Monday, August 25, 2008

The "New iPhone" Look

When I stopped at the fruit stand this morning on the way to work, as I do every Monday morning for my weekly supply of bananas, the fruit man was occupied in playing with something on his phone.

So absorbed, in fact, that I actually had to tap him on his shoulder just to get his attention long enough to actually pay him for the bananas I had just pocketed.

And then, immediately, he was looking back at his phone.

I know that look, I thought to myself. It's the same look that Delta has had all weekend, since he got his new iPhone.

A look of absorbed concentration, mixed with rapture, confusion and sheer ecstasy.
"New phone, huh?" I asked the fruit man, as I handed him the money.
"Yeah!!" he said, beaming, and held up his phone for me to see.

Yep, there it was. The new iPhone.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

The scrabble linguistic standard

It put me in rather a huff, when Delta read on the cover of the Scrabble box, that "good players will achieve between 300-400 points in a game."

I'll have you know, Mr. Scrabble guy, it's impossible to get 300-400 points when you're playing against Delta, and he doesn't let words like yeti in (especially when it sits on a triple-word-score square). I mean, yeti, for crying out loud. Everyone knows that even if it's not in the dictionary, it's a real word. Right?

Just like bigfoot and sasquatch (although those are immeasurably harder to assemble in scrabble).

Eeks. 300-400 points to be considered a good player?!

Sign me up in remedial courses for the linguistincally inadequate.

Simply inspired!

I can't stop saying it. Bloomberg has got to be one of the most visionary city mayors there ever was. Against the formidable impediment posed by the conservativeness of the local and state government systems, he perpetually succeeds in moving this city on a forward-looking path to growth.

The past three weekends, NYC has been celebrating Summer Streets, where each Saturday, Park Avenue has been shut down to traffic, and open only to walkers, bikers, and roller-bladers. Probably an incredibly sore point to all those who enjoy driving into the city, but, as I overheard one of the cops nearby saying, "If you're a New Yorker, you just get it. You know what this is about." And she couldn't have said it better. It's simply inspiring to have a city that forces you to just imagine a different and better way of being.

Delta, Lahsiv, Gussie and I went biking up and down Park Ave, exhilarating in the silence without constant traffic; absorbing the grandeur of the old buildings bordering the avenue; revelling in the moment which brought this entire diverse community together.
Experiencing the city, yet again, as we never had before.
From the nyc.gov website:

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

For the Bart

"I'm getting bigger every day!" Bart Tulula wrote me.

So, Bart, this post is for you, as you get ready to breed.

I can't believe, that in just a few months, there will be Li'l Barts! Enjoy the "getting bigger" (and just call it 'getting glowing-er'), after all, one only gets a few months of it in a lifetime. Unless, of course, you guys are planning a dozen or so Li'l Barts - which is just nutty.

And if you ever wanted them, use this opportunity to buy crocs, which are otherwise unacceptable by any normal fashion standards. When you're preggers, everyone tells you you're beautiful no matter what. And they mean it.

And most importantly, always know, that without even trying, just by being yourself, you'll be the kind of mum any Li'l Bart would dream to have.
(Do read the maternity books though, I think they teach you about cleaning baby poop).

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Interviews are scary (even for an HR bod)

Yesterday, Delta and I had to appear for a Board Interview. This interview process is peculiar to New York, it appears. Essentially, after you agree to buy a home, and after the seller agrees to sell it to you, and after you get all the mortgage shenanigans sorted, you still need to get approved by the Board. The Board is a panel of the building's tenants, who ultimately decide whether or not they like you enough to let you stay in their coveted building. Essentially, a group of strangers deciding upon the fate of your life. Charming, really.

"Remember to dress up for this interview just as you would for a job interview!" our broker cautioned. And so Delta and I had to cobble together a set of vestaments suitable for the occasion. At least Delta wears suits every once in a while, usually for the odd wedding or another. But me, I hadn't dressed corporate smart in years. Delta took one look at the shirt I had in my hand, and sighed. "We're going to need to iron that," he said, shaking his head. And (with good reason) he proceeded to iron it himself, for fear that I would ruin it.

