Starting something

Marie, Libs, Caroline and I are embarking on our much anticipated road trip together tomorrow morning. We will be driving South over the course of a week, loosely planning to stop over in Baltimore, Blacksburg VA, Pigeon Forge in the heart of the Blue Smoky Mountains, Nashville and finally Memphis before hopping on a flight back to New York. I will no doubt be blogging about the trip upon my return, but we've already had a spectacular start.

We picked up our rental car at La Guardia airport tonight, a sleek and sexy Chryster Sebring convertible with the tiniest trunk ever designed once the roof is down - we are going for looks rather than practicality here, much in the same way we tend to pick our men come to think of it!

Marie bravely volunteered to drive us back to the City even though, like the rest of us, she had never driven in Manhattan before. After spending some time getting used to driving an automatic (as it turns out, using your "otherwise unaccustomed to being left idle" left foot to brake is really not a good idea!), we confidently set off, admired the view of the glittering skyline as we crossed the Robert Kennedy bridge and entered the City in Spanish Harlem.

We drove West on 125th and upon nearing the Apollo Theatre, we heard Michael Jackson's "Wanna be starting something" loudly playing in the street. The traffic slowed to a stand still in front of the famous landmark which was packed with crowds of fans waving pictures and banners, singing and dancing to the music while all the surrounding cars were beeping in unison. The atmosphere was electric, somewhat surreal, but I was happy to see people publicly celebrating his work rather than breaking down hysterically.

What a perfect way (and soundtrack) to be "starting something", even more so when it is a trip to America's historically laden Deep South with great girlfriends.

Memento

At the end of my first year of blogging, I came across a website called blurb.com which enables you to turn blogs into customized, high quality hardcover books relatively easily.

Despite a slight guilty feeling of self-indulgence, I couldn't resist and have since got two books printed from the posts I published in 2007 and 2008. It's a little treat for myself - I really enjoy leafing through them from time to time, looking at the pictures and reminiscing about the experiences I have been through and the events I have been lucky enough to witness since moving to New York, such as Obama's historical victory.

But above all, if I do eventually leave this wonderful City, the books will be original mementos of my time here ... tangible traces of my adventures and fluctuating state of mind.

So go on, treat yourself as well - I highly recommend it.

Case in point

I had drinks with a couple of my account directors from our media buying agency the other night. I had always thought that the guy, J, was gay. Nothing in particular suggests it apart maybe from his collection of almost exclusively pink shirts ...

Anyway, my gaydar is clearly failing me quite spectacularly as he spent most of the time rubbing my back and even, much to my horror (as I don't like him in that way), touching my hair. At this stage I was still really hoping he was gay, but the conversation we proceeded to have proved me very, very wrong.

He asked me if I was dating and I said "kind of". Then he asked if I was in love and I could not help but burst into laughter. I told him that I had given up on New York men as potential serious relationship material a long time ago. He asked me why and I explained that when you've been seeing someone for a month as I have and yet are seriously considering asking the guy if he may already have a girlfriend*, you know that you have spent too much time in New York already ...

He seemed perplexed and I explained that a lot of men here seem to have a "don't ask, don't tell" attitude in that unless they are specifically asked they can quite casually go on without mentioning a small, insignificant detail like being in a relationship already. At this point, J reached over to me, touched my leg and said "I'm not like that", only to be interrupted by the other account director who exclaimed "J, you not only have a girlfriend but you also live together!" ... to which he replied, completely undeterred, "yeah but I'm not married!".

Case in point indeed.

* I asked. He doesn't.

Prey

I went to my lovely friend F's birthday party at the weekend. She had picked an Irish pub, primarily because she is of Irish descent but also because the birthday girl gets to drink for free there and her guests for half-price. I must say that it wasn't exactly my kind of watering hole (large TV sceens, wet floors from all the alcohol spilled) but we had fun and danced to incredibly cheesy tunes while singing at the top of our lungs until the early hours of the morning.

