Stylin' in The Big Apple

Driving into The City (it's always going to be The City to me) on a $12.50 comfy shuttle bus to Grand Central and then a free van to the Hilton on 6th Avenue (which will never be Avenue of the Americas to me) fed my inner Scrooge as it afforded views like this

which I never see in Tucson. 

I didn't mind the signs and the narrow lanes and the grit.

It felt like home.

I closed my eyes and Daddooooo was driving and G'ma was grumbling and we kids were trying to see just how much mayhem we could accomplish before someone noticed.

It was bumpy and noisy and grimy and I loved it.

*****

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I took myself to MOMA (Museum of Modern Art) after the conference ended on Saturday. It was only half way down 53rd Street, after all, and I have a membership.  My walking stick and I cruised right past the lovely ticket taker who smiled at my pretty membership card and clicked me through the turnstyle.

There are certain places I like to be, like between Van Gogh's Starry Night and Cezanne's The Bather, standing on the cool rocks below that nearly naked man's feet. It's an odd picture and I have spent more time than I did that Saturday contemplating the perspective.  That day, his right side's disconnect did not seem much different from my own. 

I saw some random wonderfulness, like this lovely bit of blue and yellow .

which are Little Cuter and SIR's wedding colors and if I'd been smart enough to notice the artist's name I might be able to do something wonderful but, alas......

It does make me smile, though. 

With that smile on my face, I entered and exited an elevator, turned a corner or two and saw these

mine detector shoes and a hand held device for personal use.
My smile was a little bit harder to find for a while.

I looked down from the third floor

and was entranced.

As soon as I caught my breath I went downstairs where I saw Giorgio Boetti's embroidery on fabric, six years in the making, world maps

and those remarkable rugs.

Handwoven in Afghanistan, the artists were given a simple instruction. 

Using two colors and a 10x10 grid, count to 100.

Take your time... start at the bottom right corner and track to the left.

 Some had colorful borders.

Some made fanciful shapes and designs.

The whole squares and boxes thing was everywhere

and I do mean everywhere.

I am certain that there was a point to all those televisions in one room but it was making me a little nutty so I left before I figured it out. 

*****

There was an exhibit on The Century of the Child in design but they wouldn't let me take any pictures so you'll have to dig deep into your memory banks, or Google Images, and imagine the legos and slinky and color forms and the erector sets all carefully displayed near the Spirograph and the Etch-A-Sketch.  There were educational blocks with arches and ramps just like the ones my siblings and I painted red one wet afternoon.  Blow up dolls and Tetris and Dr. Seuss and Soupy Sales and the same Marimekko bedding Big Cuter had on his bunk beds for years were almost as enchanting to the actual children who were there as was the interactive shadow play exhibit.  It was all about them.

*****

Kathleen was not only the perfect person to register me and quietly upgrade me and gush with me over the divers and swimmers and her love for all things equestrian, she recognized me as I crossed the lobby three days later.  She reminded me that she'd sent an amenity to my room, reminded me to call and ask for it, and so, denizens, I spent my last night in New York City indulging in berries and bubbly

compliments of the New York Hilton at 6th Avenue between 53rd and 54th... which, while not cozy, manages to be friendly and efficient and almost like home anyway..

*****

I was too sleepy to take pictures of the city at dawn as my cabbie pointed out Ward Island and the various bridges and parkways, just because I wondered aloud which one was Randall's Island.

If only the airlines were as forthcoming with information and style and a sense of warmth and welcome.

I'd travel back and forth more often if I could beam myself there.

Ashleigh in New York City

It's August in the Big Apple.  The only people on the streets have to be here - tourists and workers.  Everyone with a brain and some free cash has headed for the beach.  The humidity is just about visible, hovering over the sidewalks, a fine mist through which I walk.... and sweat.... and drip.  This is the exact opposite of Tucson's dry heat.  The temperatures are in the 80's, roll down the windows and hike in the middle of the day weather at home. Here, in Manhattan, I changed my clothes three times. There's only so much perspiration I can handle before I need a shower and fresh underwear.
*****
The Hilton is hosting us, and doing a fine job of managing 5000 bloggers as well as an indeterminate number of Italian shoe representatives.  The bloggers are all wearing comfortable shoes; the Italian shoe representatives are not.
*****
Travelling east means that waking up at 8 feels like waking up at 5.  Combined with my usual inability to sleep on my first night away from home, I've been dragging a bit today.  There's less walking than there was last year in San Diego, since the hotel houses the conference venue and we don't have to walk next door to a convention center.  I've got my hiking pole and my Converse and, except for the extraordinary amount of perspiration I am emitting from my head to my toes and covering every body part in between, it's a totally manageable experience.

