Erin Ruffin’s Weblog

What happens when it hits 100 deg’s (Fahrenheit) in New York City?

Here are some observations I made on the first 100 degree day in New York City, June 9th, 2008.

#1. My hair was 4 inches shorter due to the humidity curling it up like Shirley Temple’s.
#2. The garden behind my apartment looked unusually green and thick and muggy when I looked out the window this morning.
#3. Serious Runner Dude that I pass on my way to the subway every morning was doubled over and wheezing instead of sorrowfully looking at all the poor souls descending the subway stairs on the way to their offices.
#4. People on the subway seemed more chatty than normal.  I’m not sure what the connection to the heat is here, but I’ve never seen so many New Yorkers speaking on the subway at 8am before – even through the typical L-Train “We are stalled because of train traffic ahead of us…” announcements.
#5.  After walking for 2 minutes in the heat from the subway to my office, I had an urge to post all of my clothing on Ebay apart from bathing suits and my two favorite sun dresses.
#6.  Also on my walk to my office I noticed a severe decline in the number of smokers standing outside of their buildings for their “start the day right” cigarette.  This could possibly be the only good observation I post here.
#7.  When sweat drips from my chin onto the paperwork on my desk, the ink doesn’t run as badly if the paper is high-quality.  *Note to self, on 100 deg+ days, use high-quality paper to avoid ink bleeds – or work in an office where the air-conditioning does its job. 
#8.  Tourists find an excuse to use the free fans they give away at the Broadway shows:

#9.  90% of my emails today (work and personal) mentioned the heat.  ”Stay cool!” “I hope you’re inside in air-conditioning!” “Can you believe this heat?!” 
#10. Everyone carries a tissue around:

#11.  In Brooklyn they unhook the water hydrants and let the kids run through the water – this is one of my favorite things from today:

Watch out, New Yorkers.  It’s going to be another scorcher tomorrow! 

“The completed work will not only be the greatest bridge in existence, but it will be the greatest engineering work of the continent, and of the age.”
—John A. Roebling, civil engineer

The Brooklyn Bridge turns 125 years old this weekend and there are a slew of celebratory events happening. Check out the Brooklyn Bridge film screenings, guided Brooklyn Bridge walking tours!!, and music/dance performances…

See the full schedule here:

Brooklyn Bridge Birthday Bash

Generally, I’m not touched by buildings and engineering (apart from the Taj Mahal because the story is so flipping romantic) … but I will admit to shedding a couple tears when I watched the documentary film on the building of the Brooklyn Bridge. What this structure stands for is so amazing – bringing communities of people together, opening up trade and commerce for New York, and the way people pulled together to build it 125 years ago is so touching. I am overwhelmed every time I walk across it.

Come celebrate its birthday this weekend!

Recently, I moved to Williamsburg/Bushwick and this past weekend was a near perfect Brooklyn weekend. It was one of my very favorite weekends, I think.

I found these pictures and they felt (just for a second) like a Brooklyn weekend on this Manhattan Monday. Not that I spend my weekends in rundown warehouses in Brooklyn (which is what these pictures are) but they show the old-timey Brooklyn nostalgia that drips from the streets. It’s almost like I don’t belong there. When I’m in Manhattan I feel like an ant against the size of the city. In Brooklyn it’s an age thing – it’s how new I am in contrast to the old age of the streets and buildings. I feel so young and prude there because the buildings seem so old and wise.
Lately I’ve been wondering if my resolve to fight back against the current in NYC is dissolving. This weekend I fell for the city all over again except this time it was for the city East of the river.

*In other news – my support of Obama stands strong although I must voice a concern that’s come up. My parents insist that if Obama is elected, their taxes will jump up 14%. It seems preposterous, and the rumor might be due to my parents living in a *very* Republican state, but if it’s true I’m a teense freaked out. In NYC, 14% of your income is what you use to eat, get to work, and get waxed with. SO I’m doing my research and I’ll let you know what I find. So far I have no evidence to support my parents’ claim (phew! I really don’t want to believe Obama would do such a thing!) but if we (18-35 year olds) get nailed with a massive tax increase AND continue to get screwed with student loan interest rates etc… will our faith in this government ever heal?

