Only in the Apple – A New York City Blog

“Here, in a city of eight million, I think whatever temporary afflictions I am experiencing will feel scaled down. I expect to evanesce in the rush-hour crowds, to feel dwarfed by the tall buildings and tall women, teetering on their four-inch-tall heels.

And if not, I think I will feel commiseration.

New York is like the crisis hot lines that tell potential suicides, “You are never alone.” Here, you really aren’t ever alone. Everywhere you look, there is someone to remind you they are there. There they are, crossing against a light. And there, catching your hair in the corner of their open umbrella. And there, letting their fluffy, white poodle crap in the middle of the sidewalk. Everywhere you turn, there is someone else to remind you just how miserable they are, too.

I find out quickly that this doesn’t help. If anything, it only reminds me how disconnected I am. After a few weeks, I can ride eight stops on the number 6 train with one person’s hand on my ass and another person’s sour armpit two inches from my face, and still emerge through the sliding glass doors unruffled because I’m troubled by something bigger. Even in Midtown, among the throngs of people that shoulder by me, I feel the thump of loneliness. From the outside, it’s hard to imagine life can exist inside the mirrored skyscrapers, when I walk by and all I can see is my own painted little face staring back.”

–An excerpt from Smashed: Story of a Drunken Girlhood, a novel by Koren Zailckas.

While learning something from a book is gratifying, relating to it is even more fulfilling. In Smashed, I find myself nodding along to her stories, her accounts of high school parties and college rush events. When I read the above excerpt, I couldn’t help but think how ironic it is that one can feel so lonely in a city of so many. Sometimes the anonymity the city provides is almost suffocating; the oppression it creates is palpable. I feel invisible everyday I walk down the street to work – especially when I’m jostled and elbowed and run into as if I don’t exist. It takes a tough exterior to live in this city; unfortunately it’s just that – an outside facade, a painted shell of the real you. The city hardens you; it’s easy to forget to smile or return the morning greeting of a construction worker. You step easily over the homeless man and his empty coffee cup outside the subway station without giving him a second glance. It’s a city where chivalry does not exist; it’s every man and woman for him or herself.

(http://www.korenzailckas.com/)

I’ve decided that a fanny pack is the ultimate give-away that you’re a tourist. It totally beats out having a camera around your neck or a map in your hand.

It’s too bad that fanny packs are so gauche, because they really are convenient. Nothing to schlep around on your shoulder or accidentally leave behind. It provides a sort of comfort, knowing you won’t get pick-pocketed. (Cause really, who’s gonna be able to run up to your stomach, manage to open a zipper and fish out money without you noticing?)

I’m personally routing for the return of the fanny pack. Obviously, it needs some updating; change the shape, use some nice leather and fabrics, maybe stick a designer label on it (people would buy Chanel dog food if they made it) – it totally has the potential to look cool. It’ll need a new name too, of course, because there’s way too much stigma attached to the word “fanny pack“. I would definitely rock a “belt bag”.

Let’s face it – fashion is all about stealing looks from other decades and slightly updating them. Let’s do the 90′s (and tourists stuck in the 90′s) a favor and bring back the pack!

As July 4th approaches, I think it’s important to remember what country we live in. And what language we speak.

And before you start rolling your eyes, no, I’m not going to begin a tirade about the immigrants and foreigners who can barely say hello in English. (Although I could, because in this city, it’s a serious struggle to communicate.)

No, this is about fellow Americans who have gone out of their way to incorporate British lingo into their vocabulary – without actually making the effort to live in the country or pick up the accent.

I first noticed it at work when a client called and asked to be called back on his “mobile.” I wrinkled my nose when he said it and thought, “Who does this guy think he is, Tony Blair?”

Last weekend I attended an event at the Puck building and a young woman asked me in crystal clear (non-accented) English, “Can you tell me where the loo is?”

I stared blankly at her for what seemed an eternity as my brain tried to comprehend what she was asking. Obviously I know what the “loo” is, but without a British accent to accompany it, I was lost.

Sure, British accents are cool. I even enjoy some of their slang (if I lived in England, I’d say “bloody fantastic” 24/7). And yes, the English have a way of sounding proper and sophisticated. But an American accent + British lingo just screams, “Fraud!”

Seriously, what’s so bad about our jargon that Americans have found the need to steal dialect from a culture across the Atlantic Ocean? Come on America, where’s your sense of patriotism? Did your heart not swell with pride when “bling-bling” was added to the Oxford English Dictionary?

I don’t know if this use of Brit slang is a new trend for 2008 or simply another way Americans have found to make themselves look like assholes. Either way, I’m over it.

As in, “Hey, I’m goin‘ to the bathroom to use my cell.”