The humorous hosts of The Big Terrific comedy showcase

But! Not to worry, the perfect remedy to your hump day blues comes in the form of free comedy and free live samba music.  (I know, I know, almost too good to be true!)  Having tested this Wednesday night itinerary myself, I can confidently give it my “good times” seal of approval.  Although I’m not one to readily leave lower Manhattan, I’d read about The Big Terrific comedy show in Williamsburg and had been wanting to go.  Luckily, the show’s venue, Cameo Gallery, is right off the Bedford L stop, and I’m always willing to explore the city in search of hilariousness (…or delicious food or culture appreciating or socializing or general fun times–okay, so I’m a fun times whore and my criteria is pretty broad… the truth is, I’ll go anywhere you want me to–except for Jersey).

So I assured a fellow Manhattanite that no, we would not need visas to go to Brooklyn (heh), and we braved the trip to Sixth Street in Williamsburg.  Our first stop was the aforementioned Big Terrific comedy showcase, hosted by Internet comedy darling Max Silvestri, and his two friends Gabe Liedman and Jenny Slate.  The weekly Wednesday night show is completely free, and–despite its lack of a cover charge–actually totally funny.  Held in Cameo Gallery, a nondescript stage in the back of the Lovin’ Cup Cafe (which is presumably a bar, and not a cafe), you might never guess the hilarity that occurs here every week–except for the glittering streamers hung from the ceiling that, upon second glance, is arranged in the shape of what could only be a large fluttering penis.  (Appropriate. Of course.)  Max Silvestri starts the show with his nerdy/pseudo-intellectual/awkward/hilarious brand of stand-up, and Gabe and Jenny do a ridiculous but side-splitting tag-team bit at the end, and in between are a rotating lineup of guest comedians, which have included Aziz Ansari, Zach Galifianakis, Sarah Silverman, and (fellow Georgetown alum–what up Hoyas!) Mike Birbiglia. Ever heard of ‘em? A bar in the back of the room serves cheap drinks, which for a lesser show could help facilitate the laughter–not that they’re necessary here.  Cracking up is the norm; cringing at bad jokes the rarity.  Arrive just before 8pm to get a seat, but there’s standing room aplenty.  For all the awesomeness that is free, genuinely funny comedy, the show still hasn’t become overly crowded or hyped.

Surf Bar, Photo courtesy of robbiedew at flickr

After you’ve laughed it up, and thought to yourself, “Thanks, Karen, for the tip!” (any time, guys : )) you’ll probably find yourself wanting to continue the fun with Brazilian drinks, music, and people.  (This may apply to only a very small subsection of my readers… perhaps even none… but… just roll with it.)  Surf Bar, just a few doors down from where The Big Terrific takes place, looks like a Hawaiian tourist shop exploded, took a hit of acid, and rearranged itself in the form of a bar in Williamsburg.  As one Yelper put it, “Conceptually this place is ridiculous–in an awesome way.”  All sorts of surfing paraphernalia and kitsch–leis, surf boards, Hawaiian shirts, hula dancing dolls, old pictures of surfers, newspaper clippings, neon lights–adorn the walls.  Four inches of sand covers the floors!  It’s certainly not the hippest bar in Williamsburg, but my friend happened to see written on the chalkboard outside that Wednesday nights just also happen to be Brazilian night.  And in case you didn’t know, it is actually a fact that all Brazilians know how to have a good time.  We entered the bar just as the samba band was about to start up again.  And at the first beats of the music I knew we had to stay.

This was a perfect dose of nostalgia for me, as I listened to the guitar notes gliding quickly and fluidly with the tambourine in syncopation, watched the dancers’ feet keeping time with the beat of the drum, and let the singer’s voice lull me back into my love affair with the Portuguese language.  Ai que lingua e musica lindissima! (Another fact: Brazilian Portuguese sung is one of the more beautiful things that exists in the world.)  The Brazilians I met at this bar drive in every week from Queens to dance the night away as the band plays samba and forro classics.  And of course, no Brazilian night would be complete without caipirinhas, Brazil’s national drink.  Not all caipirinhas are made equal and the ones at Surf Bar are strong, large, and smack of the real thing from Brazil–and also pack a mean hangover like the ones in Brazil.  Drinking cachaca, having sand beneath my feet for the first time in much too long, the heady samba music coursing through me, being a smart-alecky little Asian girl busting these Brazilian guys’ chops in Portuguese–it was surreal and wonderful at the same time, and stirred up a lot of saudades for Brazil.  Happening upon this place was the frosting on my metaphorical (penis-shaped) funfetti comedy cake.