The mentality of New York City can be summed up in this question:
“Do you know who I think I am?”
It’s practically perfect.
It’s perfectly New York City.
This morning on the subway I stood in the corner that doesn’t have a seat and braced myself against the walls in order to avoid touching the germy poles.  My head was buried in my book and then, from out of nowhere, came a big hairy arm.  A guy standing to my right reached directly across me, through the space between my eyes and my book, to hold the pole on my left..  It wasn’t just uncomfortable, it was bizarre so for a good few seconds I stared at his hairy arm not believing anyone would seriously do this (at least without saying “excuse me”)…but he did.  Then I made eye contact with the 50-something white-haired, burly professor-looking guy and tried to make my eyes convey my thoughts, which were along the lines of “you can’t be serious.”  If you want to hold the handle that’s to the left of me, for goodness sake, stand on that side, as well.
He looked back at me and said, “Excuse me, but I’ve been riding this train for 40 years.”
So I pulled my book out from under his arm and held it OVER his arm so I could continue reading.  This did look ridiculous as it meant I was holding my book about 4” from my face, but at least I could see it and feel a little less like he was holding me in prison.
No I certainly did not know who he thought he was.
Tonight I was getting off the train in Union Square during rush hour.  The train was literally shoulder-to-shoulder and the doors were the dam holding the flow of people back.  When they opened I felt someone’s forearm across my lower back bowling me forward.  Flustered and confused I turned around to see an empty space right behind me.  My eyes dropped a little bit lower to see the top of a woman’s head just a couple inches from my back.  She was tiny and had stuck out her arm like a football player guarding a football, placed her forearm across my lower back, ducked her head and started shoving.  It was like a scrappy little sports car riding the tailwind of a semi in a storm!  The might of this tiny woman forced me to push the person in front of me.  The girl in front of me turned around to see the culprit which appeared to be ME since the tiny heaving woman was tucked into my back.  What?  This little white-haired 5’ tall woman is going to push me around AND make me look like the rude, hurried New Yorker shoving everyone forward?  Who does she think she is?  Obviously I don’t know.  But it didn’t matter because she had somewhere to go and that was that.
Neurotic New York.
When all else fails and no one seems to understand how important you are, this tactic never fails; duck your head down, ball your hands into fists, keep one stiff arm out, and keep shoving forward.

Here’s to rediscovering classics…

Once again, I have picked up the book “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.” If you haven’t read it, please… This book is so simply human. It’s so refreshing and so poignant – even today. It was written almost 100 years ago and the timelessness of it is incredible – something I think a lot of artists strive for.

This is one of (many) parts that stick out to me:

On the bottom shelf stood a curly, bone-white conch shell with a delicate rosy interior. The children loved it dearly and had given it an affectionate name: Tootsy. When Francie held it to her ear, it sang of the great sea. Sometimes for the delight of his children, Johnny listened to the shell, then held it dramatically at arm’s length, looked at it meltingly and sang:

Upon the shore I found a shell.
I held it to my ear.
I listened gladly while it sang,
A sea song sweet and clear.

Later, Francie saw the sea for the first time when Johnny took them to Canarsie. The sea was remarkable only in that it sounded like the tiny sweet roar of Tootsy, the conch shell.

New Yorkers,

Check out this film screening on Wednesday, April 30th @ NYU.

Info and preview of the film:

