I had a tumultuous last day, which involved not enough sleep, a little bit of packing, a walk on the Highline, some very expensive macarons (you really can't get proper ones here, no matter what my French host mom's boyfriend says), and an unforseen LGBTQIA pride parade (which is the best kind). It was the first one I'd ever attended, and the energy was infectious, even if the music was a little too loud. This is technically a community that I'm part of, so it was nice to feel at least a little bit involved, if only for a few hours.
All-in-all, it was a nice goodbye to the city, which I had actually grown fairly fond of over the month I'd been there. I'd walked across a lot of it (not really, but it felt like it), found a comfort zone there, and developed a sense of ownership through working in a building that tourists take pictures of. I had found something I was good at in a really iconic location. I had lived in New York City, and I hadn't actually been horribly scarred by it. It had even been fun.
I'm not entirely sure why this blog ended up in past perfect, but there it is.
It's not like I won't be back to New York City. I will. Probably in a few weeks. And it's not like I'll never work in editing again. I've been invited back to the Daily Bugle for next summer. Maybe I'll do that. Maybe I'll actually intern for Marvel, so I can get paid for my geeky ways. In any case, I'll be back.
And it's been real.
Monday, June 30, 2014
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Strolling Through Hell's Kitchen: A Two-Part Saga
And then there is the greatest motivator of all: pure obsessive geekiness.
In the first post I made for this blog I mentioned the mythos of New York City. There are a lot of stories tied to this place, and in particular, a whole lot of superhero stories. There's a reason that I've been referring to my workplace as the Daily Bugle. I take comfort in finding ways to make new locations seem familiar. I am an obsessive reader of superhero comics, and this is New York City. That is therefore the lens through which I tend to view the city, and it makes all of my experiences here seem at least ten times cooler. And it has motivated me to wander.
I really only had one major wandering goal in mind when I first learned I had gotten this internship. During my time here, if I did nothing else, no matter what it took, I had to take a walk through Hell's Kitchen. This is a neighborhood on the west side- bordered by 40th (ish) and 60th (ish) and 8th and the river- that has a long and colorful history, with the primary color being red. Really, the name speaks for itself. These days it's much more subdued, and you probably won't get shot by mobsters and dumped in the river. There are several reasons why I felt compelled to walk through this random neighborhood, and one tiny reason was the cool name, another tiny reason was the bloody history, and one huge reason was the fact that one of my all-time favorite superheroes lives there.
My first attempt at strolling through Hell's Kitchen came when I agreed to volunteer at the big BEA/BookCon event in the Javits Center. The Javits Center is a big, glass-adorned convention center. It is also right outside of Hell's Kitchen. And so, my plan was to finish my shift at the con, wander the floor a bit, then go explore a few blocks over. I would, I had decided, walk up Tenth Street, which goes right through the middle of the neighborhood and even seemed, according to the map, to have a park next to it. I like parks.
The sky was clouding over as I left the convention center and made my way down the street. The area is fairly sparse, with empty lots and big industrial-type buildings, so I was feeling a little nervous about being there, but there were a few other people around, so I figured I'd be fine. I walked until I reached Tenth Street, and I peered down it. It looked empty, and a little sketchy. I decided to go one street over, and try that. Ninth Street, it turned out, looked pretty sketchy too. But that was okay. I would just walk down Eighth, which look slightly less mugger-friendly and a bit more populated.
The rain started to fall as I turned onto the street, which seemed very poetic and entirely appropriate. According to the comics, it rains pretty much every day in Hell's Kitchen. The buildings seemed particularly old, a little rundown, and before too long I started to pass antique-looking theaters. The crowds got thicker. I figured I had gone far enough, but I was enjoying just walking, so I kept going. Finally, I managed to convince my feet change direction. I walked back, and by the time I reached the convention center once more, it had stopped raining. Feeling very proud of myself, I returned to my dorm.
Of course, once I finally got back, I took a look at the map, and I realized that I should have paid a bit more attention to where Hell's Kitchen ended and, say, the Theater District began, because it was at Eighth Street. Those sketchy streets that I had decided to skip? Those were Hell's Kitchen. I had managed to avoid the place entirely. Clearly, I'd have to try again.
I didn't get the opportunity until last Monday, the beginning of my final week, when I realized I would have to go soon if I was going to go at all. I decided to stick to my plan from last time. I would walk up Tenth street. Even if it was only a few steps. Even if it was at a run. My pride demanded that I finish what I had started.
