After my morning run, it was time to prepare for my Thanksgiving contributions, but first means shopping. Headed downtown Brooklyn to the newish Trader Joes, despite the often ridiculously long and winding lines, I love that place. I always go with a mental note of what to buy and leave with much more. “I’d like to try this” or “this looks interesting” along with the chocolate peanut butter cups leads to many impulse purchases. Most get used but some, unfortunately, end up in the freezer cemetery for no other reason than either forgotten or never got around to eating which leads to being forgotten.
After Trader Joes, I went to DSW in a panic over having warm shoes. I bought some duck shoes of a famous name brand (I try to reserve name brand-dropping for running stuff ;), however if this shoes somehow end up being magical, you will hear about them). Then I went to Flatbush to catch a dolla van and head home to start my cooking marathon (sprint). Crossing the street (with the sign flashing “don’t walk” as New Yorkers do–in Calgary they actually wait for the walk sign. Even with neither cars nor bikes nor squirrels in sight. Bothers the impatient New Yorker in me to no end–I saw a sign in the sky that connected Brooklyn to Calgary–a reverse Chinook:
Calgary is on the left in case you are left guessing.
Let the cooking begin however, not before catching a club night with some colleague-besties.
Headed to the city to get some house music all night long (until midnight) I got off at 14th to transfer to the L. Descending the platform I heard the sweet sound of salsa music echoing from below. It is a sound that for me has defined my life as a New Yorker. It is a rhythm that says, “These my peeps, yo,” it is a comforting sound of what was and is rapidly disappearing Nueva York. In NY it seems we all end up being both Puerto Rican and Jewish by default, intersected with your own ethnic identity and/or the identity of the community in which you grew up. Because you are a New Yorker, you know how and where to schlepp in order to get some arepas (and know that it is not pronounced ah-ray-pas).
El Salsero on the platform was one of those old-school tios, the ones you heard on the streets near Calle 116 in Spanish Harlem and still see on the boardwalk at Coney Island. The ones who’s partner always had some arroz con pollo, pasteles y coquito (no matter what time of year) for sale in a cooler. He had his maracas y guiro painted in the colors of the bandera and I could not help myself but join in the dance. See my man:
Beautiful. Even more so when thinking about the destruction and current hardship that has befallen La Isla de Encanta and the strength of Caribbean people. However, even strong people have their limits and we need to always remember those who have suffered this hurricane season. Although the headlines have faded, people are still struggling to rebuild.
From this emotional moment, I moved on to the Meatpacking District to meet up with some friends/colleagues to head to Club Cielo for a night of house music. It must have been old-skool-post-disco-pre-deep-house night because for the first hour or so it felt like we went back in time to the legendary Paradise Garage. And I am sure some of the dancers were the original patrons. Check out this brother:
Scroll through for the full effect, light up shirt and laces and all. After the hour plus of discoish house, the beat pumped up and it was time to close our eyes and get lost in the music. After sweating for another hour and half, my colleague/friend and I remembered the Thanksgiving dinner that we had to cook later that day. We shared a taxi, headed through the tunnel back to our borough.
But before cooking, I had to be in Prospect Park at 6am for my volunteer gig with PPTC. Next entry!