Finding Chi in NYC

I live in New York City, where the volume is cranked up to high at least 20 hours a day. Living and working here is like being trapped in a video game where you're constantly darting from place to place while ducking, swerving and leaping to dodge obstacles like cabs, umbrellas, elbows and scaffolds. Sirens blare, engines roar, machines drone, lights flicker. Migraines pulse.

You cannot lose your concentration, even for a second, or disaster can strike. You wouldn't believe how many times my peripheral vision has saved me from being T-boned by a bicycle traveling the wrong direction on a one-way street. It's rough out there, folks. A friend of mine lost her focus one day and fell straight into a manhole in Times Square. 

She was not the high score winner that day. 

It just gets to be too much sometimes. I mean, there are people everywhere, all the time. 

The traffic never stops.

Geezaloo, even the parks are crammed full of people!

And dogs...

...and baby strollers. Sometimes it feels like every square inch of this town is occupied. If you live in an urban environment, I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. Don't get me wrong; if I lived somewhere serene and quiet, I probably wouldn't know what to do with myself, but there are definitely times I feel like screaming, "Stop the world, I wanna get off!"

And so I do.

Believe it or not, there are spots in New York City that offer peaceful pockets of space where one can enjoy a moment of stillness and the company of their own thoughts like "What color is my parachute?" and "Who moved my cheese?" or "I wonder who's getting bitch-slapped on Real Housewives tonight?"

Places where you can spread yourself out on a bench, kick off your shoes and rest those weary tootsies for at least three whole minutes before you get antsy and slingshot your way back into the grind again.

Places like the Botanical Gardens, where the lush greens and purples are a welcome reprieve from the hard, cold grays of concrete and steel. There's one in Brooklyn and the Bronx for your horticultural pleasure.

Or the Highline in Chelsea, an elevated park covering what used to be an abandoned subway rail, which lets you see the city from an entirely different elevation. Go in the early morning before the crowds swarm.

You can even park your plank on a big wooden patio chair. (I tried swiping this for my backyard, but that sucker was bolted down.)

When I really need to be far from the madding crowd, I skip Central Park in favor of less populated ones like Prospect, Riverside Drive, or Astoria. Even Tomkins Square Park on the bustling lower east side is peaceful in the early morning. I try to get there before the first crack deal is made.

And then, of course are the art galleries of Soho and Chelsea. Much less crowded than the popular museums. 

And if you really need a place to escape, there are more beautiful churches in this town than one could possibly count.

And so New Yorkers, I implore you to find a quiet spot somewhere in the city today. Do some tai chi. Take a chill pill. Find your center. Chill the F out.

And please, try to keep it down. I've got the disco classic "Lookin' for Some Hot Stuff" stuck in my head, and I'd really like to hear it.

Springtime in New York: Here Comes the Sun

March and April are tough for New Yorkers. The calendar tells us it's spring, but the wool scratching our necks and the grey tint of the sky indicate otherwise. As if winter wasn't harsh enough, we end up in a state of limbo where we begin to wonder if it will ever end.

There are days when it feels like we'll never squint into the sun again and we'll be relegated to fur-lined boots until the end of time.

We begin dreaming of ice cream dripping down the sides of sugar cones. Of open-toed shoes and picnic blankets spread across park lawns.

And most of all, we dream of taking off our heavy coats and packing them far, far away.

And then one day, as if out of nowhere, we can. 

The trees begin showing signs of life.

And people begin filing out of their houses to spend a quiet Sunday in the warmth of the sun.

Restaurants begin setting tables for patio service.

And the city shifts from black and white to technicolor. It finally feels like spring in New York, and I feel like Dorothy waking up in Oz. 

On a Winter's Day

You may have heard that we had a blizzard in NYC two weeks ago. Planes were grounded, travelers were stranded, and 500 poor people got stuck in a subway for 7 hours. In the spirit of accentuating the positive, I've chosen to show you some photos of the beautiful glittery powder still blanketing Central Park in lieu of the five-foot pyramids of pre-Christmas garbage that still line the streets in front of my house.  Mayor Bloomberg--you sir, are welcome.

My boyfriend and I traipsed through the park this weekend with our cameras, and it's amazing how different it looks covered in snow. I had a hard time finding spots I usually can get to without thinking.

We fantasized about living in this house in the middle of the park. We'd sit on the porch and shake our canes yelling, "Hey you kids! Get off of our lawn!" We are so amusing. At least to each other.

I recently saw a new PETA campaign to try and stop horse carriage rides in Central Park, with the really grating girl from Glee as the spokesperson. Don't stop believin', Lea Michele.

The little birdies--the poor ones who didn't have enough travel miles to get to Florida for the winter--were freezing in the banks of snow. 

As were the ducks.

and the dudes...

Even the statues were feeling the chill.

We headed toward Wollman rink, figuring there might be some hot drinks for sale. Man, you know you're in New York City when you pay eight bucks for two small cups of apple cider. 

And are charged a $5 "spectator fee" for hanging out at the skating rink. I mean, have you evah?

At least the music was free.

And the people-watching.

And the view, which is always the best deal in town. Unless, of course, you live in Queens and your garbage hasn't been picked up for two weeks. 

Central Park

When you move to New York City from somewhere else, you tend to live as a tourist for a good bit. After my first three years as a New Yorker, I could have easily written a Zagat guide. I was a perennial tourist (sans fanny pack), always off to new restaurants, museums, and historical landmarks. I saw at least 25 plays, even the crummy ones like Footloose. I was completely enamored with this new place I was lucky enough to call home, and figured my time here was limited so I better soak it all up while I could.

Eleven years later, I still have the same love for the city, but live a lot more like a local than a tourist (ie: spending Sunday morning on my couch rather than brunching and shopping). I'm trying to get my snap back, so I've committed myself to exploring this great city again. Starting with Central Park. 

I always enter at 59th Street, right where the Gapstow Bridge curves over the neck of the pond. It's the best place to enter the park, in my opinion. Of course, I'm biased, as it's the one closest to my subway exit.

The park is full of amazing architecture, like the Bethesda Terrace.

And sculptures like Hans Christian Anderson

and Alice in Wonderland. The park is also full of children...

and dogs...

and mysteriously hairy gnomes.

In the spring, the Great Lawn is one big plush green blanket, and the trees look like they're growing cotton.

In the fall, the sun streaks through the trees' empty gaps and casts cool shadows on the ground.

This is where people stretch. 

And take wedding pictures. 

And remind me why I love living here so much.