This time, I didn't approach from the Javits Center. Instead, I walked along 42nd Street, through massive crowds of people. It was a lively walk, and I began to feel optimistic when I neared Tenth Street and saw that the people hadn't vanished entirely. I reached Tenth, and this time I went for it.
It was a very pleasant walk. I had arrived just around sunset, so the sky along the western streets was a vibrant orange. The area was quiet, but not empty, and consisted of a fairly standard mixture of little restaurants and stores. I found the park. It was a tiny park, with two swing sets teeming with kids, and a bunch of benches lined with parents. I took a picture, and tried not to be creepy about it.
I walked until I felt like I had gone far enough, and then I turned and strolled back the way I had come, feeling like I had accomplished something huge. I had met my goal. I had expanded my comfort zone. I had walked through Hell's Kitchen, and I hadn't been mugged, jumped by ninjas, or run over by trucks illegally transporting radioactive waste, which, if the comics are anything to go by, is pretty dang impressive.
I did go back yesterday, one final time- not quite to Hell's Kitchen, but to a street corner right outside it. Specifically, this street corner:
Unfinished
Friday was the final day of my internship, and it was utterly surreal. Not only because of how quickly-yet-slowly the weeks had passed, in that odd quantum paradox where it feels like you've barely started the thing and yet feel like you've been doing it forever. That was part of it, but the whole day was odd. It was the first time that none of my three editor overlords were present. I was all on my own, which was nice, because I had a tone of work to get done, and I didn't need distractions and extra work shoved at me. It was also strange, and a little lonely. And the other surreal element came from the massive amount of work I had to do.
For the past month and a half I had had project after project and manuscript after manuscript handed to me. I had new assignments every day, in addition to work that the previous intern had kindly left behind. I quickly learned that, in publishing, no one is ever caught up with their work. It's impossible. There's just too much. So I didn't feel too guilty about the massive pile of stuff that had stuck around on my desk the whole time. But I hate leaving things unfinished, so I had set myself a goal to get through as much as I possibly could on my last day. There were several things that I absolutely needed to finish, including some rejections, a manuscript read-through, and whole ton of filing.
It was Friday, so quite a few people hadn't even bothered to show up, and those who were there were in a particularly casual mood. A group of editors actually whipped a cheese and wine picnic out of nowhere partway through the day. I normally would have enjoyed eavesdropping on their conversations and generally feeling superior about doing more work than them, but as it was, I had a pile of stuff to dig through, and I wished they'd be quiet. And this was where the surreal element of the day came in, because I just worked and worked, in an almost trancelike state of desperate calm, all the while aware that time was moving onward and that I had a deadline.
By six o'clock in the afternoon, the time I usually left, practically everyone was gone, and I realized that I just wasn't going to finish. I set a new goal. I singled out certain things that I absolutely had to get done. And I kept on going.
At this point I was starting to feel nervous. I became convinced that I was the only person left in the entire building. I don't like being in big buildings by myself. And what if the sun started to set? Already it seemed as though the streets outside were a bit more shadowed than they had been earlier. I was getting hungry, and tired, but I just kept going.
I finished the essential stuff, mostly, by eight o'clock. The sun had not yet set. I had been sitting at my desk for eleven hours. I had hit my limit. I was leaving.
I brought the massive amount of filing that I had not had time to do up to my editor overlord's office, and I put my ID card on the desk of another nice editor, who had offered to turn it in for me on Monday, and I took some final pictures of key spots where I had interned, and I left the building for the last time.
I was proud of myself. I had told myself at the beginning that I would get through this by being slow and thorough. I would handle the pressure by just doing all I could do and not worrying. And I had done a good job. I had survived. And I had actually, once I gained some confidence and stopped stressing out about singlehandedly bringing down the company, enjoyed my work. I was sad to leave. I would miss that place. I would miss being surrounded by books being born. I would miss the free pizza on Wednesdays.
I had one more thing I had to finish, and I did it on my room on my own computer late Friday night, because like I said, I hate leaving things unfinished.
For the past month and a half I had had project after project and manuscript after manuscript handed to me. I had new assignments every day, in addition to work that the previous intern had kindly left behind. I quickly learned that, in publishing, no one is ever caught up with their work. It's impossible. There's just too much. So I didn't feel too guilty about the massive pile of stuff that had stuck around on my desk the whole time. But I hate leaving things unfinished, so I had set myself a goal to get through as much as I possibly could on my last day. There were several things that I absolutely needed to finish, including some rejections, a manuscript read-through, and whole ton of filing.
