Today, we had the kiddie version of our work Christmas party. As I am kiddie-less, I didn't go. But it is impossible to not notice some 20-odd bundles of energy darting about the hallways. I happened upon one of these--stationary this time--near the library. She was standing in the middle of the corridor, about two feet high, her tiny face in a half-frown, half-smile, palms up in a questioning gesture, demanding of the world-at-large: "Where's daddy? Where'd daddy go?" "Hmmm! Where DID daddy go?" I wondered. And, as I watched, the half-frown disappeared, to be replaced by a full grin, as daddy appeared. "There's daddy!"
I went into the kitchen, and stumbled upon another little guy, only slightly older, sitting at the dining table, picking at a piece of pizza, long gone cold, somberly absorbed in the news on TV. Someone came in and asked him where his parents were. He mumbled something shyly, and went back to playing with his food and watching the news. "Hah!" I thought. "A journo in the making!"
And as I walked back to my cubicle, one of The Rock's two daughters, and a boy of unknown parentage, shot past me shouting, "Hide! Hide!" (At first, I thought she was yelling "Hi! Hi!" and I was almost moved to tears that she remembered me.) They rushed into the empty office next to mine, and I tuned out. A few minutes later, my attention was drawn to them again as The Rock and Pendio, a senior reporter, approached the office.
"You know, Pendio here is the BEAR of the whole of The Mag," The Rock informed the kids. Pendio duly growled to show that he was indeed the bear of the office. "Yes, he's the BRAIN of this WHOLE place." Pendio puffed out his chest, and pointed to his head. "So you guys need to be quiet, so he can THINK!"
The kids were clearly unimpressed by Pendio's greatness. "Well, we're leaving now anyway," one of them informed The Rock, duly putting him and all of Pendio's bearness and braininess in place. And, after a little more high-pitched excitement, they did.
Ah, for peace and quiet. Although, I must say, it is fun to have little people around--for a little bit at least-- in such a very grown-up place.
Showing posts with label tales. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tales. Show all posts
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!!!
I left the gym in a bad mood today, and fuming and scowling, made my way to the bus stop and back home. As I slipped my key into the keyhole, I heard a strange buzzing noise, coming, fittingly enough, from my apartment. "Ugh, great," I thought. "Just what I needed."
I entered the apartment, and the loud buzzing enveloped me. I promptly burst into tears, and went in search of the source of the annoyance. I found it in a small metal panel, the size of a switch plate, screwed into the wall in the kitchen. I felt the panel. It was warm. "What do I do?" I demanded of myself. I tripped the circuit breaker. Nothing. "Aaargh." And another bout of tears.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. I dialed the management office number, then the emergency pager number. I paged, and waited. A few minutes later, as I began dialing the pager number for the second time, the call came. I explained the situation, then repeated it to someone else. I was ordered to trip the circuit breaker again, and did so. Nothing. Then I was told to go down to the garage and do the same again on my apartment's circuit breaker. I dutifully did so. Still nothing.
They said they were sending someone over to investigate, but he was coming from Jersey City and it would take about half an hour. In the meantime, I should call the electricity company to see if they could figure out what the problem was, and what the mysterious panel was. I did as I was told, spoke to someone clueless, who told me to call an electrician "Erm, I don't think it has anything to do with electricity," I informed her. "Yes, I know. That's why you should call an electrician," came the reply. I gave up, hung up, and decided to wait for the guy from the management office.
About 20 minutes later, after a pointless phone call to Nev--an engineer who informed me that he couldn't diagnose a problem from just a buzzing noise--several confused looks from an annoyed Weds, and a splitting headache in the making, I heard a knock on the door. Wondering why he hadn't buzzed the doorbell, I opened the door. He looked at me, looked at the doorbell, looked back at me, pressed the doorbell, and asked "Is this it?" The buzzing noise stopped instantly. Blessed peace.
He started laughing, while I grinned sheepishly, and apologized profusely. A phone call to the management office and more apologies later, the repair man left. And I kicked myself. Why didn't I think of it? The freakin' doorbell of all things. Figures!
I entered the apartment, and the loud buzzing enveloped me. I promptly burst into tears, and went in search of the source of the annoyance. I found it in a small metal panel, the size of a switch plate, screwed into the wall in the kitchen. I felt the panel. It was warm. "What do I do?" I demanded of myself. I tripped the circuit breaker. Nothing. "Aaargh." And another bout of tears.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. I dialed the management office number, then the emergency pager number. I paged, and waited. A few minutes later, as I began dialing the pager number for the second time, the call came. I explained the situation, then repeated it to someone else. I was ordered to trip the circuit breaker again, and did so. Nothing. Then I was told to go down to the garage and do the same again on my apartment's circuit breaker. I dutifully did so. Still nothing.
They said they were sending someone over to investigate, but he was coming from Jersey City and it would take about half an hour. In the meantime, I should call the electricity company to see if they could figure out what the problem was, and what the mysterious panel was. I did as I was told, spoke to someone clueless, who told me to call an electrician "Erm, I don't think it has anything to do with electricity," I informed her. "Yes, I know. That's why you should call an electrician," came the reply. I gave up, hung up, and decided to wait for the guy from the management office.
About 20 minutes later, after a pointless phone call to Nev--an engineer who informed me that he couldn't diagnose a problem from just a buzzing noise--several confused looks from an annoyed Weds, and a splitting headache in the making, I heard a knock on the door. Wondering why he hadn't buzzed the doorbell, I opened the door. He looked at me, looked at the doorbell, looked back at me, pressed the doorbell, and asked "Is this it?" The buzzing noise stopped instantly. Blessed peace.
He started laughing, while I grinned sheepishly, and apologized profusely. A phone call to the management office and more apologies later, the repair man left. And I kicked myself. Why didn't I think of it? The freakin' doorbell of all things. Figures!
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Weds' Thanksgiving
All though Thanksgiving weekend in Atlanta, I kept telling Nev, "I hope the cat is alive when I get back," and "If he's alive, I hope the cat hasn't trashed my apartment."
I had good reason to be worried. I'd poured him enough water to last, I hoped, the four days I'd be away. But he'd splashed half of it out before I even left, and I was having nightmares that I'd return to find him flat on the floor, parched and panting, at best. And if that hadn't happened, he usually tore apart anything he laid his paws on when I was home. I couldn't imagine what he might do left to his own devices for days.
So it was with a fair bit of apprehension that I opened the door to my apartment yesterday. "Wednesday," I called out. No answer, and no excited cat came bounding up. That was unusual. A feeling of dread came over me. "Wednesday," I called again, as I walked in, my suitcase forgotten outside. I made my way through the apartment, peering under the couch, looking on top of the fridge, peeking into his little tent--all his favorite hiding places. But no cat.
Then I heard mewing, pitiful and scared. "Wednesday?"
The mewing grew louder, and I realized it was coming from inside. . . my bedroom.
My heart froze. I rushed to my bedroom and flung the door open. Weds sprinted past me. I stared at him in shock, and at the mess covering the floor. The items from the top of my dresser and nighstands were on the floor, the trash can's contents spilled, and drawers stood open. The curtain covering my window had collapsed, and bits of cat puke were on the bed and floor.
"How did you get in here?" I demanded of Weds. He mewed back, and rubbed himself against my legs. In my utter confusion, one thing was clear--I vividly remembered shutting the bedroom door, and seeing Weds in the living room as I left the apartment. And he had used his litterbox--so he couldn't have been locked inside my bedroom the entire time.
Then I thought, "Someone broke in and locked Weds in the room." This was too much. The confusion, the thought of someone else in my home, and the mess in my bedroom overcame me, and I collapsed in tears. I recovered after a few mintues, and looked through all the drawers, but nothing seemed to be missing.
I sighed, went back out to retrieve my suitcase, and set about cleaning up the mess. I was still confused, but Weds seemed completely untraumatised, and I managed to calm down.
As the day went on, my confusion lifted. I kept shutting the bedroom door only to find it open a few minutes later, and the industrious little feline sitting serenely inside. I examined the doorknob, and the answer dawned on me. I had hung a couple of bags on the doorknob before I left, and realized that when I turned it to open the door, the weight of the bags kept it that way. So, when I shut the door, the doorknob didn't turn back to secure the door, which allowed Weds to push it open. I realized that, once inside, he must have playfully pushed the door shut, and was then unable to get out.
The mystery was solved, and I thought no more of it. Until today, when I told The Rock the short version of the story--the cat somehow locked himself into my bedroom. "Wow," The Rock responded. "That must have stunk like crazy."
"Actually, no," I told him. "I think he may only have been inside for a couple of days."
"A couple of days is enough," he replied, laughing.
"Hmmm," I said. That was true. If he'd been inside for any length of time, the damage would have been much worse. So I guess he let himself in, or at least locked himself in, the previous night. Thank God for small mercies.
I had good reason to be worried. I'd poured him enough water to last, I hoped, the four days I'd be away. But he'd splashed half of it out before I even left, and I was having nightmares that I'd return to find him flat on the floor, parched and panting, at best. And if that hadn't happened, he usually tore apart anything he laid his paws on when I was home. I couldn't imagine what he might do left to his own devices for days.
So it was with a fair bit of apprehension that I opened the door to my apartment yesterday. "Wednesday," I called out. No answer, and no excited cat came bounding up. That was unusual. A feeling of dread came over me. "Wednesday," I called again, as I walked in, my suitcase forgotten outside. I made my way through the apartment, peering under the couch, looking on top of the fridge, peeking into his little tent--all his favorite hiding places. But no cat.
Then I heard mewing, pitiful and scared. "Wednesday?"
The mewing grew louder, and I realized it was coming from inside. . . my bedroom.
My heart froze. I rushed to my bedroom and flung the door open. Weds sprinted past me. I stared at him in shock, and at the mess covering the floor. The items from the top of my dresser and nighstands were on the floor, the trash can's contents spilled, and drawers stood open. The curtain covering my window had collapsed, and bits of cat puke were on the bed and floor.
"How did you get in here?" I demanded of Weds. He mewed back, and rubbed himself against my legs. In my utter confusion, one thing was clear--I vividly remembered shutting the bedroom door, and seeing Weds in the living room as I left the apartment. And he had used his litterbox--so he couldn't have been locked inside my bedroom the entire time.
Then I thought, "Someone broke in and locked Weds in the room." This was too much. The confusion, the thought of someone else in my home, and the mess in my bedroom overcame me, and I collapsed in tears. I recovered after a few mintues, and looked through all the drawers, but nothing seemed to be missing.
