Fitness trainers take note.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. There should be no other reason, why an otherwise perfectly good fitness trainer would go around the gym trying to recruit anyone that would listen.

As I was steadily elipting away, listening to my Pandora channel I noticed the chatty fitness trainer. A woman well into her 50s, a professional employed by the gym, who befriends many of the patrons of the women’s locker-room. She seemed to be stopping by every single fellow gym patron on the section of the floor with elliptical machines.

I was fifth in the row. My music was purposefully set to a high volume. It was high enough that it would drown out any other noise, chatting or music around me. I was hoping that she was just going to say ‘hello’ and move on.

It was finally my turn. As she was saying some last few words to my neighbor on the left I had a strange feeling that I would not be able to just smile politely, nod and continue with my cardio session uninterrupted. Unfortunately, I was right.

She stood right in front of me, slightly to the right of the machine. She was searching to hold my gaze long enough so that I took out one of my earpieces from the headphones. She introduced herself. I told her my name as well. She inquired as to what my purpose of the visit was. (DUH?) To be fair, since I knew she was a fitness trainer I told her that I was on my cardio session. (I am still elipting away as I am talking to her). And then I was flabbergasted.

She asked me to come over to the mat behind me so that she could show me some exercises. Seriously? I am not an expert, but I am half way through my 30 minute session. Did she expect me to suddenly stop, with no time to cool down my heart rate? I politely declined, noting that I have been going to the gym for a number of years and that I was happy with my own routine. (Still elipting).

Then, I blinked in utter surprise. She asked me how old I am. This was not half bad since she probably needed to be able to put me into a certain fitness category, like the machines have a schedule of heart rates for fat burning and cardio programs for various age groups. What stroke my ultimate nerve was that she was looking me up and down as she was talking to me. She was examining my need-to-work on areas. Again, seriously???? I may not be the fittest person in the world, but I am pretty healthy. How dare she?

I don’t know if it was my face expression or my frozen polite smile but I think the woman finally got the point. She made some final comments on continuing cardio (good job!) and starting to lift weights (at my age) and slowly made the turn to continue on her “begging for work” session.

Her next victim, a scrawny teenage boy.

A word to the wise to the fitness trainers: let the people come to you. It is enough that people are self conscious about their looks. Having a fitness expert looking you up and down, is like sitting next to a plastic surgeon giving you unsolicited advice about your face's possibilities.

You have to fight for the right to create.

Just finished reading the War of Art. (Not the Art of War, but I’m sure this was not an accidental use of wording). A pretty quick read that outlines why anyone with a creative bone in them should fight to create. This includes but is not limited to writers, painters, photographers. I can also see how the main theme of the book can be transitioned to those that have all those entrepreneurial ideas, but many more excuses why not to bring the ideas into action. This has been hinted in some parts of the book, but the author focused mostly on writers and artists.

Not only do you have to fight to create, you have to do it day in and day out. That’s all it takes, according to the author. To be successful you have to sit your bottom down and do something. Don’t waste time and energy waiting for inspiration or muses to come down. They will anyway, you just don’t know when. But when they do you will be ready. By that time you would have brought the talent of an amateur to the level of a professional.

No point of me regurgitating the book and the concept. Go read it for yourself! But get to work first. Write something. Paint someone. Prepare a business proposal.

One classy lady.

“Money can’t buy you class.” – Ex Countess a.k.a. New York Housewife #3.
If money can’t, what can? Anything? Is it inherited? Does it swim in the gene pool? Does it twirl around in the DNA? Can it be learned? Will universities ever begin offering a Bachelor of Arts with a major in Class? Can you get an internship learning Classy skills? Will it come as an inspiration if an apple falls on your head?

Did you ever hear “I want to be a classy lady when I grow up”? I think I have. Well, I certainly have said it to myself once or twice. Not out loud of course. That would be weird.

Is it a career? Is it a lifestyle? Is it a personality?

What is having class? What does it mean anyway? Is it saying please and thank you? Is it learning to speak beautifully? Is it having cucumber sandwiches with afternoon tea? Is it folding your legs in a way that makes you look like you’re about to fall of the chair?

I learn to be poised. I keep my composure. Patience certainly helps. Speaking in a low voice forces people to lean over and listen.

Is it the way you glance, not in vain and not with a superior attitude? Is it the angle at which your chin peacefully sustains its posture as you listen to someone else speak?

Or is it the way you bring your index finger to neatly caress your brow as you think of the fastest way to seduce your male target? The way you nonchalantly wipe away the strawberry jam as it smudges on your poka dot dress? Perhaps it is the way you drool in front of the Tiffany's window display? Is it the way you silently measure the confidence or lack of the person interrupting you? Is it when you let someone get on the train first, even though you have the full right of way?

These are all kinds of my classy. Let’s go get some tea and scones, and may be a hat or two. Let's stop smoking!

A cat fight in corsets.

