The best way to move to New York, we’ve decided, is to first live in a van for two months. Then, when you arrive, the small apartments seem like castles. I have so much space, in fact, I don’t quite know what to do with myself sometimes.
These first few days have buzzed by. Meeting Ellyn’s friends, connecting with one of my own and taking advantage of free independent movie passes has kept us with much to do. Also, sending my resume to publishers and media giants has kept me entertained, if not a little stressed. In a city buzzing with activity, my drive to create something, to produce media, has awakened with fury.
Williamsburg has proven to be a suitable home. Two Mexican restaurants down, with another recommendation tonight, I haven’t had a bad meal. Living in Brooklyn, where it only smells because trash day is tomorrow and the humidity rots the bags of garbage a bit faster, is a different experience than living in New York proper. Having a true neighborhood, where you can buy cheese from a cheese shop, bread from a bakery, and grab a cup of coffee with a $4.00 Sunday Times ($5.00 outside the grater NY metropolitan area) and then sit in the sun reading the morning away, is literary-romanticism come to life, my life.
A colorful group of friendly Puerto Ricans barbecue outside a tienda on my corner on the weekends. Hipsters in mustaches and cut-offs wander the streets. Ellyn and I do, as well — me playfully disdaining her incessant window shopping, truthfully hoping for the type of work that will allow me to pay for all the shoes and dresses she could ever want. The city streets get inside you quick, they waste no time becoming the most powerful character in the lives of millions. Even at night, as Sunday turns to Monday, the city rolls along. Against the claim of never sleeping, she tosses and turns, sleeping, though maybe with apnea and startling dreams.
On Saturday afternoon, we went into Manhattan to see the newest documentary by Werner Herzog, “Encounters at the End of the World.” The man who brought “Grizzly Man” turned out another quirky, undeniably pretentious, yet totally mesmerizing tale. This time, it’s Antarctica, the characters that inhabit it and the much grander themes that resonate from it. Art movies in New York just feel better. In one scene, Herzog forces the audience to watch silently as divers blast through the ice and suit up, the whole time creating a total sense of wonder, almost child-like amazement, of something foreign and beautiful.
Sunday, after the aforementioned morning with the Times, we attended a church where the pastor is Jay Bakker, the often touted “punk rock pastor” and son of Jim Bakker and Tammy Faye Messner. The experience, set manly by the small group of thirty or so crammed into the back room of Pete’s Candy Store, a bar with a full crowd up front, made me feel like something of a real Christian, the kind that met in houses and back rooms, away from persecution from Pagan Romans. Overall, the day was a complete success, especially seeing that we had good burritos to end it all.
Tomorrow, I have to move Pam back to my side of the street after everyone else moves their cars for the street sweeper. If accomplished, I buy myself an extra day before I have to worry about moving her again. Then, as I grow tired of the constant dread associated with moving her, I will be trying to track down the best lot for her to live in. Of course, I’m hopeful for a call from one of the many recipients of my resume, though I won’t yet rest in sending it out to ever more publishers. Let me edit, let me write, let me create, I say. Suck me in New York, give me something to make.
Congratulations, Andrew! We’re so excited for everything you (and your gorgeous other half) will create. Keep us posted. Literally, ha.