I sighed, went back out to retrieve my suitcase, and set about cleaning up the mess. I was still confused, but Weds seemed completely untraumatised, and I managed to calm down.
As the day went on, my confusion lifted. I kept shutting the bedroom door only to find it open a few minutes later, and the industrious little feline sitting serenely inside. I examined the doorknob, and the answer dawned on me. I had hung a couple of bags on the doorknob before I left, and realized that when I turned it to open the door, the weight of the bags kept it that way. So, when I shut the door, the doorknob didn't turn back to secure the door, which allowed Weds to push it open. I realized that, once inside, he must have playfully pushed the door shut, and was then unable to get out.
The mystery was solved, and I thought no more of it. Until today, when I told The Rock the short version of the story--the cat somehow locked himself into my bedroom. "Wow," The Rock responded. "That must have stunk like crazy."
"Actually, no," I told him. "I think he may only have been inside for a couple of days."
"A couple of days is enough," he replied, laughing.
"Hmmm," I said. That was true. If he'd been inside for any length of time, the damage would have been much worse. So I guess he let himself in, or at least locked himself in, the previous night. Thank God for small mercies.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
My name is Ini and I love Lucky Charms
Is it wierd that I am almost 26 years old, and my favourite cereal is Lucky Charms?
I was standing in the kitchen at work today, pouring some milk into my cereal, when a colleague walked in. "Is that Lucky Charms?" he asked me.
"Yes," I told him. "But shhhh! Don't tell anyone."
"It's ok," he went on. "Although. . . we only let our kids eat Lucky Charms on special occasions."
"Well," I said, defensively. "I only let myself eat them on special occasions." Really, I do. I just happen to have lots of special occasions. And of course, if you open a box, you have to finish it. The fact that I buy the huge, ginormous boxes of Lucky Charms, and the puny little boxes of other cereals--you know, the ones that finish in three days--doesn't count. And anyway, Lucky Charms have way less fat than even "healthy" cereals like granola. Check the nutrition information on the box--just don't read all the way down to the sugar content.
But anyway, back to our conversation. "Oh, it's ok," he said. "I love Frosted Flakes. It's just one of those things that you get used to as a kid and then continue to like as an adult."
Silence.
"Did you have them as a kid?"
"Ummm, no."
"Oh."
Awkward silence, and an abrupt end to our conversation.
I believe I am now the wierd adult in the office who eats kids cereals.
I was standing in the kitchen at work today, pouring some milk into my cereal, when a colleague walked in. "Is that Lucky Charms?" he asked me.
"Yes," I told him. "But shhhh! Don't tell anyone."
"It's ok," he went on. "Although. . . we only let our kids eat Lucky Charms on special occasions."
"Well," I said, defensively. "I only let myself eat them on special occasions." Really, I do. I just happen to have lots of special occasions. And of course, if you open a box, you have to finish it. The fact that I buy the huge, ginormous boxes of Lucky Charms, and the puny little boxes of other cereals--you know, the ones that finish in three days--doesn't count. And anyway, Lucky Charms have way less fat than even "healthy" cereals like granola. Check the nutrition information on the box--just don't read all the way down to the sugar content.
But anyway, back to our conversation. "Oh, it's ok," he said. "I love Frosted Flakes. It's just one of those things that you get used to as a kid and then continue to like as an adult."
Silence.
"Did you have them as a kid?"
"Ummm, no."
"Oh."
Awkward silence, and an abrupt end to our conversation.
I believe I am now the wierd adult in the office who eats kids cereals.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
My not-so-safe haven
I became aware of a very disturbing fact today--all that stands between my sanctuary and the big bad world is a very-easily-opened-from-outside window.
I was doing my errands as usual this morning, and decided to run out to the corner shop for some paper towels and cereal. As I walked back home, I reached into my bag--and realized I had left my keys in my apartment.
Now, I don't live in a typical apartment building. There are two two-storey buildings, between which is an open walkway, onto which about five doors open from each building. In my unit, the outer door opens up to a flight of stairs, at the top of which are two apartments, and to the left of which is the door to the downstairs apartment--mine.
I buzzed and woke up my neighbours--whom I've never met--and managed to convince them that I actually did live in the apartment downstairs. I tried the doorknob to my apartment, hoping that I might have left it unlocked, and cursed my obsessive door-locking. I felt bad disturbing my neighbours again, so I went back outside, to see if I could find someone who knew where the building superintendent lived, hoping he might have a spare key. As was to be expected on a Saturday morning, the place was pretty sparsely populated, but I did manage to accost a couple of people--no one knew.
In between startling people I'd never spoken to before, I fiddled with my living room window, which looks onto the walkway. I removed the screen covering one side, trying to pry the window, prepared to sacrifice my fingernails. Nothing. I had no idea what to do--my phone, along with my spare keys, was inside, and I didn't know where the super lived.
I walked around for a bit, lost. Deciding to give the window one last shot, I leaned up against the glass while pushing it to the side, convinced that it wouldn't budge. To my shock, it slid open smoothly. I pushed the curtain aside, revealing a startled Weds and my keys sitting in plain site on the coffee table. "This is SOOO not good," I told myself. I reached in, grabbed my spare set of keys from the book shelf next to the window, and let myself in--all the while thinking, "OMG, OMG, this is not good. This is not good at all." Good thing I don't have much of value, but still.
I think I need to consider renters insurance. And a window lock.
I was doing my errands as usual this morning, and decided to run out to the corner shop for some paper towels and cereal. As I walked back home, I reached into my bag--and realized I had left my keys in my apartment.
Now, I don't live in a typical apartment building. There are two two-storey buildings, between which is an open walkway, onto which about five doors open from each building. In my unit, the outer door opens up to a flight of stairs, at the top of which are two apartments, and to the left of which is the door to the downstairs apartment--mine.
I buzzed and woke up my neighbours--whom I've never met--and managed to convince them that I actually did live in the apartment downstairs. I tried the doorknob to my apartment, hoping that I might have left it unlocked, and cursed my obsessive door-locking. I felt bad disturbing my neighbours again, so I went back outside, to see if I could find someone who knew where the building superintendent lived, hoping he might have a spare key. As was to be expected on a Saturday morning, the place was pretty sparsely populated, but I did manage to accost a couple of people--no one knew.
In between startling people I'd never spoken to before, I fiddled with my living room window, which looks onto the walkway. I removed the screen covering one side, trying to pry the window, prepared to sacrifice my fingernails. Nothing. I had no idea what to do--my phone, along with my spare keys, was inside, and I didn't know where the super lived.
I walked around for a bit, lost. Deciding to give the window one last shot, I leaned up against the glass while pushing it to the side, convinced that it wouldn't budge. To my shock, it slid open smoothly. I pushed the curtain aside, revealing a startled Weds and my keys sitting in plain site on the coffee table. "This is SOOO not good," I told myself. I reached in, grabbed my spare set of keys from the book shelf next to the window, and let myself in--all the while thinking, "OMG, OMG, this is not good. This is not good at all." Good thing I don't have much of value, but still.
I think I need to consider renters insurance. And a window lock.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Paid torture
On Saturday morning, I woke up bright and early (relatively, anyway), showered, changed and took myself off to Jackson Heights for a session of torture. Cost: $8 plus tip.
I walked in and took a seat against the wall, opened up my newspaper and prepared to wait my turn. It was unusually busy -- usually, I never have to wait. People are developing a taste for torture, apparently.
I settled myself in the leather chair when my number came up, and leaned my head back. The woman, armed with her weapon, approached. As the thread, one end attached to her fingers, and the other held ominously between her bared teeth closed in on my upper lip, I squeezed my eyes shut, clutched the arm of the chair, and braced myself.
She did her thing with the thread, and a few minutes, several tears and many deep breaths later, the first torture session was over. The result--a clean, bare upper lip. After a few seconds of respite--during which she took in the state of my eyebrows, shook her head disapprovingly and muttered, "Tsk. You haven't come in for a long time"--she attacked the area above my eyes.
More tears, many gulps of air, and much intense pain, and the ordeal was finally over. I paid, got my loyalty card dutifully stamped, and left, my eyebrows and upperlip still red and smarting.
Until my next torture session, that is, which comes with a free upperlip thread. Yaay!
Funny how life evolves--pulling out bodily hair used to be a form of torture. Now, we travel halfway across the city, wait patiently, and gladly dish out money for it. What is the world coming to?
I walked in and took a seat against the wall, opened up my newspaper and prepared to wait my turn. It was unusually busy -- usually, I never have to wait. People are developing a taste for torture, apparently.
I settled myself in the leather chair when my number came up, and leaned my head back. The woman, armed with her weapon, approached. As the thread, one end attached to her fingers, and the other held ominously between her bared teeth closed in on my upper lip, I squeezed my eyes shut, clutched the arm of the chair, and braced myself.
She did her thing with the thread, and a few minutes, several tears and many deep breaths later, the first torture session was over. The result--a clean, bare upper lip. After a few seconds of respite--during which she took in the state of my eyebrows, shook her head disapprovingly and muttered, "Tsk. You haven't come in for a long time"--she attacked the area above my eyes.
More tears, many gulps of air, and much intense pain, and the ordeal was finally over. I paid, got my loyalty card dutifully stamped, and left, my eyebrows and upperlip still red and smarting.
Until my next torture session, that is, which comes with a free upperlip thread. Yaay!
Funny how life evolves--pulling out bodily hair used to be a form of torture. Now, we travel halfway across the city, wait patiently, and gladly dish out money for it. What is the world coming to?
Thursday, August 17, 2006
A morning toe ritual
Weds and I have a little ritual we perform every morning. (I don't let him sleep in my room at night, for fear that I'll wake up the next morning minus parts of my feet, which he has a penchant for nibbling on).
I get out of bed, walk to the door, and stick my toes out through the half-inch space between the door and the floor. He sleeps just outside the door, so I know he's there. I wait only about a second before I feel a gentle furry nudge, as it dawns on him -- every day -- that the seemingly disjointed toes are actually a part of my anatomy. He excitedly prods at my toes for a bit, enjoying this unexpected diversion, before starting to nibble on them.
Some days, the ritual is slightly different. If I'm moving around in my room, it's not very long before a little white paw sneaks in under the door. I often respond by placing my foot on top of the paw, at which point, a second paw shoots out from under the door, ecstatic at having received a response to his seeking. I play footsie with the two bodiless paws for a bit, before giving in and opening the door.
