For the rest of my life, I'll remember that I was in a laundromat in Harlem when Barack Obama, our first black president, danced with his wife to "At Last."

A woman behind me was folding laundry from the dryer with tears running down her face.

Another woman and her daughters were cheering Beyonce, who was singing the song, and musing at how magical the first couple looked.

The small room of machines, soap, and strangers held so much warmth and promise. My laundry wasn't the only that left feeling refreshed.

I've been remiss about replying to comments. Thanks to everyone who leaves them. I love feedback, reactions, and questions. I don't write, because there's a metaphorical fire in me or something. I do it, because I like to share ideas with other people. You're the reason I'm still blogging - hooray!

Because I get emails with questions from time to time, and no question is stupid or individual - with the exception of "I like your blog. Could you send me some pics of your bare feet?" - I'll be posting answers to questions right on the blog from now on.

Here's a question I got from a fellow Amanda back in December:

Hi there! This is going to sound really stupid, but I am planning a solo trip to the USA in Feb 09, and I would love to go to New York but I am scared to go there alone.

I was wondering if you had any advice for me, since it will be my first time travelling on my own.

My response:

NYC is a great place for a first solo trip to the U.S. There's so much to see and do, and there are people from everywhere and anywhere here. For that reason, I feel like I don't know where to begin. Or end, for that matter. I'll cover a few basics.

I'm not sure what your budget is, as far as accommodation goes, but I'd actually advise you not to get a hotel in the tourist trap midtown area. Instead, check out hotels on the Upper West Side and even downtown. They're probably more affordable and in a better area. I can't say much about hostels, but I know there's one on Central Park West near my old apartment that's always full of smiling Europeans. I hear the hostel's really clean, unlike the Whitehouse Hotel hostel I once stayed in down on Bowery. (I contracted a skin infection after staying there and had to use a prescription cream to clear it up. Yum)! If you're staying awhile, you might save money doing a short sublet and staying in a real NYC apartment. Many people rent apartments by week - just check Craigslist and be very careful about scams.

Be sure to ride the subway when you visit. It's not too complicated, and you can always ask for directions. Even the locals have to do it sometimes. Get a weekly unlimited Metrocard, rather than putting small increments on a card. It'll save you money and time. Numbered subway lines are always faster than the lettered subway lines. I tell you this, because it's good to get accommodations near them, if you can.

Whatever predilections you may have, NYC will feed 'em. For shopping, wander around SoHo. For fun people watching, hang out in Union Square. For getting drunk and artsy, slink around the Lower East Side. There are tons of guidebooks all about the possibilities, so do some research. Each day, I advise you to pick up a free AM New York. The paper itself is nothing special, but there's always a schedule of activities going on in the city.

I've hit up most of the city's famous tourist attractions, so here are the ones I recommend: the New York Public Library on 5th Avenue, The Empire State Building, Grand Central Station concourse, and Central Park. The museums are great, if a bit daunting. Check out Museum Mile on the East Side and try to go on days when you pay what you want. You can probably see there's a theme to my response, and the theme is "I'm cheap."

I hope this helped a bit. NYC is the safest big city in the world and full of transplants, many of whom fell in love with it after visiting. Maybe you'll be one of them. Best wishes for a great adventure!

There's a low of five degrees today, and a woman gets off the 2 train with no hat, gloves, or scarf. An older man offers her some space under his umbrella, and she graciously accepts.

I walk ahead of them, keeping my eyes down and forward to keep from slipping. Having underestimated the snow, I left my boots at home and am wearing sturdy slip-ons whose color reminds me of dry fall leaves.

The man asks the woman why she isn't more bundled up. She says she wasn't prepared for how cold it would be, much less snow. That makes many of us this morning. We were waiting for night when we'd be out of work, at home or some other place warm and pilled as an old sweater.

"But I'm from Canada," the woman relates. "I'm used to this." The man reckons she is. They stand close together under the umbrella. He towers over her protectively.

The kindness of strangers often has designs. I've had men offer to help me carry heavy boxes from the subway to the street and then ask for some money. Or fawn as they give me directions or make room for me on a bus, concluding the exchange with offers of a date or requests for my phone number. I've purposely misplaced a number of business cards.

In college, I found a guy's wallet once. There's wasn't much in it, but I gleaned plenty of information. His student id had a small photo, but I couldn't determine whether he was handsome or not. I was attracted, however, to the schedule of classes he'd registered for recently, printed, and folded into a neat square sharper than the one with his picture. Engineering, Japanese, Government. The courses suggested someone with abilities I don't have who likes to challenge himself.