http://www.ethnographic.tv/nyu/

I got on the subway this morning and slumped into a seat. I was uncomfortably warm in my layers of clothing, jacket, and scarf. It wasn’t actually very cold this morning. I was well over-dressed which is frustrating because that means I end up hot and sweaty in my layers of clothes, even in the debt of winter. Already headfirst in the book I’m reading, I was rudely interrupted by a man in grungy clothes with a distinct unemployed look to him. He was sitting next to me and he asked if he could draw my face. Just like that.
“Can I draw your face?”
“Excuse me?”
“Can I draw your face?” he repeated as if it’s a question I should be used to hearing.
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’m an artist and you have a striking face and I’d like to draw it.”
I think he’s scamming me. He’s not really an artist, is he? This question, although important, wasn’t the main one floating through my head. I was more concerned with the question of whether or not I should be flattered by a middle-aged, scruffy man on the New York City subway telling me I have a striking face. What does that mean? Honestly, it could go to one extreme or the other, but I have more profound points to make from this little situation I found myself in this morning. I decided it was a compliment.
Although the few New Yorkers on their way to work that witnessed this interaction were probably dying for my response, I cowardly evaded his question, began rocking back and forth and stared into my book. As if I didn’t hear what he said.
This is where it gets interesting.
The man proceeded to lift his pen, a rather large plastic one, to approximately one inch in front of his nose, stare at it as if he’s trying to change its chemical composition by focusing his energy, then he vigorously began to shake it up and down directly in front of his face. I couldn’t help but pry my terrified eyes away from my book to see what this man was doing. Our legs, by the way, were touching. It was unavoidable on the packed-full train.
As this man used every last ounce of strength in his body to shake his plastic pen, directly in the line of energy he was emoting from his intense gaze, the pen lit up. Bright, fluorescent orange. So it’s nothing special. It was probably a free give-away at a children’s toy store somewhere around Times Square that he somehow finagled out of the cute cashier. This man, however, obviously believed that he lit the pen up by harnessing his inner energy and laser beaming it via his stare into the heart of the pen. Right. The pen’s lit up now and he’s ready to put his artistic talents to work (on my face).
After all the work he put into getting started, this had better be a good one.
That’s when I noticed that the only paper he had to create this masterpiece on was a crumpled up day-old copy of The New York Post, which he most likely took off of his subway seat before sitting down just minutes earlier. He proceeded to draw my face in the only clear space he could find on the cover page, which equaled about 1″ wide by 2″ high. Not only the lack of space bothered me about his attempt to capture my striking-ness, it was that my portrait would be settled next to a dot-matrix image of Lindsay Lohan. I was crushed.
It was 8:48am in the morning and I had already encountered my first New York City scam of the day. This man was no artist at all. The doors ding’ed open at my stop and I shuffled out of the subway leaving the artist muse-less. I didn’t feel bad.

When I got into my office, much too warm for late December in my overly layered outfit, I opened my computer to find an email from Cesar Garcia.

Cesar Garcia. Such a commanding name. For those hooked on “Googling” ex-boyfriends or long-lost high school friends (and yes, I did use Google as a verb), the Cesar Garcia I got an email from is not the artist that Google shows the first 5 hits for, nor the amateur actor imdb.com pulls up. I found Cesar Garcia on craigslist.com as I was searching for an apartment, or should I insert-cliché-here and more accurately say, “Cesar Garcia found me”?

He was advertising a beautiful studio in Forest Hills for $700, month-to-month, no fee. I don’t know who wouldn’t jump at this place conveniently situated on Austin Street, immaculate as far as the pictures showed, and from such a sweet landlord as Cesar. Immediately after my email inquiry (no phone number was given), I received a reply stating how he can afford to list the apartment for such a good price. Cesar’s father owned the place and recently passed away leaving it in Cesar’s name. The problem is that Cesar is in Nigeria on a mission to spread awareness about AIDS. Cesar’s main concern as he typed in broken English, is not the money but that he can trust the person to keep it clean and in good condition. This, I assured him, would not be a problem. He gave me a list of bits of information he needed from me, and once again made me promise to take care of the apartment.

This is the “rent application form” (as he called it) that I was emailed:

1)Your Full Name
2)Your Full Address & Phone Number
3)How old are you?
4)Are you married?
5)How many people will be living in the Apartment?
6)Do you have a pet?
7)Do you have a car?
8)Occupation?
9)What is your religion?
10)Are you born again?

I emailed my response, dotting all of my i’s, crossing all of my t’s and only providing my work details. This was good enough for Cesar. He was ready for me to wire the money to him and move in as soon as he FedEx’d me the keys.

Oh wait. Maybe I should see the apartment first.

Hi Cesar,
I would like to see the apartment before I sign anything or send you any money. Please let me know how I can see the apartment first.
Thank you,
Erin

I got this response from Cesar immediately following my email. By this time, it’s approximately 3am in Nigeria. Wow, Cesar stays up late!

Dear Erin,
Ok below is the address of the house and when are you ready to view the apartment?
76-66 Austin Street, Queens NY 11375

And when are you ready to make payment? So that i will arrenge to send the keys and the document of apartment via FEDEX or DHL to your provided address. Get back to me as soon as you get there ok.

From Cesar.

Wait a second, so he thinks by seeing the apartment I mean looking at the outside of the building? How can I see inside the apartment and why won’t he give me an apartment number? Am I being scammed again? There’s not really an immaculate apartment for $700 in Forest Hills, is there? Cesar!

