Curry Row

Curry Row, on 6th Street between 1st and 2nd Aves in the East Village, was my destination tonight. Back in the Fall, I told myself I'd like to try many of the restaurants on Curry Row. Total so far: 1. Now that I know I'm leaving New York, I feel a sense of urgency to do so many things I haven't done yet. This meant back to Curry Row for dinner.

As I walked from Murray Hill down to the East Village, I lamented that fact that I haven't found a place in New York where, when I eventually come back as a visitor, I would "need" to visit for that favorite entree/appetizer/dessert/drink. While I wouldn't "need" to go back to my restaurant choice tonight, I wouldn't rule it out if I'm in the area.  I enjoyed the whole experience.

My first visit to Curry Row in the Fall took me to Sonar Gaow. In reality, I chose it because it advertised an incredibly cheap dinner and, truth be told, I loved the chili pepper lights strung throughout the restaurant. Just down the block from Sonar Gaow is Calcutta, my random choice for this evening.

I was lured into Calcutta because of the advertised $9.95 meal that included papadam, soup, a choice of samosa or pakora (vegetable or meat), entree with naan, and dessert. Wow. It was a lot of good food, and I washed much of it down with a King Fisher beer, which I tried for the first time. (Nice, light lager.)

I brought enough food home to have dinner another night. Amazing. The added bonus - a sitar player during dinner. When I first walked in and saw/heard him, I thought, "Great, this will be cool." After my initial amazement (my first live sitar performance), the music became irritating - perhaps because it was a little too loud. Eventually, the sitar player took a break. When he came back, the music seemed quieter and was slower and more mesmerizing. By the time I left, I felt like I was in a relaxed trance.

Before my trance-like state, however, I notice that when the sitar player player came back from break, he had one sock on his right foot but none on his left foot. At first I thought he wore one sock because it was on on the foot that was exposed to the patrons - and most people don't want to look at a foot when they are eating. I finally figured out the real story...I think.

The sitar player was sitting with his right leg crossed over his left (formerly called "Indian-style"). His left foot was with the sole up. The rounded-body of the sitar was nestled in the arch of his foot. Aha! If he wore a sock on his left foot, the sitar would slip off too easily! Got it! (Hey, when you're dining alone, solving mysteries like this - or listening to the conversations of others - is a great way to spend time while chewing!)

Back from dinner, I was curious how many strings a sitar has as I couldn't really tell in the dimly lit restaurant.  I was shocked to learn the following from Wikipedia:

A sitar can have 21, 22, or 23 strings, among them six or seven played strings which run over the frets...Three of these (or four on a Kharaj-pancham sitar)...simply provide a drone: the rest are used to play the melody , though the first string (bajtaar) is most used.

I did notice that one string was the most strummed when I watched the sitar player tonignt.

Wikipedia also stated the sitar is

Used throughout the Indian subcontinent, particularly in Northern India, Bangladesh and Pakistan.  The sitar became known in the western world through the work of Pandit Ravi Shankar beginning in the late 1950s, particularly after George Harrison of The Beatles took lessons from Shankar and Shambhu Das and played sitar in songs including "Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)".


A few years ago, I learned of Ravi Shankar because he is the father of Norah Jones.

From Curry Hill, a great meal, excitement-turned-ambivalence-turned-hypnotic state over the sitar, to Norah Jones.  A weird "six degrees of separation" in a few-hour period. These are the things I'll miss about New York and will need to come back to when I become simply a tourist again.

Wandering: Aborted

I recently RSVPed that I would like to attend an event hosted by the New York Public Library (for which registration was required). The event was for an author who wrote a biography of Dorthea Lange, a Depression-era photographer mostly known for her famous picture (series of pictures, really), Migrant Mother.

I saw these photgraphs years ago at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.  Since then, I've been aware of references to Dorthea Lange in various media.  I think there's controversy around the pictures - speculation they were posed, Lange took advantage of the subjects, etc.  I was hoping to learn more about Lange and these pictures this past Thursday but I couldn't make it.  I was asked to move a interview from 3/15 to Friday.  This meant leaving New York Thursday night.

So, I still have questions about Lange and the pictures. I guess I'll have to do some research on my own to answer my questions.  With just a cursory search, I learned that the woman in the picture above was named Florence Owens Thompson.  I was stunned to learn she was only 32 years old when the picture was taken.

The picture was taken in February or March 1936 in Nipomo, California. Lange said the following related related to this series of pictures,

I saw and approached the hungry and desperate mother, as if drawn by a magnet. I do not remember how I explained my presence or my camera to her, but I do remember she asked me no questions. I made five exposures, working closer and closer from the same direction. I did not ask her name or her history. She told me her age, that she was thirty-two. She said that they had been living on frozen vegetables from the surrounding fields, and birds that the children killed. She had just sold the tires from her car to buy food. There she sat in that lean- to tent with her children huddled around her, and seemed to know that my pictures might help her, and so she helped me. There was a sort of equality about it.