So after a bit of ado and kerfuffle, there we were, all spiffed and shined. I ogled at the girl staring at me in the mirror - the one in a crisp white shirt tucked into a tight skirt and 3-inch heels. And wobbled my way precariously to the door. Other than on my actual wedding day, I dont' think I've worn any footwear but flip flops all summer.

We reached the building a few minutes early and seated ourselves in the lobby. I wondered nervously what the board would be like. Who would interview us. Whether they'd be personable. Whether they'd like us. And of course, most importantly, whether we'd pass their test. I was mulling these questions over in my head when a man approached us in the lobby.

"Delta? Ficali?"
It took me a moment to register that he might actually be a member of the board. He was dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, obviously on his way to the gym.
"Hi, I'm Zor," he stuck his hand out warmly.

And at once, I knew it would be just fine. There were two people who interviewed us in the end, and they embodied exactly the simplicity and casual warmth that had attracted us to the building in the first place. We liked them both instantly. After a friendly half an hour chat with these two happy bods (one of them turns out to be our neighbour, coincidentally), we were already on our way.

So there we go, final hurdle almost done, and now, at the end of September, we might actually have our first home.

Friday, August 15, 2008

Why eating solves everything (except when it doesn't)

We can't put me on Delta's travel privileges until I 0fficially change my name in my passport.
I can't change my name in my passport until I update my name on my green card.
Can't apply for a green card update until we've moved to the new home.
We can't move into the new home until we pass our board interview.
Need to figure out what to wear to pass this interview.
Can't think of what to wear until I eat lunch.

See - food solves everything.

Except...

Crap. Ate lunch. Very full. Now must sleep. Can't work when full.

Raindrops and puddles

Yesterday, I got caught in a downpour. Don't mistake this for a complaint, it's just an observation.

In New York, the downpours come in brief bursts of thunderous skies, flashes of lightening and continuous buckets of plummeting water. And then, as though it had never occured, the storms pass suddenly to reveal blue skies and bright sunshine.

So most sensible people, when they notice a thunderstorm, hunker down for an hour or so till it passes. The Don Quixote's like me, on the other hand, prefer to face the storms valiantly, only to get soaked in the process.

Which brings me to my first point - I got caught in a downpour yesterday, but can't afford to complain, being as it was a product of my own quixoticness. Halfway through my way home, I was wading through water above my ankles.

Instantly, it took me back to the Bombay monsoons of my childhood. Sitting at the window ledge watching the rain pouring down in sheets of blind whiteness; waiting to hear whether school was closed for the day because of the floods; my mum packing Rohinton and me off to play in the floods in our little dinghy boat; and of course, the electric flashes of lightening and thunder.

If you haven't got soaked in a summer downpour before, I would totally recommend it. It fills your heart with a fresh and happy (and washed out?) feeling. And fills your wellies with water. All fun and games.

Sunday, August 10, 2008

Jackpot!

Popcon Dan sent out a note the other day. Picnic in Prospect Park, folks! Come Join! Doobie and I hadn't seen Danny in almost a year, so we got all excited about this perfect opportunity for us to have a great catch up with the fella.

But heaven forbid Doobie and I ever learn to navigate Brooklyn on our own. Theoretically, the schlep to Prospect Park should have been a simple one. In theory. Just jump on the F train, and hang on for a few stops till you get there.

So Doobs and I picked up a bottle of wine, some fruit, a couple of sandwiches, and clambered with kit and kaboodle onto the F train. Caught up in our conversation as we were, however, it's no wonder that we didn't register the train driver's announcement - that the F train would be running on the E line this weekend due to engineering works. So the train veered off in it's new direction, unbeknownst to us.