In either scenario, what follows next is always the same -- the little guy is lying by the door stretched out contentedly, enjoying this game -- and he seems just as excited by it each morning, as if playing it for the first time every time. As soon as I open the door, he gets up, and trots in, rubbing himself against my legs and purring in contented glee.
And I invariably start my day in a good mood, smiling widely, always amazed by how little it takes to make the little guy happy.
I get out of bed, walk to the door, and stick my toes out through the half-inch space between the door and the floor. He sleeps just outside the door, so I know he's there. I wait only about a second before I feel a gentle furry nudge, as it dawns on him -- every day -- that the seemingly disjointed toes are actually a part of my anatomy. He excitedly prods at my toes for a bit, enjoying this unexpected diversion, before starting to nibble on them.
Some days, the ritual is slightly different. If I'm moving around in my room, it's not very long before a little white paw sneaks in under the door. I often respond by placing my foot on top of the paw, at which point, a second paw shoots out from under the door, ecstatic at having received a response to his seeking. I play footsie with the two bodiless paws for a bit, before giving in and opening the door.
In either scenario, what follows next is always the same -- the little guy is lying by the door stretched out contentedly, enjoying this game -- and he seems just as excited by it each morning, as if playing it for the first time every time. As soon as I open the door, he gets up, and trots in, rubbing himself against my legs and purring in contented glee.
And I invariably start my day in a good mood, smiling widely, always amazed by how little it takes to make the little guy happy.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
A nightmare move!
Hello Dear Reader,
No, I have not fallen off the planet, although I feel like I have, thanks to my lack of internet access. And coming online today after a long time, and seeing updated blogs and unread emails, I felt even more like the earth has continued spinning, leaving me alone in a far away corner. Such is our dependance on this lovely thing we call the Internet!
This week has been a crazy one. I hope this is not a sign of things to come in my new apartment.
Yes, that's right. . . I have moved into a new apartment in the (un)lovely Garden State of New Jersey. And, surprise, surprise, it was the move from hell.
I woke up ready to get out of the hole and into my relatively nicer apartment. I had unpacked very little when I moved into the hole, so I didn't have much to repack. So, when 2:00 arrived -- the time my movers were supposed to arrive -- I was all ready to go. I had made arrangements to pick up a few pieces of furniture from some people on the way, and everything was spic and span and ready to go.
Doesn't sound like me, does it? No, I didn't think so either. I was ABSOLUTELY sure that something was bound to go wrong. So, when the movers hadn't arrived at 2:02, I panicked -- this was what was to go wrong. I called the number I'd called to book them, and there was no answer. Between 2:02 and 2:15, I called four times, and got the voicemail each time.
Maybe they're coming at 2:30, I thought. 2:30 came and went, and no sign of the movers. Maybe 3:00? Nope. A few dozen more calls yielded no response.
I gave myself the luxury of sitting down and having a good cry, holding my head in my hands, alternating between "What am I going to do? What am I going to do?" praying furiously, and cursing the movers to the depths of hell.
Soon, I realized that that wasn't going to get me anywhere. I sat up, then started furiously trawling through the internet trying to find movers who'd be available at the last minute. I called about 30, and nobody was available. They all thought I was crazy, asking them to come that afternoon. "It's the end of the month," they informed me in disbelief. "You think you're going to find someone NOW?"
I persevered. Finally, the blessed words I wanted to hear. One was available. But, he said, it would take a maximum of two hours to get to Manhattan. Fine, I said, not bothering to ask where he was coming from.
I set about calling the people whom I was supposed to pick up the furniture from and telling them about my plight. One was having the same trouble, and was going to be around much later than expected. The other two had people who could let me in.
I'd told the movers to meet me at one of the places from which I was to pick up some furniture, so I headed out there early, in case the movers arrived early. Naive Ini.
At 5:00, I called the mover. Yes, I'll be there soon. When? In an hour. I sighed. OK.
6:00 -- Yes, yes, I'll be there in an hour. There's a lot of traffic.
7:00 -- Yes, yes, I'm on my way. Half an hour. I'm coming from the Hamptons. The Hamptons!?!?!? I'd thought Queens, maybe Long Island!
At 7:30, I was still naively believing that they would show up at any minute.
Yes, yes. Half an hour.
At 8:00: Almost there.
At 8:30, they finally showed up, just as the first drops of rain were starting to fall.
I looked up at the sky and had a serious word with God. "You and I, we're finished," I informed him. (Spoken in frustration, of course. We're nowhere near finished, poor God!)
We rushed in, picked up the furniture, and proceeded on our way. At the second place, the roommate of the person we were picking it up from was still there, and let us in.
As we were heading to my storage unit, the phone rang. The people at the third pick-up location were ready to leave and couldn't wait anymore. Ten minutes, I promised then. We cancelled our storage unit plan and headed back downtown to cross over from east to west. We finally reached half an hour later, but the seller had mercifully left the furniture outside and gone. Picked it up, put it in the truck and headed up to my apartment. It was too late to go to the storage unit.
Picked up my stuff, tersely cut short a fight between the two movers, engaged in some spy tactics to leave the keys to the hole for its next inhabitant who hadn't shown up yet, and headed off to Jersey.
So far so good. On our way to Jersey, predictably, we got lost. This, after the mover spent half an hour intensely meditating on Mapquest directions. After driving for at least two hours -- by this time, my utter exhaustion had made me lose all concept of time -- we finally arrived at the apartment.
In my daze, as we were bumping along the NJ Turnpike, I remember one thought that occured to me: that the perfect hell would be eternal moving. Imagine dying and going to hell, and being told that you're going to spend forever moving. It's enough to make anyone behave themselves!
A bit of wrestling to get the sofa in through the window, and dumping all the other stuff in the apartment, and the movers were gone.
I stood in the middle of the clutter, smiled -- a little deliriously -- and told myself, "Welcome home, Ini. You are NEVER moving again. You will DIE in this apartment!"
And so I will, even if it kills me!
No, I have not fallen off the planet, although I feel like I have, thanks to my lack of internet access. And coming online today after a long time, and seeing updated blogs and unread emails, I felt even more like the earth has continued spinning, leaving me alone in a far away corner. Such is our dependance on this lovely thing we call the Internet!
This week has been a crazy one. I hope this is not a sign of things to come in my new apartment.
Yes, that's right. . . I have moved into a new apartment in the (un)lovely Garden State of New Jersey. And, surprise, surprise, it was the move from hell.
I woke up ready to get out of the hole and into my relatively nicer apartment. I had unpacked very little when I moved into the hole, so I didn't have much to repack. So, when 2:00 arrived -- the time my movers were supposed to arrive -- I was all ready to go. I had made arrangements to pick up a few pieces of furniture from some people on the way, and everything was spic and span and ready to go.
Doesn't sound like me, does it? No, I didn't think so either. I was ABSOLUTELY sure that something was bound to go wrong. So, when the movers hadn't arrived at 2:02, I panicked -- this was what was to go wrong. I called the number I'd called to book them, and there was no answer. Between 2:02 and 2:15, I called four times, and got the voicemail each time.
Maybe they're coming at 2:30, I thought. 2:30 came and went, and no sign of the movers. Maybe 3:00? Nope. A few dozen more calls yielded no response.
I gave myself the luxury of sitting down and having a good cry, holding my head in my hands, alternating between "What am I going to do? What am I going to do?" praying furiously, and cursing the movers to the depths of hell.
Soon, I realized that that wasn't going to get me anywhere. I sat up, then started furiously trawling through the internet trying to find movers who'd be available at the last minute. I called about 30, and nobody was available. They all thought I was crazy, asking them to come that afternoon. "It's the end of the month," they informed me in disbelief. "You think you're going to find someone NOW?"
I persevered. Finally, the blessed words I wanted to hear. One was available. But, he said, it would take a maximum of two hours to get to Manhattan. Fine, I said, not bothering to ask where he was coming from.
I set about calling the people whom I was supposed to pick up the furniture from and telling them about my plight. One was having the same trouble, and was going to be around much later than expected. The other two had people who could let me in.
I'd told the movers to meet me at one of the places from which I was to pick up some furniture, so I headed out there early, in case the movers arrived early. Naive Ini.
At 5:00, I called the mover. Yes, I'll be there soon. When? In an hour. I sighed. OK.
6:00 -- Yes, yes, I'll be there in an hour. There's a lot of traffic.
7:00 -- Yes, yes, I'm on my way. Half an hour. I'm coming from the Hamptons. The Hamptons!?!?!? I'd thought Queens, maybe Long Island!
At 7:30, I was still naively believing that they would show up at any minute.
Yes, yes. Half an hour.
At 8:00: Almost there.
At 8:30, they finally showed up, just as the first drops of rain were starting to fall.
I looked up at the sky and had a serious word with God. "You and I, we're finished," I informed him. (Spoken in frustration, of course. We're nowhere near finished, poor God!)
We rushed in, picked up the furniture, and proceeded on our way. At the second place, the roommate of the person we were picking it up from was still there, and let us in.
As we were heading to my storage unit, the phone rang. The people at the third pick-up location were ready to leave and couldn't wait anymore. Ten minutes, I promised then. We cancelled our storage unit plan and headed back downtown to cross over from east to west. We finally reached half an hour later, but the seller had mercifully left the furniture outside and gone. Picked it up, put it in the truck and headed up to my apartment. It was too late to go to the storage unit.
Picked up my stuff, tersely cut short a fight between the two movers, engaged in some spy tactics to leave the keys to the hole for its next inhabitant who hadn't shown up yet, and headed off to Jersey.
So far so good. On our way to Jersey, predictably, we got lost. This, after the mover spent half an hour intensely meditating on Mapquest directions. After driving for at least two hours -- by this time, my utter exhaustion had made me lose all concept of time -- we finally arrived at the apartment.
In my daze, as we were bumping along the NJ Turnpike, I remember one thought that occured to me: that the perfect hell would be eternal moving. Imagine dying and going to hell, and being told that you're going to spend forever moving. It's enough to make anyone behave themselves!
A bit of wrestling to get the sofa in through the window, and dumping all the other stuff in the apartment, and the movers were gone.
I stood in the middle of the clutter, smiled -- a little deliriously -- and told myself, "Welcome home, Ini. You are NEVER moving again. You will DIE in this apartment!"
And so I will, even if it kills me!
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
First press briefing!
