Becoming a dotcom

As a writer, hoping to launch a freelance career in earnest, there are some things that must be done. For example, make business cards, find a café that welcomes loitering and create a website. (Arguably, one should also get a small dog, to complete the picture, but I’ll be taking baby steps.) I began this process by attempting to set up my website. The people at the Apple Store made it seem pretty easy to make a one using their software. So I thought I would give it a try. After a quick search, I was overjoyed to see that jacquigal.com had not been purchased or used by anyone else and so I bought it. Good. Now make website. Yes. Right. Except that the moment I logged into my web hosting account, I felt the rush of confusion and familiar dread of being completely out of my depth, technologically. It reminded me of the way my parents had marveled when my brother, at the age of seven, was the only one who could figure out how to operate the child-locks on the car. Or, how it’s widely accepted that the fastest way to program an electrical device is to ask a two-year-old. When I logged into the host site for my domain, jacquigal.com, there were so many things I could not understand, but also a clickable button that said “visit”. I got excited. Maybe my host site would be taking me on a virtual tour to see my newly purchased domain. I was half expecting an animated realtor to appear, clipboard in hand, and walk me through the empty space, pointing out potential configurations for furniture. Looking at all these foreign terms and commands available to me, I felt that maybe I was on the cusp. Newly 30, was I was almost too old to “get it”? I definitely still had it when the internet came around. I remember the first time I was introduced to it. I think it was about 1994. Back then, it took about five minutes for any simple page to load. Looking at the screen impatiently, I thought maybe at some point this would help my life, but not yet. I was introduced to the three Ws by my uncle and younger cousins. I remember crowding around their PC, being asked me to name a topic, so they could look it up. “I don’t know,” I said. “What about frogs?” So they typed f-r-o-g-s into their Netscape search engine and a bunch of pages came up (very, very slowly). We clicked on the top link and a rudimentary web page, dedicated to toads slowly uploaded. It had a few pictures, a bit of text. It was totally inferior to the colourful reference books I could borrow from my local library. But it was pretty clear that this was going to develop into something much bigger, and better. And it did. Until now, I had managed to keep pace with the developments; installing software, deleting cookies and keeping up with my keyboard shortcuts. But lately, I feel that I’m losing the race. I have to keep reminding myself what RSS is, and I don’t really understand the Google algorithm. Although I keep being told that it’s crucial to the success of my poor unborn website. Right now, I am torn between shelling out for a web designer who could put me out of my misery (and fast), or pushing on alone, determined to make it happen with Jacqui-power. So why don’t you check on my progress at jacquigal.com in a few weeks. You’ll probably be able to tell which route I took.