I genuinely wonder what is the fascination of the Tudors and the like?

Let’s summarize. The beheadings were the featured entertainment of the time (3D IMAX theaters did not exist during those times). The jewels weighed just as heavy on the Queen’s chest as the King’s. The fake smiles of grinding teeth glistened behind silent vows of betrayal and treason. The unspoken sexual encounters attracted hopeful viewers for every season. The conspiracies, the religious debates, the international alliances were not too foreign to today’s global politics and intrigue. Of course, one cannot complain to have the opportunity to see the shirtless Henry VIII, or at least his modern life portrayal, all over again in the reruns.

It’s not the history, is it? I can’t imagine the mass population of viewers going back to check the history books for the controversies of the inaccuracies of the historic events, figures and costumes. Let’s face it, Jonathan Rhys Meyers looks nothing like His Royal Majesty (thank goodness, I may not be watching it otherwise). Even the Other Boylean Girl tells quite a different story about Anne’s and Mary’s powers of seduction.

There is not too much action going on either. Although I wonder if Jason Statham would make for a good Duke of York and such? There was some spear poking on horses. As the crowd of watchers gasped in disbelief one poke even put the King in danger of getting hurt. He had survived, or otherwise I can’t imagine what would happen for the right to fight for the throne. There was an arm wrestling match for the right to come back to court. But there were no special effects. No 3D or 4D glasses wearing kind of action.

Perhaps its an excuse for a power trip? The Machiavellian principles are in full force. Some people just live vicariously. I am sure I could find some folks that would claim that the way of international politics and intrigue haven’t changed a bit since the times of the Tudors dynasty.

It is certainly not the powerlessness of the position of women that is lauded, is it? This was especially true of the numerous starlets that took up the Queen’s seat (There were 6 marriages, allegedly). I have lost track of the bed laying and the illegitimate children. Not to mention the inability to breath – the corsets! And what was with the obsession to have a male heir, legitimate or otherwise?

I am truly enthralled as I watch the reruns of the first season on BBC America. I cannot wait for the Borgias to start!

The girl with a flower on her hat.

As I crossed 3rd avenue, along St. Mark’s Place, I noticed a young woman.
I do that sometimes. I observe people. I don’t stalk. I don’t dwell. I just wonder.

In this brief moment of time, the glowing red hand magically made the jay-walker hesitate before crossing. It was just before the light was ready to turn into a little green man. I glanced on the windows of the top floor of the Cooper Union building on Cooper Square, the same building I used to visit often that Summer of 1996. A moment of curiosity came upon me.

Where is she hurrying to? Would I ever be friends with her? Will I see her again? Does she have a parrot for a pet? Does she run her own company? What is she doing on the Lower East Side in the afternoon? Does she know they have the yummiest creme brulee in that Italian restaurant on the next block? Where did she get that hat?! Why didn’t I go on to art school? Who is John Gault?

As I began crossing the street and the young woman disappeared from sight I dwelled on the next thought. I allowed myself for a second to imagine that I went on the path of becoming an artist. That is, instead of swerving to go off to business school, I would float on the cloud of my childhood passion of becoming an architect. I would take up a spot at Cooper Union.

Did I even know what ‘being an architect’ means as I proudly declared my future plans as a toddler? All I knew was that my dad was an architect and my mom was an architect, and I was simply proud to be in their company. Despite my ignorance of whether I even had any talent for the craft, it was the purest of dreams. I did not consider how much money architects make or whether there was a demand for any. It was as easy to say as it was to dream: “I want to be an architect when I grow up.”

Dreaming of the artist lifestyle I never had, I wondered. Would I know what heels look like? Would I have pink streaks of hair? Would I make the East Village my home? Would I permanently own a canvas bag? Would I be where I am today. Most importantly, would I be surrounded with the same people that I dedicate my time and attention to day in and day out?

Would I? If only I? Could I? If only I’d?

I did what I did. I yam who I yam. Art school or not, I am happy. It has made no difference. I could just go and buy myself a hat with a flower on it.

On the Soloist.

The Soloist. The angle that piqued my interest was a writer’s search for a story. As I sit down and think about writing the blog I go through the same experience. I think of the day. I think of a story. I welcome the muses. I absorb the words that fill the screen as I type them out. I think of how to tell the story in a way that brings my vision to the imagination of the reader and makes the reader curious about what happens next. The story should always have a human interest, the touch that reaches the reader's soul.

This was a story of a young Julliard drop out, now homeless. There would be no story if the journalist was not able to find the homeless musical genius after their first encounter. There would be no story if the schizophrenic’s admiration for Beethoven did not move the LATimes Mr. Lopez’s appreciation for the depth of the human soul brought out by music. While Mr. Ayer’s mind was not all there at times, his love and talent for music, however, has never left. Robert Downey Jr. and Jamie Foxx portrayed the true life story characters.