I looked him up in the school directory and sent an email. He replied immediately. I told him he could catch me between classes later at my dorm, which had the convenience of having the school's nicest cafeteria on-site. I mention this not because I considered lunch at Kinsolving to be a classy date, but a meal together could be an option if he was dreamy and whether or not I was hungry.

When we met, I saw how much of a nerd he was, and how much of a nerd I am on paper. Maybe he was really inspiring and brilliant, but he just wasn't my type, which was then something like indie-looking boy bander. He seemed kind of interested in me, but I said something like, "You're welcome. I've gotta study now. Bye."

It would've been a sweet way to start something, though.

That's why I slow my pace to eavesdrop and root for the man with the umbrella. The woman talks about the forecast. "Partly cloudy with a 30% chance of a phone number," I think.

She indicates her destination is near, so the man turns in the right place. "Would you like me to walk you to class, too?" he jokes. She laughs and thanks him outside the office building. He wishes her a good day and smiles. His stomach crawls into his throat.

The man takes two quick steps to cross the street and turns back. "Hey, do you wanna have lunch today?" he calls out. I wonder if other people on the sidewalk think they knew each other and are unaware how bold he is.

The woman is holding the door by now; it's heavy in her shivering hands. "No, thanks!" she answers. She walks in the building and doesn't look back.

My heart falls a little, as I imagine his does. But it is nothing compared to the snow around us, a bunch of strangers who every now and then try not to be.

Some days I wish I could dress like this.

The marshmallow outfit, I mean. I occasionally dress like the dad.


Check out the Cosby sweater. He wears it well.

I wanted to get closer for a better shot, but Cosby sweaters can be dangerous when approached in the wild.

Today I saw two brothers, both between the ages of four and six, happily reunited on the subway after school. Their mom was tired and closing her eyes as the train lurched. The older brother flicked a piece of lint off his sibling's bottom lip. "Hold still," he said, and the younger boy obediently puckered.

Debris removed, the little boy squealed, "I'm going to kiss you!" And he did. Right on the mouth. The older one giggled and tried to duck.

Then he said, "Look. Let me show you how to kiss girls." He softened his eyes and cocked his head. "Kiss me, sexy baby," he purred to baby brother. They smooched.

I would very much like their mom to film this instruction and show it to them someday when they're in middle school.

It's freezing today with some light snow earlier. Instead of going downtown for a few hours of work, I'm working in my pajamas. TBID flies in from San Antonio this afternoon, and I'm hoping that there won't be any weather-related delays.

This picture was taken the night before I left for Texas. I am hopeful for many more moments like this in 2009:

Beautiful yet aggravating, like a lot of people in Hollywood.

I work downtown and constantly run into people carrying these large paper bags with "EDUCATED CONSUMER" printed on them.

The carriers are so disparate that I can't tell if it's a bag from a store or market research group or what.

Are they part of some sort of shopping cult? If so, how does one join?

I guess I should just ask someone, but that would be too easy.

I'm waiting for a B or C train on the subway platform at 125th Street with a crowd of restless, cold people. There's no light at the end of any tunnel. The silence of such a large group makes me anxious.

An insistent squeak rings out. It seems like a din in such silence, though it is high-pitched and animal. Even cute, you might say, if you didn't see it coming from a big-ass rat on the tracks below.

Like a bath toy or stuffed animal, the rodent squeaks and chases after another that squeaks back. They bat their front paws at each other and loop the loop under and over each tie and rail.

Collectively, we move closer to the edge and watch. Our urban National Geographic moment is mesmerizing.

A teenage boy tries to hock a loogie on one of the rats and misses. A kooky old woman start making her own squeaky noises at the vermin.

Collectively, we all move a little farther away from her.

The train comes too soon. The rats never did agree if they should be together or apart.

We make our way through the car. There is so much no one has to say.

Two of the breaks that renting New Yorkers get are free heat and water. These are considered life necessities, plus the word "free" looks really good when you consider the outrageous amounts we pay to borrow a few square feet from our landlords each month. "Sure, the wind roars through my lace-thin windows out of which my view is a trash-filled alley. But the heat is free!"

There are limits to this generosity, though. The free heat doesn't legally have to come on unless the temperatures reach a painful nadir by a certain time of day. If it's not something like -5 degrees at 2 pm, you're bound to shiver yourself to sleep. But don't worry - I hear it's good for the abdominals.