Culinary fantasies

Lately I have been having a recurring dream. I am standing in a kitchen, chopping, with a slew of simmering pots behind me. In another room close by, I hear the lilting tones of light-hearted conversation, the clinking of glasses, a sudden whoop of laughter. Sometimes, I realize that I am dreaming. I recognize that I am in an apartment, and it’s my apartment, but not my apartment. I nod to myself, relaxed. I understand what’s going on here. I remember this social ritual. I’m entertaining. Whether I am woken by a passing siren, a neighbour’s dog or the untimely trill of my alarm clock, the sad realization comes with a familiar thud. I am not entertaining. I have no space to entertain. I am in my studio, dreaming of the culinary adventures I would undertake… if only I could. Back in Australia, there was nothing that gave me more joy than inviting a few friends around and using them as guinea pigs for a new recipe trial. I was lucky enough to live in an apartment where the wall between the kitchen and living room had been knocked down, and replaced with a wide bench, perfect for guests to lean on while I whipped something up, and also useful if I needed to roll out a packet of filo pastry or spread out an assembly line for dumpling-making, and so on. Compare then this image of kitchen splendour with my current “kitchenette”. With its dark wood cupboards and “retro” oven and bar fridge, it could be described as “cute”, “frugal” or “a minimalist’s dream”. But of course what I am really trying to say is that it’s inadequate, tiny and deeply disappointing to the aspiring chef inside. Miraculously, this doesn’t stop me from cooking. I embrace the limitations. For example, my oven. I won’t say that it can’t be warmed beyond 200 degrees, I’ll just say perhaps I have never seen it give me a good old-fashioned try. No matter how long I wait for its quaint dual-coil electric cavern to preheat, it just never seems to reach a decent baking (or even warming) temperature. So, what if I want to bring cookies to someone’s rooftop Sunday brunch? No problem. I just search under “no-bake” and find a decent selection of recipes that promise to yield what resembles cookies, but without the need for that pesky oven. [Now, I am not going to waste valuable blog space whining to you about how tiresome it is to search multiple New York supermarkets to find a simple packet of crunchy Chinese noodles that is so easily found in Australia I could point you to the exact aisle and shelf it’s on in Woolworths’ Bondi Junction. Nor am I going to explain to you exactly what kind of no-bake cookie requires the inclusion of crunchy Asian noodles. Google, if you must.] And yet, every time I choose to search for groceries, get to work on my tiny bench top, fight with my oven and marvel at the enormous pile of washing up that results, I come to the same conclusion. It’s just not worth it. The cost, effort and final results consistently pale in comparison to the simple delights you can purchase in New York City with cash. Likewise, the options for ordering a delivery of breakfast lunch or dinner are abundant. Perhaps in Australia, the idea of asking some guy on a bike to bring you only a couple of bagels and coffee in the morning is bizarre, or at least indulgent. In New York, it’s commonplace. It’s not even expensive. At dinner, for example, if you decided to cook a modest meal, say pasta and salad for two, the cost of ingredients alone would reach between $40 and $60 at a local supermarket. And this does not including the cost of your time for food preparation, space frustration and kitchen mess. For roughly half the cost you could dial a local restaurant, order a meal for two, and receive bread, salad and condiments on the side within about 20 minutes. When you’ve finished eating, you dispose of all the plastic containers into the same paper bag the delivery arrived in, and the whole adventure is over. Simple. So why do I persist in cooking? Somehow I cannot stop myself from watching the Food Network and searching the internet for new recipes. I offer to cook for anyone who’ll eat. I even twist the arms of friends with bigger apartments, offering to prepare meals in their kitchens, if they’ll host the party. Call it desperation. As for my next culinary challenge, it’s coming up with the funds to attend a few courses at the French Culinary Institute here. Courses cost between two and six thousand dollars. Hey! A girl can dream, right? Sponsorship, anyone?

Rare moments of pure New York

Despite what this blog might have you believing, a lot of my life here in New York is quite similar to the lives I have led in Sydney, Melbourne and London -- a combination of work, sleep and mild entertainment. In New York a movie is still a movie, hanging out with friends is, likewise, no different, and although there are some phenomenally good restaurants here, it’s not altogether different from the quality dining you might be lucky enough to experience anywhere else. But every so often, I still have one of those typically New York moments, and it’s thrilling enough to keep me living here until the next one. So what’s a typically New York thing? I’ll give you an example. Last year a photographer friend of mine invited me to an evening showcasing the work of a collaborative group of artists, which he belonged to. It was in Brooklyn. In typical fashion, some friends and I took a subway to a quiet station, walked a few blocks into a darkened suburban street and after a few wrong turns, finally found an unmarked door that led to a seemingly abandoned space on the second floor of a run-down building. Inside, the mood was lively. Artsy folks, dressed colourfully, mixed it with hipster geeks in heavy-framed glasses. People were sipping beer or wine, which was dispensed from giant flagons. Some space-cake made the rounds. There was art on the walls, and before long a band began playing. Then there was a poetry reading and the barefoot performance of a modern dance routine. It was an artsy Brooklyn party, just as it is supposed to be. But all too often, entertainment in this city can be fairly bland. Admittedly, it’s probably my own fault. I don’t go and see nearly as many Off-Off-Broadway shows as I know I should. (But, in my defence, that’s probably because my time is often scarce, and the quality of such productions can be hit-and-miss.) However, I was tempted by one production, after reading a New York Times write-up, because it seemed almost certain to yield one of those elusive New York experiences: the truly innovative, independent-theatre show. In an act of exquisite self-reflection, “The Sublet Experiment” is about the experience of subletting and actually takes place in a series of strangers’ apartments. Every few nights, the production moves venue to a new apartment, in a new neighbourhood, donated for the evening in the name of art. With audiences limited to 12 per show (after all, NY apartments are hideously small), each audience member has the chance to do more than just observe the acted experience of voyeurism in a sublet apartment. They too are the voyeurs. And more than this, each audience member also becomes a part of the show. You’re left thinking: “I wonder what business he’s in. Are those two a couple? Why is that girl here all alone?” More than a mere gimmick, the play (written by Ethan Youngerman) is well scripted and the actors are talented and sympathetic. It was a one hour and 45 minute show, with no interval, so the audience is advised to use the bathroom beforehand. They are also invited to grab a beer from the fridge, “but not those on the fridge door” since they were props for the actors. Yet, what makes the show so compelling is the subject of subletting itself. So many New Yorkers have found themselves in a sublet at some stage of their life here. Many choose to never give up the arrangement. Along with the short-term furnished rental, a sublet is a unique adventure of discovery. It’s the chance to live, almost, inside another person’s skin: sleep in their bed, eat on their dishes, sometimes even walk their dog (it depends on the deal). Turning this subject into a work of art seemed so beautiful in my eyes. When I left the tiny Chelsea apartment I was flushed with excitement. It was thanks to the experience of great art in a great city, and dealing with a subject that I was intimately accustomed to. I too, was once a subletter.

