Billet avec le mot-clef ‘New York’

25 nov

1 écho

The Thanksgiving Top 10

Top 10 of Montreal’s things I miss the most

10. Nature : There’s a lot of parks in NYC, but nature stifles : the human pressure is too strong.

9. Bagels: Sorry guys, but bagels are definitely better in Montreal. Smaller, but better.

8. French language: I miss the liberty to fully express myself with all colours, strength and subtlety.

7. Being Home feeling: I can’t wait to go back to my things, my place, my mess.

6. Cooking: I’m not a great cook. But it’s difficult to cook decently here, the kitchen here are so small.

5. My very big queen size bed: It’s fun to « faire l’étoile » in your own bed.

4. René Homier-Roy: Here I listen WNYC, the public radio of NYC, in the morning. It’s good, but René is like old slippers.

3. A galvaude at the Banquise: The perfect comfort food. (sigh)

2. Friends. Yes, I miss you guys. Facebook sucks.

1. Silent nights: In many parts of Montreal, when the night is coming the city disappears to let place for a country night. Nobody in the street. That could be boring. And it is, sometimes. But that’s the best for sleeping.

Happy Thanksgiving!

23 nov

2 échos

Not that bad

I’m not the most sociable guy in town. I’ve never been good with P.R. For me it’s work. It always needs an effort. Nonetheless that fact, in only one month, I made contacts and initiated relationships in this gigantic city where is not the easiest thing to do.

First, I met Peter. He is curious, wise and really sweet. He has a job that passionate me: editor for a publishing Company. After a drink at Vlada Happy Hours and a dinner, we met for a concert on lunch hour. Before his thirties, he just bought his first apartment, far uptown Manhattan, in a block of Washington Heights. We passed a Sunday together painting the living room, the biggest room of the place (chocolate brown and beige). And by the end of the day, we had a picnic on the floor with the best pizza I never had. The Latino girls made the dough in front of us in a small shop near his new place. I hope to see him again for Thanksgiving. He didn’t plan to see his family.

I met Rob and his Boyfriend, on Saturday night at The Eagle. And then, David: shy manner, devastating smile, expressive blue eyes. He is gentle and attentive and intense at the same time. I don’t know what I would do if I met a guy like him in Montreal. Maybe it’s easy to be the perfect guy in a holiday story. On Wednesday, we planned to pass the evening, the night and the brunch together (written with a crazy smile).

Once a month, David is DJ at the big Apple Ranch, a country-dance club. So, I left my shyness at the doors and arrived just in time for the lesson hour. I learned the two steps basis, the Barn Dance and the CC Shuffles. I danced with at least 23 cowboys (only one had a hat). And I met Jimmy, a landscape architect who works on a very interesting community garden project in Brooklyn. If we find time in the next days, he supposed to show me the garden.

All night, I didn’t stop to apologize for my bad English and for being a bad dancer. The answers I received were always the same: your English is better than my French. Some braves men tried a few word in French and that was horrible. And when I looked on the dance floor, I saw many new dancers as bad as I was. Some were even worse than me. I smiled, thinking: Well, in English like in country-dance, maybe I’m not that bad. I have to remember that I am the one who make the effort to speak a second language. And I realize that’s a big contract. Languages is more than a sum of words, it’s a culture, a colors, a way of thinking.

Time flies. Less than one week before I leave NYC. Without the frame of the school and my roommate leaved, I feel stressed and uncomfortable. But until now, everything has been well. I’m well organized and resourceful. The living is cheaper than I thought. With the money I saved, I paid myself a good ticket for my first musical on Broadway: Wicked. I’m working on the lyrics these days. I’m really excited. The show is on Saturday.

Buckle
Buckle by brutalSF, on Flickr

(written without Google Translate, corrections are welcome.)

18 nov

2 échos

Souffle

Jour de repos. Retour au français maternel. Une respiration avant de plonger en immersion pour une dernière semaine. Ici, le temps est à la fois trop court et sournoisement long. Prisonnier de mon isolement, coincé dans la foule affairée, je tourne en rond comme un fauve en cage, obstiné, obsédé, excédé. Et pendant que je tourne, les dates, les heures et les minutes s’égrènent à une vitesse folle. Le corps, encore une fois, m’oblige à m’arrêter. Je ne suis pas fait fort, faut croire. Et comme toujours, je veux trop en faire. Une toux de 18e siècle, accompagné de fièvre. Du coin de l’oeil, j’ai envisagé d’acheter un billet de retour pour Montréal, courir retrouver le silence et l’espace et tout ce qui me manque. Je dors mal dans cette tour qui tremble sous le cri incessant des ambulances. (J’entends constamment des ambulances, on dirait une fin du monde perpétuelle.)