It was also a story about friendship. It is sometimes difficult to realize that the best thing you can offer someone is your friendship. After all it is a basic human need to socialize. You don’t have to try to save someone else. You don’t have to try improving someone else’s life. You don't have to keep thinking that you know what is best.

All you need to do is offer your handshake and some company. A shared interest, a passion and the depth of the power of music did the trick in this case. That was the end of the Soloist story, while the friendship between the two unlikely companions continues.

The good stuff of home.

Talking about all this good stuff makes me thirst a Snapple. (Peach Iced Tea, or perhaps Green Tea with lime?) The stuff I am refering to is the regular old stuff, however. Some call it the crap, some the treasure. Others may refer to it as memories and history.

How much stuff do you have lying around your house or apartment? Isn't it the stuff that make your home, your home and noone else's? No wonder psychologists consider the experience of moving as one of the most traumatic experiences of one's life. Mostly because no matter how excited you may be about your new home, you first have to get through all the stuff of your old one. This is the time that you dig up that Valentine's Day card from your ex of 10 years ago. The tears may start flowing as you pack your child's first pair of shoes.

It's the picture frames, the old greeting cards, the candles, the books, the magazines, the souvenirs. My gosh, those souvenirs and that collection of shot glasses, one from each and every one of the places that you visited or was visited by someone else that knew you were collecting shot glasses. It is also the notebooks or momentos from junior high school. Old high school pictures, HAHA, look at that outfit and that HAIR! :)

Without all this good stuff, your new apartment/house just looks plain empty. It craves all that stuff to be spread across the shelves, the fireplace, the counter, the walls and the side tables. It is also a good excuse to get all that new good stuff, as your old stuff sleeps away in the garage or the storage space. ($1 for first month storage?) It is this good stuff, old or new, that truly says "Welcome Home"!

I believe I could fly...

I am so excited! This feeling comes from many walks of life for me, but most importantly it comes with food. Today, I am looking forward to the simple, most common and one of the messiest of dishes – buffalo chicken wings. This indulgence screams for my attention every once in a while. The infrequency of this habit is what makes is so special.

The napkins are ready. The blue cheese cannot wait to be dipped. A plate of fresh veggies is dying of anticipation. All necessary accompaniments are tapping their fingers on the table as the Domino’s delivery guy is driving through the windy day. The race to get the most ‘thigh’ parts is on! No finger-licking delays can come between me and my wings.

Hallelujah for Domino’s online ordering – hassle free and can even be scheduled for a specific time. This order is extra special due to the addition of Sweet Mango Habanero wings. Sounds exotic. All in all, about 40 wings for a total of $34 bucks. A lovely dinner party.

Bring on the yumminess and the napkins! Warning: wings do not come with parachutes. :)

The thing about attorneys...

We all have friends that slightly irritatingly and to the annoyance of others always have an opinion; it happens to always be an opposing opinion which tends to focus on deciphering every word that was just mentioned in order to get through to the truth, which ends up being ambiguous anyway. (Phew, that was a mouthful). For my friends, that person happens to be me. Although I am sometimes sugarcoated as the United Nations, as I try to bring peace and diplomacy to the mix above.

As an attorney, as if that is a human purpose all on its own, I spend half of the time trying to defend my traits of personality that have nothing to do with being an attorney. The other half, I just want to scream out, SO WHAT?! Embrace your self! (May be Madonna could use that in a Music Video?)Embrace your lawyerlyness! Find happiness with the attorney within you! You deserve it! And so I did.

I am a professional above all. Most importantly, I am a multi-faceted professional with a variety of career goals and lifelong aspirations. What I am beginning to realize is that being an attorney, is like being neat. It is only one aspect of your professional endeavors. One can be neat and creative, funny and detail-oriented, all at the same time. Being an attorney by schooling or training should in no way stop you from pursuing any other aspirations.

Being an attorney is neither better nor worse than being a writer, an advocate, a researcher, a blogger, a painter, a photographer, an inspirational speaker, a business consultant, a program manager, an executive director or a director of a board. I start the journey of embracing and pursuing life, on a professional level, that encompasses all of these titles. Words of wisdom - if you get paid for it, it is no longer a hobby.

My first task, as I embrace my professionalism, is to answer a very practical question. To incorporate or not to incorporate?

What is with the pickles?

Once in a blue moon, as I purchase a sandwich for lunch, especially if I take it to go, I get stuck with a pickle. The actual, green, sometimes slimy, marinated, god knows how old, pickle. Today I got one from the Bread Factory.

It seemed nice and fresh, don't get me wrong. But why? I hadn't asked for it. It wasn't on the menu or in the description of the sandwich. I highly doubt that it was included in the displayed count of calories. If anything it was a waste of a perfectly good pickle.

The only crowd I know that can savour the pickle bite, is the Russian-speaking one. And even then, as far as I know, this historic practice has been limited to stay-at-home family dinner gatherings. I prefer the ones in brine. I think they are known as the Polish pickles.