All in a day’s news

Don’t you just love a good news day? As part of the ongoing unraveling of the mystery that is ‘why would anyone get up before 6am to go to the gym?’ I am prepared to divulge one of my favourite early morning activities. While walking on the treadmill, I get a head start on the day’s news by reading a condensed, eight-page version of the New York Times, which my gym photocopies and makes available to members. Usually, I read through it dispassionately for about 10 minutes, before turning my attention to the morning newscasts. This morning was different. What a news day!? The stories left me gob-smacked. Let me walk you through it. Page one: At the bottom of the page was a story about French President Jacques Chirac. When he thought he was speaking off-the-record he told reporters from three major global newspaper, that it would pose no great danger to the world if Iran was to possess nuclear weapons. And further, he said, if Iran was to launch one of these “harmless” weapons against Israel, it wouldn’t really matter because Israel would raze Tehran to the ground, lickety-split. Right. Well, what is there to worry about then? But the story that really caught my eye was about a 29-year old sex offender who, after being released from prison, managed to enroll in no less than four schools… by posing as a 12-year-old student! Turn to page two, and what do we find? Former First Lady of Italy gets so mad at her hubby Berlusconi and his flirtatious ways that she has a letter published in his least favourite newspaper, demanding a public apology from him. Italian feminists are overjoyed and the pundits conclude his political career is finished, because no woman would ever vote for him again. Despite this, Silvio Berlusconi does release an apology to the public, signing it off with: “A huge kiss. Silvio.” Moving to page three and some local news, a democratic candidate for the 2008 presidential race Senator Joseph Biden seems to have put a sharp end to his prospects, while making what he must have thought would be a complimentary statement about a major opponent. Black candidate, Barack Obama has been the guy to watch, especially in the last few months when it became clear he would attempt a dash to the White House in competition with Senator Hilary Rodham Clinton. Senator Biden somehow managed to refer to Obama as “the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy”, and thus, as the New York Times noted, may well have sealed his place in the history books as having launched the shortest presidential campaign ever run. By the time I was finished marveling at the bizarre state of the world this February, it was time to wrap up the workout. Now this next part is completely unrelated, but perhaps worth mentioning for the sympathy factor. (And who knows, maybe someone out there will find a connection.) As I was changing trains at Union Square this morning, a man collided with me (neither of us were paying too much attention) and knocked me clean off my feet. Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes and I felt like a five-year-old, while trying to hold them back. Although he helped me back up, together with a group of kids who had previously been annoying me with their loud chatter (I was trying to read!) The whole incident left me feeling quite strange. Now my knee hurts. So does this mean I should take a break from tomorrow’s workout?

