A real celebration of independence (Boston edition)

As you may have already read on The Brian's blog, I traveled to New York City over the weekend of July 1 through July 3. It was incredibly difficult to make it through the preceding week of work in order to have those days off, but I feel like it was completely worth it.

Friday, 3:00 pm: I got off work and promptly headed down to the Davis Square T station to take the red line down to South Station - one of Boston's two large transportation hubs. After a brief train ride, I made it to the bus station way earlier than I had expected, and siezing the opportunity, I boarded an earlier express bus to New York, taking literally the last seat. The bus driver drove like a madman. We embarked from Boston at 4:00 and somehow made it to New York by 7:30, which suited me perfectly because it gave me a couple more hours of precious freedom where I wouldn't be stuck in a bus seat. Upon arrival, I immediately noted the smell and general poor condition of the Port Authority bus station. If you've never been there, don't look forward to your next trip. The station is enormous. In fact, it is the largest bus terminal in the country, if not the world, and it shows. There are thousands of people there at any given time crowding the corridors, waiting in lines, buying crap from vendors, and urinating in corners (that must explain the stench.) Since everyone knows how much I love masses of humanity, you can imagine how uncomfortable I was at the bus station, and furthermore, how relieved I was to be able to breathe somewhat cleaner air outside.

I left the Port Authority station and called Brian to meet up and head back to his place. After about 10 minutes of waiting, watching every type of person imaginable walk by, taking two tourist photos for random people who asked, I got a call from Brian at this very intersection:



Ring. Ring.

Me: "Hello?"
Brian: "Cross the street. NOW."

Click


That was my introduction to the busy New York streets in Times Square.

To start, here's my official token Times Square photo:



Yes I was actually there, and every person around us was doing the exact same thing, taking the exact same photograph of themselves. I just thought I'd sneak in my version.

For those of you who don't know, Brian lives in Harlem. I am sure that Harlem's reputation is known widely enough that I don't need to go into too much detail about my surroundings. This is the view from his apartment's living room window:


Looks tame? Not even close. That photo was taken at about 11:00 in the morning, a time at which most of the serious crazies are asleep. Walking out onto those very streets at say, 11:00 at night, you find yourself in a completely different world. From the sounds I heard, it may as well have been Fallujah. People were yelling and screaming until the sun came up, and for most of the night, they were setting off 'fireworks' the size of Red Bull cans. I use the term 'fireworks' in quotation marks because the things they were detonating were essentially light bombs, the explosions from which were enough to rattle Brian's windows, knock out storefront lights, and set off car alarms. I don't know how anyone sleeps there.

It was fun, though. Believe it or not, I actually found it refreshing and interesting to be a blatant minority. That kind of situation isn't something I have ever really experienced to the extent that I did last weekend. It was certainly frightening at times: Friday night, we walked past an unmarked building at 4:30 in the morning where six or so hulking guys stood at attention dressed in all black. But overall, the entire experience of Harlem was a pretty positive one. I didn't get robbed, beaten up, killed, or anything like that. I saw more bootleg merchandise than I have ever seen in my life, and that includes the thirty or so stands that sold only incense.

The rest of the weekend was a blast. After Brian and I got back from the bus station, we enjoyed a refreshing 99 cent Pabst Blue ribbon, and it was off to enjoy the New York night life. After an evening/morning of debauchery and fried chicken, we finally made it home to Harlem, whereupon we attempted in vain to drink some of my beer. We did succeed, however, in making a complete mess with the chicken and then promptly passing out - Brian in his bed, and me on the floor, fully clothed, shoes on. Awesome.

Saturday went just as well. Begrudgingly we rose from our sleep to a surprisingly quiet and calm Harlem and after about a gallon of water each, we were off to Shea Stadium to see the Mets play the Florida Marlins. Coincidentally, I could really care less about either baseball squadron, I just thought i would be wicked cool to go see a game. And wicked cool it certainly was. We arrived after the longest train ride ever at the stadium in beautiful Queens, New York. When we got there, we were treated unexpectedly to the world hot dog eating championship semifinal where we saw the one and only Crazy Legs Conti. (Notice the Celtics jersey he's wearing in the first photo.) The game was the awesome, though baseball wasn't the first thing on our minds:






The footlong hotdog and Smirnoff Ice combo is a tribute to my favorite thing: absurdity, just to clarify for those who don't know me that well.


The game was a blast. Brian and I had a great time heckling everyone including the concessions guys, and especially Mike Piazza, who is apparently not gay. It certainly helped that by the 6th inning, we were rip-roaring trashed, and it was only about 3:00 in the afternoon. Nonetheless, the game was a huge success, mainly due to the fact that we had awesome seats:


I had never seen Shea Stadium before, and I was impressed with the cleanliness of the whole park. At least it was pretty clean where we were, in these wicked sweet box seats.

After the game, we decided to wait for the masses of people who left early to dissipate as the trains took them home. It had been an exceptionally long and uncomfortable train ride to Queens, and we didn't exactly feel like making that ride any worse with about eight thousand people on the train with us. So we waited and sobered up a bit before we hopped on the 7 for the long journey back.

Once we dropped off our Carlos Beltran bobbleheads, and after a brief rest, we were off for some more sightseeing and general mischief. This is the point at which the chicanery described in my previous post actually takes place. Saturday night was just as eventful as Friday had been. We visited Barcade and had our fill of microbrews before sitting down to a ridiculously greasy but oh so good 'breakfast' at 3:00 in the morning.

After brunch the next morning, it was time to say goodbye to New York. Brian and I took our time getting back to the bus station where I would leave, stopping briefly to gawk at Samuel L. Jackson. It was sad to go back, especially since I was already dreading work the next morning, but the whole weekend had been worth it.



