo, y rico. Leí un poco mas de la novela de Ernesto Ayala (la Pepi me regalo la suya anoche así que enseguida leeré esa) y dormí toda la tarde. Ahora creo que voy a aprovechar que es navidad, feriado, y tomarme la noche con tranquilidad. Quizás encenderé la tele de la Carmencita por primera vez. Parece que dan Sex & the City todos los días a las 11pm.

Christmas Eve with my mouth open

Not disappointed by my fifth visit to New York is an understatement. I was almost moved to tears at the famous toy store FAO Schwartz this afternoon. It is kid heaven. Heaven. There are giant stuffed animals that are practically life-sized. A woolly mammoth will cost obliging parents or grandparents $12,000. That’s US dollars. They still have the “Big” piano that Tom Hanks played on during the movie of the same name. They do this show, with two animators hopping to familiar tunes, and then they invite the kids (and adults!) to give it a whirl. $250,000 if you want to play at home.

But there are more things. There’s a huge section devoted to dolls that is mind-blowing. You can make any doll you want. You can buy designer dolls for hundreds of thousands of dollars. And then, because every little girl knows that the biggest dream is to become a doll oneself (and, mostly, wear her clothes), there’s the costume section with every article required to become a real princess. Only kid sizes, though.

The “boys” side has a human-sized Chewbacca made of Lego. There’s also Batman, the grizzly guy from Lord of the Rings, and a downtown skyline, all out of Lego. There’s an outdoor game that apparently “combines basketball, volleyball and a trampoline”. It’s pretty big. There’s also some kind of rocket simulator the size of my kitchen. Are you getting all of this? In a toy store.

Anyway. I could go on naming every game of laser tag, carpet skates, antique automatons and multitude of dinosaurs I saw, but what for? You must go. It’s just past the giant, glowing Apple logo seemingly floating in a glass box the size of a small house. Yes, right next the Apple Store, that’s right.

Maybe my senses were heightened because I had just come from Barney’s. Oh my God. You know, I don’t really like to shop. I have some childhood trauma (thanks, Dad) about spending money (“fine, spend the money, but first, you must pass this 98-question test about whether it’s really worth it”). And in particular, I’m not a good clothes shopper. I like my clothes like I like my food: bland. Or so I thought. Until I ran into a $300 flowy blouse that I *might* want to wear sometime, with the skinny jeans I don’t own, and some $200 ballet slipper shoes I also don’t own. But wouldn’t it be great?

Honestly, I never thought I liked clothes that much until I saw these. For these, I would break my previous “single most expensive item of clothing I own” record, which now stands at US$130 (and was totally worth it).

Meanwhile, on my US$50 a day New York budget, I walked down to the flagship Louis Vuitton store on 5th Avenue to have a look at Olafur Eliasson’s window display. He’s a very up-and-coming Icelandic artist that works out of Germany, in case you didn’t know. Of course, I didn’t actually go into LV because there are some stores that I’m just not worthy of. When I went into Prada at the Bellagio, it required some major psych-ing up, and I’m on vacation here. I also looked at the incredibly theatrical window display at Bergdorf Goodman, and then headed across the street to Central Park to check out the skating rink.

I’m doing some recon of rinks, in case I decide to finally go skating. This one’s bigger than the one at Rockefeller Plaza, which is good. But it’s still a long line-up to skate around with lots of strangers.

My plan was to finish up the afternoon with It’s a Wonderful Life at the IFC Center but it was on too late. So I went to the Astoria instead and caught The Good German, by one of my favourite directors, Steven Soderbergh. It was awesome. At one point, my mouth was hanging open. Which pretty much sums up my first few days in the Big Apple, as some guy plays “Santa Claus is coming to town” on a sax and I get an energy vibe off the other tourists speaking 34 different languages, and forget that I’m even on vacation and that this is not my normal life.

gay new york

According to the young male hustler character in the Broadway play I just saw (ahem), gay is a just a word that rhymes with a lot of other words, and that's why it was used in so many old songs. There's a hilarious scene (many hilarious scenes, but in this one...) where his "lover" (barf) is lying next to him in bed wondering what he (the hustler) is thinking about. And what he's thinking about kind of goes like this: "hay, ray, spray..."

The play is called The Little Dog Laughed, and when I read my first review of it, on Nerve(http://www.nerve.com/regulars/lifeswork/douglascarterbeane/), it was titled "No, It's Not the Tom Cruise Story", which is ridiculously accurate.

I tried explaining what the play was about to a bartender at Simone's afterward, but it only became apparent that I shouldn't try to pitch anything, ever.