Ok great, Cesar.
Sounds good. Will I be able to look inside the apartment? I would like to see inside the apartment before I sign the lease or send the money. Also what is the apartment number? You only sent the street number.
What is your address to send the money?
Thanks,
Erin

I got the reply. It’s now about 4am in Nigeria and I have let my co-worker, Josh, into the game. “Cesar Garcia thinks I’m stupid enough to blindly wire him money for an apartment I’ve never seen while I wait for him to FedEx me keys from Nigeria?” Right. Josh swears Cesar isn’t in Nigeria at all. “He’s definitely in Queens right now as he emails you. We need to act like we’re going to view the apartment and look for Cesar. If we meet anyone around who looks suspicious, I’ll say “Cesar” and see if he responds to it by turning and looking at me. If it’s him, he’s got hell to pay.”

Dear Erin,
Thanks for getting back to me, well you are quite right about what you said. But all i want is for you to take very good care of my apartment since you are ready to move in. This is the Number of the apartment ok? 76-66. But you can’t view the inside because the keys and the apartment document’s are here with me in west africa Nigeria. If you can send the payment today i will send the keys to your provided address via DHL today ok? It will be easy for you to view the inside ok?

Let know when you are ready to make the payment? So that i can give you details you needs to transfer the money via western union ok..

Thanks
Cesar Garcia

And my reply…

Thank you, Cesar.
I am going to see the apartment this afternoon. Can you tell me the color of the outside of the building so I can make sure I’m at the right place? Also, I would appreciate if you could send the keys to one of your friends or family members in New York so that they can let me in to see the apartment and then I can sign the lease with them. One last thing, I need the apartment number inside the building. (Is it on the second floor, third floor, etc.?).
Thanks,
Erin

Cesar just give it up…

Erin,
When you reach there you will see everything you want see ok? And i don’t prefer to send the keys to my family or friends ok? when you are ready see inside send the payment and get the keys ok.
Thanks,
Cesar

By this point in my life I’ve come to the realization that everyday presents an entirely new set of scams. The taxi driver who forgot it was a one-way and had to go around the block an extra time as the meter click-click-clicks its way up. The deli on the corner that stays open one hour later than everyone else making himself a monopoly and charging double the prices. New York City is full of them. I’m just wondering if it’s actually sadder now that I’m worn-in enough to recognize them. I think I used to laugh a lot more when I didn’t realize the taxi driver just drove me around in circles.

It was utter abandon and recklessness contained in the four walls of the city, or not really walls…the banks of the Hudson and East Rivers, more accurately. A playground that stretches up not out. A maze of dark alleys with buzzing streetlights, immigrants and shadows of immigrants from decades ago that crammed beds into a box for a house. Nickels dropped in the 5 cent video machine ten blocks away when they had a nickel to spend on a video. Their lives twisted in grungy frenzies with a roll of bread in their pocket in case they didn’t get a meal tomorrow. Their choked dreams were just unleashed, wings grew in the dark corners of the one room apartment shoulder to shoulder with sisters and brothers.
Stay silent on certain city blocks because it reveals your language and ultimately where you came from and slots you well below the others that came before you from somewhere else, somewhere better and set up camp
on that block
competing with you for a job and food and life.
Sewing machines in the dark, sleeping until the sun woke up with notches on the walls when a dress was finished. Inventory taken on the wooden planks.
Years and years later I walk their hallways and finger their gas lamps that lit the pages they read for food and faith when home was across an ocean but here had promised their children a future.
And I question if maybe I could be brave like them. At all costs, with everything to lose?
Today.
The stylish girls with cigarettes and throw-back heels.
Boys with effortlessly messy hair and skinny legs.
It crawls with the latest, the new, the hip.
But it whispers of struggle
and strength
and a people that would not let go
on common ground
with the same map
on the same quest
to navigate the Lower East Side.

I’m Jewish because love my family matzoh ball soup.
I’m Jewish because my fathers mothers uncles grandmothers said
“Jewish,” all the way back to Vitebsk & Kaminetz-Podolska via Lvov.
Jewish because reading Dostoyevsky at 13 I write poems at restaurant
tables Lower East Side, perfect delicatessen intellectual.
—Allen Ginsberg, “Yiddishe Kopf”