            From: Popular Photography, Feb. 1960

The publisher website of this new Dorthea Lange biography (Dorthea Lange: A Life Beyond Limits by Linda Gordon), states

Lange reminds us that beauty can be found in unlikely places, and that to respond to injustice, we must first simply learn how to see it.

This quotation, and the pictures, really speak to me.  In a very convoluted way, they contribute to my misgivings about the job for which I interviewed.  I know that might not make much sense, but it makes a world of sense to me.  I am fully aware, however, that I have the luxury of having these misgivings - a luxury that Florence Owens Thompson never had.

Home

Oh, well I'm going home,

Back to the place where I belong,
And where your love has always been enough for me.

I'm not running from.

No, I think you got me all wrong.

I don't regret this life I chose for me.

But these places and these faces are getting old.

I said these places and these faces are getting old,

So I'm going home.

I'm going home.

Home by Daughtry

Sometimes one's wanderings end at home.  I resigned today.  Soon I won't be 1 of 8 million people who live in New York City.  I'll miss it; I'm sure.  I'm so grateful I got to do it for a year.  I'm going home...

Ridley Creek State Park

With all the snow we had, and as broke as Pennsylvania is (as are many states), I'm surprised the Park System would take the time and expense to plow a 4.3 mile trail and the access road to it.  I'm thankful they did.  As temperatures approached the high 40's and the sun (that is what that big, warm yellow ball in the sky is, right?) was finally out, it was wonderful to get outside yesterday.  Definitely needed the Vitamin D and got plenty of it.

There were so many people at the park.  There was also a palpable feeling of hope - "winter is ending and warmer days are coming".  I think the last time I felt that so viscerally was way back in high school when I left the gym after a long basketball season and got to get out on the softball field.  It was still chilly and got dark early, but my senses knew Spring was coming.  Back then, and now, that feeling makes me smile - just a little on my lips but a lot inside.  (One of these days I'll stretch my very limited haiku skills and write a haiku about that feeling!)

I wonder if people who move from a four-season climate to a more moderate climate miss that feeling?  I'm going to enjoy it - as I am tonight with my window cracked ever so slightly - until Spring is here.  So what that we may have snow this weekend?  I know it won't be possible much longer; my senses tell me that.

Snow

Philadelphia has officially gotten more snow than any winter since record keeping of these things began.  We officially topped the last "most year" of 1967.  One big storm fell on the weekend, so I was able to help clean up.  The other one fell during the week so I could only imagine what the cleanup must have been like.  I can see evidence of the storm now that I'm back - evergreens are bent over, heavy with snow. The roads are extremely narrow.  I wondered about the squirrels.  I hope they don't bury their nuts in the ground but, instead, keep them high up in their tree nests.

The first storm that dumped 30 inches on us didn't hit New York City.  This second storm did.  It was amazing, however, to wake up in NYC and - from my 20th floor perch - wonder, "Where is all the snow?"  There was plenty of snow on the roofs of the smaller buildings.  But where was the snow on the streets and sidewalks? 

My first NYC snowstorm and I was baffled.  I was told by co-workers that there are so many steam pipes under the streets and sidewalks that it helps prevent snow accumulation.  I also noticed while walking to work that morning that even dustings of snow were being shoveled by business owners.  So, I guess between the (mostly) conscientious (and probably lawsuit adverse) business owners and the steam pipes, snow in NYC was a  non-event.

While my friends were hunkered down in Philadelphia, I wandered the streets of New York for a long time.  It was cold, but as if all of that snow I saw fall from the sky the night before was a dream.

Getting back from NYC to Philadelphia Friday night was not a dream.  A 3.5 hour bus ride (impossible traffic, not weather-related) and then the trains in Philly were extremely delayed.  At 8:10pm, I heard an announcement in Philadelphia's 30th Street Station that the 6:45pm train was just arriving.  Not what I wanted to hear.  I was exhausted by that point as I had left my NYC apartment at 3:30 for the bus.

I decided to take the subway to a location where I could catch the trolley to my house.  Thank goodness that was running.  I walked in my door around 9pm.  Ugh.

And we're getting more snow on Monday, my travel day back to NYC...

The Saints Came Marching In

From the 'Aints and the paper bag-headed fans to the 2010 Super Bowl Champs.  Great game.  I'm glad they won.