What I hated most during the play was the couple next to me. More specifically, the woman. At the same time, she was a great source of very quiet and silent laughter for me. This is what she wore (and please note, she was, ehhh, heavyset): a hot pink cropped t-shirt. with rhinstones spelling something I couldn't decipher because it would have required staring directly at her chest. and I tried. rhinestone hoop earrings. white capri pants. pink bobby socks. She must have been, oh, 44. She giggled at all the wrong parts (like, say, every time the gay guys kissed...). I was dying to ask her where in the US she was from.

I went to Simone's later, a bar here in the East Village where I'm staying, because I was so happy after the play, I wanted a drink. I never feel like going to bars by myself, and I don't associate joy with alcohol, but here I am in New York and I've just seen a hilarious play on Broadway, and it's Saturday night, and... I wanted to have a drink. I walked by a few bars on Avenue A, but chickened out of walking into each of them. Simone's, I figured, was familiar, therefore safe. I went there last year with Bubi and we liked it. It's all red and chandeliers, you know?

One of the barmen had his iPod hooked up to the sound system and he played Kate Bush and Massive Attack's CD Protection, the one with Karma Coma. I got a glass of red. Anyway, there was this person there, who I noticed hopping tables. I asked one of the guys behind the bar and he told me she was Simone (no relation to the bar's name), a transexual who's a physic and "really cool". No doubt. I wish she had read my hand. While I finished my drink, I could hear her talking to a table of people hidden from my view: "hellooo!", as in "wake up!" and then a few minutes later, again, "hellooo!", and again.

Tomorrow night is the Christmas dinner with Chilean ex-pats I've been invited to. I'm really looking forward to it. I have to say, though, the times I've felt best in this city are when I'm by myself, ready for anything.

And she's off!

That's it. This is my last post before I get on that overnight bus to my second favourite city to spend Christmas and New Year's. Like Leonard Cohen brilliantly says in the movie I'm Your Man, "New York's almost as good as Montreal". Heh.

In a fortunate turn of events for my wallet, my cousin's roommate has agreed that I stay over while said cousin (Carmen) is visiting Chile. On the other hand, my favourite hotel in NYC, Ye Olde Carlton Arms, has let me off the hook for my 10 day reservation and is still keeping my reservation for the first night, when I can't stay at Carmen's because she'll still be in town. This is also a good thing, because it means I get to see her before she leaves.

My friend Pepi has very graciously invited me to a dinner with friends and other Chilean ex-pats on Sunday, and probably to a New Year's Eve party. It sounds really good and I appreciate getting included in the fun. My original idea for going to New York was a sort of Holden Caulfield remake -minus the depression- because I didn't know if there would be anyone familiar there. So I was prepared to entertain myself, and in a way I still am. But having friends to party and hang out with makes it even sweeter.

The first time I felt that click with New York was on the bus ride in to Manhattan from the airport, one time that I had 5 hours to kill between my plane and the bus to Montreal. I realized I recognized the highway signs from an episode of Seinfeld. In town, everything was familiar, from Woody Allen movies, and jazz songs. Then I started seeing movies and tv shows and *recognizing* parts of the island. Now I know the layout of the streets, the names of the neighbourhoods, and I've even been to the Seinfeld diner. I love New York. It's my dream city. Not that I don't get the parts of it people dislike, like the unrelenting ambition of its citizens, or the overwhelming anonymity. It's just that, for me, as a constant tourist (or my preferred term: pilgrim), it's a fantasy. Part of this year's fantasy includes hanging out in town by myself, maybe skating at Rockefeller Center, visiting the Museum of Natural History, etc. What I really love about New York is that there's so much to do that my fantasy is never completed, and therefore I'm never disappointed. How can even MY expectations exceed the Big Apple's capacity to meet them?

Beginnings

Beginnings aren't always the best. I can remember so many beginnings of relationships that drove me to complain that people were insane to suggest that this anxiety was "the best part". But of course later the memory of the beginning is so juicy, when you already know how it turned out.

I went on my first date with adorable French boy on Wednesday (he asked me if I knew "feast", ie Feist). He brought his dog Daphné all the way from that mysterious land called The South Shore and we walked her around Park Lafontaine. Best idea for a first date ever. Just light, easygoing, sincere, a beautiful smile and a resonating feeling that all is OK. Isn't that the best?

I thought of beginnings last night at Spectrum, watching The Dears pull off a show that Mary quite rightly called the best of the year. The next best? The Dears, June 29, at Metropolis. I remembered how I got into this band in the first place. The beginning of it all, for me.