Now, how’s that for a Wednesday night lineup?  If you’re looking for more ideas, I’ll hit you up with yet another Wednesday night event, the Moth, in a later post.

A few weeks ago I took the train all the way up to East Harlem (that’s around 110th Street, for those who need some orientation) and spent the afternoon soaking in the sun at Conservatory Garden on the upper east corner of Central Park.  It’s the only formal, manicured gardens in the iconic park, and a peaceful place to catch up on reading (or blogging, as the case may be), take a stroll, let your mind unwind, walk your rabbits (see photos below), and admire the beauty of this little oasis in this enormous, bustling city.

I’d been learning the hard way that Manhattan means over-crowded cafes, frenetic stores, and bumper-to-bumper foot traffic on all sidewalks.  

Even when I had wanted to find a cute little bookstore or corner in a coffee shop to do work at, I was always foiled.  Too many people. Too many gangly hipster couples gazing into each others’ eyes over their double-shot cappuccinos (I made that up–I don’t really drink coffee so I’m not sure if that exists).  Too few tables, a scarcity of chairs, an abysmal dirth of armchairs, and certainly not enough power outlets.  So the hour I spent alone on that park bench, writing away on my computer, under an archway of bowed tree branches, with the rays of the the brilliant sun wrapping around me was pure bliss.  It’s just too bad that it’s going to be too cold for the next four months to do it again!

Anyway, some pics of the gardens:

ooh. pretty.

Flowers still exist at the end of fall!

So Upper East Side... but it's East Harlem! Gotcha!

Just a regular day walking her bunnies in the park for this Upper East Side resident.... what?!

I want reading in this park to be part of my regular routine.

After sitting out in the sun in just a tank top in November for a couple hours, and enjoying every last minute of sunlight I could in the park–I didn’t leave until shadow fell over most of the park–I headed into East Harlem.  It’s a mainly Hispanic neighborhood, i.e. not a 6-foot-tall blond model or hipster in shrink-wrapped leather jeggings in sight.  In fact, people here have the opposite fashion sense: wide, loose-fitting pants reign supreme here, and I am a big supporter.  Obviously I had to take advantage and eat some Latino food because you know I’m a foodie at heart. With the help of my trusty restaurant advisor, Yelp (seriously, you guys, if you’re not using Yelp, you really need to get on that train), I found a tiny Mexican restaurant called Cafe Ollin at E 108th Street and 1st Ave.

Here’s my unequivocal endorsement for Cafe Ollin: Go there if you want uncommonly delicious, cheap, filling, authentic Mexican food (not Tex-Mex).  Nothing fancy. No bells or whistles.  No woven brightly-colored table cloths or sombreros, and nothing painted a golden yellow (have you noticed that all Mexican restaurants must be painted golden yellow?).  Just bare tables and chairs; a couple Catholic decorations on the walls; a few small, potted cactuses on the table alongside the hot sauce; and a TV playing futbol–obviously mandatory.  The chips were thick, corn-tortilla style chips; they tasted like handmade tortillas that were cut, fried, and salted right before being put on our table.  The salsa verde had a bit of kick, which any legit salsa needs to have.  You don’t really respect a Mexican joint that serves mild salsa, just like you don’t respect a Pho place without Sriracha sauce.  (AM I RIGHT?)  I love tomatoes so I normally prefer tomato salsa to tomatillo (green) salsa, but this stuff was tasty.  And garlicky.  And had just the right amount of cilantro/onion/magical Mexican seasoning to it.  Yum. They had a fridge full of intriguing soft drinks, too–the South American kind, which are made with real cane sugar instead of high fructose corn syrup.  We got a goiabana (passion fruit) flavored drink, hilariously named “Boing.”  I was tempted to try the horchata, which I for some reason had always thought was a minty drink.  But it’s actually made with milk and rice and vanilla or cinnamon, and milky drinks and I don’t always see eye to eye. (Remember how I kind of think most white, creamy foods are gross?)