Mais j’ai baissé les yeux et j’ai laissé passer la nuit. J’ai même manqué l’école le lendemain. Après un courriel d’excuse à Hanna, mon principal professeur, j’ai rattrapé quelques heures de sommeil qui m’avaient échappé. Sur l’heure du lunch, je suis allé voir le Manhattan String Quartet dans une salle de concert de Midtown avec Peter. C’est à cause de sa cravate que j’ai remarqué ce garçon. (Un de mes fantasmes tordus.) « I like your tie », ai-je lancé. Il s’est révélé extraordinairement intéressant. À 29 ans, il a terminé une maîtrise en ingénierie, mais c’est dans le milieu de l’édition qu’il a choisi de travailler, une maison d’édition dans la Cité, spécialisée dans les romans de genre : policiers, suspense, science-fiction.

J’ai fait mes premières armes en anglais en m’attachant à une série télévisée où le personnage principal, Erica Strange devenait « Junior Editor ». C’est exactement cet emploi qu’il occupe. Il travaille en ce moment à tenter de rescaper un roman bancal. L’auteur est sous contrat pour trois ou quatre livres. Celui-ci est son deuxième. L’idée de départ semblait intéressante. Un polar sur le pouvoir des amis d’enfance, les dérives et les dangers du Web. Mais le suspense ne tient pas la route. On devine clairement la fin dès les premiers chapitres. Le personnage est coincé entre deux vérités et reste passif. Deux éditeurs ont parcouru le roman pour en arriver à la même conclusion. Ils essaient de trouver un moyen de sauver le roman sans avoir à demander à l’auteur de tout reprendre à zéro, ce qui représenterait une année de travail.

Nous avons entendu le quatuor à corde No 1 op. 7 d’Arnold Schoenberg et l’Adagio et fugue en ut mineur de Mozart. J’ai trouvé le concert un peu cérébral, pas inintéressant, mais je n’ai pas été complètement happé par la musique. Je suis resté sagement sur mon fauteuil. Et c’était agréable de passer une heure avec Peter dans cette salle toute de bois blond. La salle était à demi remplie, principalement de retraités. Le concept de concert à l’heure du lunch ne semble pas rejoindre les travailleurs. À un moment je me suis tourné et j’ai vu Peter sourire. Un vieux monsieur derrière nous ronflait doucement. J’aime collectionner les coïncidences, j’aime me faire croire qu’elles ont un sens et qu’elles m’indiquent quelque chose. Que ce soit vrai ou pas, je m’en fous. L’important c’est ce qu’elles allument en moi. Un air entendu dans le métro, une citation qui tombe à point nommé, un coyote qui apparaît dans un champ alors que le train s’engage dans un virage. Je cherche à débusquer la magie, je cherche le vent. Je cherche le vent qui emportera mon âme.

16 nov

3 échos

Success

Now, I can find my way everywhere in NYC. But I feel lost and I wonder why I came here. Sometimes in the class, my eyes stick to the second hand and I have one word in my head: escape. I dream of silence and space. I imagine that it’s normal after a few weeks in the City. Une immense fourmilière qui travaille à un train d’enfer pour n’édifier qu’un vide monstrueux et des milliards de solitudes, quelque chose comme The Matrix. French and English languages are fighting constantly in my head. And I miss Montreal and its relaxed way of life. I miss my friends even they are rare. (I miss the using of comas to colour a sentence!) Today my Teacher of Business English asked me what was my favourite comfort food. My only answer was the Boston Market on Austin Street (a kind of local St-Hubert BBQ). I lost my references. My second homework was about my own definition of success:

« First, I think the notion of success is overrated. For North American people and maybe all the westerners success is something coming from outside themselves, something you can buy. That vision of success as a thing to obtain is related to our economic system. Maybe funky advertisers, who need eternal unsatisfied consumers, invented it. Our present economic system needs it to stay in constant growing. It is difficult to resist the incessant brainwash of publicity.

