$2 Dollar Love

...about a call for help and a travel to no expectations

“You are entitled to your actions, but not the fruit of your actions.”

Bhagavad Gita

It’s dark and it’s late for a week day. I’ve been cycling around with Porsha (yes, that’s name I've given my bike) and now I’m anchored at a traffic light in SoHo, waiting for it to turn green. Foot on the bike pedal, chest puffed, arms crossed - I’m feeling very Rock’n’Roll. The single ear bud is blasting “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC and I’m nodding to it rhythmically. An elderly gentleman suddenly runs towards me waving his arms.

“Miss! Miss! Could you spare a quarter? I want to buy a ticket home...”

Girl on the streets of New York paining a picture

Here it is, the inevitable search for compassion that we’ve all encountered. The one that at times we would pass on and say “Sorry, man” simply because it's overwhelming by how many of these calls of desperation cross our path. It’s not difficult to see desperation's face on the streets. It’s pushing a cart full of leftovers, it’s dragging an old suitcase and a sleeping bag, it’s digging through the trash or it's waiting by the sidewalk humbly displaying an “I need a miracle” sign. More often than not, I will walk by, because I feel this heavy face leaning onto my shoulder too closely. “My quarter won’t change a thing” I will say to myself or exercise fast judgement “He will buy booze with the money, not a ticket or food”.

I find speaking or writing about this loaded topic difficult, and I hardly feel qualified to suggest any "smart" solutions. However, the gentleman’s question left a very personal impression on me. It made me realize a couple of things. First, Holy Shit, my brain is so cluttered, where did that chain of thoughts come from, I was cycling 2 minutes ago?? Second, I’ve just labeled someone desperate, without knowing anything about him or about the reasons of his inquiry. I’ve done it just because he asked me for a little bit of money. Third, I’ve also selfishly put an expectation on him - he can only receive my compassion, if he complies with what the money will be spent for. This is not a glorious moment for my philanthropy oriented, yoga infused, well read, kittens hugging side (that I think I posses for the most part, especially when overdosing on spiritual Instagram posts). 

I’m thinking about this predisposition for judgement. It’s a shield against what I consider hurtful and difficult to change in the world. But why do I need to exercise the right to say how my good deed is spent? Does it matter whether it’s food, booze or something else, as long as it grants him a little bit of happiness? And is it really pain I’m letting into my life by helping him, especially if I CAN share that quarter? (The rhetorical function of these questions has been added to spare the writer spelling out the answers). I challenge myself to take a leap tonight against this psycho wave of thoughts and just do something for a stranger, without putting expectations on him.

There’s barely anyone else passing by the lonesome SoHo alley. The light turns green, but I hold the eager Porsha still and check the contents of my wallet. It contains a single $2 dollar bill and nothing else. I pull it out and hand it over to the gentleman.

“There you go, I hope it helps, sir” I say to him.

He looks at me wide eyed and presses his hands into a prayer as he channels a full hearted “Thank you!” my way, adding a loud: “I love you, Miss!” proclamation.

I cycle off with a smile. Maybe he won’t buy a ticket home or perhaps he will. But why should I care? I set something in motion by handing my last $2 dollars, irrelevant if it will be classified as good or bad in the order of the world. Tonight it brought me an “I love you” as a sign of gratitude. And "I love you" is always good to hear, even from an absolute stranger.

---

Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

The Secrets of Brooklyn

...about bikes & bridges, junkyards & sunsets and a walk among tombstones

---

A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.

– Lao Tzu

One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.

– Henry Miller

---

Bikes & Bridges

This early October weather is making me melancholic. The Fall has arrived with the last warm days and I’m looking at my bike sadly. I will have to retire it soon for the winter, because either the wind or the cabs will become even more merciless once November arrives. I’ve decided to take it out for a serious spin. I have 30 km on my marker and 2 brochures are occupying my oversized pants pockets. One is for the Green-Wood Cemetery, the other one for PioneerWorks. 