Our entrees did not disappoint after the great chips and salsa.  On the suggestion of our waitress/dona of the restaurant, I got one of the cemitas, a traditional Mexican sandwich.  I’d never heard of these things before, but the waitress made a good sell for the spicy pork cemita, so I was happy to trust her.  The thing comes out and it is literally the size of a basketball–almost as tall as it is wide.  A lesser person might have been daunted by the enormity of this sandwich, but no, I tackled it with verve and gusto.  Between two plate-sized sesame seed buns sat a tall stack of ingredients, all fresh, seasoned well, and a wonderful combination of flavors.  Each bite of the sandwich (which, believe me, was actually difficult to bite through the entire sandwich at once) took you through the multiple layers of goodness: lettuce, tomato, onion, Oaxacan cheese, black beans, avocado, spicy pork, all topped off with a smoky chipotle sauce.  This is the type of sandwich I want to have available to me when I’m hungover, and don’t want to move from my couch, but could really use a huge portion of excellent-tasting food to make me feel like a normal human being again.  I could have used some more tomato in the sandwich, because I could put more tomato on just about anything, but that’s me.

This picture does not do justice to how big this sandwich was.

My friend got tacos with–get this–cactus!  I was so intrigued by cactus because I’d never had it before–would it be tough? what do they do with the prickly things?–and it actually tasted just like sauteed green peppers, perhaps even more tender, and with less of that green pepper kind of bland taste.  Interestingly, the tacos came with potatoes, as well as jalapenos, avocado, and cheese, but the texture and flavor were spot on.  I really liked what I tried of his dish, and would probably order it if I went back.  He also said it was some of the best Mexican food he’d had in the area, which, for East Harlem aka Spanish Harlem, is saying a lot.

My face betrays the stress of hosting my first Thanksgiving, plus in a foreign country, plus where there are no Thanksgiving-like foodstuffs to be found. But I managed to make this tray of stuffing from scratch in an oven that didn't regulate temperature. Thumbs up to that!

You guys. It’s Thanksgiving. Seriously?!  How did the beginning and middle of 2011 fly by so quickly?  On this day last year, I was frantically cooking my heart out to prepare a Thanksgiving feast for my Brazilian friends.  On this day two years ago, I was doing the same but for a group of newly acquired expat friends in Buenos Aires. It’s been a wonderful, crazy (sexy/cool? oh hey TLC) journey since that first Thanksgiving that I spent out of the country, without my family and in the company of near-strangers.  This year, back in the U.S. and with my family at my side, my life has changed tremendously, for better or for worse.  It being the holiday of thanksgiving, it’s a natural time to reflect on how lucky and blessed I’ve been in the past couple years. So in the spirit of cornucopias and gourds and the Pilgrims and Native Americans, here’s a select list of things I’m grateful for this Thanksgiving: 

1) I mean, this goes without saying, but I’m just gonna give it a shout-out because you know, ’tis the season.  Family and friends.  You guys complete me. And had me at hello. Ironically, these next few months, perhaps even years, will be when I need supportive family and friends the most, so thanks in advance goes out to all the people who will have my back and listen to me vent and whine and cry, or who’ll raise a toast with me when I’ve finally made it. (Good god I hope I finally do make it one day.)

2) Making it safely off my flight home and onto solid ground.  During my flight home from New York City just two days ago, I experienced probably the worst turbulence I’ve ever experienced in my 26 years of air travel.  Twenty solid minutes of stomach-churning, heart-in-throat rocking and pitching 30,000 feet in the air is enough to make even me terrified.  In moments such as those, you begin suddenly to think of “What Ifs” and it made me realize that those cheesy inspirational slogans–”live every day as if it were your last,” “no regrets,” and “I knew I should’ve used my savings on a trip to Bali” (okay that one I made up)–actually do have some meaning. Life goes by more quickly than we think (I think?). And death doesn’t always come by calling on a sunny day in its Sunday best, when you’re expecting it for brunch.  (Whoa, this is getting heavy.)  Not to mention, life circumstances and opportunities change. Do what you believe in and do what you love to do. And don’t bank on there always being tomorrow, or next summer, or next year to do them.