I went to my first press briefing today as a bonafide member of the New York press corps. It was a relatively laidback event, and not even something we would do a story on. I knew what it was about, but I took it pretty lightly, and sauntered over to the place which was just a few blocks from where I work.
I reached there and made it up to the room where the briefing was. Standing in the elevator, I realized there was another reporter in the elevator with me. As we introduced ourselves and said which magazines we were from, a wave of panic hit me. "OMG," I thought. "That magazine has sent a real reporter, and my magazine sent ME? The Rock should have come! What was he thinking!?!?!?"
I calmed down somewhat, but as each real reporter walked in, I sank just a little more in my chair. Then another wave of panic. "OMG, I have to ask questions at the end. I have to establish that I'm a serious journalist. The whole reputation of my magazine is at stake here. If I don't ask questions, they'll all think of my magazine as the one that sent that stupid intern who didn't know anything and didn't ask any questions."
I was convinced that I wouldn't even be able to follow the presentation, and in an attempt to avert such tragedy, I kept my eyes glued to the presenter, taking them off only to jot down notes, as if by boring my eyes into her, I could absorb what she was thinking and saying by sheer osmosis, if by nothing else. She finished her presentation, and I realized that I had understood most of what she'd been talking about -- maybe not to confidently write a story about it, if I had to, but in my mind her message was clear. I didn't ask questions, but neither did some of the other reporters there, so I felt a load lift -- if I wasn't the only one that didn't ask questions, then they wouldn't remember just me, I convinced myself.
Then came the dreaded socializing. I was tempted to just leave under the pretext of moving apartments in a couple of days and needed to pack, but forced myself to stay, telling myself sternly that I needed to make contacts. And I was hungry. So I helped myself to some food and drink and moved out onto the rooftop.
And I was pleasantly surprised to find the whole small talk thing much easier than I did about two years ago when I endured multiple excruciating social events, sometimes for days when I was covering conferences, feeling like a complete wallflower and wishing almost without exception that I could disappear. I am still not very good in group situations, but I realized that I wasn't questioning myself a dozen times before making a simple comment or contributing to the general flow of the conversation. I even stayed longer than I'd intended to!
So, my first press briefing went pretty well. And I realized that, while in moments of panic, I might question my decision to leave a mediocre job in London, where I was, nevertheless, happy and move to New York, doing so did give me opportunities I'd never have had -- because now, I am a very tiny fish in a huge pond, nay, in an ocean, but better that than to be a big fish, even the ONLY fish, in a tiny pond. Because a big fish in a tiny pond isn't going anywhere unless it leaves the pond, but a tiny fish in an ocean has plenty of room to grow.
I reached there and made it up to the room where the briefing was. Standing in the elevator, I realized there was another reporter in the elevator with me. As we introduced ourselves and said which magazines we were from, a wave of panic hit me. "OMG," I thought. "That magazine has sent a real reporter, and my magazine sent ME? The Rock should have come! What was he thinking!?!?!?"
I calmed down somewhat, but as each real reporter walked in, I sank just a little more in my chair. Then another wave of panic. "OMG, I have to ask questions at the end. I have to establish that I'm a serious journalist. The whole reputation of my magazine is at stake here. If I don't ask questions, they'll all think of my magazine as the one that sent that stupid intern who didn't know anything and didn't ask any questions."
I was convinced that I wouldn't even be able to follow the presentation, and in an attempt to avert such tragedy, I kept my eyes glued to the presenter, taking them off only to jot down notes, as if by boring my eyes into her, I could absorb what she was thinking and saying by sheer osmosis, if by nothing else. She finished her presentation, and I realized that I had understood most of what she'd been talking about -- maybe not to confidently write a story about it, if I had to, but in my mind her message was clear. I didn't ask questions, but neither did some of the other reporters there, so I felt a load lift -- if I wasn't the only one that didn't ask questions, then they wouldn't remember just me, I convinced myself.
Then came the dreaded socializing. I was tempted to just leave under the pretext of moving apartments in a couple of days and needed to pack, but forced myself to stay, telling myself sternly that I needed to make contacts. And I was hungry. So I helped myself to some food and drink and moved out onto the rooftop.
And I was pleasantly surprised to find the whole small talk thing much easier than I did about two years ago when I endured multiple excruciating social events, sometimes for days when I was covering conferences, feeling like a complete wallflower and wishing almost without exception that I could disappear. I am still not very good in group situations, but I realized that I wasn't questioning myself a dozen times before making a simple comment or contributing to the general flow of the conversation. I even stayed longer than I'd intended to!
So, my first press briefing went pretty well. And I realized that, while in moments of panic, I might question my decision to leave a mediocre job in London, where I was, nevertheless, happy and move to New York, doing so did give me opportunities I'd never have had -- because now, I am a very tiny fish in a huge pond, nay, in an ocean, but better that than to be a big fish, even the ONLY fish, in a tiny pond. Because a big fish in a tiny pond isn't going anywhere unless it leaves the pond, but a tiny fish in an ocean has plenty of room to grow.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Wed's other personality emerges
On Friday, after my plans with Bobbis, Ficali et al. fell through, I settled down with Okia, Mits and Le Dernier Mot to watch the Ms. USA pagent (yes yes I know). LDM was bringing her own girl kitten, ACE (she and Okia found ACE, a little frightened kitten, on the A-C-E subway line, hence the name), and Okia and I were excited at the prospect of reuniting Weds and ACE, who hadn't played together since they were wee little babies. The two have been fixed, so we even entertained the possibility of some romance between them without any undesirable consequences. But it was not to be.
Weds was in the living room, terrorizing poor Mits (he was just being his usually friendly self, you know, but Mits, traumatized as he was by a dog bite when he was little, doesn't take too kindly to friendly animals) when LDM and ACE arrived. LDM let little ACE out of her bag, and we all played with her a bit. I went off to the living room to fetch Weds to re-introduce him to his old friend. He sat serenely as I picked him up and walked down the hallway -- that is, until his eyes landed on ACE. Our little angel instantly turned into a monster. He hissed and snarled, leaped out of my arms, and fled for dear life back to the living room at one end of the hallway. Poor ACE, flustered by this unexpected reaction on the part of her host, sadly scurried off in the opposite direction, deposited herself in between my boxes at the other end of the hallway and refused to emerge all evening long.
Weds refused to come round as well. The spent the evening hiding under the chair, behind the TV, making not a peep (afraid, probably, that any sound he made would be mistaken by his unwelcome guest for a sign of friendliness). Feeling sorry for him at one point, I picked him up and held him in my lap. He sat quietly, but always with a wary eye on the other side of the corridor, where Okia and LDM were, playing with ACE for a bit. As soon as he saw them walking back, he started squirming again, assuming that they were bringing his enemy with them, and only calmed down when he realized that ACE was, in her quiet, demure way, as stubborn as him, and still firmly lodged in between the boxes.
The evening ended, with our hopes for a joyful reunion between the two of them dashed. As Okia, LDM and I were lamenting this, LDM looked on the bright side. "Oh well, I guess it's for the best. Because otherwise, ACE would have been heartbroken when Weds leaves for Japan next month." True, I suppose.
I still gave Weds a stern talking to about his manners and his abominable treatment of his guest after they left, but I'm sure it didn't make much of an impression on our fiesty little feline -- who incidentally, was back to his playful, friendly little self as soon as ACE departed.
Okia and I had thought that Weds was becoming a moody teenager -- because of his occasional penchant for climbing to the top of the highest cabinets in the kitchen and pointedly ignoring us when the mood took him. But I suppose he's still in the pre-teen stage, where girls = eeeewww!
Weds was in the living room, terrorizing poor Mits (he was just being his usually friendly self, you know, but Mits, traumatized as he was by a dog bite when he was little, doesn't take too kindly to friendly animals) when LDM and ACE arrived. LDM let little ACE out of her bag, and we all played with her a bit. I went off to the living room to fetch Weds to re-introduce him to his old friend. He sat serenely as I picked him up and walked down the hallway -- that is, until his eyes landed on ACE. Our little angel instantly turned into a monster. He hissed and snarled, leaped out of my arms, and fled for dear life back to the living room at one end of the hallway. Poor ACE, flustered by this unexpected reaction on the part of her host, sadly scurried off in the opposite direction, deposited herself in between my boxes at the other end of the hallway and refused to emerge all evening long.
Weds refused to come round as well. The spent the evening hiding under the chair, behind the TV, making not a peep (afraid, probably, that any sound he made would be mistaken by his unwelcome guest for a sign of friendliness). Feeling sorry for him at one point, I picked him up and held him in my lap. He sat quietly, but always with a wary eye on the other side of the corridor, where Okia and LDM were, playing with ACE for a bit. As soon as he saw them walking back, he started squirming again, assuming that they were bringing his enemy with them, and only calmed down when he realized that ACE was, in her quiet, demure way, as stubborn as him, and still firmly lodged in between the boxes.
The evening ended, with our hopes for a joyful reunion between the two of them dashed. As Okia, LDM and I were lamenting this, LDM looked on the bright side. "Oh well, I guess it's for the best. Because otherwise, ACE would have been heartbroken when Weds leaves for Japan next month." True, I suppose.
I still gave Weds a stern talking to about his manners and his abominable treatment of his guest after they left, but I'm sure it didn't make much of an impression on our fiesty little feline -- who incidentally, was back to his playful, friendly little self as soon as ACE departed.
Okia and I had thought that Weds was becoming a moody teenager -- because of his occasional penchant for climbing to the top of the highest cabinets in the kitchen and pointedly ignoring us when the mood took him. But I suppose he's still in the pre-teen stage, where girls = eeeewww!
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
A fire alarm. . . but nobody cares. . .
I was blissfully jogging away on the treadmill today, with my i-pod blaring into my ear, when all of a sudden white lights began flashing all over the gym. My first thought was "Oooh, I'm going to be on TV!" But I soon realized that the flashes were coming from fire alarm systems on various walls. "Hmmm," I thought, "I wonder what's going on."
It took me a while to hear the accompanying fire alarm through my music, but, when I finally did, I whipped around in panic, almost getting thrown off the treadmill in the process. But no one else seemed the least bit perturbed by noise, or even reacted to it. The runners around the track continued running, the elliptical people continued their elliptical thing, and the weight lifters continued their lifting. Across the gym, the aerobics class continued as if nothing was happening. Oh well, I thought, I'll just keep running, and if I get burned to a crisp, at least it will be with a 100 other people.
