I'm Playing My 'A' Game

Here I am, minding my own business, in my own world, walking into the subway station. I walk through the turnstile and BAM! rejected. I laugh, embarrassed, and the MTA worker watching the whole thing is polite enough to look away even though I know he's thinking something ridiculous about me.

I forget to not only swipe my MetroCard, I didn't have it out at all. I literally just slammed into the turnstile. I grab it out of my pocket, swipe, and enter uninjured. I feel the need to make a comment and so I turn to the MTA worker and say "And you'd think I hadn't had my coffee yet."

"That's all right darlin'."

It's gonna be a good day.

What I Did

Being exhausted at work all week has somehow inspired me to get out on my days off and actually do something with myself. Mark and I, for the second time, went all the way down to 14th street just to run errands. More food for Vinnie, a visit to the CRAZIEST Trader Joe's in the United States, a little wine spritzer in the evening, some color despite sunblock, and maybe a little dehydration as well.

The next day we hung out with Diana. We had planned on going to see the Dark Knight all together but neither one of us really felt like committing to that plan. Instead we hopped into the car, spent more money on Vinnie (which I believe was truly wasted), and more money at a nice, calm Trader Joe's bringing our collective TJ bill to over $100 this weekend.

After sharing what turns out to the the fattiest pizza in the world, the Numero Uno, at an Uno Chicago Grill we made it back home.

I need another day off.

Good Morning

This morning I stepped into the subway car and sat down in a seat. I sipped on my iced coffee and I was busy digging through my bag to find my iPod. There was only one other person in the car, an older Hispanic lady was sitting diagonally from me.

Suddenly she was plopping down right beside me talking to me, maybe mumbling is more like it. Instinctively I grabbed my bag tighter and hugged my iced coffee closer, a usual reaction when someone suddenly approaches you on public transportation.

I could hear "very tired" and a bunch of Spanish words. I realized that she wanted to chat it up because she was trying not to fall asleep. It's pretty common for older working ladies in my neighborhood to save seats for each other on the Bx12 bus and chat it up like school girls but I had never been approached by someone myself.

I was hungover, maybe still a little drunk, tired, and was looking for my iPod to zone out for the ride. I told the lady "I'm sorry I don't speak Spanish."

"Oh", a pause. "Where are you going?"

I didn't answer right away. Still thinking this is some kind of con. You don't need to know that. But she was trying to make conversation. "I'm going to work." She stares at me, demanding more. "I work at a museum."
"Where do you work?"
"Downtown."
Another pause.
"Where you from?" "You American."

Ah. There it is. The disdain. Here you are you Spanish looking girl with the American accent and you can't even participate in Spanish-as-a-second-language conversation. This is the look from strangers I've always received. From the shops in my neighborhood. From fellow students who bond by speaking their parents language against the teacher's wishes and therefore left out of the cliques.

"Yes, I'm American." She stares at me. Trying to understand the dark hair, tanned skin. "My grandparents are from Puerto Rico."
"Ah. P'rico." She nods, defeated she gets up to walk away.
"Have a nice day." I feel the need to call this out. I feel like I've hurt her feelings. I feel like I disrespected my elders. I watch her move away. Sit down. Look exhausted, rub her face.

Ironically a Spanish-language song comes on my player. I know it's about a woman named Maria, who gets no rest, who always works, always working for someone else. Great, now I feel horrible.

MoMA: My New Master

I've spent my last week employed. And I haven't quit yet! Go me!

I'll be spending the summer as a Visitor's Assistant at the Museum of Modern Art. If you are in New York and want a ticket let me know you are coming and I'll write you in for a freebie!

While the job is not very hard it is very tiring. It being summer and MoMA being world-renowned the crowd never really dwindles and I'm exhausted doing the same three things over and over again.

Here is one particular thing that is always an awkward conversation:
A lot of people need to use the bathroom and think that the museum is a great place to use it. However they don't realize without a ticket you don't get to visit the bathroom.

On day 2 a "gentleman" (an oh-so-very New Yorker) asked if he could use the bathroom. I said that they would stop him with his backpack. He can check his backpack and then I could let him in. "I just want to use the bathroom."
"I understand that sir, but you need to check your bag, show me your ticket, and then you can go in to use the bathroom"
"I need a ticket to use the bathroom?"
"The bathrooms are inside and to get inside you need a ticket. So yes, you need a ticket to use the bathroom."
"This is a public building, isn't it? This is a museum. You use city funding? You take money from the Mayor and my taxes right?"
"I don't know about your taxes, sir. All I know is that the bathrooms are inside and without a ticket you're not getting in."