It was a tv commercial for wine, aimed at young drinkers. It was an animated ad that looked a lot like the Spanish artist Jordi Labanda's work, or those Lavalife posters in the metro. And the background music, as a cartoon couple floated in hot pink and orange air, was ...da-da da-da da... It was This is a Broadcast, from The Dears' 2000 CD End of a Hollywood Bedtime Story. Before I found that out, though, I spent a lot of time da-da'ing that bit of the song in my head and wondering what the hell it was and if I would ever find out. I often wish there was a sort of Google for hummed song clips, where you could say "I'm looking for a song that goes kind of like this... hmm, la la..." and the MusicGoogle would tell you, "Oh, that's the Postal Service, Such Great Heights."

So last night I took the napkin from my Coke and wrote down all the other memorable first times I heard bands that are now my favourites. "Not by email or msn", I added, because there's too many of those, sent over the Internet by other music-addicted friends who like to share. Those have been great, but too numerous to recount.

I was thinking more of times like when I walked into an indie record store in Santiago and, I don't know why, picked up Pulp's CD Freaks. I asked the clerk to let me hear it. He put it in a CD player and passed me the headphones, and I listened to Anorexic Beauty and I Want You and can still remember how great it felt when I said "I want to have this voice in my house. I'll take it." Years of total Pulp fanaticism followed.

When I had just moved back to Montreal, I read the Mirror to find out what was going on around here. There was a recommendation to go see a triple-bill headlined by Spoonbender at Sala Rossa. I think it was on a Monday and I went with Anna's friend of a friend, Casey. There weren't many other people there. One of the bands was We Are Wolves and I hated them. But the other band... was The Unicorns, and a love affair began. I was mesmerized by their pink outfits, Nick/Neil's shaggy hair, their silly/smart jokes about the main act's name, and the music. I called the Rant Line the next day and said I had just seen the cutest, sweetest, most adorable band EVER. They published it and I happen to know the Unicorns read it, because a long time after that, I asked and they remembered. Ah... give me a second to run through my many Unicorns memories (chaos at the Dark Room; the Nicks talking loops at SAT; discovering the crowds at La Tulipe; Jenn's message from Tazmania that it was all over) that I'll treasure forever now that they're defunct. How come all the other unicorns are dead?

Christmas Calendar

There may not be any snow on the ground, and this may clearly be one of the cloudiest Fall seasons ever, but Winter is looking up.

Saturday night I joined a gang at Charles’s place to eat spaghetti and watch NFB shorts like “The Sweater” (the story of a young boy in Quebec whose mother accidentally buys him a Maple Leaf hockey sweater from “Monsieur Eaton”). Then we piled into various cars and drove out to a West Island rink. We watched the Habs vs the Buffalo Sabers (who beat us in the shoot outs) on a giant screen tv and then I watched everyone else play a friendly game. I was the official photographer, which means I didn’t have to buy skates or a helmet or actually do any real work. Perfect.

Last night a group of nine of us went to the Notre Dame Basilica and listened to the very amazing Messiah concert by Haendel, as sung by Le Grand Choeur de Montreal. Our seats were the cheapest in the house, “nulle visibilité”. But as it turned out, we could actually see some of the choir and the soloists from where we were. Hallelujah!

The lineup of what’s coming is as follows: The Dears are playing this Thursday at the Spectrum. I’m all set to go after my Christmas reunion with the ladies from Events International, the company I used to work for. January 4 is the Emily Haines solo show. MSTRKRFT are playing something called I Love Neon on February 10, and, I don’t know if I should say this, but I’ve recently been notified that Arcade Fire will be playing 5 nights sometime this winter in a cozy location. I’m so there.

Oh yeah, and winter is my birthday too, yeeee!

Can I just say, that was the best office Christmas party ever?

It started with a game of Asshole in the office lunch room, making time before heading to the cocktail & dinner because I didn't feel like walking home first. It ended at what used to be Angel's, now called Rouge, with the CEO, his underage daughter, the other money dude from TO, assorted colleagues and tray after tray of equally assorted shots. Mr. CEO tried to get us past the line with Iraki cash. TO dude now has compromising photos of me belting out songs (I love to dance, I really get into it, what can I say) on the dancefloor. I took advantage of a Dad-free moment to teach the boss's daughter how to slap random people's asses on said dancefloor. She loved it, how could she not? And I met the cutest, sweetest, albeit South Shore-ian French quebecer. How's that? How was *your* xmas party?