So, the alarm continued clanging away, and I kept running away. Soon I didn't even notice it. Which made me wonder: what if there was a real fire somewhere in the building? Would we all just keep working out, completely oblivious to the impending danger and waiting for someone else to be the first to go running out of the building, until the ceiling came crashing down on us?
It took me a while to hear the accompanying fire alarm through my music, but, when I finally did, I whipped around in panic, almost getting thrown off the treadmill in the process. But no one else seemed the least bit perturbed by noise, or even reacted to it. The runners around the track continued running, the elliptical people continued their elliptical thing, and the weight lifters continued their lifting. Across the gym, the aerobics class continued as if nothing was happening. Oh well, I thought, I'll just keep running, and if I get burned to a crisp, at least it will be with a 100 other people.
So, the alarm continued clanging away, and I kept running away. Soon I didn't even notice it. Which made me wonder: what if there was a real fire somewhere in the building? Would we all just keep working out, completely oblivious to the impending danger and waiting for someone else to be the first to go running out of the building, until the ceiling came crashing down on us?
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
A scary hairy tale
Once upon a time, there was a silly girl named Inihtar, who decided she wanted beautiful long black curly locks. But alas, her hair was straight as a broomstick's sweeper. So, she decided she would take herself off to a hair salon and get her hair permed, so she could achieve her heart's desire. All the warnings of well-wishers, who cautioned that her hair would be fried, and become dry as a desert bush, fell on deaf ears. For our friend Ini had made up her mind and there was no changing it. So off she went to the hair salon and, four hours later, walked out with the curls her heart had so desired.
Fast forward a couple of years: Ini's hair is a sight to behold: the top part is straight and fine; the bottom part, however, is a nightmare: dry, coarse, and split ends galore. So Ini decided she was going to chop off the remainder of the permed hair. And off she went to her favourite hair salon, where when the hair dresser held up the amount she wanted cut, Ini shook her head and said "more" and "more" and "more" again. So clip clip when the scissors, and when the cutting was all done, Ini realized in shock that her hair was half of its original length. She hid her shock, admitted that it didn't look too bad, and took herself off home.
A couple of days later, Ini decided she wanted layers. Her hair was shorter, and she figured this was the time to do it. So, unable to wait once her mind was made up, Ini went off to a nearby hair salon, and asked for layers. Clip clip went the scissors again, and Ini smiled, thanked the hair dresser, and went off home. On the way home, she peered at her reflection in shop windows, and in occasional mirrors, and realized that she wanted more layers in the front.
She decided to fix it herself. She arrived home, picked up a pair of scissors and a newspaper and headed for the bathroom. Snip snip went the scissors for a third time in a week. And the results this time were not so pleasing. Ini had overestimated her ability to fix her hair. Snip snip, went the scissors again, as she tried to make up for the disaster. To no avail.
"This is becoming like the tale of the monkey and the cake*," she told herself. She decided to leave it, pronounced her hair the latest fashion statement, put away her apparatus and went about her work. Ini might, of course, change her mind about the fashion statement, once she starts getting horrified stares, but she will just have to deal with it then, won't she?
*For those readers unfamiliar with the tale of the monkey and the cake, it goes something like this: Two birds had found a piece of cake and wanted to split it between them, but not trusting each other's ability to split it evenly, took it to a monkey to do it for them. The monkey broke the piece in two, then decided one was bigger than the other, and took a bite of the larger piece. Then that piece was smaller, so he took a bite of the other, and so on, until he had eated the entire piece.
Fast forward a couple of years: Ini's hair is a sight to behold: the top part is straight and fine; the bottom part, however, is a nightmare: dry, coarse, and split ends galore. So Ini decided she was going to chop off the remainder of the permed hair. And off she went to her favourite hair salon, where when the hair dresser held up the amount she wanted cut, Ini shook her head and said "more" and "more" and "more" again. So clip clip when the scissors, and when the cutting was all done, Ini realized in shock that her hair was half of its original length. She hid her shock, admitted that it didn't look too bad, and took herself off home.
A couple of days later, Ini decided she wanted layers. Her hair was shorter, and she figured this was the time to do it. So, unable to wait once her mind was made up, Ini went off to a nearby hair salon, and asked for layers. Clip clip went the scissors again, and Ini smiled, thanked the hair dresser, and went off home. On the way home, she peered at her reflection in shop windows, and in occasional mirrors, and realized that she wanted more layers in the front.
She decided to fix it herself. She arrived home, picked up a pair of scissors and a newspaper and headed for the bathroom. Snip snip went the scissors for a third time in a week. And the results this time were not so pleasing. Ini had overestimated her ability to fix her hair. Snip snip, went the scissors again, as she tried to make up for the disaster. To no avail.
"This is becoming like the tale of the monkey and the cake*," she told herself. She decided to leave it, pronounced her hair the latest fashion statement, put away her apparatus and went about her work. Ini might, of course, change her mind about the fashion statement, once she starts getting horrified stares, but she will just have to deal with it then, won't she?
*For those readers unfamiliar with the tale of the monkey and the cake, it goes something like this: Two birds had found a piece of cake and wanted to split it between them, but not trusting each other's ability to split it evenly, took it to a monkey to do it for them. The monkey broke the piece in two, then decided one was bigger than the other, and took a bite of the larger piece. Then that piece was smaller, so he took a bite of the other, and so on, until he had eated the entire piece.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
A dorkess on the loose in New York City. . .
I learned a valuable New York City lesson today -- when you take a yellow cab, you wave vigorously (jumping and with both hands if possible), leap into the back seat as soon as one pulls up and tell the driver in no uncertain terms where he is to take you. You don't stand off to the side and wave timidly, go up to the driver of the fifth cab that's driven past and only stopped out of pity, and quietly ask if he'll take you to 72nd and Park.
How did you come to learn this magnificant lesson, Ini, you might ask.
Good reader, let me enlighten you. . .
I had an appointment this morning at 11:30 with a neurosurgeon, after waiting for a week (it was just for an interview, there's nothing wrong with me -- nothing, anyway, that a neurosurgeon can help with; then again. . . perhaps there is). But anyway, I digress. . .
I got off work at 10:30 and took the subway to 72nd Street with half an hour to get to the east side -- plenty of time. It was such a beautiful day that I decided to walk through Central Park, instead of taking the crosstown bus. Disastrous decision, I should have known -- no one with my sense of direction should attempt to walk through any place that doesn't have roads that form right-angled geometric shapes.
But, blissfully chosing to ignore this knowledge, I proceeded, with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. Twenty minutes later, I was still in Central Park, still walking, minus the smile and spring. Panic began to set in. I was not going to make it by 11:30, and you don't keep a busy neurosurgeon waiting. I pictured myself telling him why I was late ("Ummm, I'm really sorry, doctor, but I got lost in Central Park) and started walking even faster.
Finally, at 11:30, I emerged on the other side of the park, and saw a sign saying "Fifth Avenue." Oh thank God! But I immediately realized that I had thanked the Almighty too soon. I looked at the cross street -- 59th Street.
I decided to take a cab, and it took me another ten minutes to figure out which direction I needed to go in, that the cabs were all going in the opposite direction because I was on a one-way street going the wrong way. I got my bearings, sprinted over to the right street, and finally, after missing five cabs because I was too timid to stand up and WAVE, one pulled over.
As I climbed in and collapsed, the driver turned around and with a stern look, gave me my first lesson in New York City Cab Hailing.
How did you come to learn this magnificant lesson, Ini, you might ask.
Good reader, let me enlighten you. . .
I had an appointment this morning at 11:30 with a neurosurgeon, after waiting for a week (it was just for an interview, there's nothing wrong with me -- nothing, anyway, that a neurosurgeon can help with; then again. . . perhaps there is). But anyway, I digress. . .
I got off work at 10:30 and took the subway to 72nd Street with half an hour to get to the east side -- plenty of time. It was such a beautiful day that I decided to walk through Central Park, instead of taking the crosstown bus. Disastrous decision, I should have known -- no one with my sense of direction should attempt to walk through any place that doesn't have roads that form right-angled geometric shapes.
But, blissfully chosing to ignore this knowledge, I proceeded, with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. Twenty minutes later, I was still in Central Park, still walking, minus the smile and spring. Panic began to set in. I was not going to make it by 11:30, and you don't keep a busy neurosurgeon waiting. I pictured myself telling him why I was late ("Ummm, I'm really sorry, doctor, but I got lost in Central Park) and started walking even faster.
Finally, at 11:30, I emerged on the other side of the park, and saw a sign saying "Fifth Avenue." Oh thank God! But I immediately realized that I had thanked the Almighty too soon. I looked at the cross street -- 59th Street.
I decided to take a cab, and it took me another ten minutes to figure out which direction I needed to go in, that the cabs were all going in the opposite direction because I was on a one-way street going the wrong way. I got my bearings, sprinted over to the right street, and finally, after missing five cabs because I was too timid to stand up and WAVE, one pulled over.
As I climbed in and collapsed, the driver turned around and with a stern look, gave me my first lesson in New York City Cab Hailing.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Am I an ESL student?
The other day, as I left my Computer-Assister Reporting class, I found myself marching down the stairs in step with the professor who teaches that class. It was an awkward moment - I've never spoken to him outside of class, and was not sure whether to try to make conversation or continue on silently. I decided on the former, especially since he kept glancing my way, as if expecting me to say something.
"I think I'm starting to get it," I said, referring to what we were learning in the class. Now, this might seem like a strange thing to say out of the blue, but I've been a little confused in that class, and he knew it, so it didn't startle him too much.
"Well. . ." he ventured. "That's good."
I decided to plunge ahead. "Yeah, I know. I think I just needed some practice. Sometimes, the problem was that I'd look away from what you were doing, and then I wouldn't know what to do and then not be able to keep up after that. But now, I get it more, so I can figure it out."
"Hmmmm," he said. Then, perhaps sensing that that wasn't enough, and he needed to express more sympathy for a struggling student, he plowed on. "Well, if I had to learn all this in a second language, I would have a hard time too."
It took a second for that comment to sink in. When it did, it took another one for me to react, to decide whether to be angry or amused. It's been a while since I have received comments on my "surprisingly good English", and while I used to laugh and shrug it off before, I was shocked to find that the comment bothered me more than it ever had.
Not knowing how to respond, I continued walking down quietly. Sensing the awkward silence, he seemed to realize that what had been intended as a sort of compliment had somehow gone awry. "Or is it your third or fourth language?" he stumbled on.