Caught in what must have been a rivetting conversation as we were, it's also no wonder that we only picked this up about 10 stops down the line. Suddenly, one of us mentioned, "these stops aren't looking familiar, are they?"
So I headed over to the train map in the cabin. It took us a long time to locate where we actually were - but then we finally did - right at the opposite end of Brooklyn than where we needed to be.

A young chap listening to our consternation and understanding clearly what we had done, kindly offered to help. "What you need to do is take this train to Utica, then change to the opposite platform, and take the train back to Franklin. Then change to the shuttle which will take you to Prospect Park." We blinked at him blankly.
Sigh. "Don't worry, I'll tell you when we reach the station you need to change."

And, bless his heart, he did. So we got off at Utica and changed to the opposite platform, just like he told us. A train pulled in to the platform, and we excitedly jumped on it. He had forgotten to tell us to watch out for Express trains, however. And so it turned out (inevitably) that we entered an express train that didn't stop at the next five stops. In silent horror, we watched outselves speed past Franklin at 60 mph. Crap! Now what!

We ended up at stop which seemed to be a pretty major hub. "Let's try changing to the G train" I suggested, I think it goes to the park. So we made our way over to the G train, just as it was pulling into the platform. About to get on the train, when it occured to us that it might be helpful to double-check with the official on the platform.
"Excuse me sir, does this train go to Prospect Park?"
"The G train? yeah. But you need to cross the platform and take the one headed in the opposite direction!"
Thank gawd we asked. Otherwise back to nether Brooklyn it would have been.

So in any case, with several wrong trains and turns under our belt, we eventually found ourselves by Prospect Park, only two hours later than originally intended. Finally located (with similar directional ineptitude) the spot where Popcorn Dan had indicated the picnic would be.

And we couldn't find him anywhere. There were many, many picnic groups in the area, but no sign of Popcorn Dan. After all that faffing around on the trains, there was no sign of Dan.
"Do you have his number?"
"No, do you?"
And suddenly we were taken back to the days of how we all had to slum it before the world of cellphones. After half an hour of looking around, Doobie and I, admittedly tired, cranky and hungry, decided to lay open our own picnic. Spread out our mat, poured ourselves some wine, started munching through the grapes. It was a beautiful day, cool and breezy, and we began to relax and adjust to the reality of a picnic by ourselves.

"Between the trains and not finding Popcorn Dan, I dont' think today's the kind of day we should bother with the lottery," I told Doobs.

There was a high risk that the day would amount to Doobs and me faffing around on the subway system for 2 hours, only to have a picnic by ourselves in Prospect Park. Quite frustrating when you think about it.

When suddenly Doobs had an idea. "I know! Let's call Mrs. Pooks and get Popcorn Dan's number from her!"
D'oh.
So we finally got his number, called him excitedly, and what do you know it, it went to voicemail.
"Popcorn Dan! We're here! and we can't find you!" we left a message.
And continued our picnic-a-deux.
And poured ourselves more wine.
And munched through more grapes.
And started into our sandwiches.
It was just coming to the time when we were thinking of packing up our stuff, when who should we see sauntering over? Popcorn Dan!
"Hey girls," he said warmly, "got your voicemail, so I thought I'd come over and find you!"

Fond hugs were exchanged all around, and we scrambled with all our stuff to join Popcorn Dan's picnic. And what a beautiful picnic it was! We got to meet his lady-friend, and some of his other friends, and more than anything, just got to catch up with Popcorn Dan himself! "What's been going on with you?"
"You wouldn't believe what happened last month, Delta and I got married!"
"Hey I'm going to university right next to where you guys live!"
"Hey I can't believe we don't catch up more often!"
Words spilling out of us faster than we could control them, thoughts interrupting each other in our excitement.
And all of a sudden, it turned into a wonderful, wonderful day.

Maybe we should have played the lottery after all.