My definition of success has changed with time and has become more personal. From a goal to reach, it became a state of mind. Like many authors had proposed, I try to see success as a journey, not a final destination. I think that each moment can be successful and you can live this success, or not, only in the present moment. That could seem very simple, but actually it is very hard. For me the success is related to happiness. By being happy, I don’t mean smiling all the time and never feeling pain or sadness, I mean a profound sentiment to be at the right place, at the right time. »

Sometimes, I read myself and feel the frustration. I’m so good to write things; so bad to live them. I had big expectations about this trip. One month without working, the cost of the course and the trip was a big investment. The classes are more about conversation and communication skills than grammar, which is not bad. But I think I won’t come back as fluent in English as a thought.

« With this view on success, the first characteristic a person needs to be successful is good self-knowledge. It is probably the most difficult thing. Sometimes it’s a lifetime program. I think that self-knowledge needs courage. Courage to be true to yourself is probably the most important. Living the present and seeing the success as a journey needs a kind of humility and patience. It also needs an optimistic vision of life.

I have no precise plan to success. If the success is more a journey than a destination, I want to learn to enjoy each step of this journey. Learn to live with the victory and the failure, learn to live the questions; even there are no answers. It is something like art craft; a humble work that you had to re-begin each day. Winston Churchill said with humour: « Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm. » »

This is what I want, but it’s so hard, now. My roommate is going to leave for about six days tomorrow. His mother is dying in Seattle. Maybe a little bit more solitude will help me to adapt to my life in the City. I run much in the last days. There is a park bigger than Central Park near my place. It’s called Forest Park. Running is a kind of a refuge. And it’s by the running that I met most of the interesting peoples I met in New York.

Black Out 2003, New York by AleDolce

14 nov

4 échos

Be for real

«…Are you back in my life to stay
Or is it just for today
Oh that you’re gonna need me?
If it’s a thrill you’re looking for
Honey, I’m flexible. Oh, yeah.
Just be for real won’t you, Baby
Be for real oh, Baby
You see I, I don’t want to be hurt by love again… »
Be for real, Leonard Cohen

It’s hard. After two weeks, I admit that I feel homesick. All this time alone, by moment is too much for me. This need of contact, constantly frustrated. It’s not easy to create relationship with New-Yorkers, they are always busy. They fight for money. They fight for space. But I had tried. Contacts are often easier with the foreigners. In the running group, I’m often with a Korean guy, who come here to learn English like me, and with a guy from Argentina who share his life between London and New York. After the run, we eat our bagels in the basement of the church looking at the rest of the group with a feeling of outsiders.

But I forget. I let the City drives me softly crazy. I forget with all these Hoegaarden beers, which you guys paid to me. I don’t know why but I have to come in New York to hear guys tell that I’m sexy, fun, interesting, to be cruised in the street with a smile or just a look. That never happens in Montreal. I met Stan, a very kind guy I chatted with. He introduced me to his boyfriend and his friends on the second floor of The Eagle, a leather bar of Chelsea fulled of hot guys. They said that my English was pretty good and asked why I need course. One of these guys was David, a friend of Rob with incredible lips and a pretty smile. He grew up in Brooklyn and his family still lives there. All the night, I drank glasses of Hoegaarden, one after another, without paid anything. And by the end of the night, happens a big necking séance with David in a dark corner of the bar, in a yellow cab running across East Village, and in the elevator of his building.

I know that’s stupid, but having sex with a Jewish guy was exotic for me, plus David was red hair and sumptuous grey-blue eyes. I was completely intoxicated with his warmth. Maybe it’s a kind of torture I inflicted to myself. Just a sip of what I want. A too short night when I dream of a whole life. It’s easy to lost myself between the beauty mark of his back, in the reflection of his eyes, hidden behind his strong arms.

But the day after, it’s the hangover. All go high must come down. David was quite busy with his two jobs, maybe we will see again next week. I’m able to play an independent guy when it needs, I know perfectly this role. But I’m angry. And, with the hangover, all seems to me worse. I’m in needs, more than before. In need for words, in need for smiles, in need just to know someone, somewhere cares at me, someone I could call. I used to think that this kind of hurt could be useful, could forced me to advance. My roommate laugh at me. What do you write, He said, Dear diary, last night I fall in love? Maybe he is a kind of jealous. I miss Montreal, the silence in the night, the wind often too cold, the good foods.