To avoid this whole fiasco in the future I did learn that we are a private collection and therefore we can deny public access to the bathroom. We can charge $20 for a ticket. And we can charge $20 for a ticket even if we close in 15 minutes and you only want to see 1 painting. No one is forcing you to buy this ticket, therefore feel free to walk away from the counter when I refuse to give you a free ticket. Especially if you think you can bully me into "doing you a favor".

Luckily it's just a summer job.

Hangin' With the Fellas

So even though I miss making money I will really miss sitting around with the dysfunctional animals in my life. There is something about taking in their daily lives that I enjoy (pretty much watching them nap all day). Also, they are so used to Mark and I being around all the time that they get REALLY PISSED when we're not around. Like...they freak out and scream and cry when they are left alone. Geez guys, you're really ticking off the neighbors.

Don't Stay Here

So I was writing a friend to give a hello and I realized that the email would do to update you all. Though that might upset the friend (no longer so 'personal') I'm sure she'll survive. I didn't want to mention this "event" earlier because I was kinda embarrassed by the whole thing but I got over it and I don't have anything else going on to talk about. So for like the 3 of you who read this blog, here's what was up:

So I went to this open house last week for a Front Desk position at this "hostel" on the Upper West Side. I thought I might as well, I'm interested in hospitality. There was a line and I waited and I met with the people and they really liked me and hired me on the spot. Woohoo, right? It paid okay, not "I can move out now" okay but okay where I can make money for a while until something better comes along. But there were no benefits (i.e. I wouldn't be giving up much if I left).

I start the next day and I get a weird feeling right away. The front desk girls are nice but the managers are weird. I'm kinda thrown to the wolves. I feel frustrated and nervous. Basically no one processes me (tax papers, what the rules and regulations are, what my schedule might be) I also had noticed that the whole process of their checking in of guests is weird. No one is assigned a room in advance which means it's kind of chaos, and I notice they are actually not that nice to their guests. I make it through the day and I'm already like "uh oh..I'm going to quit." I decide to go back the next day anyway.

I go back the next day and meet more front desk people who are nice but I'm frustrated again because the girl training me that day tells me that everything I was taught the day before was done all wrong. I'm annoyed. They don't know how to train and I have to deal with the frustration. I make it through the day and I think it will work out after all. But still that nagging feeling of I'm not loving it is there along with the reappearing Wow they're not very nice to their guests.

The third day. I'm tired. It's Sunday so a lot of tourists who have spent the weekend in the city are now checking out. Complaint galore...but with every reason.

You never had hot water

The elevator hasn't worked in a long time and

I'm on the 7th floor with luggage

You said I could stay in my room and now you're saying you made a mistake and instead of fixing it you're just kicking me out of my room in the next 5 minutes

Someone broke the lock on my locker and

stole my passport and all my money (apparently happens every week).

Basically they screw over their guests BIG TIME and could care less. They kinda say sorry but not even in a convincing fake way. They make people pay for the whole stay as soon as they arrive which means if you have a shitty stay they could care less because they already got all your money. It really frustrates me. Who knew I would care about giving good service? It is especially bothersome because of two things:

1. At my last job, even though sometimes it was frustrating, we bent over backwards for our guests. But it made sense. They paid a lot of money. Here they're like "too f'ing bad".

2. I've been a tourist in a country where I don't understand the language and all I want is for someone to be nice to me so that I can have a place to sleep tonight. Everyone who worked there had never even left NYC so they don't get how scary and frustrating it is to be on the road and feel like you have no place to go and it's hard to communicate.

So basically I quit halfway through my third day. Yeah I felt weird and it's going to SUCK when I go back to pick up my check but... whatever. I don't want to be a bitch to people who have done nothing wrong. I don't like it. I won't stand there and pretend I'm okay with it. One of the girls was like "I understand but this is my job." I get that and I admire her for that..but she's never had anything but shitty jobs and I don't think she graduated high school definitely not college so to her..this is the tops. I don't think so..not for me.

Some Cheer in the Gloom

There is one thing that I miss fondly from my adventures in Colombia. The juice. Specifically jugo de maracuyá en aguá or passion fruit blended in water. My absolute favorite. FAVORITE DRINK EVER. If you read Mark's blog then you've read ALL about the juice in South America.

Recently Mark and I wandered into a dollar store here in "lovely" Inwood to kill time. We were purchasing a diet soda for the fake-sugar fiends back home when a brightly colored juice bottle caught my eye. After further review I discovered that it was jugo de maracuyá!

My insides did a little spanishy dance and Mark and I quickly grabbed two bottles to purchase and inspect with our taste buds.

I would like to note at this point that the young woman who checked us out also seemed excited about the juice as she, like most people in my neighborhood, originally hail from the land of jugos en aguá.

So anyway, the juice freaking kicks ass. It tastes just like it should minus the icy shavings from being freshly blended. Mark and I promptly returned the next day and bought six more bottles. Woohoo indeed!