Prior to Thursday, I'd visited New York maybe five to seven times ... all total for probably less than 24 hours. Maybe even less than 12: four, or maybe 6 brief layovers, and one 6 hour trip for a product announcement when I worked for Enkia, where quite frankly I should have stayed home because I just stood behind our CEO Ashwin in a show of support and then missed my scheduled interview because me and my interviewer couldn't find the Enkia booth. So I felt I'd missed out.
But now my beautiful wife works in upstate New York, and for a rare occasion knew what her schedule was, so we're taking the weekend off together in a belated birthday / Valentine's Day / repeated honeymoon extravaganza. And the first thing you notice about New York? The traffic sucks. HA! Not really, I've been to Boston, Atlanta and San Francisco, not to mention Athens and Tokyo, so the traffic here is just fine. No, no, the first thing you notice in New York is the buildings.
Like Chicago, New York has wonderful architecture, but where Chicago is ornate, New York is monolithic.
Spires stretch again and again far up into the sky.
The second thing you notice is how friendly all the people are. Unfortunately I'd been prejudiced against New York City by a few bad encounters with arrogant New Yorkers - one of whom called Atlanta, the ninth largest city in the U.S., a "small town." I shouldn't take offense at that, of course, but having been from a town less than a tenth of the size of Atlanta ... and knowing that THAT wasn't even a small town, I had the temerity to correct her ... at which point she seriously tried to defend that proposition, demonstrating in one short conversation that she had no knowledge of small towns, the properties of the power distribution, or the concept of orders of magnitude (and this from a supposed math major). One bad encounter led to pure prejudice, I admit it. Well, actually three bad encounters - two involving traffic cops waving cars into places they shouldn't have gone. So three bad encounters led to pure prejudice, I freely admit it.
So I was expecting the worst when I arrived ... but in my whole time here everyone has been so nice.
True, there have been a few stereotypical "New York Characters" lurking in the backgrounds - clueless traffic cops who waved cars out into oncoming traffic, a pedestrian who blithely walked out into traffic and then kicked at the car that nearly ran him over, an 'ey, buddy, watch where you're going' wiseguy in a cafe, and an overweight construction worker who looked straight out of central casting. But they've been extras, off the main stage.
The cab drivers are all nice, and even roll down their windows to give directions to other motorists. The waiter at a tiny cafe which charges outrageous New York prices is careful to list every separate charge "because I don't want you to be surprised" and to warn diners if they've ordered a dish that might take longer than the others. Parking garage attendants say "hey, no problem buddy" when you've unexpectedly got to hold up the line a bit to remove something from your car. Bookstores don't ask you to check your bags; bookstore clerks try to be crystal clear about what they can and can't look up for you out of the textbook computer. Shoe salesmen don't take offense at "made from real leather, made in the USA" but actually help you find things, and chat with you about the music while your partner tries on shoes. Even the security guards were really nice.
So yneh, stereotypes of New York. Pfui on you.
The next things you notice are the vibrant street culture and the vibrant mix of people. The bottom levels of every building seemed filled with shops, restaurants, and what have you, and the people milling about are more varied than almost any other place I've been to save perhaps Washington D.C. or global monuments like Stonehenge, Loch Ness or Olympic National Park.
Like other cultured urban centers I've been in, such as San Francisco, certain parts of San Jose, and certain parts of Atlanta, there's a definite ... cultural class barrier. It's hard to describe, but the first time I went to Santana Row in San Jose I definitely didn't feel welcome: there was a certain snootiness, or projected disapproval, for people who didn't quite fit in.
Unlike my beloved Santana Row, however, where I still don't feel like I fit in because I'm the guy lugging the bookbag looking for a quiet corner coffeehouse while everyone else is trying to look hip, young and single, in New York I find it is pretty easy to look around, to see how people are adapting to their environment, and to fit right in.
Or maybe I'm just a goofball wearing a scarf because it was frigging cold (but not like Boston).
There are many beautiful things we've seen in New York ... gleaming skyscrapers, ancient buildings, wonderful restaurants, variegated shops, the Stomp show and many, many people in fantastic clothing and even more awesome boots. :-) But the thing I'm most interested in? Well, you guessed it: the books....
Tomorrow it's the 9/11 Memorial, the Metropolitan Museum ... and whatever else we want.
-the Centaur
Andrew Breitbart is dead at 43. He was apparently a conservative commentator; I wasn't too familiar with him except for some of the scandals he broke.
But the point, as John Scalzi said, is that he was 43. I'm used to hearing about accomplished people who are much younger than I am ... Larry Page, Britney Spears, Christopher Paolini, that last born when I entered high school.
Occasionally people in that age bracket die. It's a damn shame, everyone says, they died so young. But when Andrew Breitbart died, while it was clear that he died young - to the point of spawning (what at first appear to be ridiculous) conspiracy theories - no-one is too surprised.
Because a male's chance of dying of a heart attack triples when you move up to 35-44 year age bracket, and triples again when you roll over into 45-54. I'd enter some snark about white males like myself being worse off, but it doesn't seem to be the case.
So Andrew's about the right age where people should start worrying about dying of a heart attack. So am I.
God speed, Andrew. And may God be with us all.
-the Centaur
Pictured: a memento mori featuring my cat, Caesar, curling up in the lap of luxury next to the skull of one of his less evolutionarily successful distant relatives. Looks like Caesar had an easier time taking down that giraffe than his buddy there.