Brooklyn Bridge at Night - New York City, New York
Brooklyn Bridge at Night – New York City, New York by Trodel, on Flickr

(This post was written almost without any help. Excuse the mistakes; you could leave corrections in comment.)

10 nov

3 échos

Chances

Sure thing, my trip to the Big Apple makes me braver. Bravery it’s not to ignore or minimize the fears. Just the opposite, it’s face it and live with it, step after step. For my first Saturday in NYC, I wanted to join the NYC Front Runners, a runners group affiliated with my runners group in Montreal. This was the day before the NYC Marathon. Have I ever said I’m shy? Meeting a group, a new group, made me feel nervous.

I got out of the subway in Bryant Park, on the 42nd Street to change line. I saw hundreds runners in the streets around the park. I thought that I made a mistake. Wrong day for the Marathon, then wrong day for the run? I could forget my plans. Since I’m here, I realize thought that I’m pretty well organized. Then I decided to not change my plans. Who knows? Maybe there were some runners for the Park Run even it was the Marathon day. I was frustrated to didn’t bring my camera.

On the weekend, the subway is under construction. Many lines are closed, others work, but more slowly. On the red line, I caught an old train with stainless steel inner walls. Construction men worked in the tunnel each side of the train, lighted by electric torches. The train was very slow and it slowed and almost stopped a few time. The car was packed of people and an old black man, who looked a little crazy, shout at everybody, loudly, telling that we are all sinner. The dull noise, the heat, this feeling of oppression: if the hell exists, it might be like that. I was thinking about that when I noticed the man in front of me, near the doors: incredibly hot. He looked like a mix of Asian and something else, tall, strong and elegant. Usually I don’t like Asian guy, but this one…

I took a breath, thinking about the advice that Chris gave me before I left Montreal: Try something new. Do what you never did before. I hadn’t any idea what I could tell to this guy. You’re hot; it’s a little short. I didn’t understand what the old man repeat incessantly but everyone seem harassed. The hot man opened the door between the cars and disappeared in the other car.

Outside I found easily my way to the meeting point, a West Side Church surrounded by building with incredible architecture. On the sidewalk, I saw many runners walking in the same direction. Just before I entered, I saw the same hot man take the three steps stair and open the door just before me.

The NYC Frunt Runners have more than two hundred members registered. And they organized, for the day before the Marathon (finally, I wasn’t wrong), a big brunch for all the running visitors. After a few minutes some guys introduced him to me. One of them, Jim ran with me for the first part to show me the way but finally ran with me till the end. Roads of Central Park are closed for the cars on weekend. After the run he said I gave him the spirit he needed to finish. He runs usually a shorter distance. The run in the park was amazing: soft hills, little ponds and large reservoirs and the fall colours, illuminated by the sun.

Back at the church, I tried to find my bag to change my clothes. The only quiet spot I found was the entrance of the large sunny kitchen where a dozen of men and women prepared pancakes and sausages. I smelted the sweet perfume of pancake, heard the laughs of the cooks. I think I was on an endorphins buzz when I recognize the sounds of a well-known voice singing: « what do you say to taking chances, what do you say to jumping off the edge? » I think this wink of Quebec made this moment a perfect moment.

After I was changed, a guy showed me where was the beginning of the line-up for the brunch. I talked with the guy just behind me. He was Korean and came to NYC for the same reasons as me, learning English. He was in another school. With our plates of fruits salad, pancakes and sausages we tried to find free seats in the large room then I saw the only free places, just beside the hot guy from the subway.

So I finally talked to him and he was very nice. All the group put their hands together for those who will run their first marathon the next day and for others who ran many marathons in their life. (One guy ran 270 marathons during his life.) I will join the group again next Saturday. And I went back to my place, a smile coined in my face and my nose hooked at the sun on the building cornices.