It was Friday, so quite a few people hadn't even bothered to show up, and those who were there were in a particularly casual mood. A group of editors actually whipped a cheese and wine picnic out of nowhere partway through the day. I normally would have enjoyed eavesdropping on their conversations and generally feeling superior about doing more work than them, but as it was, I had a pile of stuff to dig through, and I wished they'd be quiet. And this was where the surreal element of the day came in, because I just worked and worked, in an almost trancelike state of desperate calm, all the while aware that time was moving onward and that I had a deadline.
By six o'clock in the afternoon, the time I usually left, practically everyone was gone, and I realized that I just wasn't going to finish. I set a new goal. I singled out certain things that I absolutely had to get done. And I kept on going.
At this point I was starting to feel nervous. I became convinced that I was the only person left in the entire building. I don't like being in big buildings by myself. And what if the sun started to set? Already it seemed as though the streets outside were a bit more shadowed than they had been earlier. I was getting hungry, and tired, but I just kept going.
I finished the essential stuff, mostly, by eight o'clock. The sun had not yet set. I had been sitting at my desk for eleven hours. I had hit my limit. I was leaving.
I brought the massive amount of filing that I had not had time to do up to my editor overlord's office, and I put my ID card on the desk of another nice editor, who had offered to turn it in for me on Monday, and I took some final pictures of key spots where I had interned, and I left the building for the last time.
I was proud of myself. I had told myself at the beginning that I would get through this by being slow and thorough. I would handle the pressure by just doing all I could do and not worrying. And I had done a good job. I had survived. And I had actually, once I gained some confidence and stopped stressing out about singlehandedly bringing down the company, enjoyed my work. I was sad to leave. I would miss that place. I would miss being surrounded by books being born. I would miss the free pizza on Wednesdays.
I had one more thing I had to finish, and I did it on my room on my own computer late Friday night, because like I said, I hate leaving things unfinished.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Dance, Soterios Johnson, Dance
I am a life-long NPR listener and I'm also someone who uses alarm clocks, and so I've managed to combine these two tendencies by having my alarm blast the local news station at me every morning. I like this arrangement because it's jarring, but also informative. There's nothing that wakes you up quite like a well-spoken radio journalist yelling at you about bitcoins. I haven't listened to NPR in that many different places, but it's always interesting to get the feel for the variations; the different voices and programs that come with each region, and the different versions of Standard Morning News Person. There's Alan Shartak back home (though I guess he's not really news, he's kind of everything), and Tom Ashbutt in Boston, and in NYC there is Soterios Johnson.
I had known about Soterios Johnson before coming here, and had been very excited about the prospect of getting my news from him, not only because he has one of the greatest names in existence, but also because one of my favorite singer/songwriters wrote a song about him. Clearly, I figured, he must be a pretty exemplary Standard Morning News Person.
Now that I have spent the past month waking up to Soterios Johnson shouting current events in my ear, the novelty has started to wear off. But he's still a pretty great news guy with an impossibly cool name. Much better than Tom Ashbutt.
I had known about Soterios Johnson before coming here, and had been very excited about the prospect of getting my news from him, not only because he has one of the greatest names in existence, but also because one of my favorite singer/songwriters wrote a song about him. Clearly, I figured, he must be a pretty exemplary Standard Morning News Person.
Now that I have spent the past month waking up to Soterios Johnson shouting current events in my ear, the novelty has started to wear off. But he's still a pretty great news guy with an impossibly cool name. Much better than Tom Ashbutt.
Monday, June 23, 2014
Too Many Old Ladies
My internship consists of several key activities: reading, critiquing, putting stuff in envelopes, and impersonating my superiors. This last is usually in the form of: "Hello [insert sad agent's name here], I'm not going to publish this thing you sent me, and I'm so busy that I'm having some random intern write this for me. Have a nice day!" But sometimes I get to be a Life Model Decoy out in the real world.
A few weeks back, my boss happened to mention to me that one of her authors was having a book release party that, sadly, she could not attend. She asked if I could go in her place, and of course I said "Heck yes!" because one of the most important parts of being an intern is Acting Keen. In fact, I was genuinely excited by the prospect. I had never been to a book release party before, and I would be there as a Stand-In for the Editor (aka an Important Person), and best of all, there would probably be free food.
Well, it turned out, once I was given more of the details, that the party was being held in a bookstore way up outside of walking distance, in the northern bit of the city. I would have to take the subway to a new and unfamiliar location. It was a daunting prospect, but not too crazy. And I had agreed to do this. And again, free food.