My curiosity got the best of this pickle situation. I decided to investigate the history of pickle eating with sandwiches. And that is exactly what I googled.

I found that apparently, it remains a strong symbol of New York's culinary heritage. Also, people's relationship to pickles runs deep within a culture. Yep, you guessed it. It is the immigrants' fault! Especially it is all those Eastern Europeans that had a significant influence on the introduction of pickled foods, not just cucumbers to the United States. Did you know that in 2001: The First Annual New York City International Pickle Day began?

You learn something new every day. I still think, however, that this practice is a waste for the most part. I don't think people appreciate all this history and culture that is nonchalantly included in their to-go bag. I might be wrong. I hope that I am.

I want to be a superhero!

Sweet and sassy. Classic and chic. Sophisticated but playful. Trendy and cool. Fun and sexy.

Which one am I? Which one will I be tomorrow? What about the day after? If you’ve ever bought a pair of new eyeglasses for yourself or with/for someone else, you may know what I’m getting at. This gentle and elegant piece of metal comfortably sitting on your nose may seem so simple from afar but yet it is so intertwined up close that it can possibly be responsible for getting you to ace the next job interview. The bold statement of a wide plastic rim almost caressing your temples has the potential of letting you close that big sale. Don’t get me started on the sparkles that flare behind the sensuality of the UV protected lenses.

Let’s admit, some frames make you feel like a superhero. Others, not so much. Some get oooohs and aaaaahs from your friends. Others get zip of attention, not even a glance in their direction. You have the right to bear a perfect frame! That is exactly what I did yesterday.

I wish I had the budget to buy a pair of eyeglasses for every one of the above categories, i.e. sexy, sophisticated, trendy. For now, I will only be getting one pair. It has the power to say it all, but doesn’t give away all. It makes you be noticed by others, but at the same time lets them know that you’re not that easy to approach.

A shut out goes out to Village Eyecare on the Lower East Side and the owner (semi-owner?) and staff that helped me make the decision that I’ll be living with for at least a year or two or three. They have a great selection, suitable for any New Yorker and even an occasional tourist that promenades along St. Mark’s place. (A French couple left with a pair to bring home as I was picking out mine). Yes, they have the Guccis and the Pradas, but those are just the beginning. Did I mention there’s a view of the Brooklyn Bridge through a red brick wall? A beautiful hand-painted mural.

I am looking forward to picking up new pair soon! Or I might just stop by to say hello to the girls.

Where did my closet go?

A very rare opportunity presented itself to me. I, a commoner, along with my two friends, perhaps semi-commoners, through a friend, who sent an email to someone, which was forwarded to another person and confirmed by the final answer, were invited to Marc Bouwer's fashion party at the Soho House New York. You know, how it is.

Of course, the first and only thing that went through my head and was the subject of my thought obsession was a dreadful question. What am I going to wear? I had even begun to question my ability to accessorize. Will Rachel Zoe love it or hate it? Is my outfit going to end up on the Worst or Best Dressed list? (No list, I was hoping, actually). My worst fear, will I have to withstand the scrutiny of being compared in that “Bitch Stole My Look”? (This almost came true, but luckily my accompanying friend wore different shoes, PHEW!)

And so as I open up my closet doors I am ghastly astonished. I do not have a closet. Instead, somehow, at some point, I became an owner of a vintage shop. At least there were no moths gasping for air as I go through my hangers of shirts, dresses, jackets (all anywhere between 5 and 10 years old), anything that may even in the least bit resemble something that is fashionable today.

With some deep digging I came up with a cobalt-bluish Nicole Miller dress. Never mind that it was an outfit for a wedding once, it went well with black stockings and equally black booties. Thank god, I grabbed those off the sales rack at Marshall’s a few years ago. Then, I spent agonizing seconds picking and choosing the right jewelry. Less is more was my motto. Less is more. And less it was. Simple long layers of metal (yes metal, not silver, nor gold, metal) were hugging my fully covered boobies. Hoops were hanging neatly from the ears. A square bluish black metal surrounded my middle finger. A chunky watch accompanied the wrist. The look was finished with a dark navy fitted jacket with the sleeves rolled up.

So finally, I made it to the party looking fashionably normal. It was enough to fit in with no statements behind my back about cluelessness or questions about who invited me (at least I hope). I believe I blended well with the background with my themed drink at hand (a Ciroc Starlet), exchanging laughs with my co-observers. That was really the best I could hope for. I do not go gaga for celebrities, especially pseudo reality celebrities that flocked the event (of course I mean the Housewives, NY and NJ). It is enough to see them on TV and watch others talk about them on the entertainment channels like E! or Bravo reunion specials. I do watch their shows with love and obsession.

