Thought I'd choose a snowy design for the blog, just to remind me what winter used to look like. It's been a balmy New York winter thus far. I have yet to even wear a hat!
I keep hearing Jill Sobule's happy song about global warming in my head... (the line about wearing a halter top in Manhattan in January)
In the last two weeks, I've concluded there are few things in life more trying than hailing a San Francisco taxi. Between the relative scarcity of taxis, the lack of a consistent light system (In New York, it's simple: If the light's on, the taxi's free. If it's off, it's not. In San Francisco, it's anyone's guess), and the maddening indifference of SF taxi drivers ("It's such a nice day. I'm not sure if I really NEED any passengers to enjoy a day like this") what seems like a simple task requires a high degree of patience ... and skill.
You must not get frustrated by the empty taxis that whiz by you on the way to a radio call, you must not be humiliated when you try to wave down a taxi with a smirking passenger you failed to notice; you must not be deterred by the carousing teenage boys who heckle you as they drive by and try to high-five your taxi-hailing hand. You must not be intimidated by the drunk and staggering street resident who propositions you as you wait. No. If you are to hail a taxi in downtown San Francisco, you must persist. Keep that arm out. Yell "Taxi" at the top of your lungs. Run right out into that center lane at the red light and jump into that open cab. In short: Act like a New Yorker. Eventually, your efforts will be rewarded, and if you're lucky: Noted...
"You can always tell a New Yorker," one taxi driver explained, nodding approvingly at me in the rear view window. "They're serious about hailing cabs."
I've been in California for 10 days now, meeting with smart people working on interesting projects, and catching up on everything I've missed by virtue of the fact that I live in NY. Manhattan is fabulous for many things, but leading-edge web technology is not one of them. I really have to fight to stay ahead of the curve there. But in San Francisco, you breathe in technology like air.
Of course, this might be reflective of my own social circles... and not the cities themselves ... But I don't think so.
Last weekend, I finally got to see Christina Courtin, an up-and-coming singer who counts some of my friends as big fans. She's a small, sweet-seeming gal with a big voice, at turns breathy and brassy. And she is courageous on stage ... really, really out there. She has this way of almost throwing herself into the music .... It fascinated me, because she's actually rather awkward -- at times, she looks like she might fall over -- but she's so courageous and exposed and almost untethered that it works magic on the crowd. And it's clear she's gathering a big following -- the sold-out 150-capacity house was packed with adoring fans (including Meryl Streep).
Last night, my extravagently talented friends Jamie and Michael Leonhart played a double bill at the tiny, lovely Rockwood Music Hall on the Lower East Side. Jamie's a tiny, curly-haired, honey-voiced, utterly mesmerizing jazz singer. A cross between Billie Holiday and Ani DiFranco, if you can imagine such a thing. Her husband, Michael, tours with Steely Dan, won a Grammy, and seems to play every instrument known to man. Their shows are always a treat, but last night was particularly magical: Midway through the set, Michael invited his dad -- the great jazz bassist Jay Leonhart, who happened to be watching from the bar -- to join him on the tiny stage, and make some magic. It was one of those perfect New York moments...
It's finally happened. I've gone digital.
It's taken me a long time, I know. But everyone has a little bit of luddite in them, and mine has always preferred film. Although I've had a digital point-and-shoot for years, I've been slow to migrate when it comes to my "real" camera. But this weekend I finally broke down. Circumstances forced my hand ... My old SLR broke a year ago (it took a fatal fall on a cobblestoned street in Copenhagen when my neck strap snapped). And this past weekend, my friend Tam asked me to photograph her teeny-tiny wedding in Rome.
Embarrassed by my camera-less-ness, and determined to do a good job for my sweet friend Tam, I took the plunge and bought a Nikon D80. Three days on, I'm pretty pleased. And not nearly as freaked out as I thought I would be. The proof will really be in the prints, but in any case it has me back to my old tricks: Shooting store fronts and streetlights ...
Wandering around Rome on Sunday, I became mesmerized by this molto postmodern dance troupe. Donning different period costumes, moving very sloooowly and wearing on their faces various looks of despair and dimentia, they held the rapt attention of several hundred tourists in Piazza Navona.
I'm not sure I understood this particular piece of performance art any more than rest of the gelato-eating americans gathered. But my theory went something like this: Judging by the age of the dancers and their PoMo-fem-studies flair, I decided it was a conceptual historical piece, depicting four different faces of Italian women's oppression, and also a commentary on the state of modern dance.
Or something like that.
QoTD asks: "How many languages can you speak? Which languages can you read or understand?"
Despite 8 years of French, I still speak only English fluently. Quel dommage! It's quite sad, really, in comparison to people like Bruno, who not only speaks, but publishes articles in 6+ languages. But then, he's Swiss. He has an advantage.
I'm quite good, however, at picking up languages as I travel. As a result, I can say "Danger! Run away!" in Swahili, "Hot tea, please" in Sherpa; and "May I have another glass of wine?" in Italian. I can also say "Crazy" in Turkana, which was very useful at the time.
Nothing profound to say in this, the first post. Just getting it out of the way...