3) My sweet apartment in the sweetest location in Manhattan. I lucked out big time when I moved to NYC because I happened to have a friend of a friend who needed a subletter in her apartment right in the East Village, just above the Lower East Side, but within easy walking distance to Soho, Nolita, Noho (is that a real neighborhood?), Union Square, the West Village, and Alphabet Cit-ay. My friends come to me, and when I go out, I usually just have to walk a few blocks to get to the bar.  Super extra flashing star points (watch out Mario Bros. reference) because that also means I can drunkenly stumble home from those bars afterwards, and as I’m not usually too much of a hot mess, I make it home safe and sound without ever having to wait in the subway or take a cab. (Important side note: This dream spot has its expiration date, and I will be needing a new place to live starting Feb. 1.  Anyone who has any leads should immediately hit me up and I’ll repay you tenfold in kindness and smiles.)

4) Pho. This stuff just doesn’t ever get old.  This food is one of god’s greater creations, and I missed it for two long years while I was in South America. (I ordered pho once–knowing already that I would be disappointed–from a pan-Asian-ish-type restaurant in Rio because it was the first and only time I’d ever seen it on a menu in South America. Super weak sauce + busch league = lamest attempt at pho I’ve ever tasted.)  Though I’ve got my own favorite place for Pho, a friend recently showed me a place in NYC’s Chinatown that could hold its own in the ring as well.  Yes! I’m back in a land where these foods are accessible.

5) The healing power of runny egg yolk, cheese, tomato, and avocado.  I’m lucky enough to be one of those annoying people who can drink a ton the night before and shake off a hangover with a good stomach full of food and a Vitamin Water.  By 2p the next day, especially if I’ve ingested the above foods, I’m usually good to go.  Chipper like a golf wedge (get it?).

5) Global warming. I kid. But not really… This fall has been pleasantly not freezing, and since I haven’t had to suffer a New England winter in ten years (two of the last which I spent in tropical climates), I’m very grateful I haven’t had to hibernate just yet for the winter.

6) Being the child of wai guo ren (that’s “foreigners” for you non-Chinese speaking folk).  It’s taken me my whole life to arrive at this point, because of course when I was a kid, all I wanted was for my parents to be Americans, and to just get it. And there are times when I do still wish that.  But I think often it’s just parents (and not just Chinese parents) that just don’t understand, am I right?  Now though, I’m starting to see how finally I’m the one in the cool club: I can speak Mandarin and pick up other languages with greater ease because I grew up in a bilingual (sometimes trilingual) home.  And when I go home I get to eat the bombest food ever.  And I like that I part of my identity is that of a foreign country. I think it’s part of my galavanting, wanderlusting spirit.

The first place I ever traveled to outside the U.S.: Taipei!

7) And lastly, I’m very happy and thankful that I’ve had the wonderful opportunities I’ve either sought out or been given to travel around the world.  I realize that lots of people don’t have the ability or the means to be able to travel, and I count myself one of the fortunate ones.  I do have to thank my parents for instilling in me a love of travel.  My family always traveled, whether it was a trip to visit family in Taiwan, a bus trip through the Rocky Mountain states, a vacation around Italy, or a cruise in Alaska.  My parents’ style of travel doesn’t exactly jive with my own, but I was on my first across-the-world flight to Taiwan when I was 13 months old.  My life has been shaped so much by my travel experiences that I can’t imagine what kind of person I would be without them.  But now that I’m back in the U.S., I’m already itching to get out on my next trip!

What are you thankful for this year?

Long story, but this picture captures a moment when we all were definitely loving life. We had just hiked back from the beach near Itacare, Brazil, and thought we'd missed the last bus back into town. After attempting to hitchhike, we thought we'd have to spend the night in the pitch-black jungle, either being eaten alive my mosquitos and succumb to dengue fever, or be ambushed by thieves in the night. This is when, after walking along the deserted highway for more than an hour, without being able to see more than five feet in front of us, we finally made it to a bus stop and saw a glimmer of hope of surviving the night. How's that for out of the ordinary?