In the last two weeks, I have woken up cold 97% of the time. A hypothermal alarm clock, the heat has been on 0%. You don't need to be any good at math to imagine how ashy my hands are from clutching my comforter and sheets, frozen as Jack in Titanic.

I'd never let go, if I could help it. The worst part of my day has to be when I step out of bed and the floor sends icy spasms from foot to brain in about three seconds. No. Taking my pajamas - a sweatshirt, tee shirt, and sweatpants - off to put on regular clothes is worse. My entire torso erupts into goosebumps befitting The Guiness Book of World Records.

There are things I could do. I've considered getting rugs and cats. Electric blankets worry me, as I sometimes go to bed with damp hair and have seen a lot of public service announcements about the dangers of electricity. My friend Mike says I should sleep with a hot water bottle, but I'm pretty sure that only works with orphaned puppies. What's next? A ticking clock?

I'm not at the worst point. I've known people who've resorted to sleeping in hats, gloves, or scarves. Or worse, with live-in significant others.

I'm not that desperate. Yet.

The man got on the subway with a guitar at Chambers Street. He sat and began the introduction. But he didn't say anything about his situation. There was no preface of, "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sorry to bother you..."

Instead, he said, "This song is for the fine woman in the big hat." He began to sing "My Girl." He wasn't the best singer, but he was hamming it up and his guitar kept up with his mouth. "Yeah, this song is for the lady in the tan coat with the big hat. She talkin' like she don't hear me, but I know she do. She's my girl."

Everyone looked for the one serenaded. She was standing by the door, trying to appear stern. The women she was with couldn't help smiling. They were about the man's age. Maybe they all knew each other.

"My next song is dedicated to the girl next to the lady with all the hair," he explained. I immediately knew who he meant, or knew the woman sitting next to her. Everyone's eyes moved from the cloud of hair to the slim young girl next to her.

The man began to sing, "Nobody wanna see us to-geeeth-er... And that's cause she younger than eighteen."

Laughter rang off the metal bars and poles.

"C'mon, everybody sing! Even the white people," he encouraged us.

Then the man sang "Let's Get it On," but changed the words to "There's nothin' wrong with givin' me money, no no no no no." His words faded into some background information. "Ladies and gentlemen, anything you can spare. I accept food stamps, checks, cash, college credits, and iPods. Anything to help me out, 'cause I lost my job at Lehman Brothers."

Everyone chuckled and shook their heads.

"Seriously, though, I got three kids and they all need Timberlands. Hey! I'll give five dollars to anyone who can tell me who I'm actin' like."

The man paused dramatically, everyone watched and listened. He closed his eyes and began singing "Georgia..."

"Ray Charles!" An elderly woman yelled suddenly.

"Actually, ma'am," the man winked. "That was me actin' like Jamie Foxx actin' like Ray Charles."

The train stopped at Penn Station, and he left with about half the audience. He may have made $5.

He made my night.

Clayton Patterson has been documenting life on the Lower East Side in videos and photographs for more than 25 years. His subjects have evolved over the years from skinheads, druggies, and drag queens to yuppies, Thug Lite (not to be confused with Thug Life), and longtime residents who've watched the neighborhood change along with him.

Saturday night, TBID and I went downtown to the Millennium for a screening of Captured, a documentary that compiles Patterson's footage, climaxing at the Tompkins Square Park police riot in 1988.

The film is as much a celebration as it is a cry of anguish. What happened to New York City? I moved here in 2005, so the most vivid version of this city for me equates to mostly clean sidewalks that are safe almost any hour of the day. Subways are generally drowsy places. Downtown tenements the size of a bar bathroom rent for over $2,000 a month.

But when I set my eyes on New York City at thirteen, it was different. Times Square hadn't yet been plastered with MTV, Disney, and Hershey signage. It was a collection of peep shows and adult content, loose women and cigarettes. As I grew up in Texas, my beloved cesspool got cleaned up. Guiliani gave New York every cosmetic procedure possible, save a tummy tuck.

Things aren't dull now, but it's less vibrant. The melting pot is available in pre-packaged neighborhoods and various portion sizes. The thing about Captured is that I realize it indicts me. Here I am working 9-to-5 in corporate America, doing my part to gentrify a lower-income neighborhood. I can appreciate the flava and raw energy of city life, but I very much enjoy walking down the sidewalks unafraid of being accosted. Well, except by those Jehovah's Witnesses that hang out on Central Park North.

Two weeks ago, I was in my old neighborhood. TBID and I wanted to rent a movie - something I hadn't done in a long time, since before Britney Spears was exorcised - and Kim's Video was closed. Permanently. The independent video store has been replaced by yet another Ricky's.

