New York, I Love Hate You

I am so over this damn city.

I got on the train this morning and, honestly, there was nothing particularly special about today's rush-hour madness. I spent 30 minutes clutching my purse to make room, apologizing for my every movement and occasionally my own weary sighs, and trying to move in ways that would let the dude behind me know that we shouldn't be touching butts--you know, the usual. But I just hit a wall of Danny Glover-ness (I'm too old for this shit!) combined with Samuel L. Jackson fed-up-edness (I'm sick and tired of these muthafuckin' snakes on this muthafuckin' plane!!!) that I can't get through.

Listen, I know it's "the greatest city on earth," and I sure as hell wouldn't want to live in another city in America, but we're selling ourselves short, people! And the worst part is that these low standards are acceptable. Living in New York City and taking public transportation, I smell human excrement on a daily basis--sometimes several times a day--and this is commonplace. WTF??! This ain't Calcutta! This sure as hell ain't 14th-century England during the bubonic plague--why is there excrement in the streets?! We're worth more!

This started getting to me when I was walking to the subway and saw this homeless guy. He's tall and skinny and looks about 70 years old (thought he's probably 40) and he's balding with basically two long matted dreadlocks. When I saw him on the platform, my first thought was, "Aw, shit, this guy again. I better get a damn seat so he doesn't touch my shoulder and call me 'beautiful miss.'" Y'all, this man is not violent or loud, but he is relentless. But the point is: Why do I have a history with a hobo??? I am not, nor have I ever been, impoverished (praise black Jesus). I have never dated a hobo or performed at a hobo benefit. And yet I see this person and can immediately recall his life story and personality quirks as though he were an old school chum. I'm not okay with this! Of course, the fact that I'm annoyed by him just gets me one rung closer to hell, and I'm not proud of it, but this is how NYC gets you. You get inoculated to pain, y'all.

Yesterday after work I was getting into the train at 28th street and I saw two men on the steps, standing a few feet apart from each other. Black guy was standing further down, White guy was standing toward the top (I'm ID'ing them by race to make it easier to describe, don't worry!). On the other side, a guy was trying to exit, so I waited for the clog to clear. The guy came through but the other two men didn't move. The Black guy waved the white guy down and told him to come closer. I'm thinking these two are going to walk down so I start going down but they stop about 4 steps up from the subway platform. The Black guy reaches into his sock and pulls out a baggie. The white guy peels off some bills and hands him cash. I interrupt this exchange with, "Excuse me, um, can I get through? thank you."
Y'all, I walked through a drug deal!! LIKE I'M JUST STRAIGHT OUT OF A SPIKE LEE JOINT AND DON'T GIVE A F#?!%

I didn't realize this until a minute after I swiped my Metrocard--and that's what really got me. Growing up in pre-gentrified Harlem as the child of a mother who worked in family and criminal court, I am anything but cavalier, and I know that killers are around every corner (oh yeah, I'm a drama queen who grew up on Lifetime movies). I never thought I'd see the day I'd burst through an interracial illegal drug trade. That guy could have pulled anything out of his sock (like a weapon!) and I woulda been up in the crossfire! I need to go back to Australia so I can get my head back on straight and appreciate this place. Who's with me?

The Lady of Lilyfield!

Today's a big day, guys. I'm writing this post in my pajamas while eating cereal....in my own place!!!

I moved into my place in Lilyfield 2 days ago, and so far so good. Well, except for the fact that I don't have a comforter and have been sleeping in 3 layers. Other than that, it's perfectly fine.
I'm in a part of a house that has been made into a precious apartment by an older couple. They rent out 2 bedrooms--one to a blacktress, and another to a cute German guy who has been here studying for 6 months.

I have never lived with a guy. It makes me fearful of being seen with morning breath and makes it near impossible to make a tooty--if you know what i mean. Luckily, I think I've scared him, too, because he doesn't hang out much and keeps his bedroom door closed. Yesterday, I got in at almost midnight (after helping BCB style the cast and extras for a TV pilot), and was shortly followed by the German boy, who clearly likes to hit the streets.

Lilyfield is a suburb in the "inner west," connected to the city by bus and light rail (a tram, basically). It's very quiet and boring, but I tried to see the bright side and remind myself that back home in Harlem, I journeyed at least 20 minutes when trying to see friends and have good times. However, the biggest difference is that I could get a train or bus 24 hours a day back home, and here, I have to rely on cabs after midnight.

And no cabs know where I live.
And, being foreign and new and all, I can't give them directions.

It makes for a really high fare and great frustration on the part of the blacktress.

I think the hardest thing about moving to another land is the little things--not knowing where to shop, not knowing how to get places, and not being able to just find a nice, cheap place to grab lunch. Making new friends is always rough, and being lonely isn't a shock. Neither is not having a job, or the fact that it will likely take me a while to get one; these things are rough whether I'm in NYC or NSW.
But when I'm searching on the internet for a grocery store and can't find anything closer than a mile, I lace up my walking shoes and wonder how the hell I'm going to make it a whole year here.

Okay, off to buy food and shampoo--nothing too heavy, though--I have a long walk back.