If variety is the “spice of life”, then NYC is a ramican full of Sriracha.
It is truly amazing how so many different nationalities are represented in one overcrowded, underairconditioned subway car. While there are many countries out there still unable settle their differences with one another (even though they are separated by mountain ranges, bodies of water, hundreds of miles, herds of Bighorn Sheep, etc.), Manhattan, an island spanning only 22.96 square miles (according to the ever so reliable Wikipedia), is home to 1,620,867 people–many of who not only practice a tolerance of others, but also welcome and embrace cultural diversity. Just the other day, my “treadmill neighbor” at New York Sports Club was finding strength and inspiration by blasting Celine Dion (Canadian)’s power house ballad “Taking Chances” on her IPOD. I have also learned that one does not have to journey more than a few avenues to experience harmony and understanding. I mean, why visit the UN Headquarters when you can stand on Fifth Avenue and see an Italian-born D&G handbag sported alongside the French threads of Chanel couture? My recent discovery of the Jew-talian Bagel and Pizza Eatery twenty short blocks south of my apartment, however, was the swift kick in my Hungarian-Russian-Polish-American tuchess I needed. At that moment, I knew that if I wanted to emerse myself in this melting pot mania, action needed to be taken. Consuming a California roll would not cut it.
After some internet research and a few phone calls, around 11 AM on Saturday, Sweden came knocking. Flat-packed diversity! Here are my newest additions from Ikea:
kitchen table- Ikea MUDDUS (black)
dresser- Ikea MALM (white)
chair- Ikea POANG (black)
Article 11, Section 2, intentionally vague subparagraph #432, entitles the leasee (yours truly) to a “clean, freshly-painted apartment” upon move in. Clearly my eyes must have given out halfway through seemingly pointless and safely skim-able subparagraph #433, because I somehow missed a vital part of the fine print. I, the sheltered little girl from the suburbs, assumed that my walls (and perhaps my ceilings) would receive this promised fresh coat of paint.
Apparently, lightswitches, wood floors, doorknobs, bathtubs, electrical outlet openings, and furniture are also, by definition, part of the term “apartment,” and are therefore not exempt from a fresh splattering of Benjamin Moore. Needless to say, when my roommate and I first keyed into our Spin Art nightmare, we dialed the building Super faster than you can turn on a lightswitch that has been painted in the “off” position.
In the end, after a few harsh words in 2-3 different languages, the apartment was cleaned up. Be weary New Yorkers. I caught some footage of these painters working on their next project across town. It seems like they have still not learned to use newspaper and painter’s tape:
In true wide-eyed, twenty-something girl meets big city fashion (a la musical theatre ingenue archetypes Millie Dillmount and Peggy Sawyer), I have arrived in my new neighborhood on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, armed with nothing but a Florida driver’s license, my 305 area code, far too many clothes, shoes, accessories, books, cosmetics, furniture, decorations (you get the picture) for my closet of a room’s closet, and big dreams for the future. The promise of adventure and the unparalleled energy that this “island of joy” exudes, makes my limited square footage with a Barney’s private collection price tag seem like a bargain on par with the Louisiana Purchase (plus utilities). I plan on chronicling my most notable and entertaining adventures, challenges, and neighborhood explorations/discoveries. So please duck the turnstile and join me on the 6 train toward Pelham Bay commute into my world. Stay tuned for more posts.