The situation had me lookin' sad and feelin' angry. How could the first place I ever belonged to in New York just shut down? I didn't even get to say goodbye, nor do I have a place to get my film on. Blockbuster doesn't really carry movies older than me, and Netflix seems so impersonal. I like going to video stores and getting heckled or high-fived by a pretentious minimum wage worker. Some chain beauty and accessories store is not going to do that for me. I don't care if they have cheap Halloween costumes.

What's next to go? That hole in the wall pub I like where there are still ugly, middle-aged guys at the bar? (No doubt, one of the few of its kind left). The people selling churros in the winter?

The tiny piece of Manhattan that I've made my home looks more and more like a strip mall. I don't like it. It's not the stuff of Clayton Patterson footage, but I do feel like less of a yuppie.

Case of the Mondays:
Neither desire to write
nor to shelve blog goals.

*

My feet shouldn't ache,
because it's not like I walk
while chained to the chair.

*

So I'll stand for this,
but must it always be that
they are next to me?

*

The 2 train pulls up.
A crushing rush to the doors.
Fighting to sit more.

I spotted this graffiti at a subway exit in Washington Heights tonight. It made me smile.

Like many Americans, I lost a lot of faith in the democratic process during the 2000 election. The problem was, I had no voice. A senior in high school, I was six months shy of voting age. The closest I got to the polls was a mock-election at my small Texas school. You can guess how that turned out as easily as you could spot kids wearing Wranglers or crosses.

In 2004, I finally got to vote. When John Kerry conceded to George W. Bush - a man I am convinced never should have been in the White House in the first place - I was student teaching at a high school in East Austin. I was really feeling down about the political scene and felt worse when I went to the school and found the front entrance locked.

Surely the world hadn't ended? Austin is a liberal city, the only one in the Lone Star State. Had it ceased everything in protest? I knocked on the door when I saw a police officer walk by. He made eye contact and started walking toward me. The door cracked open a sliver.

"Do you have business here?" he barked

"I'm a student teacher," I said, presenting my id. "What's going on?"

He looked from my picture on the hard plastic card to me. "There's a guy here with a gun threatening to shoot," he said, as if he were giving me directions to the nearest bathroom. "You can go wait in the office."

With a tiny bit of concern that my guts might soon be heavy with bullets and disappointment in my nation, I walked a few feet into the office and sat in a chair. The secretary barely looked up. Some tardy students studied me with that expression that meant, "The new student is way too dressed up. Who does she think she is - a teacher?"

Then this woman in the back asked about the Kerry button on my backpack. Because I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, I assumed she was a Democrat.

"Yeah, too bad for John Kerry," she murmured. "He has no respect for family values." Then her head started to rotate. My stomach lurched, and I tried to think of the best way to express my opinions and keep my internship.

"What an ignorant and stereotypical thing to say," I replied. Then I started thinking about gun laws and the armed guy running about the halls. Once we were free to go back to the normal school routine, I asked around and discovered the judgmental biddy was the guidance counselor.

*In case you're wondering, the crazy gunman got away. He only wanted to shoot his knocked up girlfriend, anyway. Kids...

My second election experience is a chance for America to make it right by voting left. I went to the polls at 6:25 this morning and waited over an hour before flipping my switches and pulling the lever. It was hot, crowded, and slow-moving, and I waited it out with many others. Words cannot describe how much weight and levity simultaneously inhabited that room. My historically black neighborhood was pumped. Elderly people with wheelchairs and canes made it out. A few parents brought their children. No one got impatient or yelled or gave up.

I've never felt such a sense of community in my neighborhood or in this city.

A teary-eyed old man kept repeating, "I had to get up early. I never seen anything like this."

Everyone nodded in agreement.

One of these days, I'll ask her, "Won't you please not be my neighbor?" (Thanks for the inspiration, KK).

The girl who lives next door to me has been complaining about the outrageously loud footsteps I supposedly take in my apartment again. The first time she did it, the accusation was eased into as smoothly as a potholed gravel road.

"Hi, I'm ________," she said. "Welcome! Your footsteps are so heavy, I thought a three hundred pound farm animal and its morbidly obese caretaker had moved in. Nice meeting you!"

It was textbook passive-aggression.

The second time she visited, there was nothing sugary about it. "You non-stop stomp in your apartment. With every step, pictures rattle off my walls. I feel my floorboards quake beneath me, just like in that movie Tremors, which I watched at volume level 79, because that was the only way I could hear it above your T.rex strutting."

