New York in August, Part 2: Bahn Mi, mon ami

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NOTE: I’ve decided to chronicle my extended five-day weekend in New York because why not?

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I had been in New York less than twenty-four hours, but I was already dreading having to go back. I love everything about it, warts and all. But I will say one thing: cell phones have ruined this city. I used to barely be able to keep up with pedestrian traffic down here. A moment’s hesitation in certain parts of Manhattan would make you an obvious and shamed obstruction. Now, with smart phones providing a seemingly limitless number of distractions, I’m finding myself having to dodge and dart around thin, young, rank dullards staring downward into an abyss of useless information and preoccupation. Ten years ago, moving down 3rd Avenue would have been akin to competing in a power-walking race. Now it’s more like a tedious game of frogger, except if I jumped into traffic there’d be less people in my goddamn way.

I didn't realize when posing for this photo that I intended to f*** this sandwich. But apparently I did.

I woke up at the crack of 9:30am on my second day. First thing I had to do was get a memory card for my Blackberry so I could take videos on my phone of my one-year-old nephew Caden, who I was seeing (briefly) later that afternoon and was going to spend time with on Sunday and Monday.

After a morning of errands and writing, I met up with an acquaintance for lunch. We’d only met in person once before, where we both attended a painfully awkward short film festival back in the Capital Region. The entries were terrible, but at the same time you had to be careful not to have too much fun tearing it apart lest the filmmaker be sitting on a blanket five feet from you.

Kristin had moved down to Brooklyn some time ago and was in the midst of a “gap year,” waiting tables while she searched for something better than what she was given when she first moved down. I have no doubt she’ll find what she’s looking for in her field. She’s an incredibly friendly, committed, and charismatic woman with a strong work ethic and gorgeous eyes. Naturally, she’s seeing someone.

We met up at her apartment and had lemonade on her roof. Her place is in a less scenic block that rests right on the Western edge of Park Slope. What it lacks in exterior aesthetics, though, it more than makes up for in the view from her roof. She took me to a specific spot where, when you sit down, you get a straight-on view of the Statue of Liberty. It must be a Hell of a sight in the evening.

We talked about anything and everything, including but not limited to who I would consider my nemesis. I had to confess to her that I’m far too self-centered to have a nemesis, though there seem to be a handful of people that count me as theirs. Some of their apprehension and aggression is truly perplexing. My inability to return the venom they spread in some circles of Albany is misinterpreted by many as me trying to be the bigger person. Trust me, though, when I tell you it’s all ego.

After climbing back down the fire escape, we got lunch at a tiny place with a counter and a single table that specialized Vietnamese street food. There I was introduced to Bahn Mi, a Vietnamese sandwich that is essentially a hodgepodge of whatever animal parts they have lying around. In that sense it’s a distant relative of chow mein, though I’m pretty sure that Bahn Mi has actual roots in Vietnam whereas chow mein was invented stateside by a resourceful restauranteur. I’d look it up to confirm my suspicion, but as I explained to Kristin, I’m the furthest thing from a foodie and the fascination so many (including her) have for food writing both fascinates and repels me.

We walked through Prospect Park in search of some shade. Children from the neighborhood played while a band I later found out was Ra Ra Riot did an early soundcheck where they played Peter Cetera-era Chicago songs. We finally found a place that bore some distance from the sounds of ironic nostalgia and pre-pubescents, exchanging experiences and desires for our life’s whims. As we talked and ate I fell hard for the Bahn Mi, a cacophony of meats and spices that somehow works. Discussion turned to writing, our mutual friend that was a writer, and how despite the wonderful relationship I have with the man I hate reading his stuff because it reminds me how much better he is at this whole thing than I am. She tried, unsuccessfully, to re-assure me. It was a truly pathetic blight on an otherwise wonderful afternoon meeting.

If everyone was as thrilled to see me as Pop Tart was on Friday, what a wonderful world it would be.

We parted ways and I went to visit my sister-in-law Jill and my one-year-old nephew Caden, who by chance lived within a stone’s throw of where we were. Jill gave me a heads up that a rash was making Caden cranky. After some initial uncertainty he warmed up to me. I hadn’t seen him since early last Fall. He was so young at the time that, in essence, he’d never met me. He only knew that there was this guy that looked like his Daddy, but was a little shorter and absent all those wonderful colors up and down his arms. I also got to see the dogs. Of all the wonderful individuals I spent time with this weekend, none of them expressed the sheer, unbridled joy upon seeing me that my brother’s dogs did. One of them, Pop Tart, literally wouldn’t let me put her down.

After cuddling with the two little monsters, we took Caden to the pharmacy to get some tylenol. When we got back to the apartment, he completely warmed up to me and we bonded over our mutual enjoyment of tickling and making random, nonsensical noises. As stated before, there are some great people in this city that I don’t see often enough. Even still, the highlight up until that point and as of this writing was holding my one-year-old nephew.

After some familial bonding, I met up with my Rick and Jessica in Astoria. Rick used to work in the area and we actually share the same last name, though thus far we’ve been unable to find any familial connection. Marshall is, after all, a fairly common name. Stranger, though are the mutual connections I share with his wife Jessica, including but not limited to the guy I shared a room with freshman year at college. We had food and drink at Il Bambino and followed it with coffee. Rick, Jess and I talked shop about media and general geekery for what I realize now was the quickest four hours I’ve experienced in quite a long time.

I arrived back at Marla and Brian’s apartment with some inclination, but no earnest intention, of going back out. We watched Project Runway and turned in early so that Brian could catch up on some much-needed rest and recover from a wicked Summer cold he’d caught earlier in the week.

We would need it to make the trip to Philadelphia the next day for UFC 133.