Nevertheless, I had a great time! Just being there, behind the scenes, so-to-speak, is an experience of its own. The production management team was busily texting each other every location of every celebrity as they made their way to the event. Photographers were wild with flashes at the sight of anyone remotely famous. The entertainment channels were grabbing anyone (worthy) they could get their hands on to make sure they have a shout out to their station. (I almost had the urge to scream out something in Russian to Johnny Weir, but I thought better.) The hosts were getting glammed up and looking perfect for the celebrity interviews, doing (many) takes of introductions, wit and originality.

The morning after, it was time to buy a fashion magazine. I made the plunge. Glamour made the cut. Apparently, the 70s are back? Did you know that? Only a few days ago I was hearing about shoulder padded jackets of the 80s. How time flies, albeit backwards. So I will soon be shopping for platforms (although I still have some leftover from the 90s), wide leg pants (although there are a couple of them taking up the top shelf) and bright color strips attacking shirts and dresses (when did these go out of style?!).

While I wait for my next invitation to a fashion event, I need to think new, however. I need to get my closet back. So eshopping I go.

What do Putin, McQueen, Zuckerberg and 50 Cent have in common?

A memoriam to Alexander McQueen and the first showing of Anton Kandinsky’s art work on the theme of “Obsession” at the CATM Chelsea gallery, hosted by DEPESHA magazine. Sounds like a good night out for a Saturday.

The organizers may have underestimated their promotion skills, however. It was certainly a crowd pleaser. At least the weather spared some snow. There was a longish line of little glares of cigarettes and eager onlookers who were trying to catch a glimpse of an arguably controversial collection through the gallery windows that shown against the dark night.

If you have some free wall space and about $50,000, you’re in luck. The paintings are rather bright (as far as the use and choice of color). Did I mention illuminating rubies and crystals sprinkled throughout the canvases? But there were much deeper and mostly darker themes of power, dynasty, ambition, recognition and success. In other words, what do Putin, McQueen, Zuckerberg and 50 Cent have in common? These were the huge name droppings in the works, representing a melting pot of impressionist, surrealist and romantic periods (in my non-expert opinion).

Not surprisingly, the gallery exhibition opening attracted a bunch of characters that typically swarm to these events (in my experience). Alice in Wonderland movie production was probably missing some costumes. All in all, it was good times filled with curiosity about the mindset of the artist and the attendees. And so, my friends and I decided to move on and let others take in the chattering air. We went for some cheese and wine tasting a block away at the Drunken Horse.

My perfect Sunday morning on a Saturday

When was the last time you had a luxury Sunday morning?

Mine was actually yesterday (on a Saturday). It just happened to be that kind of a weekend morning when you have time and some quiet time to make a proper breakfast, make your own cup of coffee and sit down with your techi toys.

I have realized that life just wouldn't be as sweet or as convenient without my Sony VAIO laptop, my iPhone and recently my Kindle. What more can a girl ask for? Between these super wonders I get to learn what goes on in the world, keep up with what goes on with my friends, listen to any choice of music, read a book chapter and play a round of Tetris or two. I used to love the fresh crisp smell of the sunday paper. Now it is NYTimes.com.

All of this, in any order I wish. Sipping my coffee.

It was a perfect Saturday.

Mom's pink shoes.

The beauty of being 2 years old… All you do is play. If you want an apple, you get an apple. If you want a banana, you get a banana. You laugh, dance, sing. You get to watch cartoons sitting with your arms around your two best friends, one brown and one blue teddy bear.

There’s a full service pink kitchen at your disposal and no obligation to cook a dinner for a family of three. A pink computer grabs your attention as you type away to a sing along, with no deadlines to meet. The telephone is pink, but you don’t worry about having to sit through that important conference call.

Needless to say, with all my pink references, my little muse is a ravishing girl with a pink bow hugging her blond locks and a shirt with pink sparkly crystals. All those play things get boring too easily for my smiley heroine, however. Her main focus is something else entirely. What could be more fascinating than her mom’s flip flops, especially when they are pink as well? They do not compare to her own pink, warm snuggies that have the features of a cute animal that resembles something between a piggy and a doggy.

And so even at two years old we begin to spend our lives knowingly or not, trying to fill our mom’s much bigger, much brighter, much more grown-up shoes.

Kudos to KC! Go Egypt!

The world lashed out at Kenneth Cole. How dare a company use marketing ploys to promote its new Spring collection?! The tackiness! Let’s boycott. (If you just google “kenneth cole offends” you’ll get a full rundown and timeline of the back and forth tweets and analysis).

But is it really? Is it tacky or is it smart? Or perhaps the question should be, is it responsible? I am no fashion history buff, just a sporadic shopper (great shoes!), but KC is actually one of those companies that put their famous name along the lines of do-good messages hidden behind edgy ad campaigns. (I saw an interview of Kenneth Cole, the individual, once.) I would call these messages the silent advocates, but advocates nonetheless. So what if they sell a watch or a bag while they are at it? They wouldn’t be able to communicate to the masses that otherwise would keep to their oblivion, without those sales.

