Emerging from the Grand St. exit this morning on my way to a shoot, I had the strangest sense that I'd returned to HK. It had been awhile since I'd found myself stranded in a throng of slow-moving asians exiting up an underground stairway. After my job I even managed to find a red bean paste bun at a chinatown bakery-that's something I can guarantee you would not find in any other part of the city. I worked with an amazing team today and the photographer and his assistant/friend could not stop raving about their LES (lower east side) neighborhood...I WANT TO MOVE!!!
The question of New Yorkers' friendliness (or rudeness) is one oft-debated topic on which I've never really had much to say. I guess if anyone asked I'd describe New Yorkers much the way Jeannette Walls did in her memoir The Glass Castle; "...if you tried to stop them on the street, a lot of them kept on walking, shaking their heads; those who did stop didn't look at you at first. They gazed off down the block, their faces closed. But as soon as they realized you weren't trying to hustle them or panhandle money, they warmed right up. They looked you in the eye and gave you detailed instructions...[they] just pretended to be unfriendly."
I've been reading up on universities in the city (NYU and Columbia) and one thing I remember a native new-yorker mentioning about her out-of-state peers was their pride in adopting the 'new-yorker jadedness'-indifference to beggars, smells, rats/roaches, and honking horns. Considering that most people I meet in this city aren't originally from the area, I'm beginning to wonder whether the 'new-yorker attitude' might be a self-fulfilling prophecy; something people hear about before arriving here and quickly adopt in their efforts to appear adjusted. Personally, I have no qualms about whipping out my camera to snap photos of even the most common or mundane sights, such as the posters plastered on walls between chinatown and soho.
Walking home to my eastern-parkway building this afternoon in (dare I say it?) shockingly warm weather (*knock on wood*) I spotted a mother and her two fundraising box-toting kids walking towards me. I still maintain vivid memories of figure-skating, girl guides, and elementary school fundraisers for which I struggled to fill my candy or cookie-selling quotas. Those memories and a recent chocolate craving compelled me to buy some candy from the kids, whose mom seemed almost as embarrassed as I remember feeling back in the day, and with whom I struck up a bit of a conversation. Maybe it was the weather or something wonderful about moms and their kids, but it was nothing if not a friendly exchange.
AND THEN
and then..
and then.
I was walking up the stairs to my apartment, following the woman who had held the front door open for me, when I saw her pick up a candy wrapper lying on the steps and proceed to dispose of it in a GARBAGE CHUTE. (I'd been wondering about garbage disposal in this building-my roommate has been in LA for a week and neglected to mention some of the finer details). A GARBAGE CHUTE. I was ecstatic. SO stoked to take the garbage out. Hauled it all outside the door, which promptly fell shut behind me. Now, in my experience, MOST apartment doors don't lock themselves after being shut. But-and this is another finer detail my roommate failed to mention-apparently this one does. I was locked out with nothing but 5 bags of garbage and a roommate on the other side of the continent.
After asking a passing fellow-resident where the super lived (thank god the building has a super-intendent), I found myself waiting outside the door of apartment 1C. A shirtless man with dreads and half-closed lids opened the door, muttering something unintelligible. After confirming that he did not in fact have a key for our apartment, I expected him to refer me to some sort of locksmith's service. 'Just a minute' and Trevor (as he introduced himself) emerged, dressed in a baby blue velour tracksuit, nike sneakers, and rasta hat. I then proceeded to follow Trevor on a problem-solving mission to the fourth and sixth floor in attempts to gain access to the fire-escape (we were hoping one of my accessible windows would be open), then down to the basement for a 'real tall ladda' which I had a blast climbing up to reach the fire escape. With Trevor's encouragement; 'Keep going. Up. Up. Next one. There!' I located my bedroom window and was soon prying at the bottom edge of the window.
Though I suppose some might consider a jammed window which opens onto a back-alley fire escape somewhat of a safety issue, I'm extremely grateful for that stupid window's stubborn refusal to be completely shut and locked. And for Trevor, who appeared outside my door a few minutes later with his phone number for future reference. While I'd still like to relocate to an area where the laundromat windows aren't plastered with photocopies of 'wanted for rape' signs, I have to say that I've found the residents of my building to be extremely friendly and helpful. And, strange as it may sound, getting locked out was one of the best experiences I've had so far in New York.
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