What struck me about the evening however is that I felt I was on the set of a wildlife documentary ... F had invited some of her girlfriends but primarily a lot of her gay male friends. A couple of the girls in particular seemed frustrated about that - complaining to me that they were never going to find a man if they hung out with gay guys all the time. It's at that time that my friend K turned up and came over to give me a hug and say hello.

It's like the atmosphere changed in a split second. I had brought with me the only single, straight guy to the party! Not only that but one that also happens to not be bad looking and can actually string two intelligent sentences together. The two girls in question immediately asked me who he was and whether we were seeing each other - turning before my very eyes into what I can only describe as predators. I explained that K and I are just good friends and the hunt started to unfold with both girls trying to get some alone chatting time with him.

K and I spent most of the time hanging out together and I could feel the predators getting increasingly frustrated ... their evil stares at me turning into full blown sulking from one of them towards the end of the evening. I wasn't trying to get in the way at all and in fact made a conscious effort not to, but K and I get on well and were happy to catch up.

I unwittingly delivered the coup de grace when K and I left the party together to share a cab as we both live on the West side. I could almost feel imaginary knives being thrown at me as I turned my back to walk away.

K and I chatted about it on the way home - about how as a single, straight guy in New York, you can sometimes feel like a prey. Not that he is complaining about it much though but I get the feeling that it does get a little tiring after a while.

Have I ever felt like a prey? I'm not sure I would even realise .. most of the time I am blissfully unaware that I am even getting chatted up in the first place unless the guy makes it blatantly obvious - it's one of my quirks that my friends find highly amusing when a typical exchange after an evening out might go "Steph, that guy was hitting on you" - "Really?! I thought he was just being friendly!!!".

Neighbourhood

I recently realised that most of my life can happily be lived within a 5 block radius and that I don't have to walk for more than 10 minutes to get everything I want or need.

I think this illustrates the notion of neighbourhood I have often referred to better than words.

Click on the flags and move the map around for descriptions.


View My neighbourhood in a larger map

The Gym

I have always found the gym to be an absolutely fascinating place for people watching - it is unnatural to put human beings of all ages, shapes and sizes in a small space, make them frantically exercise and watch them turn all shades of red while they carefully avoid looking at each other.

As my "February Fitness" burst is still going strong, I have had plenty of opportunities to observe some of the differences between gyms in New York and the ones in London and so far have identified three of them.

1. An unsettling amount of public nudity in the Ladies locker room
I am no prude but I consider it normal that, after having a shower at the gym, one should try to remain covered under towels while discreetly changing back into clothes. It does involve some amount of contortion and dexterity but it is feasible. However, training in the art of not unecessarily exposing one's private parts is not evident here at all.

I have not seen so many naked women since I went to the famous Gellert Baths in Budapest - an experience I found so traumatic at the time that I only lasted 20 minutes in there ... There was only a limited number of times I could deal with rather mature ladies insisting on bending over to pick up seemingly invisible objects from the floor!?!

I am getting slowly used to NYC women's lack of self-consciousness and their general disposition for doing as much as they can completely stark naked - be it leisurely walking around the locker room, chatting to each other for ages or even drying their hair and applying make-up! In fact, I applaud them for that ... but won't be joining them anytime soon!

2. Male bonding
I hate going to the gym when it is packed so I have taken to exercising early Friday evenings, which has lead me to another observation. This particular time slot seems to be the primary setting to the new phenomenon of "man dates". Throngs of men invade the gym at that time and it is endearing, albeit highly amusing, to see them exercising on the weight machines in pairs, coaching and encouraging each other while slyly comparing muscle size. My personal theory though is that they are merely "pumping up" before going out on the pull ...

3. Halfhearted exercising
And finally, I have also been shocked at the number of people who exercise with a Starbucks coffee in one hand and a cell phone in the other. As usual, New Yorkers are uniquely masterful at multi-tasking.

Just Married

Julien, my little baby brother, got married last weekend.