I very strongly disagree that being socially and humanly responsible while being famous (for something else), is an oxymoron. Would you know of the existence of P.E.T.A. if it wasn’t for Pamela? Sadly, I’m afraid that many in the US may not have paid too much attention to what was going on in Cairo, until they heard about the daring tweet. Was it tasteless? Was it bad PR? Well, someone like me, a nobody really, is talking about it, and so do/will the other masses. Go Egypt!

The morning dilemma, under 3 seconds, GO!

The train arrives. I step in. Although more likely than not at 8:06am I am pushed in by the morning rushers. I have 3 seconds. You get only 3, to decide where to sit.

I am lucky in that my station is one of the first on the train's route to Manhattan and beyond. I have the option of a number of available seats. That is my morning dilemma.

It becomes one of those fleeting morning stresses that is totally unnecessary and silly. Yet, it can decide the fate of the rest of my day. The nerve, I know, how dare I complain when I can actually sit at all. Some of my co-commuters getting on at the very next stop are usually not as lucky.

The first half of one second, if it is sunny then I have to decide whether I want to be squinting my eyes against the bright sunny sky. If so, I would sit on the left side of the cart. Surprisingly, sometimes I prefer just that. The sun just makes me smile. The alternative, rain or shine, is easier on the eyes and makes for a nice reading spot or sleeping spot. This decision is totally within my control. The other, not so much.

The rest of the time is the most crucial. I have to decide whether to sit to the side of the train, facing forward in the direction of the train, or facing back. This choice is ultimately made easier by scanning the sitting neighbor at the time. This is why it takes 2 ½ seconds.

In this unprecedented short glimpse, a million brainwaves are actively working at the same time with the hope of foreseeing the future. Let's see, do I want to know the latest dating gossip from the middle aged single man and woman, who are admittedly ‘friends’? Do I want to be distracted by the two teenagers sitting on either side of me and texting each other making me feel paranoid that they will be talking about me? Will it be easy to brush of someone else's filed nails, make-up, a sesame seed bagel or the morning coffee from my clothing? Would today be the day that I will be slept on, drooled on, screamed on, sang to, talked to, pushed, or squeezed inappropriately by total strangers?

Decisions, decisions and all under 3 seconds. Today was peaceful with only a few back and forth comments about being pushed from the other corner of the train. I have moved on with my day, although I can't wait for the evening commute back. I love the NYC subways!

The Grand Canyon? Where? 9/365

As the saying goes, a picture is worth a thousand words. Today, I’ll just tell you the story.

A foggy, snowy looking mist absorbs your entire panoramic view. No, you’re not descending from the clouds. Can you guess where you are? I dare you. Do you think you would make a right guess if I hadn’t included the place in the title?

That is certainly not how the Grand Canyon looks in photos, professional or otherwise. Did you even know that it could snow in Arizona? To my surprise, of all the places, it snowed on one of the most famous US wonders of the earth. Isn’t it just part of a desert-like, dry climate?

The journey started when a dear friend decided to spend his twenty first birthday in Vegas, baby! Well, since we were already in Vegas, why not take a drive up to (or west to) the Grand Canyon? Never mind that it was December. It was December of the West Coast. That’s where the Northeasterners go in the winter sometimes to escape the freezing cold temperatures and snow. Little did we know.

We go all out. We rent a fancy Cadillac (I was outnumbered by boys). I am surprised no one thought about getting a convertible. We’re driving. It’s a bit of a drive, just under 6 hours. It’s a special occasion, however, so it (or my friend) is worth it.

We keep driving. The sun keeps disappearing. We drive some more. The sun is less. Instead, the clouds keep getting bigger. Someone says, “No problem, it’s just mountains up ahead, desert right around the corner.” Yep, no problem, whatsoever! “What is that white stuff on the road? Hmmm, that’s weird. It almost looks like snow.” We stop the car. We get out and check. Yep, it’s snow on the ground.

But still, no problem, we think, the Grand Canyon should be right behind the mountains. I don’t remember who our geographic expert at the time was. There were five of us. I just remember thinking (or at least being convinced) that there’ll be sun and desert just as we go over this hill up ahead.

To make the long story short(er), we finally get to the Grand Canyon. There’s only one little, tiny innuendo. We can’t see the Grand Canyon!

We know it’s there, so we just take pictures with the fog. We know if we take another step forward there’s a good chance it’ll be our last, and so we just take the pictures. We might have as well took all those pictures in Canada and labeled them the Grand Canyon. No one would know the difference anyway.

All we could do was laugh. We tried a few more times in the next 5 minutes to see through the white cloud of snowy fog. But all we could do was try and then take the 6 hour drive back to Vegas. It was a good time for some necessary warming Jacuzzi and spa treatment. That’s the story.

The worst part was that everyone we talked to in Vegas before taking this overall 12 hour detour, failed to mention that this may be a bad day to see the Grand Canyon. Neither the local concierge of the hotel, nor the local guy at the car rental place, who were both so excited with us, dared to think that it may be anything other than sun and dry air in the desert.