I just wish I had brought a dozen more outfits.  Do you think I might be able to shop here?  Perhaps.....
*****
The Hilton is across the street from Radio City Music Hall.  I see it and I am back to my childhood, waiting in line around the corner on 53rd Street with my parents and siblings.  We saw Lawrence of Arabia there, and Mary Poppins there, and The Sunshine Boys there, back in the day when you saw a cartoon, the movie, and a floor show with the Rockettes for the price of admission.

Cirque de Soleil has a show going on until mid-September.  If there were a movie playing, I don't think you could keep me away.
*****
Today's session was on turning my bloggy writings into a published book. Crafty Chica`and Stefanie Wilder-Taylor led us through questions and answers and exercises while they kindly, calmly, thoughtfully and depressingly talked about the difficulties, the requirements, the antics involved in attracting an agent.... a publisher... an audience.

Self-publishing is an option, and one that has been gaining acceptance.  Still, as Stefanie said, there's more cachet to having a publishing house behind your work. Either way, the author is responsible for most of the publicity, most of the promotion, most of the work.

Up until this morning, I thought that the hard part was the actual writing.  How wrong I was.  How very, very wrong.
*****
I took myself out for dinner at Pazza Notte, an Italian restaurant recommended by the concierge.  The young women at the next table were louder than they needed to be, but the food was fabulous and the wine was delicious and after I complimented the Executive Chef on the tomato and basil soup he invited me to come back over the weekend when he'd make me some very special french fries.

French fries, you say?  Fries with Italian food?  I was as surprised as you are, denizens.  There were truffle fries and cajun fries and sweet potato fries and good old American fries and two or three other varieties I can't remember now.  The ones that accompanied my blackened chicken breast were beyond delicious.  I may try to find some company and go back on Saturday night.
*****
There are sponsors... and there are booths... and there are goodies and giveaways galore.  This year's BlogHer swag bag is over sized and flat on the bottom and filled to the brim with Arnica and toothpaste and ChapStick and Martha Stewart notebooks and more bags... lots and lots of bags.

Last year, Little Cuter and I had to mail our swag home; it didn't fit in our suitcases or in the overhead bins.  That's not going to be a problem this year.  Except for the 22oz bottle of Lysol, everything fits nicely into my new tote bag.  I've even got stuffed toys and silver charm bracelets for Amster's kids - it's important for grown ups to bring treats to those left behind.
*****
Yes, Megan, President Obama spoke to the audience at 4:30 this afternoon.  He was in Washington.  He looked tired.  He gave us snippets of his campaign stump speech, which you've heard yourselves if you've been following the election coverage at all.

But, he started out by telling us that Michelle and the girls sent their love to all of the women in the audience.  He talked about health care for women and took ownership of Obamacare, a name he professed to enjoy.  He talked about opportunities and education and equal pay and, for the most part, the audience was resoundingly appreciative.

I spent my time listening to his words but looking at Lisa Stone and Elisa Camahort Page, two of BlogHer's founders, as their faces beamed with pride.  They created an organization, a network, an outlet, a community where there had been none and today, thanks to Elisa's perseverance, 5000 of their colleagues and readers and wannabes and doers and movers and shakers were addressed by the leader of the free world.

Where, oh where, do they go from here?

On My Way

I set the alarm. I never set the alarm. I'm retired. I don't schedule early morning appointments on a regular basis. I sleep until I'm not tired and then I rise and shine.

This morning, the alarm roused me from a wonderful dream, a green dream, a forested walking dream. I was bitter about the interruption but excited for my trip. I'm on my way to BlogHer'12; at least, that's the plan.

Shower, dress, grab a Kashi Bar and toss the rest of the box into the carry-on because there's room and mini-bar snacks are expensive, and I'm out the door with TBG allowing me to heft my own bag into the trunk. I'm travelling alone; I have to be able to handle its weight.