I did what I had to do - I validated her concern. "Interesting," I said skeptically. "I'll try to work on that." And I have. I've continued my normal schedule of pretty much only being home when I'm sleeping, a time when I know I do not gallop or skip or practice my tap routine to "Yankee Doodle."

Thursday, I got my first post-it communication. It read:

Please me more conscious when walking in your apt. You walk SO loudly and heavily it is still shaking my floors. I've asked you twice before. Thanks.

I'm pretty sure I heard someone besides me laugh, play music, and maybe sneeze a few minutes ago. What do you think? Does this call for a note? For real, it is seriously annoying that other people live in this building.

"You look fabulous in red," the old man said to me this morning as I walked in the rain, dodging puddles and shifting my umbrella up and down as I maneuvered through heavy, squeaky foot traffic.

The day had just begun, and I was ready for bed.

I slid through the long cavity of the Times Square subway system and rode to work. There were only three total people in my car, I noticed. The others had been sealed in since upper Manhattan or the Bronx and were dry. The rest of the city was at work already, counting minutes and skipping lunch.

New York goes soft in rain and slow. Tonight both are forecast. People would look each other in the eyes and hold the gaze if they weren't huddled in their apartments alone or with people they already know.

I see a woman on the subway who refuses to move closer to her neighbor and free up what is obviously room for one more person to sit down. I notice she's reading Why Men Love Bitches.

I walk up her and ask, "Could you scoot over a little?"

She doesn't look at me. Instead, she waits a minute and then moves silently. I thank her.

Nothing.

I can't decide if guys are really into her or not.

Saturday is a big day for TBID and me - the bliss is going on the road. We've taken a few day trips, but never something as monumental as this Saturday. There are a few reasons for this: 1) We're really caught up in our personal weekend routines and get cranky if we don't follow them and then spin in a circle three times before reuniting, 2) No, really cranky, and 3) TBID is one of the city lovers.

There was an episode of Sex and the City, and believe me, I hate admitting I remember this, in which Miranda's great date sours when the guy mentions he hates leaving the city. She curtly mentions that she loves the city and the country before going home to "feed the cat" she doesn't have.

That's how I feel. I love not having a car, snuggling next to strangers on my way to work, and paying an exorbitant amount of rent in a neighborhood in which every fifth guy calls me "princess" or "mami." But sometimes I just want clean air, decent customer service, and to be called "darlin'" by a redneck.

TBID's default destination for any given outing is that area around Chelsea and the Village. The one where he lives and works and all that. He doesn't hate the country; he just prefers being somewhere where Zagat ratings apply and are taken very seriously. (I'm not sure he's ready to have his world shaken up the way it will be if he ever visits my hometown).

The berry-picking excursion went so well, and I've complained so much about wanting to get out of Manhattan, that we've got a car rented and everything. We'll be hiking and apple picking in New Paltz, which is a grand one-and-a-half to two hours away. I'm giddy just thinking about it. Part of me hopes we encounter a bear or something. I'd let TBID bring it up strategically whenever I propose something he doesn't want to do. "Last time we did that, an angry ursine creature was involved," he might say. "There's no way we can rent Terms of Endearment tonight."

We cut our teeth on a trip to Brooklyn's Sunset Park last weekend. No bears were involved, but one squirrel was really exuberant. I played around with my daunting camera and no, the sky hadn't totally succumbed to smog. It was cloudy and chilly that day, just like I'm hoping it won't be when we're on mountains. Actual mountains.

Here's Sunset Park. Time to walk up a bunch of steps. It's worth it.

The shaded benches are nice for checking out skateboarders and the dudes on the basketball courts. In the summer, you can get shaved ice. But what's that in the background?

All those buildings so close together...

That lady looks awfully familiar...

Oh wait, I know this place! That's where I live, and that other part is Staten Island. It's not so bad, really. Kinda lovely.

Despite the million dollar view, the rest of the neighborhood is quite humble.

TBID and I towered over the locals, who are mostly short Hispanics. I felt like Goliath with a camera.

There are rows upon rows of homey brownstones. The streets are really quiet, too. No one's going to disturb the pumpkins some of the residents have already set out on the stoops.

What a sweet ride - Sunset Park is accessible by train. It's the closest to feeling distant I've come in awhile. Onward and upstate-ward!

I'm furiously freelancing until tomorrow night, so I'ma make myself scarce.

In the meantime, check out this judge running for NYC Surrogate Court:

With a name like that, he ought to be a pornstar or masseur or something.