Now I felt a little sorry for him. "Well," I said, "I speak a couple of other languages, not very well. But English is more like my first language. I've been speaking it almost all my life and know it better than my own language."
"Oh," he said. "But still. . ." He gave up and changed tactics. "I know a little Russian," he went on. "But only the bad words."
I laughed politely.
Mercifully, we'd reached the outside of the building by now, and we both beat hasty retreats in opposite directions after hurried goodbyes.
As I walked home, I played that conversation, and my reaction to it, over in my mind. I generally laugh off incidents like this, but I was shocked at the anger I had felt at his assumption that I had difficulty understanding English because my accent is not American. Is it because I have become more insecure about my own identity? Or because I expected better from a professor at Columbia University - and a New York Times reporter, no less? Or was it simply because I have become more sensitive - and less forgiving - in the time that has elapsed since my college days? Or perhaps a mix of all three?
I feel like I did overreact, but I also think that, especially in today's increasingly globalized world, people like me are more entitled to become angry at assumptions like this. And people like him, especially reporters (that part probably annoys me more than anything else) need to stop putting people in boxes and labeling them based on the way they look or speak.
I had the same class again yesterday, and perhaps because I'm finally getting what we're learning, or perhaps because of a determination to show him that I am not lacking in English skills, I found myself speaking up a lot more - both answering and asking questions more boldly than I have done so far. So I guess some good came out of that:-)
But it will be a while before I forget this incident, and my own surprising reaction to it.
"I think I'm starting to get it," I said, referring to what we were learning in the class. Now, this might seem like a strange thing to say out of the blue, but I've been a little confused in that class, and he knew it, so it didn't startle him too much.
"Well. . ." he ventured. "That's good."
I decided to plunge ahead. "Yeah, I know. I think I just needed some practice. Sometimes, the problem was that I'd look away from what you were doing, and then I wouldn't know what to do and then not be able to keep up after that. But now, I get it more, so I can figure it out."
"Hmmmm," he said. Then, perhaps sensing that that wasn't enough, and he needed to express more sympathy for a struggling student, he plowed on. "Well, if I had to learn all this in a second language, I would have a hard time too."
It took a second for that comment to sink in. When it did, it took another one for me to react, to decide whether to be angry or amused. It's been a while since I have received comments on my "surprisingly good English", and while I used to laugh and shrug it off before, I was shocked to find that the comment bothered me more than it ever had.
Not knowing how to respond, I continued walking down quietly. Sensing the awkward silence, he seemed to realize that what had been intended as a sort of compliment had somehow gone awry. "Or is it your third or fourth language?" he stumbled on.
Now I felt a little sorry for him. "Well," I said, "I speak a couple of other languages, not very well. But English is more like my first language. I've been speaking it almost all my life and know it better than my own language."
"Oh," he said. "But still. . ." He gave up and changed tactics. "I know a little Russian," he went on. "But only the bad words."
I laughed politely.
Mercifully, we'd reached the outside of the building by now, and we both beat hasty retreats in opposite directions after hurried goodbyes.
As I walked home, I played that conversation, and my reaction to it, over in my mind. I generally laugh off incidents like this, but I was shocked at the anger I had felt at his assumption that I had difficulty understanding English because my accent is not American. Is it because I have become more insecure about my own identity? Or because I expected better from a professor at Columbia University - and a New York Times reporter, no less? Or was it simply because I have become more sensitive - and less forgiving - in the time that has elapsed since my college days? Or perhaps a mix of all three?
I feel like I did overreact, but I also think that, especially in today's increasingly globalized world, people like me are more entitled to become angry at assumptions like this. And people like him, especially reporters (that part probably annoys me more than anything else) need to stop putting people in boxes and labeling them based on the way they look or speak.
I had the same class again yesterday, and perhaps because I'm finally getting what we're learning, or perhaps because of a determination to show him that I am not lacking in English skills, I found myself speaking up a lot more - both answering and asking questions more boldly than I have done so far. So I guess some good came out of that:-)
But it will be a while before I forget this incident, and my own surprising reaction to it.
Monday, February 06, 2006
My weekend's adventures
So, being the enterprising reporter that I am, I decided to go down to Washington D.C. to report on the story I'm working on for my wire service class. And being the fiscally responsible wonderwoman that I am, I decided that I would take . . . the Chinatown bus!!
I confidently booked my ticket to leave on Saturday, and to return Sunday, without bothering to book anywhere to stay and having no idea where I would spend the night. Thankfully, I managed to talk to my old Kodai friend Meri the night before I was due to leave, who graciously extended an invitation to stay with them. Otherwise it would have been an all-nighter at Union Station, which might have led to another very interesting story.
My bus was at 3:00 on Saturday afternoon, which, of course meant that I would only arrive at the bus' departure location at 3:15 p.m. and find that it had already left. If you, oh reader, are shaking your head and thinking, "Tsk, tsk, Ini, late as usual," I hasten to put you right -- it was all part of the plan. Of course I wanted to wait for an hour in the pouring rain for the next bus.
I finally got on the bus, and after waiting another long hour, in delirious anticipation of my first long distance bus ride ever in the U.S. -- which included a frightening moment, when the bus driver and one of the several women selling tickets got into a heated argument in Chinese, which resulted in the driver stalking off, and my own conviction that we would all have to get off the bus and enjoy the rain and the -- ahem -- scenery, for another hour -- we finally took off (whew, that was a long sentence).
We arrived four and a half hours later in this great nation's capital. Meri and hubby arrived to pick me up and we proceeded to Big Bowl restaurant, where I ate a lot more than I should have, as usual, and then off to Blockbuster to pick up "The Fantastic Four" and then on home. Watched "The Fantastic Four" -- well, I did, M and hubby fell asleep, and then off to bed.
Woke up today, a little too leisurely, and after dilly dallying over breakfast and telly, proceeded to Union Station, to the theater church, and said goodbye to M and hubby, and set off to do my reporter thing. Managed to disrupt most of the entire service by first walking in late (again all part of my plan for making a dramatic entrance) and then proceeding to walk up and down the aisle taking pictures).
By God's grace, the sermon was absolutely perfect for my story, and I got several quotes just from listening to the pastor who wasn't there -- he was projected on the screen, but the sermon was recorded earlier, which all adds spice to my story.
At the end of the service, a couple of people, who had seen me at work taking pictures, approached me -- which saved me the trouble of being a real reporter, and approaching them -- to invite me to a photography group that meets every week. I explained what I was doing there, and they agreed to talk to me and tell me their stories.
When I finished talking to them, it was about 1:00 and I walked back to Chinatown, only to discover that the next bus was at 5:00. I almost sat down on the pavement and started crying. My shoulders ached from my heavy backpack, thanks to my laptop and I stood there for half an hour trying to figure out what to do. I did entertain the thought of being a trooper and joining the Chinese New Year parade, but my aching shoulders dissuaded me. I decided to trek back to the station and see if there was a train I could take back. Walked all the way back, and found that, yes there was a train, but no, it was way too expensive for my poor student budget.
I had one more option left -- the Greyhound. So I trekked another three long blocks to the Greyhound station, by which time my shoulders were ready to dislocate themselves from the rest of my body. But there was a bus leaving right as I got there, so I promptly hopped on it, and 4.5 hours and a splitting headache later, I was home. Home sweet home. It never felt more welcoming.
And now, I'm contemplating a career change. Something along the lines of a lady who lunches.
I confidently booked my ticket to leave on Saturday, and to return Sunday, without bothering to book anywhere to stay and having no idea where I would spend the night. Thankfully, I managed to talk to my old Kodai friend Meri the night before I was due to leave, who graciously extended an invitation to stay with them. Otherwise it would have been an all-nighter at Union Station, which might have led to another very interesting story.
My bus was at 3:00 on Saturday afternoon, which, of course meant that I would only arrive at the bus' departure location at 3:15 p.m. and find that it had already left. If you, oh reader, are shaking your head and thinking, "Tsk, tsk, Ini, late as usual," I hasten to put you right -- it was all part of the plan. Of course I wanted to wait for an hour in the pouring rain for the next bus.
I finally got on the bus, and after waiting another long hour, in delirious anticipation of my first long distance bus ride ever in the U.S. -- which included a frightening moment, when the bus driver and one of the several women selling tickets got into a heated argument in Chinese, which resulted in the driver stalking off, and my own conviction that we would all have to get off the bus and enjoy the rain and the -- ahem -- scenery, for another hour -- we finally took off (whew, that was a long sentence).
We arrived four and a half hours later in this great nation's capital. Meri and hubby arrived to pick me up and we proceeded to Big Bowl restaurant, where I ate a lot more than I should have, as usual, and then off to Blockbuster to pick up "The Fantastic Four" and then on home. Watched "The Fantastic Four" -- well, I did, M and hubby fell asleep, and then off to bed.
Woke up today, a little too leisurely, and after dilly dallying over breakfast and telly, proceeded to Union Station, to the theater church, and said goodbye to M and hubby, and set off to do my reporter thing. Managed to disrupt most of the entire service by first walking in late (again all part of my plan for making a dramatic entrance) and then proceeding to walk up and down the aisle taking pictures).
By God's grace, the sermon was absolutely perfect for my story, and I got several quotes just from listening to the pastor who wasn't there -- he was projected on the screen, but the sermon was recorded earlier, which all adds spice to my story.
At the end of the service, a couple of people, who had seen me at work taking pictures, approached me -- which saved me the trouble of being a real reporter, and approaching them -- to invite me to a photography group that meets every week. I explained what I was doing there, and they agreed to talk to me and tell me their stories.
When I finished talking to them, it was about 1:00 and I walked back to Chinatown, only to discover that the next bus was at 5:00. I almost sat down on the pavement and started crying. My shoulders ached from my heavy backpack, thanks to my laptop and I stood there for half an hour trying to figure out what to do. I did entertain the thought of being a trooper and joining the Chinese New Year parade, but my aching shoulders dissuaded me. I decided to trek back to the station and see if there was a train I could take back. Walked all the way back, and found that, yes there was a train, but no, it was way too expensive for my poor student budget.
I had one more option left -- the Greyhound. So I trekked another three long blocks to the Greyhound station, by which time my shoulders were ready to dislocate themselves from the rest of my body. But there was a bus leaving right as I got there, so I promptly hopped on it, and 4.5 hours and a splitting headache later, I was home. Home sweet home. It never felt more welcoming.