*If you want to view all the pictures I took from the weekend, they are available in in full and in higher quality at my photo graveyard.

As if New York cops had nothing better to do...

On my recent jaunt to fabulous New York City, specifically Harlem, I celebrated my true independence with the Brian. His account of the weekend can be found here, along with some great snapshots of the absurdity that surrounded us for three days in July. My pictures will be coming shortly, but for now, let's examine what it means to be homeless or stranded in New York City.



New York can be absolutely terrifying for someone with no money and nowhere to sleep at night. You are in constant competition for food, shelter, warmth, and safety, all of which are highly valuable commodities for someone with no means of income. Picture yourself in the following situation: You have just come to New York to find a new life as many millions of people have. Your family is far away or non-existent, and you only have a few belongings and your wits with you. All of a sudden, a stranger wielding a knife jumps out from behind a corner and robs you of all your worldly posessions. Four letters come to your mind, "F U C T." What do you do? You don't have any place to stay, you don't know anyone, you're a mess from the mugging and ensuing struggle, and you certainly don't have any money.

It's at this point that your mind starts to reel. You begin to panic. Fear and hunger make a person do some things he or she might not ordinarily do. You begin to pick food out of dumpsters so you can eat. You gather any clothing you can to keep warm and dry. You find yourself a little place to curl up and sleep before the police wake you up and move you along. Most importantly though, your number one goal is to find money. After all, it is the most important thing to humanity for with money lies the keys to all manner of commodity. So you start begging for change because you can't exactly go into Taco Bell looking like you have been eating out of dumpsters for a week, and I don't know a landlord in the world that will take someone who looks and smells like you do - especially because you don't have a huge wad of cash to put down on a deposit for a halfway decent apartment.



I believe this is where one's hopes start to dwindle and die. Now that you've been on the streets for a few weeks without a shower or a hot meal, you're beginning to realize that your condition is pretty hopeless without help. Even then, the help you get is more often than not a stop-gap measure just to keep you alive enough to not be a bit nuisance by dying of starvation on the street corner. You wander in to soup kitchens and churches looking for something - anything - to eat, or a place to stay. There isn't much real aid available, just a cot for the night and a bowl of chowder - nothing that will help you actually overcome and rise out of the situation in which you have found yourself.

So hopelessness sets in. Without any ties to the real world, no family, no friends, no job, no house, no money, and no hope of success, your mind starts working on an entirely different level. You have given up on escape as many homeless persons do, and you concentrate on your immediate goals like finding your first meal of the day or not getting stabbed to death. It is in this situation where I believe many of our homeless persons live: in constant fear of starvation, attack, and arrest. What would you do?

Speaking hypothetically about that situation is one thing. You may have thought to yourself already, "I would certainly not let it get that bad." I'm sure that most if not all of the homeless population has thought the same thing at one time or another. But it's unfortunately not that simple. Imagine you are on a boating trip and your ship sinks. You are the only survivor, and you wash up on the beach of a deserted island. You have no form of communication, and the authorities presume you are dead along with everyone else on the boat. What do you do now, smart guy? The answer is simple. You shift gears. You turn your thoughts suddenly to survival, and that means finding shelter, food, and water immediately. With no lifelines, you are left on your own to fend for yourself. I think being homeless in the city is a lot like being stranded alone on an island and no one is looking for you. Even in the massive crowds you are alone, a persona non grata. When hardly anyone even acknowledges your existence, try not "letting it get that bad" then. It's even worse when you start out homeless - born into a family whose chances of living above the poverty line are slim to none:


source: New York City's Department of Homeless Services.

Your problems get even worse when you realize you have to deal with the government and the New York City cops.




Once you have given up much of your earlier hope of recovery, you may start to try avoiding your problems with alcohol and illicit substances. Here's where your situation gets really bleak. You are dirtier than you have ever been in your life. You may have any number of diseases but you don't know because you can't afford health care. You are sick almost constantly from the spoiled food you eat. You are always tired for lack of anywhere really comfortable to sleep for any length of time. Subway grates are warm, but not very inviting otherwise. Someone says to you, "Here, take a hit of this - it'll make your stomach feel like it's not eating itself anymore." So there you are in the woods in Central Park at 4:47 in the morning smoking crack cocaine. And compared to every other sensation in your life, crack is bliss. It's infinitely more satisfying than an ice cold 40 oz malt beverage, and you seem to be able to get your hands on it just as easily.

During my time in New York, I wanted at least a little taste of what it would be like to not have much of any hope, and actually beg for change in Columbus Circle. Finding a sign made of cardboard which read, "STRANDED: Need your help to get a bus ticket home to New Hampshire. PLEASE!" The Brian and I went to the gates to Central Park at Columbus Circle. I gave him everything I was carrying and he disappeard for a bit to take some photos while I tried my best to look disheveled sitting at the base of a large concrete pillar. I held out a McDonald's cup with some seed money in it and practiced a little method acting by trying to actually mentally put myself in the situation of the person who had made that sign. I must say it was pretty frightening just to pretend, and I must have been doing a fairly decent job because in 15 minutes, I made a whole quarter. The donor? A young man about my age, completely thugged out, not looking like much of a tourist at all. Others passed me, reading the sign, gawking, and whispering to themselves. An old woman said to her husband, "That must be scary." She didn't give me any money though.



Feeling a little guilty for deceiving people like that, and thinking that some of the people hanging out around that area were catching on to my shenangian, I decided I'd had enough and I packed up my sign and my $1.57 and walked furtively around the corner to meet the Brian and continue our journey. On the way back to the 6 4, I deposited the change I had in the McDonald's cup into the Dunkin' Donuts cup of an eldery homeless gentleman on Broadway. At least I didn't keep the money.