I was perusing the Interwebs the other day and I came across this beautiful quotation:

“I am here to seduce you into a love of life; to help you to become a little more poetic; to help you die to the mundane and to the ordinary so that the extraordinary explodes in your life.”  - Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh

Although it’s not explicitly about travel, I think it sums up nicely many of my motivations for travel.  Traveling to me isn’t just a fun and nice way to pass the time; it’s not just about “taking vacations” of “getting away from it all.” Traveling enhances my life, makes me become a more appreciative, worldly, and educated person. It allows me to experience firsthand the great wealth of people, languages, cultures, colors, sizes, shapes, foods, clothing, styles, traditions, habits, religions, neighborhoods, cities, villages, vehicles, shorelines, alleyways, mountainsides, valleys, animals, plantlife, sealife–everything, everything, that makes up the amazing variety of places and human societies on this earth.  Traveling is an itch I have to scratch every now and then to remind myself how fully in love with life I should be.  To live a life unopened by travel, I think, is a misfortune.

“Die to the mundane” at least every once in a while, and let the “extraordinary explode in your life.” Traveling, I have found, is one of the best ways to do this.  Of course the mundane, the commonplace, the 9 to 5, the daily routines, commutes, and social scenes–the backdrops to our passing days–are a necessary part of life.  But I think it’s equally as necessary to make sure that the commonplace doesn’t become all of who we are and all of what we do.  In a place like New York City, where work bleeds into the morning hours of 1, 2, even 3 a.m., and into weekend afternoons, I find it’s harder for people here to do things out of their routines.  In Rio, I would regularly go to waterfalls, go on hikes, drive to beaches outside of the city, watch a samba school rehearsal, listen to live samba on a Monday night, or stop by an art exhibit at a cultural center as I was passing by.  I thirst for these things that break up my routine, that make my day a little less mundane than it could have been. Obviously, here in this most concrete of concrete jungles, the geography’s different so I can’t necessarily do the same types of things.  But there’s still plenty of opportunity to explore, wander, discover, and do.  And if budget and time are a restriction, wandering in your local spaces is just as good a way to do it.

Admittedly, travel is often the pastime of the fortunate.  It costs money, and takes time (often precious vacation days that are somewhat scarce in the U.S.), which is something not all of us have the luxury of having.  So seize opportunities to explore your own city or state. If you’ve got free time, use it.  Find museums and appreciate art.  Go to a park and breathe in the fresh air.  Go to a craft fair and support a local artisan.  Look up events in your city or restaurants you’ve always want to go to, or always heard were great, and go to them.  Check them off the list.  Spend time outdoors.  Spend time taking pictures.  Spend time treating your taste buds to delicious food.  These are, after all, the same things you do while you travel, even if in a strange and foreign land.  Make it a habit to do these things at home as well.  And I guarantee you will be happier, feel better, and probably, be seduced into a greater love of life.

Madison Square Park's Shake Shack

So even before I had moved to New York, I had seen and heard all these rave reviews about Shake Shack–people eating delicious, finger-lickin’ burgers and fries that rivaled the likes of California’s In ‘n Out Burger, and then posting photos on Facebook for all the world to drool at. Being that I am a glutton for (i.e. great appreciator of) good food, I was excited to try this place for myself as soon as I arrived in New York City. Unfortunately for me, it didn’t live up to the hype.

My shake shack experience was somewhat lackluster from the get-go because I wanted to go with a bunch of friends and enjoy it while lounging on a blanket in the fall sun at Central Park. Perhaps also with some Andre champagne, because I am really classy like that, and because apparently I don’t want to grow up. But everyone bailed on the idea because people in New York have things to do on Sundays besides drink cheap champagne with bubbles the size of marbles and eating greasy fast food?! Ugh. (They had “work” or “law briefs to write” or “family brunch” or “fiances visiting the parents” stuff that they had to do. One friend, bless her soul, spent Sunday afternoon puking and paying for her Saturday night. Ha. Yes.) Man, trying to have Sunday Funday as an adult gets increasingly harder.