And now, I'm contemplating a career change. Something along the lines of a lady who lunches.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Today's woes
Today has been an infuriating day. I woke up late, and after hooing and and haaing away three hours, finally decided to sit down and prepare for my Arabic class tonight. After writing down about three words, it suddenly dawned on me that perhaps I should look into paying my tuition and fees for this semester. So, I looked at the due date, and realised it was January 5. Oh well, I thought, I might as well go pick up my loan check, and try to pay it off as soon as possible. Now, since I was on a roll of productivity, I decided to look into replacing my drivers license as well (which I lost about two years ago, when someone kindly swiped my bag at a work Christmas party in London).
So I tried to call the MN Driver's License people (my driver's license is from Minnesota, since that was where I was living when I got it), and, in true government office fashion, I got an engaged tone. I tried several more times, and got the same result. So gave up on that, and went off to the financial services office at the uni, only to find that my loan check hadn't arrived. So called Ye Olde Access Groupe and was told by the kind machine lady that the check had only been disbursed today.
So, having solved that mystery, I thought I'd try my luck with the Minnesota folks again to see if I could get any response. This time, when I dialed the number, I got through! Yaay! Only problem was, this machine lady told me that to move things along faster, I would need my drivers license number. Hmmm, I thought, I'll walk home while I'm on hold, and find it.
Now I keep my old documents in an antique green folder that has travelled around with me everywhere I've gone. But, while I could picture the folder I had no idea where it was. So I went home, and phone in one hand and ice cream cone in another (I gave in to a craving on the way home while on hold), I began hunting for my green folder. And, as is always the case, I couldn't find it.
I rummaged through my boxes which I'd shipped from London (yes, I still haven't unpacked them, but I figured I'm moving again in a few months, so why bother), and, while in the process of rummaging, dropped my phone, which promptly disconnected itself. Oh well, I thought. I'll just sit down and enjoy my icecream and continue looking and call again when I've found the documents with my drivers license number. So I finished my ice cream, and in the process determined that I had, at one time, put the green folder in my green bag. Now the question: where is the green bag? Finally, after considerable head-scratching, followed by some truly admirable acrobatics, which sent little Weds fleeing to safety under my bed, I managed to locate the green bag INSIDE my brown suitcase on the top shelf of my closet.
And, you guessed it. . . no green folder. So I gave up my search, and resigned myself to the fact that the green folder had probably gone the way of my long-lost portfolio. And decided to call the MN folks again and confess that I could not locate my drivers license number, and could they please please please give me another license without making me taking the test (my aversion to taking the driving test again stems from my fear that I've forgotten how to drive, and don't want to disgrace myself - of course I'm aware that this presents a slight problem when I actually have to drive, but I'll cross that bridge when I get there).
So I sat down, dialed the number, and. . . beep, beep, beep. I've been trying and trying and the same result. . . so I decided to sit down and lay my woes down in my blog, as I continue my fruitless attempts at replacing my license.
So I tried to call the MN Driver's License people (my driver's license is from Minnesota, since that was where I was living when I got it), and, in true government office fashion, I got an engaged tone. I tried several more times, and got the same result. So gave up on that, and went off to the financial services office at the uni, only to find that my loan check hadn't arrived. So called Ye Olde Access Groupe and was told by the kind machine lady that the check had only been disbursed today.
So, having solved that mystery, I thought I'd try my luck with the Minnesota folks again to see if I could get any response. This time, when I dialed the number, I got through! Yaay! Only problem was, this machine lady told me that to move things along faster, I would need my drivers license number. Hmmm, I thought, I'll walk home while I'm on hold, and find it.
Now I keep my old documents in an antique green folder that has travelled around with me everywhere I've gone. But, while I could picture the folder I had no idea where it was. So I went home, and phone in one hand and ice cream cone in another (I gave in to a craving on the way home while on hold), I began hunting for my green folder. And, as is always the case, I couldn't find it.
I rummaged through my boxes which I'd shipped from London (yes, I still haven't unpacked them, but I figured I'm moving again in a few months, so why bother), and, while in the process of rummaging, dropped my phone, which promptly disconnected itself. Oh well, I thought. I'll just sit down and enjoy my icecream and continue looking and call again when I've found the documents with my drivers license number. So I finished my ice cream, and in the process determined that I had, at one time, put the green folder in my green bag. Now the question: where is the green bag? Finally, after considerable head-scratching, followed by some truly admirable acrobatics, which sent little Weds fleeing to safety under my bed, I managed to locate the green bag INSIDE my brown suitcase on the top shelf of my closet.
And, you guessed it. . . no green folder. So I gave up my search, and resigned myself to the fact that the green folder had probably gone the way of my long-lost portfolio. And decided to call the MN folks again and confess that I could not locate my drivers license number, and could they please please please give me another license without making me taking the test (my aversion to taking the driving test again stems from my fear that I've forgotten how to drive, and don't want to disgrace myself - of course I'm aware that this presents a slight problem when I actually have to drive, but I'll cross that bridge when I get there).
So I sat down, dialed the number, and. . . beep, beep, beep. I've been trying and trying and the same result. . . so I decided to sit down and lay my woes down in my blog, as I continue my fruitless attempts at replacing my license.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Sickie!
Heard of poetic justice? Well, it exists. Like when you call in sick to work two days in a row (that too when you only work two days a week) and then, the following week, you really do get sick. What to do then? Do you crawl in to work sniffling and sneezing, or do you pick up the phone and call again, hoping that they assume you are just some chronically ill wheeze? Or do you walk the eight blocks to work, sniffling and sneezing, and then return, having proved that you really are sick?
I chose the middle option, since I decided to get out of bed 10 minutes after I was supposed to have finished traversing the eight blocks (two of them avenue blocks, and frigging LONG!)
"Hi Evelyn," I said. "It's Inihtar."
Evelyn's good at curt responses over the phone.
"Hi," came the reply. "How are you?" but in a tone that really meant, "What is it now? What kind of lame excuse are you going to come up with for not coming to work today?"
"Ummm, not good. . . again."
Silence on the other end. What to do now? I decided to plunge ahead.
"I've had a cold and headache for the past couple of days," I told her hastily. "But I know that Leann wanted me to work on a piece today. So can I come in in the afternoon and work on it? Then I can get some sleep in the morning, and maybe feel better."
Did I really need to give her my symptoms, and my plan of action for getting rid of them? Didn't that make it sound more suspicious? You know, overcompensating. Why on earth do I feel so guilty, darnit? I AM sick. . . this time, anyway!
"Yeah, ok."
"Ok. See you then." And I hung up.
I should have just emailed her. But then, somehow, I felt that if I could drag myself to my computer, it would have made me seem well enough to go in to work. But then I had to drag myself to the computer to get her number anyway! Oh, the dilemnas of taking a sickie.
I'm going to go back to bed now, and my next post will state if I am still employed.
I chose the middle option, since I decided to get out of bed 10 minutes after I was supposed to have finished traversing the eight blocks (two of them avenue blocks, and frigging LONG!)
"Hi Evelyn," I said. "It's Inihtar."
Evelyn's good at curt responses over the phone.
"Hi," came the reply. "How are you?" but in a tone that really meant, "What is it now? What kind of lame excuse are you going to come up with for not coming to work today?"
"Ummm, not good. . . again."
Silence on the other end. What to do now? I decided to plunge ahead.
"I've had a cold and headache for the past couple of days," I told her hastily. "But I know that Leann wanted me to work on a piece today. So can I come in in the afternoon and work on it? Then I can get some sleep in the morning, and maybe feel better."
Did I really need to give her my symptoms, and my plan of action for getting rid of them? Didn't that make it sound more suspicious? You know, overcompensating. Why on earth do I feel so guilty, darnit? I AM sick. . . this time, anyway!
"Yeah, ok."
"Ok. See you then." And I hung up.
I should have just emailed her. But then, somehow, I felt that if I could drag myself to my computer, it would have made me seem well enough to go in to work. But then I had to drag myself to the computer to get her number anyway! Oh, the dilemnas of taking a sickie.
I'm going to go back to bed now, and my next post will state if I am still employed.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Irresponsible shop assistants!
I've been very conscientious about not wasting plastic bags, ever since I went food shopping with Ficali once and she berated me for taking a bag for an onion, instead of leaving it by itself in the shopping basket. Ever since then, I have been very careful about wasting bags, bemoaning the carefree way in which sales people at my local grocery store use two or three bags for a few items without a second thought.
I went grocery shopping today, and after paying for the items I'd purchased, I realised that I'd forgotten a couple of things. I went back into the store, picked up the two tomatoes and onions I'd forgotten, and got back in line to pay for them. When it was my turn, the sales person quickly scanned and put them into the a plastic bag. "Oh, I don't need a bag," I told her. She gave me a dirty look, since my statement necessitated the backbreaking task of removing my two tomatoes and two onions from the plastic bag. She then promptly proceeded to ball up the bag and throw it into the GARBAGE!!!
"What?" I thought. "I might as well have taken the bag! At least Okia could have used it for Wednesday's doodoo!"
So much for my efforts to be environment friendly. Now, that bag will probably end up in some landfill and sit there for 500 years.
I went grocery shopping today, and after paying for the items I'd purchased, I realised that I'd forgotten a couple of things. I went back into the store, picked up the two tomatoes and onions I'd forgotten, and got back in line to pay for them. When it was my turn, the sales person quickly scanned and put them into the a plastic bag. "Oh, I don't need a bag," I told her. She gave me a dirty look, since my statement necessitated the backbreaking task of removing my two tomatoes and two onions from the plastic bag. She then promptly proceeded to ball up the bag and throw it into the GARBAGE!!!
"What?" I thought. "I might as well have taken the bag! At least Okia could have used it for Wednesday's doodoo!"
So much for my efforts to be environment friendly. Now, that bag will probably end up in some landfill and sit there for 500 years.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Contempt of court???
Today, I got back an assignment I did last week - covering a court case. And looking over it, I remembered some of the details of the case, and one very dicey situation that I could have found myself in.