Wednesday, August 06, 2008

Polar Bear Survival Plan

I can understand that New York gets fairly hot in the summer, and so we need to have everything air conditioned. What I can't for the life of me get my head around, is why we have to air condition all buildings to polar temperatures (the same temperatures, mind you, that induce us to put on the heating in the winter).

As I sit in my office huddled in the cardigan I've started keeping at work, I've been thinking more and more about this perversity in our behaviour.

I do believe it would help the polar bear survival rate immeasurably, if they would only migrate from the melting ice caps to NYC office buildings for the summer.

Tuesday, August 05, 2008

Foisted by a narwhal

One of the rooms in the Cloisters museum had large tapestries relating the story of a mythological unicorn hunting trip. In a glass case in the corner of the room, stood an unmistakably tall tusk, a single, long, straight tusk, exactly as depicted on unicorns.


Narwhal tusk, it said below the case.


What's that, we wondered, all of us peering at the tusk in curiosity. We knew unicorns were mythological creatures, so this certainly couldn't be a anything to do with unicorns. But what in the world was a narwhal?


"A narwhal is a unicorn without wings," I told them. "It really existed." It started off, as many downfalls do, with an amusing little lie.
"What do you mean it really existed!" Delta scoffed disbelievingly. "You're telling us that there was actually a creature like the unicorn, which used to exist?!"
"Sure," I said, convincingly. "I mean, other animals like rhinos have tusks, so why do you find it so unbelievable that there used to be an animal called a narwhal, which was basically like a horse with a tusk? Or like a unicorn without wings," I added to drive the point home.
"Really?" said Jeet, not quite believing it either, but wanting to.


In fact, I was so persuasive in my argument, that somewhere half way through that discussion of reality and myth, I convinced myself that an animal called the narwhal (unicorn without wings) used to actually exist, and that it was driven to extinction by the hunting. I mean, didn't the medieval tapestried depicted it exactly?


And then I came home and googled the narwhal. Not that I doubted I was right, mostly just to prove to everyone else that I was right.


And, OMG OMG OMG, a narwhal is a type of whale.


David Attenborough would have killed me for this. And rightfully so.

Back to the Cloisters

Ever since I we celebrated my birthday at the Cloisters last year, Delta and I had been thinking about biking out there, so finally this last weekend we decided to put our money where our mouths were. We called Lahsiv and Rohinton and Jeet to join as well - Lahsiv was ready instantly, but Rohinton and Jeet suggested that perhaps they could take the train up there and meet us with a ready picnic.

A ready picnic!! What ingrates we would be to refuse such an offer.

And so, on possibly one of the most beautiful days we've had yet this summer, Delta, Lahsiv and I set off biking along the hudson up towards the Cloisters. It took us almost two and a half hours to get there - mostly because Delta and I kept stopping to photograph the stunning views. ("Hey, can you stop taking pictures of the George Washington Bridge and get a few of me instead?" Lahsiv asked at some point, tiring of our incessant photography). But we couldn't help ourselves. The ride was absolutely spectacular.

Trust me, I romanticise it not (well only a little anyway) when I tell you that the Hudson was a serene blue, dotted with occasional sailboats, and the bike path itself was a verdant green, tracking right along the river's edge. The path remained this scenic route almost the entire way to the Cloisters, except for the last mile, which caught us off guard by turning into a mile-long steep climb up the hillside. I mean, what earthly reason could there be to build a road like that, other than to give bikers premature heart attacks.

Nevertheless, we (somehow) all made it to the top. We got to the park, leaned our bikes against an oak, and collapsed onto the grass in a trio of sopping messes. We were just busy munching our way through the couple of chutney sandwiches that Lahsiv had packed with him, when Rohinton and Jeet approached, with an entire lavish picnic spread.

Mats and cups and forks and sandwiches and fruit galore. May everyone's life be so blessed. And so proceeded one of the most resplendent picnic days yet.

Resplendent... luxurious... leisurely... well, until we had to start the 2 hr bike ride back, anyway.