I’m exploring the deepest secrets of Brooklyn, to put a more dramatic touch on my Sunday itinerary. Both locations were only vague notions a few hours ago. Like so many random adventures in New York, I stumbled upon them through friends, who were told by other friends of friends. The thrill of discovering an extraordinary experience is a treasure hunt New Yorkers constantly engage in, hence, I often advise visitors against over-planning when coming here. Most memorable way to experience the city is to chase its curiosities for a while. Something incredible will fall on your head at a moment, when you are taking a shortcut through that seemingly dodgy street in Chinatown or elsewhere. It will make you fall in love with the thrill and probably hate it a bit too, because there is so much to do, so much to take in, and so much to miss out at the same time.

A Brooklyn curiosity - The Clocktower Radio

Since I live in Manhattan, the way to leave the island involves crossing one of the bridges. Of those, Brooklyn Bridge is probably my least favourite but also the most entertaining. It’s packed to the brim; you can quickly get overly close with strangers or get a selfie stick shoved in precious body parts. After a brief inevitable ride through it, I’m perfectly trained in sound spelling “Get the fuck out of the bike lane!” with the piercing voice of my bike bell. It’s either tourists that have made the mistake to wonder off to the left from their tiny pedestrian path, or one of the citibike newbies has decided to take a selfie... while still cycling in zigzag... with one hand... through the sea of bodies.

Riding a bike in New York isn’t exactly relaxing at any point. It requires the focus of a surgeon. When I tell people this is how I commute EVERYWHERE, at ANY time of the day and in ANY footwear and outfit, most of them give me the slow eye-scan that’s clearly evaluating my mental stability. It’s true there is a high probability of being sandwiched between a garbage truck and a cab, the drivers of which are still figuring out how driving works or run over a pedestrian, who’s texting while crossing on red. I won’t even try to paint a better image; it is THAT bad, but I also love cycling THIS much.

A Walk Among The Tombstones

First stop - the cemetery. I’ve put my bike to a halt a few comfortable meters away from the entrance. The distance allows me to examine the view and finalize the internal debate on whether or not to go in. Let me put it this way - cemeteries ain’t my jam. Of all the places I could roam, this would probably classify quite low on my bucket list, somewhere between walking barefoot through a dumpster and dining in one of those Bangkok dancing establishments. Today I’m nudging myself out of that comfort zone, I keep hearing about.

Main gate to Green-Wood Cemetery

The Green-Wood pasture for the eternal peace is not exactly what I expected. The main gate reminds me of Sagrada Familia – the beautiful Gothic arch needs almost its own background angel choir. The cemetery map gives me the scare. The size of this thing implies I can walk around for days without being found - hiking paths, several chapels and a number of lakes are at my disposal. It also seems to be a favourite spot for young Brooklyn moms with strollers, as well as joggers. The only thing the scenery seems to be missing is some free grazing sheep (ducks are present at the scene and quite territorial as I will find out quite fast).  

View of Financial District

I’m moving slowly towards some hills that open gorgeous views of the East River and Manhattan. My hesitant walk stays on the clearly marked paths. Graves aren’t fenced, there’s mostly grass and tombstones peeking out of it. There have been many daredevil bets in my teens, when conquering a cemetery at night was considered pretty badass. However, a walk through one during the day, which doesn’t involve visiting a resting member or a bottle of whiskey and a heavy metal video, is giving me the creeps. The reason  - the notion of cemetery in Bulgaria is at the opposite end of Green-Woods. You won’t get directed for a walk or handed a map. Involvement with it is limited to unwritten rituals, which dictate bringing flowers, lighting a cigarette, having a drink with the dead, but overall just feeling sad that someone is gone. Death in the Balkans is wrapped in mystery and superstitions and it’s nothing anyone discusses with a light heart or feels in need to incorporate in daily search for fresh air. But the more I’m walking, the more I see why people choose this place. It’s, to no surprise, very peaceful. New York is quiet for a change, which allows me to find a good spot to sit down and soaks up the prime real estate imagery without distraction. As I’m pondering about these differences and my inherited emotional response, I see a pack of ducks has taken interest on me.  Every time I avert my eyes, they use the chance to slowly sneak up, but before they get the chance to gang up on me and ask for my lunch money, I jump on my feet, shaking off the friendly ghosts and conflicting thoughts. It’s time for the next portion of the itinerary - PioneerWorks in Red Hook.