He's taken to driving me to the airport. We've made those trips optional since he was working and travelling and I refused to drag the kids to and fro for those extra 45 minutes of bonding time. Off-site parking at the Tucson Airport cost $2.88 per day in the summer time; there's no reason not to drive and leave The Schnozz. But TBG likes those extra minutes of bonding time and I am not one to look askance at assistance. I've learned to accept help with grace, as you all know.

American Airlines let me scan the barcode on my confirmation email and the stand alone machine printed out my two boarding passes and my two receipts in no time. Four pieces of paper – two stashed in the carry-on for tax purposes, two in the outer pocket of my purse for easy access in the airport. 

Not much of a line at security, as usual, and a lovely gentleman behind me to catch my hiking pole and my luggage cart as they nearly toppled while I grabbed a gray plastic bin for my shoes. That pesky purse was scanned twice; why do they ask if that would be okay? What would happen if I were to say “NO!” I wonder?

(Grammar Freaks – does a comma follow that exclamation mark? The end of that sentence looks ugly.)

Sneakers retied, hiking pole re-sized, carry-on secured to the wheels, I strolled to the end of the terminal, all the way to the end. Gate 8. No moving walkway. No directional signs. Just a small collection of airport food vendors, two free wi-fi counters with stools and plugs, and a really nice gift shop. I love Tucson International Airport, even if I can't fly anywhere but Chicago without changing planes.

I debated buying a granola topped yogurt container, or a chicken salad sandwich, but nothing looked yummy. The barrista at the coffee cart didn't have a blueberry muffin for me. I ate one of my Kashi bars as I enjoyed the warm glow of the 40-something businessman buying breakfast for the 20-something soldier in line before me. Explaining that he could only retire from the Army if new recruits showed up, he fed them so that he could really enjoy his separation from the service.

You don't have to look very far to find joy and wonder in this world.

We landed early at Dallas-Fort Worth, with plenty of time to make my connection to my flight.... which was cancelled.... “there is weather in New York and LaGuardia is experiencing delays”. American called my house, American called my cell, TBG called my cell..... I was well informed, if stuck.

Standby on the 1:15-delayed-til-2:00 flight was a nightmare. Aggravated travellers couldn't get upgrades, couldn't get on, couldn't find information. At times like these, I try to channel Little Cuter and overwhelm the worker bees with smiles and kindness.

“It's hard to be you in times like these,” was my opening salvo. A rueful grin, a shake of the head, and suddenly I was 16^th on the list instead of 38^th. My girl is right; you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. The snarky New Yorker in me battles, but the proof is in the pudding.

It made no difference; there were only 2 available seats.

So, it was off through the terminal again, back to the gate from which I'd exited an hour before. I passed more restaurant feeding stations, but neither Aunt Annie's hot-dog-in-a-pretzel nor another yogurt cup with granola was tempting. TGIFridays had immediate seating, but I had to get on another stand-by list and stay close to the gate in case there was room for me on the 3pm flight.

My plan was to eat after I didn't get on the 2^nd flight.... but some connecting passengers still had to pass through customs before joining this voyage and they weren't going to do that in time. All 20 of us waiting on stand-by seats could be accomodated.

So, I am sitting in a window seat, halfway back, over the wing, watching the flatlands of the UsofA pass beneath me. The pilot hopes that we won't be stuck in air traffic control hell in New York and that we will land just a few minutes after our scheduled arrival time.

With the time changes, the flight changes, the altitude and the weather changes, I am truly confused. It's a good thing that NY stays open all night long; I will find myself a piece of greasy pizza or a real New York hot dog or a pastrami sandwich on the kind of rye bread that exists only in The City no matter how late it is.

I'm on vacation!

*****

A $12.50 shuttle bus took me to Grand Central Station and a free shuttle took me right to the Hilton.  Kathleen at the front desk found me a lovely room with a king sized bed and a sofa bed in case I want to recline on something other than the 5 pillows atop the somewhat gooshy mattress.  Chatting up the reservation clerk is another way I'm channeling my girl, who, between her wedding and buying a house has no time to gallivant in NYC with her mother and 4000 other bloggers this weekend.  

The hotel lobby is filled with laughing women, some of whom must be going to the conference too, I guess,  Radio City is right across the street, and so is a small and wonderful grocery store which provided sushi and cut fruit and sparkling water for my late night dinner in my room.  

Olympics on the tube.... a full belly.... Facebook messages from bloggy friends who want to meet up.... life is good.