Harlem, the Marathon Day

3 nov

2 échos

Reality check

The night of Halloween, the cold arrived in New York. I saw the Halloween parade on the 6th avenue while shivering. The day before, I got lost in Manhattan. The E train didn’t work. I had to walk two blocks to reach the next station. That was enough to got lost among the giant avenues. I ended up in the crazy crowd of Broadway street with my huge luggage. Many drunken people, false blood and screams. Everywhere in the stations, there is warning about pickpockets and terrorists. « If you see something, tell something. » I think New Yorker might love be afraid. Maybe that’s why they really love Halloween. (In Montreal, Halloween is a kind of tacky.) About an hour later, I emerged from the subway in Queens, just in front of T-Bone Dinner, as Google Map promised me.

The apartment is pretty small, but it’s a great size for New York. Forest Hills in Queens is one of the quietest places around, but there is always the sound of sirens and horns. The district brown brick building dates of the Thirties. There is small and very cute Commercial Avenue where I can find everything I want. Finally, my roommate seems not to be a psychopath and there is no bed bugs in the beds.

When I bought online this course in September, the « education advisor » of Kaplan (who is actually a sales representative) told me that, as Canadian citizen, I didn’t need a visa. At my first day, the director of the Midtown School told me that it would be impossible for me to attend the full-time course without a visa. (That was false, the sales representative was right.) That night, I come back at the apartment very angry. I passed a few hours writing a letter to Kaplan explaining the entire situation with a few new words like « dishonest », « unprofessional », « misleading ». The guy I live with helped me a lot after he came back from work. He rewrited almost everything and made my letter more relevant and persuasive. You’re in NY, he said, you need to be more assertive and a little bit more aggressive. The day after, the director apologizes me.

The little brick building of the school seems lost among skyscrapers of 56th street. It is a kind of Babylon. The languages I heard the most right now it’s Korean and Portuguese (from Brazil). It’s pretty interesting to see people from all around the world try to communicate. And it’s charming to hear all the different accents. I’m the only Canadian in the place but I’m really comfortable with that. It’s fun to see how the reality foils our scenarios. No dramas or catastrophes happen, just the sun of a pretty cold fall in New York City. That disturbs me at first, as crazy as it seems, but it relieves at the same time. All days seem like a new horizon, full of possibility.

31 oct

4 échos

The border

Les rails épousent les rives sinueuses du lac Champlain. À travers la vitre pointillée de pluie mon regard balaie le jaune franc des bouleaux, le cuivre volontaire des chênes et le vert soyeux des pins blancs. De temps à autre, le train s’approche de l’eau un peu plus et le paysage s’ouvre. Le lac embrumé apparaît, fantomatique comme un loch d’Écosse. Entre les milles nuances laiteuses ou plombées du lac et du ciel gris, on devine l’autre rive et quelques îles.

J’aime ces heures suspendues entre deux points. Sans passé, sans avenir. I’m a little confused between French and English. As we just passed the border, I should switch to English. The border officer was a woman. That mades me more confident. She asked me a cascade of fast questions. But I understood well. Of course, she asked me why I’m going to NYC. « To do an English course », I said. She asked me how long is this course, how it costs to me, if I know anybody else who’ll follow the same course. I answered well. I just confused « thousand » and « hundred », which makes her smile. Some others are « fouillés » or asked to go out of the train to others formalities, not me. Lucky I am.

« To do an English course. » Is it that true? I mean, actually yes, it’s the aim of my trip. Why do you want to learn English, she asked me with a smirk? Too many ideas bumped into my head. I look at her, smile, and said: « for fun! » One hour later, the officers left the train. Why I’m doing this, why all this stress and why spent all this money? Why go so far when I know deeply what I’m really looking for it’s going back home?

Maybe because I don’t know where is my home. I’m a kind of homeless since I got out of childhood. I got a feeling that travelling was the right thing to do. NYC is a crazy city. I love and I need this craziness, this energy. And I need to be kicked out of my comfort zone. Maybe that’s the true reason why I do all of this. To put myself in adventures, in risk, to discover others faces of myself and maybe find a sense of home.

Champlain lake is disappeared. The train rolls along red brown bottomlands and meadows; with some half ruined wood farms, a few cows and a grey horse. All around, on the foggy sky, there are glimpses of the shadow of the Adirondack Mountains. We follow a rapid river with water dark and clear as the crystal. I can see the rocks shining softly under the water. Then, the lake is coming back. The railroad cuddles the bay again, and for a moment, I could thing the train floats above a mirror.

Lake Champlain Adirondacks in Sunset by Nature’s Images, on Flickr