Ah, the humidity. So thick that the clouds burst in the late afternoon, yet fail to wash away the dirt and grime of the day. Hardly a refreshing pause, and because the rains are momentarily torrential, if you are not luckily located, you will get drenched, as I did today when forced out of a cab. Would that I felt that I could let the meter keep running…
I had hoped to step out into the golden late-afternoon sun to steal a few minutes for a quiet walk around the block before I ran off to my next appointment. Instead I ran for cover –unsuccessfully. I was soaked. Had to run back to my very part-time apartment, and make a quick change into dry clothes.
It never fails these days. I lose my cherished foraging mojo when I come to New York. I am forced to abide by the rules of New York time, and I plunge into into the speedy flow of a booked schedule in Manhattan with time just not on my side. Notice that I don’t say Brooklyn. In Brooklyn I can forage. Not so Manhattan.
I used to love living like this. You have to keep moving if you’re going to get where you need to go. Then when you get there, there’s no time to lose. Get down to business. Get going. Keep going. Move on. Next.
I still thrive on this. But not full-time. There’s a reason I moved to a small town in Massachusetts. I do like the slower pace. And, yes, to raise my kid in the fresh air. Maybe not the better choice, as many friends’ kids are flourishing as metropolitan sophisticates. Also, we have been priced out. I don’t want to think what I paid for my last apartment in the city back in the late 90′s. What can I expect in this new New York, this borough of 21st-Century One-Percenters? A return to Manhattan? Not gonna happen.
But there’s no time to stew over this. You stay or you go. Lately I’ve been wondering if it makes sense to locate to the scene of an amazing story, enroll T in a local school, and just hang out for a couple of years and film, film, film. I think of fillmmaker Danielle Beverly. I recently saw her at a Women Make Movies pitch workshop. She made a dynamic quick pitch to Jenny Raskin of Impact Partners. Danielle, this incredible documentarian, uprooted herself a few years ago, and moved lock stock and barrel to Georgia to live with and film the residents of a changing neighborhood whose last African-American holdout faces her not-so-friendly new neighbors, members of a confederate-flag-waving college frat house. It promises to be a compelling film. Hope Impact joins forces with DB.
On the same trip, I visited my dear friends at Final Frame to add epilog text to my film. When I took a lunch break, I did not head to my usual lunch spot on 7th and 22nd. I had to head east and deliver a tip to my dedicated color genius on Fifth and 22nd. I’d had “color refreshment” done there the day before, and had no cash to properly acknowledge her deft handling of my tricky root system, and, of course, I’d had zero time to run to an ATM machine.
Right across the street from Marie’s, what did I spy? The Cinnamon Snail, which is quite possibly the best food truck I’ve ever encountered. At first I thought I’d have to give it a pass. The line was long, and I had to get back to FF as I was leaving for Mass. that afternoon. No time to waste. No time to dawdle. But Cinnamon Snail has taken care of that for me and for all their time-tight patrons. Everything is made to order, of course, but they’ve got it dooown. Soon enough I left with my delectable treasure: Maple mustard tempeh on grilled millet flax bread with roasted garlic aioli, kale, tomato and onion. Mmmmm.
Who tended the garden? Who baked the bread? Who mixed the aioli and the mustard sauce? Who weighed and measured the bags of flour and seed that went into the baking? Thank you, kind folks of The Cinnamon Snail. You did it. You make us busy concrete-pounding, earth-loving, organically-inclined wanderers soooo happy!