I guess the phrase “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” is multi-dimensional. Vegas is its own planet and no one cares where you come from or especially where you’re planning to go next.

And that is how I almost saw this grand wonder of a whole in the earth. All we could do was laugh. Who knew it could snow on the Grand Canyon?

Let’s all go to Iceland! 8/365

You may have noticed certain advertisements on the subway that mention 5 hour trips, London, over 20 destinations in Europe and no additional airfare. The heart of the ad is pitching Iceland as a stopover. Really?!

A Hawaii stopover on the way to Australia, I can understand. Although I'm sure many will disagree. But Iceland? A stopover? It’s at least a little sad isn’t it? Does it really only take just a few hours to discover and explore the best parts of the country?

From the advertiser’s perspective they have caught my attention. I remembered about Iceland. I will probably remember not to ignore Iceland Air if it comes up as one of the options for my next trip to Europe. The only problem is that I will only be looking to see if there are not too many hours for the stopover not to interfere with the main attraction, be it Paris, Berlin, Prague or Budapest. Iceland has been sold short by IcelandAir.

I have faith that there is so much to explore about the culture, the people and especially the food of this one-of-a-kind country. I would love to go to Iceland. I can only imagine the liveliness of Reykjavík, the brilliant colors of the aurora in the sky, the beautiful country landscape, the awe of boiling mud pools, glaciers, waterfalls and whale watching. Let’s all go!

Root for Betty, let your imagination take over. 7/365

Hey, you! Yes, you, the creature on the 14th street/8th avenue station. Who are you? What are you doing here? Are these other creatures your friends, family?

There are many different characters on the platform of the A/C/E trains and along the stairway. Some are looking up underneath a partially open manhole cover. Others are being pulled by a lobster. At the end of the platform the observer is caught in a middle of a failed bank robbery as the cop creature is catching one of the thieves in action.

I wonder how long they've been there? There is not a graffiti or a scratch in sight, despite this being one of the busiest stations in NYC. Tourists stop to take pictures. New Yorkers pass by them every day without seeming to notice them. But I know they do. They notice them. I did. I wasn't even ashamed to take a picture as you can see.

I will call this creature Betty. The strong and courageous Betty Milano, who just recently stepped off a long journey from the most Southern part of Italy. She was awed by the site of the Statue of Liberty looking from the shores of the Ellis Island. Betty came here to find work. She needed to earn some money so she could send it to her parents and her 4 year old daughter back home. Betty hopes that Isabella, her brown locks, thick-browed and blue-eyed daughter doesn't miss her too much. After all she promised that she will bring back lots of presents and a Barbie doll.

She will come back home soon, won't she?

An ode to the sun. 6/365

Is it just me, or does the morning sun brighten up the whole world? It creates a chain reaction of good things to come as you wake up to the flickering rays that try to get through the blinds on to your pillow. As you shy your eyes away from the light a smile creeps in. It is almost as if these shiny little creatures have been on a long journey and now they want to play and you can’t help but to get up and join in the game with them.

It was a lovely day today NYC. The temperature was a whopping almost 40 F, a welcomed change from the last 2 months. The sun made the breakfast look and feel better, whole wheat toast and all. It silently whispered that it was time to do one of those touristy things that you’ve been planning to do but kept postponing till next time.

We didn’t let the day go to waste. We drove under the strong and silent Brooklyn Bridge. We hopped into the Metropolitan Museum of Art, stood under the slanted glass window ceiling, and checked out the Armory wing. We strolled in Central park and absorbed those precious moments of quality time together.

Sun, we can’t wait till next time!

Acceptance of others – a wisdom worth learning. 5/365

Just finished watching ‘Due Date.’ http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1231583/ It had its good moments, so I can’t say I disliked it. Three thumbs up, may be? But worth a watch. The strength of the film is the cast.

Besides making you think about that cross-country road trip that you’ve always wanted to take, it had some chuckles and some of life’s bigger lessons. What stood out for me was the growing comfort and friendship of total strangers despite irrationally bazaar events and circumstances of everyday life, caused by one of them, mostly. Robert Downey Jr. and Zach Galifianakis (the guy from Hangover) were a good match for the characters.

Alas, the world is big enough to hold the “weird” people and the “normal” people at the same time. Each character learns to accept the other for exactly who they are. So whether you think you’re on the “weird” side or part of the “normal” bunch, my suggestion is to learn to accept. You will be doing yourself a favor of a lifetime.

Oh Haribo, Haribo. How I love thee, Haribo. (4/365)

A burst of sugar as you chew on its gummy marshmallow combination that eventually sweetly melts in your mouth. I love the Strawberry Haribo! The experience is a memory of its own. I haven’t been able to just have one or two of them after purchasing a bag, so typically about half a bag is devoured in one sitting. Atrocious, I know. So much sugar, but it is worth the sacrifice.