Junkyards & Sunsets

Retirement home for tubs

Red Hook is a remote part of Brooklyn, which most New Yorkers connect with infrequent ferry trips to IKEA. It’s roads are solitary and they push me under imposing bridges, through neatly organised industrial zones, between buses and trucks. I get the occasional friendly honk and a wave. A bike is an exotic animal on these streets. The green parks and brownstone houses are gradually exchanged for factories and junkyards. 

The sinks solitude

I make a few stops to admire the yards. Despite their fairly one dimensional purpose, there is a highly artistic depth and solitude to their image. Old bathtubs & sinks, chandeliers, metal scraps from tables and chairs have been retired, neatly stacked behind a rusty fence. The weather has changed their shades kindly, giving them the definition of “Brooklyn cool”. The occasional graffiti complements the scenery, colours and shapes are looming into the backs of buildings like twisted tattoos. Red Hook is gritty, it’s like that pretty but tough girl at the bar you’ve been eyeing from afar, because you know she can punch you in the face.

One phrase marks the entrance to PioneerWorks - “In pursuit of magic”. The building is a tribute to a roman bath house, which has been gutted and its insides have been redecorated with art installations. There are multiple studios for artists and an art radio station, called Clocktower Radio, is pulling some funky tunes. The flyer for today lists a number of exhibitions and promises live music, which I’m anticipating the most. 

Inside PioneerWorks

The buzz from the collective exchange of ideas and photographs spills into the garden. Yes, there is some magic in here and the pursuit for it has gathered a highly artistic crowd. Among the display of bags with intricate poetic messages and the chime of frail wine glasses, a soft jazzy tune rushes in. Bonfires are lit as the sun slowly drowns into the water and another devastating Red Hook sunset paints the sky over the face of Lady Liberty. The harbour cranes are leaning towards each other like giraffes in love, and I push my way through the forest of phones to take pictures as well.

Giraffes in Love

Ghosts begin to roam the night. Unconquered by progress, they still live here and wake up with the shadows under flickering street lamps, with the soft sighs of the cranes, with the hard labour infused storage buildings. And in the depth of Red Hook, there are many gems, but you have to make the commitment to dig through the junkyard.

A slow ride in the dark takes me back into the heart of Manhattan. At home, I pull the wrinkled flyers & maps out of my pockets and all the impressions of the day spill with them, making me feel light, intrigued and peaceful.

Through the garden

Spooning in the PioneerWorks garden

* * *

The Neon Kitty seen in one of the art studios

---

Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

She

...about the City, the relationship with Her and a Monday evening in July

I’m out with friends and we’ve just met these nice Australian travelers. We join them for a drink at a random East Village speakeasy. It’s way too early for a bar, the room is empty and unusually quiet for a New York drinking spot. The silence is welcome for a change, as I don’t have to yell at my speaking partner from the bottom of my lungs. Beginning a conversation with strangers will often gravitate around jobs, weather, sights of New York. These girls are way too cool for small talk. I’m happy we skip that screening process and strike a more real conversation about a different aspect of the city. One of them comments on her observation about how people, who live in New York, speak about it as if it’s a being, a She that they have a relationship with, and everything a person goes through - break ups, auditions, spiritual trips, euphoria, rage, fear - it’s all part of that relationship. Her words stick with me. I do refer to the city in a similar way. There is just so much intensity to living in New York that after all the names of people have worn out of our consciousness, after all the buzz has quieted down, after all the visitors have left, She is still here, somehow unchanged in her overall existence. While skimming through my journal, I found this piece written not long ago, when New York and I flirted through the Summer, and I scribbled some words to describe what a simple Monday Night can turn into in the city. Adventures are never too far, if you keep your eyes and heart open, because that’s what She does.

* * *

The View of 2 Bridges - Manhattan & Brooklyn bridge

Nothing in this city happens out of pure luck or simply by chance. Everything is connected, where it wants to be - the subway, the people, even the inevitable heat in July has a sense of belonging. They are all part of a most complex living and breathing organism, a powerful creature that becomes a part of you the moment you set foot on the island. The stories of strangers become your memories, their zest for life and success becomes your thirst, your affair with the city becomes another heartfelt romance for the books.