So I resolved to just go to Shake Shack on my own, “because I hadn’t eaten a lot the night before and I had wine hangover to cure,” but actually because I just really wanted some Shake Shack. [Don't judge; if you think going to a fast-food place on your own is lame, you best take a sharp left off of Front Street.] My good friend Erin was gracious enough to join me for the walk up to Madison Square Park, home of the original Shake Shack, and to my surprise, it is actually just a shack. I mean, not made of ply wood and nails, but there is no indoor seating or restroom. Also to my great surprise, there was a line literally across the block. After the initial shock, I realized that I was the idiot who expected to just breeze right up to ordering at a place like Shake Shack, on one of the last decent Sunday afternoons of the year, in New York City. You know what they say: Go to Trader Joe’s once around 6pm, shame on you. Go to anywhere else in the city and expect no lines, shame on me. Goddammit largest city in America.

(Later when I checked their website they even had graphics on their site with the long line pictured… like ‘hey cool, at this restaurant not only do we sell burgers and fries but you also get to wait in line for an hour beforehand!’ Lame.)

Luckily I had a friend with me because otherwise I would not have waited in the ridiculousness that is the Shake Shack line. Unlike the Trader Joe’s line, this thing does not move quickly. It doesn’t even move not slowly. It straight up crawls. Jesus, these burgers must be fucking delicious, I thought.

Wrong. After waiting forever in line, this really killed it for me: Upon ordering, you receive one of those buzzer thingys, to let you know when your food’s ready.  HOOOLD UP. I’m sorry, did I walk into Olive Garden at the mall during the early-bird special on a Saturday?! How is this considered fast food?! Fine. I wasn’t prepared to have to wait even longer after already having waited in line for what seemed like enough time to let my stomach shrivel up and die. But okay, whatever, what’s done is done. Bring on the food.

FINALLY, finally I get my food. The burger, enhanced only by my hunger and sheer desire to consume something food-like, was decent. Does it even come close to touching top five? Not a chance. I had ordered just a single Shack Burger, which has “shack sauce”, lettuce, and tomato. The “shack sauce” is akin to mayonnaise, but a little more orangy, which for me is the worst. Luckily they put very little of the sauce on, so I didn’t really notice it. The patty also had a sort of hard consistency, and looking more closely at the patty, it didn’t really look like quality meat. And, worst of all? It was really just too small, especially after having waited so long for it. (In Shake Shack’s defense, I did look longingly at the burgers I saw everyone around me eating, which were much thicker and juicier-looking than mine, and some had a huge hunk of cheese oozing out the middle [?!]. What burger is that?! Will someone clue me in so that if I ever go back, I may have a better experience?)

Then there were the fries. I didn’t get the cheese fries because I frankly hate the yellowy fake cheese goo that they put on cheese fries. I have been told after the fact that the cheese fries are the way to go, but sorry, nacho cheese is really not my cheese. Anyway, these fries were kind of just unmemorable. They are wavy cut, but really they just reminded me of those McCain’s frozen fries that all my American friends’ families used to buy and we used to eat when I went over to their houses to play in middle school. (Do you know what I’m talking about?! Please say you do.) They also got cold real fast because, since Shake Shack does not have indoor seating, I was eating them outside in the chilly fall elements.

So there you have it. For me, it’s certainly not worth the wait. I wouldn’t even say it’s worth the 20-block walk to get there.  I did not, however, have a milkshake, but sweets aren’t really my jam.  I’ll stick with my cajun fries from Five Guys.

(And please leave comments if you either agree or disagree with my take, or if you wanna holler at a girl about the McCain’s french fries reference! )

I’ve moved to New York City! I’ve been here now for just about a month and I have to pat myself on the back for this: I think I’ve assimilated quite well to New York life.  Geographically and directionally, I’m doing pretty well: I know (generally) where everything is; what’s uptown, and what’s downtown; where the different boroughs are; generally what train lines run north and west and on the east side or the west side; and what lines are just ridiculous and which I will probably never take (namely, the J, M, Z, and the G… I don’t think anyone’s ever taken the G train, ever).