Too bad that it is only (to my knowledge) available in Europe. Although, I haven’t actually tried searching for it beyond the typical grocery and candy stores in the metropolitan cities. I wonder if there is a black market for them in the US. That reminds me to check out E-bay!

So to my pleasant surprise, just a few days ago a very dear former flatmate/friend from Germany who I had the fun of living next to in the UK university, sent me some. This is how much of an impression and an international sensation my discovery and love of Haribo strawberries has made. This seemingly simple and inexpensive parcel brought so many sweet memories. Among the 14 of us living on the same floor (we each had our own room): 8 were from China, 1 from India, 1 from Pakistan, 2 from Italy, 1 from Germany, leaving me, the Russian/American born in Ukraine. I was the most native English speaker on the floor, which was ironic.

Thank you my German friend! My mouth is truly grateful for your offer of sweetness.

No coffee for me! (3/365)

Coffee! Many of us long for it as soon as we wake up, may be even dream of it. As soon as I came out of the train station in City Hall I continued thinking about that first morning sip of coffee flavor and sweetness. Surprisingly, it is not the caffeine that I crave. To my despair, however, I realized that I do not have any cash. Not a dollar! I enjoy those credit card accepting venues such as a Starbucks (I have the Gold Member card) or a Dunkin Donuts once in a while. My morning preference, however, is the guy on the corner. One of the many owners of the breakfast places on wheels. Unfortunately for me, he only takes cash.

Yes, he does not offer decaf, or skim/soy milk, or raspberry flavors. I won’t even mention the shmacaccinos, etc. He is right next to the entrance door to the office building, so in this freezing weather I do not want to have to defrost my bare fingers after carrying the coffee for a block and a half. The medium coffee cup is only $1, instead of an average $4 cup you know where.

The guy knows me! He begins making my cup of coffee no questions asked, with a smile, as soon as he is done servicing the previous customer on the line. He is not over-caffeinated as Starbucks baristas are. I do not have to repeat my order a few times as I frequently have to do in DD (I’m not ordering pharmaceuticals, just medium coffee with milk and sugar). Most importantly, I feel as if I am actively contributing to the growth and prosperity of the local economy.

End of this morning’s story, I was left without coffee. This only means that I will have the pleasure of indulging in my next first morning sip. May be I should find out the guy’s name? Would that be a NYC thing to do?

Winter in NYC, deal with it! (2/365)

Fine, today was really dangerous as ice and sleet covered many of the sidewalk corners of NYC streets and helped pedestrians to fall. Generally, however, even as recently as Monday, why are New Yorkers so grudgingly surprised about a snowy winter? This ain’t no Florida. If you want warmer climate, then feel free to move to a warmer climate. There are plenty of them out there, and they do not require international travel.

Personally, I prefer snowy winters to earthquakes in Northern California, or Hurricanes of the South Florida. In fact, it was this winter of 2010/2011 and all of its 8 winter storms (and counting) that I realized how much I really missed snow. I am talking about the real kind, the kind that you can build a snowman/woman with, ride the slay and have a snowball fight with. I especially like the fluffy snowflakes that suddenly and gently fall from the sky as you’re suppressing the urge to catch them with an open mouth.

Perhaps I am alone in this, and am one of the very few that associate snow and winter fun with childhood memories and friends. For me these happened to be across the big Atlantic Ocean somewhere on the outskirts of Eastern Europe. These are memories of truly harsh winters, food shortages, power outages and dark tree trunks covered in icicles, all under a gray and fierce sky. Despite all that, I smile as I remember my childhood best friends and the neighborhood kids as we all spent our snowy weekends outside in the courtyard.

All the seasons are beautiful and with all the evidence of a global climate change, we should really cherish them. That being said, I am ecstatic that Spring will be coming early, according to Punxsutawney Phil . I wonder how many inches of snow the groundhog had to dig before appearing?

Between a rock and an equally hard other rock? (1/365)

My head is spinning. Lack of sugar? Perhaps growing impatience with worrying about other people doing the right thing. Is it right, anyway? My way obviously doesn’t work for others. Although perhaps it also doesn’t always and necessarily work for me. Pressure to do the right thing, when the right thing is apparently subjective.

This also means that you may be torn between a number of “the right thing to do” opinions. The ones that feel like equally correct but opposite ideas that exist at the same time. Or if they are not opposite in and of themselves they require different actions that are independently and mutually exclusive of each other.
I wonder if or what the philosophical term for the dilemma may be? I am sure there is one, as this is surely not the first or the last time a person happened to be placed or put themselves into a similar position.

That is why diplomacy is more of an art than a science probably. Although both can be mastered through mere talent or gained skill. Make everyone, including yourself, happy. A possibly possible task. Everyone should be able to just get along, we’re not fighting wars here people, we’re just trying to fulfill that simple human social need of maintaining friendships.