It’s just Monday somewhere else in the world. People buy food at the supermarket, talk about taxes, discuss the neighbourhood gossips or maybe the latest movie they’ve seen. But not in New York. The city grabs you by the hand and pulls you closer to her beating heart. And it’s throbbing with power that becomes your drug.

“I know it’s warm” She whispers playfully in your ear “But follow me” adding with another promiscuous giggle.

It’s after dark already, yet the heat is not letting go, so the only escape is at the embrace of the West Side breeze. The Hudson River, muddy and lazy, is licking the shore like a kitten. An old boat, docked in Chelsea, is rusting nonchalantly. They call it the Frying Pan for what it turns into on any given sunny day. But at night, when the Devil loosens his grip, you can sway on the boat in the slow jazz rhythm of the waves, under the lights of the thousand skyscrapers from Jersey to Midtown.

View of Jersey's skyline over the Hudson River

It’s getting late… Does it ever get late in New York? Is it ever too late for anything in here? Drunkenly She lures you to to visit the McKittrick Hotel. It’s not far and there is always some time for the McKittrick’s mystery. It’s not exactly a hotel - it’s one of those morphed creatures with a twisted face that can haunt you or excite you, depending on your emotional bearings. Your eyes are tired but you want to see what the fuss is all about. An elevator ride takes you to Gallow Green, the roof top bar of the establishment. The year 2015 can’t be found in here. Some smoky jazz lyrics have poised the air with desire and under the influence the lights of the city go dim. Plants have weaved their hair into the skeleton of this old brick building, making it look cosy. An old train car is tossed in the corner and serves as an extra dinner seating. A chain of lights is passing through it, spreading innuendo - sharp so to give couples the courage to touch, yet subtle enough to leave some mystery between them for later hours. The servers are looking way too good in their 1920s jackets and before you sink into the comfort of the aging evening, She grabs you by the hand again and rushes you to follow the music, down the stairs, into that hidden bar. You know the song, which the walls are humming. It’s old and sweet and the singer is pouring his voice into it:“And I think to myself, what a wonderful world…”

The corner table calls your name, a cocktail accompanies you for the next few songs. The 2 singers on stage are in a good mood. The lady is sassy and the gentleman couldn’t be more English, if he were paid for it. They are turning good tricks for a few laughs, talking and singing to a gentle rhythm. The hall is filled with the clinking of glasses.

Manderley Bar at McKittrick Hotel

The hours slip without searching for you. You suddenly realize all practical aspects of life have been forgotten - work, laundry, the weather. Where are we again? How did we end up here …on a Monday? Oh yes, I followed her...

She’s a special woman that one. There is so much for the heart to take in when you are with her. She can be cruel and dirty, and then turn around and transform into a sophisticated lady with the highest demands. She can rush you from the filthy streets of Lower East Side to the neatly arranged corners of Upper West, She can play with you like a child through the green drape of Central Park and abandon you for someone else on the corner of Houston and Broadway. You can live with her for 7 years and She will still erase your traces faster than footsteps on a beach. She promises nothing and gives you only the will to live with her now. You proclaim love and hate for her at the same time, get the best and the worst of you pulled, twisted and returned. E.B.White’s words echo through you. After so many things have changed, moved, been torn down, become obsolete and come back into fashion - his words unveil a bittersweet truth about New York - a face you get to see clearly from under all the noise, chase, rush, will, yearning, ambiguity, redemption:

“It can destroy an individual, or it can fulfill him, depending a good deal on luck. No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.”

And after all is done, after you’ve chased her ghost through the streets, maybe you will find your true self somewhere within her as well. Isn’t it why so many of us come here - to find that special Something? And maybe some details will fade away along the journey, maybe you will forget the name of the rusty boat or the hotel that is not really a hotel, but you will hopefully never forget how the City made you feel, when She grabbed you by the hand and pulled you into the night, into the heat of July ...and it was only Monday.

View of Midtown Skyline from Ink48 Hotel

---

Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.