New York City is a huge change of pace from Rio (and from the suburbs of Chicago).  Whereas my front yard in Rio was the gorgeous shoreline of Arpoador and Copacabana beaches and the wide boulevard of the orla, my surroundings now consist of yellow taxis, bodegas, brownstones, and impossibly cute restaurants and cafes.  And the pace is literally a complete 180 degree change.  Lazy, sun-filled afternoons of drinking matte leao on the beach have been replaced by a daily commute on the subway to work in a fluorescent-lit office.  But though I miss Rio every day, I’m happy to be here.  I’ve always wanted to live in New York City, and I think now is a good time for me to be here.

Several things I’ve learned about New York City so far:

- Peeps be real into boots here.  I’m talking really, really into boots.  It can be 80 degrees, sunny, gorgeous bluebird skies, balmy air, no trace of clouds or rain in sight, and people will still be wearing boots.  I don’t think I’ve seen more than three people wear sandals the entire time I’ve been in New York.  And I’m sure I’m the only person that has worn Havaiana flip flops in the East Village since, well, ever.  What’s the deal, New Yorkers?! Do people really love socks and swamp feet that much that even when it’s hot and humid out they’d still rather be wearing boots??  It’s frankly a little intimidating.  I’ll admit I bought some booties so I could fit in. (lowers head)

- Everyone is the most stylish person you’ve ever seen.  I was at brunch yesterday, and to my right were two women in fur vests, second-skin skinny jeans, knee-high boots, oversized dark sunglasses (which they never took off during the course of the meal), expensive-looking designer tops, and lots of gilded accessories.  To my left were two men who were arguably more stylish than the women.   Both looked impeccably put together, despite the fact that both had the outgrown five-day beard (might I venture to say that beards are back and they’re sexy and I’m kinda likin’ it?), and one was wearing a grungy fisherman’s knit cap.  The other had a pocket square in his tailored jacket, and was sporting the hairstyle that I see so often on men these days: long side-swept hair in front, smoothed with pomade to make it look like four-day-old unwashed hair.  But despite the obvious fact that both these men had clearly spent much more money and time on their outfits than I ever will, and probably have W magazine on their coffee tables (because why not, and it’s 2011 and there are no more gender stereotypes), they were both extremely attractive and presumably straight.  They were the latest evolution of the attractive bro who girls have always wanted to try a little harder (i.e. really guy? try a little harder than a crummy t-shirt and tattered jeans).  They have evolved so much that they are now the most stylish people ever.  Both could have been models, or they could be photographers, or they could just hang out with models.  Who knows.  But my point being, everyone–even the men–are about 1000000 times more hip/stylish/cool/posh than anyone I’ve ever met in any other city.  What I want to know is: Doesn’t it get tiring sometimes?  Don’t people just once in a while feel like throwing on an old pair of sweat pants because who gives a f@&$, especially if all you’re doing is going to Whole Foods to buy eggs and milk?  (Meanwhile, the other patrons are shopping in knee-high stiletto boots and designer jeans…)  I haven’t had to wear anything but sundresses and sandals for two years.  This is a pretty drastic change.  Clearly I’m a nube here in NYC.

- At any given time of day, on any day of the week, at any location in lower Manhattan there are a million people.  Just tons and tons of people crossing the street, trying to push a shopping cart around in a wall-to-wall-packed Trader Joe’s–only to run into other people and their shopping carts, trying on boots at a DSW where boxes are overturned and spilled everywhere, trying to find a seat in the eating area at Whole Foods.  It is insanity. I’ve gotten much more anxious than I should ever be buying groceries in New York City because there are just SO MANY PEOPLE.  I think, unfortunately, it’s one of those things I’ll just have to learn to deal with.

- There are a lot of people here doing pretty cool things, and it’s not just sitting in some office somewhere working their 40 hours just to pay the rent.  I know producers, directors, actors, voice-over actresses, entrepreneurs, big shots at successful Internet startups, Assistant District Attorneys, and music producers for film and commercials.  It’s good to be surrounded by people who are pursuing careers that they’re really passionate and excited about, since that’s why I moved to NYC in the first place.

- You know how everyone always says New York is so expensive?  Yea, that’s cuz it is.  Rent is astronomical.  Sure you can live in Brooklyn, or Queens, or Harlem and pay much less, and get more space.  But I also know of people paying in one month’s rent basically what all my savings is.  Multiply that by 12 and the amount of money they’re spending on just rent in one year is unreal.  The flip side is that they live in wonderful apartments, and damn, does it feel good to be a gangsta (not that I would know because my current situation is the exact opposite of being a baller).  Going out and eating out is also so much more expensive than in other cities.  One cocktail goes for $14, and you can’t go to dinner and not drink.  Oh New York, why must you make it so hard for us struggling, bright-eyed creative types?

