writes 10 Mar 2007 05:42 pm

Bare-bones and bi-coastal

I’m rarely on the ‘right’ side of anything … an argument, the political spectrum … but I find myself now on the ‘Right Coast.’ Requesting low-fat cream cheese is cause for public mockery, underwear is washed and folded by a complete stranger, delivery is the norm, walking is in and driving is out, fast is slow, and the Pac-10 is like the kid in school everyone made fun of.

So I’m here for my first night in our new Brooklyn apartment, taking it all in. There’s not much else to do, considering I’ve only got an air mattress, this table and chairs (on loan from the tenant across the hall), and my laptop with siphoned wireless. Curtis is 2,797 miles away sitting in an equally empty apartment with equally little to do. I already ventured out tonight for spaghetti and meatballs, which were pretty tasty at $6.95. I’m hesitant to go roaming around alone at night just yet. I’ll probably laugh at that sentence in a few days.

I bought myself a Brooklyn history/reference book tonight, where I learned that Boss Tweed is buried a few blocks from here. I loved learning about corrupt politics at Tammany Hall while I was in school. Knowing he’s nearby evokes this romantic sequence of Thomas Nast images, and it makes me feel like I’m in a place with some real history.

Speaking of history, the contrast merely in architecture between New York City and anywhere I’ve ever been in California is astonishing (duh). NYC exudes this old, worn, permanent sort of energy, like the buildings and streets have stayed perfectly still for decades as the people and shops have grown up around them and within. In California, everything is new, remodeled, torn down and rebuilt. Even the oldest California buildings are kids compared to your standard NYC edifice. It makes me wonder how many generations have walked these streets before me, and what their lives might have been like. A leisurely stroll down Montana Avenue in Santa Monica doesn’t elicit those kinds of musings.

More random thoughts tk.

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