At 27 years old and standing nearly 6 foot tall, there is nothing remotely little or baby-like about him but to me he will always remain the fragile little thing my parents brought home from the hospital when I was 6 years old.

While the vast majority of my coupled-up cousins skipped the wedding step altogether in favour of immediate procreation, my brother was always the more traditional one in our family so it was not a surprise when he announced his engagement to us last year.

I think I have already mentioned that I have a large family as my mother has 10 brothers and sisters, who in turn have up to 3 children each, so the wedding was not a simple affair. Add to that a lot of family friends, as well as Julien and Catherine's own friends, and you are left with an awful lot of people to entertain.

The day started early as my sister & I had our hair done at 8.30am at the local salon. It was quite surreal for me to go back there after a 13 years hiatus but the salon owner (who used to cut my hair when I was a teenager) looked after me and when not lamenting the fact that I don't do anything special with my hair (thanks!), literally bombarded me with questions about my life in London and New York.

We then headed back home and Julien picked us up so we could meet his future wife in a nearby picturesque village for the official wedding pictures with a professional photographer. My sister and I were the "little helpers" during the shoot - our job being to alleviate their pre-wedding nerves, re-arrange Catherine's dress or Julien's tie for the photos and generally carry umbrellas, coats and scarves ...
This was actually the best part of the day for me - Julien, Catherine, Laurie and I are very close and spending that time together as a tight unit, away from the rest of the wedding party, fooling around and laughing was very special for us. It was also when we shed our first tears of the day as Julien welled up when he saw Cath in her wedding dress, prompting us to spontaneously burst into tears at the sight of him crying.

Traditional French weddings follow a long established pattern. They start mid-afternoon with a civil ceremony at the local Townhall, followed by a Church blessing, a "vin d'honneur" (drinks essentially) and finally the wedding dinner and dance - all of which with their own etiquette regarding the guest list.

While only very close friends and family are invited to the civil ceremony (primarily because townhalls tend to be small), a much larger group is welcomed to the Church blessing and the vin d'honneur, in this case just over 200. Catching up with so many people was overwhelming and, I have to admit, rather tiring as I found myself delivering a set of standard answers to the exact same questions that were asked of me: "What is New York like?", "How is the economic crisis affecting you?" and of course the dreaded "Why aren't you married yet?". I had fully expected the latter question (tactfulness is not always a quality the French possess, at least not in my family!) and had already prepared a flippant answer to that one: "One has to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince and I'm having a lot of fun doing just that!". Not entirely true anymore these days as I gave up frogs, princes and anything in between for lent (ha ha!) but seeing their shocked faces provided me with endless amusement.

The dinner and subsequent party are the best part of the whole affair of course and 120 of us attended it in a lovely restaurant that we had hired for the night. The DJ was spinning great tunes after each course and I had almost forgotten how easy it is to get our friends and family on the dance floor. There is no need for ridiculous amounts of alcohol to loosen their inhibitions ... All of us were dancing, widely different age groups happily mixing together, enjoying old-fashioned Waltzes and Tangos as much as the latest pop anthems, until 5 o'clock in the morning! The French are particularly fond of group dancing to well established choreographed moves - it's difficult to describe but there are some songs (like Bonney M's "Rivers of Babylon") that we seem to know the exact dance routines to and can all perform in perfect synchronization. In many ways, it looks just like a flashmob event or this video that a friend helpfully pointed me towards (thank you D!). I also surprised and embarrassed myself by knowing all the lyrics to some 80s French pop songs I hadn't heard since that era - surely ruining any street cred I had left.

But mainly, the lasting memory I will cherish from that day is the overwhelming love I felt for my brother, for his new wife, for my lovely sister, my mum and dad and all our family and friends - very cheesy I know and ever so American of me to be quite so "in touch with my feelings". But I often feel removed from them because my life is so different to theirs, not only geographically but also in its essence, yet the sense of belonging I felt that day reminded me that I am safely part of a group of people all tied together by an unbreakable bound.