- But one lovely discovery is that New Yorkers, or the residents of this city, are much friendlier than I had expected.  I’ve really had no bad experiences, and instead been pleasantly surprised on several occasions when servers, cashiers, salespersons, pedestrians on the street, random guys complimenting me, people I’ve met through friends, construction workers–basically pretty much everyone–greet me with smiles and friendliness, and often enjoyable banter.  It’s nice.

So anyway, some of my observations seem like gripes.  And they are. But on the whole, I am really enjoying it here. So keep it up New York.  Strong showing so far.  There’s only about 500 restaurants and bars that I want to go to within my 6-block radius.  I’ve passed countless places where I am physically drawn into the warm light, the small, cozy, tastefully-decorated dining rooms, and I have to ask for a card so I can leave it in my ever-growing pile of “places I must go back to someday.” I’m also having a great time just taking it all in, soaking in the chill of the air as I walk around lower Manhattan.  Getting used to the buildings on every side, in every direction.  Walking around the East Village like a resident and not a tourist.  Knowing the difference between express and “local” trains (I’ll give you a hint–you don’t have to be from New York to ride them! ha).  Sipping $5 lychee martinis and exploring neighborhood bars with a very strong buzz and then–because I live in the best neighborhood ever–walking home.  Fighting off women at DSW for a size 6.5 boot–oh wait, that part I actually hate.  But, ole’ Frankie Blue Eyes said it well when he sang: I want to be a part of it/New York, New York!

1. United States
2. Canada
3. Mexico
4. Cayman Islands
5. Argentina
6. Uruguay
7. Brazil
8. United Kingdom
9. France
10. Italy
11. Greece
12. Turkey
13. China
14. Japan
15. South Korea
16. Taiwan (yes, it is definitely its own country)
17. Thailand
18. Cambodia
19. Laos
20. Malaysia
21. Australia

I don’t think I’m missing anywhere… This may seem like a big list, or it may seem limited.  To me, it’s still much too small for my liking.  There are the heavy hitters like Spain and Germany that I’ve always wanted to go to, but just never had the right opportunity.  And as you’ll notice, I haven’t been to anywhere in Africa.  And that is where I want my next trip to be.  Namely, Morocco, and if I have the time and money (which can sometimes be such luxuries can’t it?), other countries as well, perhaps Egypt, Kenya, South Africa. (And I’ll be honest and say that I included Turkey because we stopped over in a town called Ephesus on a cruise once, but there are several other places in Turkey I’d like to see.)

Another “say whaaaa?!” moment I had when I was talking to this friend is that he said Machu Picchu was going to close to the public soon.  Is this true?  I googled it and couldn’t find a solid answer.  Can anyone confirm or deny it?

Not a great picture, and certainly doesn't do Ethiopian food justice--it normally comes out on large platters with the food carefully placed in neat mounds. But we got the food to go. Still delicious.

Food of my mother country, Taiwanese beef noodle soup. A very simple dish but also very difficult to make well. I gave this one two thumbs up!

Italian handmade gnocchi. This was probably the best gnocchi I've ever had--at least that I can remember in recent history--and we had mistakenly ordered the smaller portion. So bittersweet. Next time I'd order the full portion and eat it all myself!

So this was actually a Peruvian chicken restaurant with chicken so tender and flavorful (the two sauces on the side were deeelicious) I really wanted to just keep eating even after I'd sucked off every possible particle of meat off the bones. So good and so cheap! I love America.

I’ve also eaten a lot of other ethnic food as well–Korean, Indian, French, El Salvadorian, Chinese, Spanish, you name it.  But I’ve given you a highlight from all the major “ethnic” continents: Africa, Europe, Asia, and South America (is there such thing as Australian food? Kangaroo and wallaby burgers?), so I’ll stop there.  Do you guys have any favorite ethnic foods?  Any that you couldn’t live without?