The game reminded me of my last trip to New Orleans in January, 2007.  The Philadelphia Eagles were playing the Saints on January 13th.  (The Eagles lost.)  The flight down from Philly was fun.  Filled with lots of fans going to the game.  Probably the rowdiest flight I had ever been on.  Maybe the actual plane got people excited, too.

The Saints fans were so nice. Nothing like how Eagles fans treat fans from opposing teams.  I met someone at Snooks' Bar on Bourbon Street who literally gave me the t-shirt off her back.  (She was wearing two.)  I still have that Snooks' New Orleans t-shirt.

I stayed in the Cornstalk Hotel on Royal Street in the French Quarter.  I always admired this hotel's facade on previous trips so was happy to get to stay.  I was, however, disappointed with the accommodations.  I remember it smelled musty/mildewy.  Guess those New Orleans summers didn't help in an old building like that.

The purpose of the trip was not just some R&R and fun, but also to understand what I was hearing in the media about the state of New Orleans almost 1.5 years after Katrina.  What I saw not only corroborated those stories,  it was also sad, sickening, angering.  It made me really "get" that the government won't always be the answer in times of disaster.  Even corporations seemingly shirked responsibility.  For example, I saw an ADT truck partially resting (up-ended) on the roof of a house in the Lower 9th ward.  What?!  A year and a half later?  Why did that company think this was acceptable?

  Is it still there?

There were so many abandoned houses - even in the "upscale" communities.  It was hard for me to imagine the despair that leads people to simply walk away from home.  Peering into the homes, it was easy to see black mold everywhere.  My heart broke for those people.  I hope the Saints victory brought back some fond memories of their former lives in the Big Easy.

Arcosanti at Cordes Junction, AZ and Cosanti in Scottsdale, AZ

I woke up with a sore throat last Sunday, the day I wanted to visit Arcosanti.  I momentarily thought about not going but I'm glad I went.

Arcosanti is the baby of now 90-year-old architect Paolo Soleri.  Paolo completed a fellowship under Frank Lloyd Wright and fully embraced the concept of organic architecture.  He also had an affinity for working in nothing but a white Speedo, which I saw video clips of during my visit.  (Apparently this didn't play out well with Mrs. Wright, who was running Taliesin West after Frank died.) 

Before Frank Lloyd Wright's death, he and Paolo had a falling out - according to my tour guide at Arcosanti.  The tour guide said it was because of Frank's ego and Mrs. Wright complaining to her husband about Paolo's attire - or lack thereof.  (Paolo was tan and fit in the Speedo pictures I saw.  Still, trunks would've been a better option in my opinion!)

Arcosanti is based on an intriguing concept.  I agree with Paolo that our urban sprawl (of which Phoenix is a prime example!) makes us waste endless hours behind the wheel - often at a standstill - and isolates us from our neighbors and community centers.  (Many of the houses in Phoenix are in developments where everyone's backyard is surrounded by a stucco or block wall.  My friend who lives there has no idea who her neighbors are.)  His idea is to create dense space for living (although everyone has privacy), working, playing, and meeting.  This enhances the sense of community and preserves open space for all to enjoy.  It also promotes health as people walk to movies, shopping, work, etc.

It is possible to spend the night at Arcosanti, or longer.  My tour guide has lived/worked there for 1.5 years.  When I saw tricycles around and asked where the children are schooled, I expected to hear they were homeschooled.  They are not.  They actually attend school about 8 miles away.  (Someone from Arcosanti has to get them down to the end of the 2 mile lane, though.)

Arcosanti is funded by tours (where there is a suggested $10 donation) and the "world famous" Soleri bells.  These bells - either bronze or ceramic - are beautifully artful.  I wanted to buy one but wondered how my neighbors (and I, for that matter!) would feel about hearing deep bell/wind chime sounds day and night.  The bells varied greatly in price range - from $40 to thousands.  I wound up buying a small (maybe 2 by 4 inches) piece of decorative bronze.

This is a picture of the foundry.

I took a little hike after the tour and was treated to not only a great view of the property, but my first enounter with a javelina.  (I think this one was a baby.)  I wasn't sure what to do so we stared at each other a bit and left each other alone.


After a vegetarian lunch at Arcosanti, I decided to explore Cosanti back in Scottsdale.  It was about a 1.5 hour drive.  Cosanti is where Soleri lives with this family.  It is in a lovely, upscale residential area.  It is also another opportunity to buy bells.  Once again, I refrained....but certainly thought about it again.

Visitors are free to roam the property.  There are signs at various locations, however, that ask visitors to not proceed so as to respect the privacy of the residents.  It was an opportunity to spend some more time in the wonderful weather, peek into the foundry, and marvel at the unique architecture.  Another day well spent!