Early bird gets the snow

Sometimes, being up before the sun certainly pays off. While other New Yorkers blissfully snoozed below their fluffy quilts, I was walking to the gym during the first proper snowfall of the season. It was a spine-tingling experience. From the gym's window, I could see that it continued to snow outside. And as I walked home, I smiled at the white powder had begun to collect on cars and shop awnings. But by the time I left my apartment once more for work, the snowing had stopped. Snooze and lose, right? Witnessing the snow falling and my own excitement at the event, reminded me of last winter, my first in New York. Each time it snowed then, I was transformed into something of a five-year-old. I loved catching snowflakes on my tongue, but it became embarrassing, because I couldn't seem to keep my mouth closed when it was snowing. And I am almost 30. Not surprisingly then, one of my best days spent in New York was a lock-in snow day, last February. It was a Sunday, but the snow had begun to fall in earnest already on Saturday night. I was out on the town with some friends, and the white stuff had been coming down heavily since early evening. By the time we were ready to go home, the roads had all but iced over and the cabs were refusing to drive on it – I think I managed to catch the last willing driver, and we were slipping all over the road. Safely tucked in at home, the snow fell all through the night and when it was decently late enough to be getting out of bed, it had reached waist height. I was in awe. The news reports said it was the heaviest snowfall in New York since the 1940s. Imagine the neighbourhood you live in, but covered in snow so high you can’t see the cars. My friends and I began to play. Running through it, falling into it, trying to forget that beneath all this pristine snow were the putrid streets of New York’s East Village. Back inside, we tucked into a lavish brunch and played indoor games all day. I had spent the previous night with friends and now it was time to head back to the West Village. As I began to walk home through the (heavenly) silent streets at twilight, the fresh snow was shimmering in the fading light. It sparkled like powdery glitter, and had an ethereal blue-ish glow. I had never seen anything like it. By the time I stopped marvelling at it and grabbed for my camera or phone to call someone to come see, the light had faded and the effect was almost gone. A few minutes later I saw a young man on skis, pushing his way along the deserted night streets with his stocks. Do you think this what they mean when they call for environmentally-friendly, alternative modes of transport?

Life’s a game on the grid called Manhattan

This morning, I had a good commute. It’s always a good start to the day. Subways came without much delay. I didn’t manage a seat, but nobody stepped on my toes. No creepy guy rubbed up against me, and nobody let too much of their crazy out. Already, this would be considered a pretty good ride. When I left the subway station, the newspaper hawker noticed that I already had the paper and didn’t hassle me to take another (rare!), the coffee guy didn’t mess up my order or try to burn off my taste buds and I didn’t have to wait long for the lift to take me upstairs. Lately, I have started to play a little game with myself, as I move through the city to work. I judge my mornings according to specific variables, using a personalized scoring system. I suppose it’s a means of bringing a small amount of comical self-reflection to a routine that is at great risk of becoming mundane. This way, life becomes a game. For early mornings, I ask myself this: Was it hard to get myself out of bed for the gym at pre-dawn? Did I get a good shuffle selection on my ipod? If I was planning to do a cycle class, did I manage to arrive at the gym before all the bikes were taken? Then there’s the challenge of getting myself showered, dressed (appropriately for the weather) and out of the house in as close to 45 minutes as possible. This task carried a degree of difficulty of about seven. I could go on, and you might think I am a little nuts. But at least I know I am not alone. Recently, I have heard that other New Yorkers indulge in similarly private mental city games of their own. Ever wondered what kind of an environment would lead people to frequently use the phrase, “Hey! I’m walking here!”? Well, imagine what it’s like living on an island about the size of Sydney’s eastern suburbs with 1.5 million other people. Now add the 1.3 million who commute into Manhattan everyday and you have a somewhat crowded playing field. Thus, depending on your outlook, the effort it requires to navigate and manipulate an everyday life under such conditions can either be a game, or a war. Imagine Fifth Avenue at Christmas time, the streets are packed with tourists, gawking and stopping for photos outside pretty department store windows. It’s cold. All you want to do is walk a few blocks from some appointment to the subway, but you’re being blocked on every third step. This is where the game comes in. You immediately cease to be a pedestrian. Instead, you are now a race car driver, taking the turns and avoiding the obstacles. You’re weaving and ducking, thinking three steps ahead and anticipating that tourist’s next photo-op, even before they do. Stepping off the curb, you face down a delivery truck, and walk boldly across its path (“Hey, it’s my light!) Race down the subway stairs, swipe your Metrocard and leap through the closing subway doors. Success! It’s a triple high score. But what about when you are off your game? Well, that can be messy. Sometimes, I slip into a funk, and collide with three different pedestrians on a single block. My navigation is off. Clearly I’ve lost my mojo. On a night like this, I’ll typically go on to spot a few rats (ew!) and maybe even step in some dog poo, that another player failed to scoop up. If you can recognize a day like this, it’s best to cut your losses and head home. GAME OVER. Try again tomorrow.