I arrived at the Queens County Criminal Court at about 8:40 (early again, what's happening to me?!?!?), only to find out that the court clerk's office, where I had to go to choose a case to report on, only opened at 9. I bumped into a couple of other girls from my class, and we tried to see if we could find any other way to locate an interesting case. We finally found the Supreme Court clerk's office, which was open and one of the girls asked them what the most interesting case was. (Now me, I wouldn't have asked them to recommend a case. I would have asked to look at the cases on trial and decided myself, because they could have sent us to the least controversial one, or the one where they didn't want any outsiders to be - good journalistic thinking, eh? I'm getting good at not being so gullible.) But anyway, they directed us to one of the court rooms, and we went in. Time passed, and no judge, no jury, nobody, though we did see the defendants in the case outside the courtroom, probably waiting as impatiently as us.
There was one Guyanese woman (of Indian origin) sitting in the viewing area, on the bench in front of us. She turned around at one point, and seeing me, I think felt some affinity towards me, since I looked to be of similar background. I was encouraged by this, and, being the enterprising journalist that I am (heh heh!), decided to approach her and talk to her. She told me she was the ex-girlfriend of the alleged victim, and that she was testifying about what happened (the case was that the defendants had beated up her ex-boyfriend outside a bar in Jamaica). We didn't talk about any other particulars of the case other than that. She said she was sick of the case, and having to go to court, when she wasn't even with the guy anymore. I moved back into my seat and waited for the trial to begin, which it did, about 70 minutes late.
The witness was continuing her testimony, so she went up and took the stand. As soon as did so, the defense attorney fired the first question at her, which sent my heart rocketing into my mouth. "Have you spoken with anyone about this trial between yesterday and today?" he asked her.
OHMIGOSH!! What have I done???? Have I just broken the law? Am I going to be in contempt of court? And how did the defense attorney find out that I had spoken to her? And why didn't any of the court staff say anything when they saw me talking to her??? Is this the end of my career as a journalist, over before it even really began? I turned in panic to one of my classmates, only to be greeted with a blank stare.
I turned back to the witness. She maintained a stony silence, which had guilt written all over it. I'm finished, I thought.
Then, the attorney rephrased the question. "Did you call the owner of the bar to tell her what happened in court yesterday?" he asked her.
PHEW!! My heart settled back down into its normal place. So he wasn't talking about me after all! It took a few minutes for my nerves to settle down, though, and to get back to following the case.
Needless to say, I stayed far away from her, and the other two witnesses, for the remainder of the day! Darned Columbia professors - why don't they tell you that you can't talk to witnesses before sending you out to cover a trial??
I arrived at the Queens County Criminal Court at about 8:40 (early again, what's happening to me?!?!?), only to find out that the court clerk's office, where I had to go to choose a case to report on, only opened at 9. I bumped into a couple of other girls from my class, and we tried to see if we could find any other way to locate an interesting case. We finally found the Supreme Court clerk's office, which was open and one of the girls asked them what the most interesting case was. (Now me, I wouldn't have asked them to recommend a case. I would have asked to look at the cases on trial and decided myself, because they could have sent us to the least controversial one, or the one where they didn't want any outsiders to be - good journalistic thinking, eh? I'm getting good at not being so gullible.) But anyway, they directed us to one of the court rooms, and we went in. Time passed, and no judge, no jury, nobody, though we did see the defendants in the case outside the courtroom, probably waiting as impatiently as us.
There was one Guyanese woman (of Indian origin) sitting in the viewing area, on the bench in front of us. She turned around at one point, and seeing me, I think felt some affinity towards me, since I looked to be of similar background. I was encouraged by this, and, being the enterprising journalist that I am (heh heh!), decided to approach her and talk to her. She told me she was the ex-girlfriend of the alleged victim, and that she was testifying about what happened (the case was that the defendants had beated up her ex-boyfriend outside a bar in Jamaica). We didn't talk about any other particulars of the case other than that. She said she was sick of the case, and having to go to court, when she wasn't even with the guy anymore. I moved back into my seat and waited for the trial to begin, which it did, about 70 minutes late.
The witness was continuing her testimony, so she went up and took the stand. As soon as did so, the defense attorney fired the first question at her, which sent my heart rocketing into my mouth. "Have you spoken with anyone about this trial between yesterday and today?" he asked her.
OHMIGOSH!! What have I done???? Have I just broken the law? Am I going to be in contempt of court? And how did the defense attorney find out that I had spoken to her? And why didn't any of the court staff say anything when they saw me talking to her??? Is this the end of my career as a journalist, over before it even really began? I turned in panic to one of my classmates, only to be greeted with a blank stare.
I turned back to the witness. She maintained a stony silence, which had guilt written all over it. I'm finished, I thought.
Then, the attorney rephrased the question. "Did you call the owner of the bar to tell her what happened in court yesterday?" he asked her.
PHEW!! My heart settled back down into its normal place. So he wasn't talking about me after all! It took a few minutes for my nerves to settle down, though, and to get back to following the case.
Needless to say, I stayed far away from her, and the other two witnesses, for the remainder of the day! Darned Columbia professors - why don't they tell you that you can't talk to witnesses before sending you out to cover a trial??
Monday, September 26, 2005
Turned away :-(
Today was not a very good day. I spent over two hours on the subway to my beat -- well, an hour and a half on the subway, then another half hour waiting for a bus, getting on the bus, getting lost, getting unlost, and finally reaching my destination, all a total of over two hours -- only to be sent back.
I am working on a story about the controversy surrounding rent increases in one of the largest housing co-operatives in the US, which happens to be in my beat. So I decided to take advantage of the fact that the board's meeting was timed perfectly to meet my Wednesday deadline and attend.
I walked confidently into the meeting room at the Rochdale Village Community Centre, sending up a silent thank you that the meeting hadn't started yet, even though I was, as usual, late. I settled into a seat close to the back of the room, from where I could observe the proceedings without drawing too much attention to myself. I had just settled down, and gone up to say hello to one of the board members whom I've spoken with earlier when the head security guard approached me. "Will you please step outside, miss?" he asked me, politely, but so firmly that I dismissed the inclination to respond "No, thank you. I'm fine where I am."
Rolling my eyes at the inconvenience, I followed him outside. He informed me that the meeting was only for residents of the co-op, and as I wasn't one, I had to leave. "What?" I said. "I've travelled two hours to come here, and I'm not going back. I wasn't told that I couldn't come."
"It's a private meeting, only for co-op residents, miss," he insisted.
"I called so many people and none of them told me that I had to be a resident to attend," I told him.
He wouldn't budge. I tried the anger tactic, closely followed by the "it's-all-your-fault" tactic, but nothing worked.
"I'm not just sitting around, doing nothing, you know. You people need to do a better job of letting people know if you're not going to let us in," I told him in the most righteously indignant tone I could muster. It didn't work, although he became a bit more sympathetic.
"I know, I'm sorry, I have a son in college in Connecticut," he said, though how he thought that would be of any help to me, I'm not sure.
He asked me if I knew how to get out, and I shook my head, stubbornly refusing to talk to him, now that all else had failed. He called another guard, and asked him to escort me to the bus stand. "I'm sorry," he said, in parting.
I glared at him, and walked away in stubborn silence with the other guard. It was drizzling, and the guard, trying to be kind, asked me if I had an umbrella. "Yes, but I don't want to use it," I retorted, and continued walking, though I did thaw a bit and tell him what had happened. He was duly sympathetic, but it was clearly not in his hands.
The bus came, predictably late; I missed the train as I was walking down the steps, and again predictably, had to wait for the next one. I did try to salvage my evening by calling a woman whom I met while waiting for the bus on Saturday, when I went to speak with the residents of the co-op. We had started chatting, and she mentioned that she was a friend of the chairman of the board. She had offered to get me in touch with him, so, on my way back, I called her and whinged about how they wouldn't let me into the meeting, and asked her if she had his contact details. She gave me his email address.
So, if he gets back to me, it might not, after all have been a complete waste. Though, I could have called her from home, and had that game of squash that I said no to because of the meeting. Such is the life of a journalism student whom no one takes seriously . . .sigh!!
I am working on a story about the controversy surrounding rent increases in one of the largest housing co-operatives in the US, which happens to be in my beat. So I decided to take advantage of the fact that the board's meeting was timed perfectly to meet my Wednesday deadline and attend.
I walked confidently into the meeting room at the Rochdale Village Community Centre, sending up a silent thank you that the meeting hadn't started yet, even though I was, as usual, late. I settled into a seat close to the back of the room, from where I could observe the proceedings without drawing too much attention to myself. I had just settled down, and gone up to say hello to one of the board members whom I've spoken with earlier when the head security guard approached me. "Will you please step outside, miss?" he asked me, politely, but so firmly that I dismissed the inclination to respond "No, thank you. I'm fine where I am."
Rolling my eyes at the inconvenience, I followed him outside. He informed me that the meeting was only for residents of the co-op, and as I wasn't one, I had to leave. "What?" I said. "I've travelled two hours to come here, and I'm not going back. I wasn't told that I couldn't come."
"It's a private meeting, only for co-op residents, miss," he insisted.
"I called so many people and none of them told me that I had to be a resident to attend," I told him.
He wouldn't budge. I tried the anger tactic, closely followed by the "it's-all-your-fault" tactic, but nothing worked.
"I'm not just sitting around, doing nothing, you know. You people need to do a better job of letting people know if you're not going to let us in," I told him in the most righteously indignant tone I could muster. It didn't work, although he became a bit more sympathetic.
"I know, I'm sorry, I have a son in college in Connecticut," he said, though how he thought that would be of any help to me, I'm not sure.
He asked me if I knew how to get out, and I shook my head, stubbornly refusing to talk to him, now that all else had failed. He called another guard, and asked him to escort me to the bus stand. "I'm sorry," he said, in parting.
I glared at him, and walked away in stubborn silence with the other guard. It was drizzling, and the guard, trying to be kind, asked me if I had an umbrella. "Yes, but I don't want to use it," I retorted, and continued walking, though I did thaw a bit and tell him what had happened. He was duly sympathetic, but it was clearly not in his hands.
The bus came, predictably late; I missed the train as I was walking down the steps, and again predictably, had to wait for the next one. I did try to salvage my evening by calling a woman whom I met while waiting for the bus on Saturday, when I went to speak with the residents of the co-op. We had started chatting, and she mentioned that she was a friend of the chairman of the board. She had offered to get me in touch with him, so, on my way back, I called her and whinged about how they wouldn't let me into the meeting, and asked her if she had his contact details. She gave me his email address.
So, if he gets back to me, it might not, after all have been a complete waste. Though, I could have called her from home, and had that game of squash that I said no to because of the meeting. Such is the life of a journalism student whom no one takes seriously . . .sigh!!
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