And so the day arrived, and I left work early and got onto the subway. I had the address of the place, I knew how to get there, and I had a fairly murky sense of what I would be walking into, but at least I knew the important details. And really, all I had to do was get there, tell the author that her editor said "Hi", get some free food, and leave. Simple. I had given myself plenty of time for the subway, but I hadn't counted on what were, apparently, a succession of "train delays". I don't know what those trains were doing, but they weren't moving, and so I stood there in the humid and far-too-crowded subway car, trying not to look at my watch. And somehow, my plenty-of-time turned into not-much-time-at-all.
I finally arrived at my stop, sweating and irritated, and I ran run down the street and then back up the street, trying to find south. I got it on the second guess. And then I speed-walked as fast as I could down one block, and then another, and then the bookstore was not where I had been sure it would be. It was, in fact, one more block over. At this point I was only spending about a fifth of my energy on walking. The rest was dedicated to cursing out the universe in my head.
Well, I finally found the bookstore, five minutes late, and I fully expected to walk into the middle of the reading portion of the event, and to have a whole crowd of people turn and make faces at me for being late. My only option would clearly be to shout "Train delays! I'm sorry!" and leave before anyone got a good look at my face.
Instead, I walked into a tiny bookstore, in which a small group of people were wandering around and talking amongst themselves. Almost no one looked over at me as I stood, out of breath and dripping, in the doorway.
Having made the trip and found my destination, and when I could breathe once more, my next step was to introduce myself to the author. I wasn't overly nervous about this. I had been told that the author was a very friendly eighty-year-old woman who might, I was warned, possibly call me "dear". And so I scanned the room, There were- I counted- fourteen people in the bookstore, and at least eight of them were friendly-looking old women.
I hadn't planned for this. Of all of the problems I had foreseen for this trip, the issue of too many old ladies had not occurred to me.
I stood around in the corner and studied everyone in the room, trying to figure out which of them looked like they might have written a book. A few of them sent weird looks back at me. Finally, I noticed that the milling around seemed to generally be converging on one particular old woman, and so I made a guess and went for it.
She was very nice, and it turned out that she was, in fact, the author, and she didn't once call me "dear".
The formal reading section of the event had been cancelled, for no apparent reason, and so everyone just talked amongst themselves, I stood around, attempting to stay out of the way of the various milling old ladies, and occasionally eating some of the free food, which was pretty much the only part of my plan that had come through for me. After an hour-or-so, I said good-bye, sent one more awkward glance around the room, and left.
Would I do it again? You bet. That free food was good.
A few weeks back, my boss happened to mention to me that one of her authors was having a book release party that, sadly, she could not attend. She asked if I could go in her place, and of course I said "Heck yes!" because one of the most important parts of being an intern is Acting Keen. In fact, I was genuinely excited by the prospect. I had never been to a book release party before, and I would be there as a Stand-In for the Editor (aka an Important Person), and best of all, there would probably be free food.
Well, it turned out, once I was given more of the details, that the party was being held in a bookstore way up outside of walking distance, in the northern bit of the city. I would have to take the subway to a new and unfamiliar location. It was a daunting prospect, but not too crazy. And I had agreed to do this. And again, free food.
And so the day arrived, and I left work early and got onto the subway. I had the address of the place, I knew how to get there, and I had a fairly murky sense of what I would be walking into, but at least I knew the important details. And really, all I had to do was get there, tell the author that her editor said "Hi", get some free food, and leave. Simple. I had given myself plenty of time for the subway, but I hadn't counted on what were, apparently, a succession of "train delays". I don't know what those trains were doing, but they weren't moving, and so I stood there in the humid and far-too-crowded subway car, trying not to look at my watch. And somehow, my plenty-of-time turned into not-much-time-at-all.
I finally arrived at my stop, sweating and irritated, and I ran run down the street and then back up the street, trying to find south. I got it on the second guess. And then I speed-walked as fast as I could down one block, and then another, and then the bookstore was not where I had been sure it would be. It was, in fact, one more block over. At this point I was only spending about a fifth of my energy on walking. The rest was dedicated to cursing out the universe in my head.
Well, I finally found the bookstore, five minutes late, and I fully expected to walk into the middle of the reading portion of the event, and to have a whole crowd of people turn and make faces at me for being late. My only option would clearly be to shout "Train delays! I'm sorry!" and leave before anyone got a good look at my face.
Instead, I walked into a tiny bookstore, in which a small group of people were wandering around and talking amongst themselves. Almost no one looked over at me as I stood, out of breath and dripping, in the doorway.
Having made the trip and found my destination, and when I could breathe once more, my next step was to introduce myself to the author. I wasn't overly nervous about this. I had been told that the author was a very friendly eighty-year-old woman who might, I was warned, possibly call me "dear". And so I scanned the room, There were- I counted- fourteen people in the bookstore, and at least eight of them were friendly-looking old women.
I hadn't planned for this. Of all of the problems I had foreseen for this trip, the issue of too many old ladies had not occurred to me.
I stood around in the corner and studied everyone in the room, trying to figure out which of them looked like they might have written a book. A few of them sent weird looks back at me. Finally, I noticed that the milling around seemed to generally be converging on one particular old woman, and so I made a guess and went for it.
She was very nice, and it turned out that she was, in fact, the author, and she didn't once call me "dear".
The formal reading section of the event had been cancelled, for no apparent reason, and so everyone just talked amongst themselves, I stood around, attempting to stay out of the way of the various milling old ladies, and occasionally eating some of the free food, which was pretty much the only part of my plan that had come through for me. After an hour-or-so, I said good-bye, sent one more awkward glance around the room, and left.
Would I do it again? You bet. That free food was good.
Friday, June 20, 2014
Tonight: Hank
Situated along the route from my dorm room to my internship is a small, stoic-looking independent movie theater. I have never been in there, but I always glance up at the titles on the facade to see what is currently playing. They seem to have one movie every few days, and they are always movies that I have never heard of. One time the facade just said "Golf". There was a huge line down the street for that one.
But my favorite was the day when the featured movie was something called "Hank III". Once again, I could only guess what it was about. Based on the use of bare Roman numerals in place of an actual subtitle, though, it was clear that this movie belonged to the genre of blockbuster action thrillers. The kind with more explosions than dialogue, and lots of leather jackets, and trailers narrated by chain smokers. It clearly followed the phenomenal success of "Hank I" and "Hank II". In fact, I imagine that it might even have been the conclusion of the explosive trilogy of mind-searing films:
But my favorite was the day when the featured movie was something called "Hank III". Once again, I could only guess what it was about. Based on the use of bare Roman numerals in place of an actual subtitle, though, it was clear that this movie belonged to the genre of blockbuster action thrillers. The kind with more explosions than dialogue, and lots of leather jackets, and trailers narrated by chain smokers. It clearly followed the phenomenal success of "Hank I" and "Hank II". In fact, I imagine that it might even have been the conclusion of the explosive trilogy of mind-searing films:
Hank I: Hank
Hank II: The Revenge of Hank
Hank III: The Hankening
I kind of regret not going to see it. But on the other hand, I'm not sure I would have survived that degree of Hank.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Don't Trust the Met
One of my friends came to visit me in my tiny dorm room this past weekend, bringing with her plenty of witty conversation and a firm list of essential New York activities. Integral to her weekend plans was a day-long trip to the Met. I love the Met, so this was completely okay with me. Specifically, her goal was to visit a temporary exhibit of some (apparently extra-special) dresses. She is aware that my interest in dresses ranks slightly lower than my interest in catching fleas, but she assured me that we would also do something appealing to me.
When we arrived, we found- well, we found many things, most notably the Greek and Roman section, which I have been through countless times but which I nevertheless dragged us into for the opportunity to drool over statues and babble to the world in general about Panathenaic amphorae. We also found the perfect thing to balance out the dresses: a guided tour of the medieval weapons rooms. Yes, I had been through the medieval weapons rooms many times before, but never with the benefit of commentary from an actual museum guide. I agreed that this was a thing we should do.
We found a piece of paper stating the what and the when, but it was very vague in regards to the where. When the time came, we went up to an official-looking adult, and we asked where the medieval weapons tour was meeting. They told us that they weren't sure, but they thought it was meeting in the entrance hall.
We went out to the entrance hall, and just to be sure, we asked one of the people behind the information desk where the medieval weapons tour was meeting. They told us to go one floor down, past a big pillar thing.
We went a floor down. We passed the pillar thing. There were a whole bunch of people with those brightly-colored flags that tourist group leaders carry around to keep their herds from wandering off. But we didn't see any sign of the tour. Fortunately, we found yet another information desk, and another helpful museum official who told us that the tour group was meeting in the medieval wing.
We went to the medieval wing. There was no one there.
It became clear to us in that moment that the tour was, in fact, nothing more than an elaborate hoax, and thus, we learned one of the cold truths of life: the Met is full of liars.
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