McSorley's

It is a Saturday night in late January, and the year’s first heavy snowfall is pounding New York City’s East Village. Snow piles against the window panes, and a relentless storm of snowflakes blankets the streets and sidewalks outside McSorley’s Old Ale House on E. 7th Street just off Cooper Square.

Inside the oldest tavern in New York, established in 1854 – familiarly called "McSorley’s" by regulars, local students and tourists drawn to its antique charm and cheap, simple fare – the patrons slam their glass mugs onto round tables of warped, dark wood, almost oblivious to the storm outside. There is the occasional whirling draft of snow and cold air as the outer entrance opens and then the old batwing doors swing wide, letting in men and women who stomp the snow from their boots onto the sawdust carpeting the wooden floors before bellowing cheery greetings to friends. They order rounds of beer at $4 for two mugs from the tap, offered only in McSorley’s light or McSorley’s dark. The individual looking for a Budweiser, Heineken or a shot of something harder can take their money elsewhere. McSorley’s carries on today much the way it did under its original founder, Old John McSorley, who believed working men didn’t need a stronger drink than a mug or two of ale, according to Joseph Mitchell’s essays in "McSorley’s Wonderful Saloon."

Old John passed ownership of the bar to his son, Bill, whose principal concern was to keep McSorley’s exactly as it had been in his father’s time. The subsequent owners have also sought to preserve the tavern’s original character and atmosphere.

The sign "Be Good or Be Gone" has been moved from the back room to behind the bar up front, but it is still there. The American flag embroidered as a gift to Old John by the only woman John would serve, a widowed peddler called Mother Fresh-Roasted who sold peanuts carried in her apron, still hangs on the wall. The pot-bellied stove burns coal, and customers warm their hands over the flames even as earlier patrons would once warm their ale. The bar still serves cheese, crackers and raw onions, as it has done since the 19th century. The smell of the onions is as strong as the spicy mustard kept in glass mugs on each tabletop slick with spilt beer.

The walls are congested with an eclectic array of memorabilia, from portraits of Presidents Theodore Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy to yellowing newspaper clippings chronicling McSorley’s history with headlines: "Raise a Glass to the Bar that Time Forgot," and "Oldest Tavern in U.S. Won’t Allow Women."

McSorley’s is not completely unchanged – women are now served at the bar. They wander the backroom in defiance of the ban that kept them out for over a century. According to Mitchell, Old John believed it impossible for men to "drink with tranquility" in the presence of women. Women were not allowed into the tavern until as recently as 1970. A ladies’ restroom now stands obstinately beside the entrance to that of the men. One girl in low-rise jeans leans over a table to get her bag. Her male friend slyly pours beer down the back of her pants while she is in this compromising position. As she shrieks and jumps into his lap, one doubts Old John would have approved.

The tavern still manages to attract visitors with its timelessness despite the creeping advance of the present. The prose of E.E. Cummings, "I was sitting in McSorley’s. Outside it was New York and beautifully snowing," just as easily applies to this night in 2005 as it did in 1923.

"The thing about McSorley’s is that every time I come here, the experience is the same," says one grizzled veteran, Emerson, a 53-year-old Continental Airlines pilot who has been frequenting the bar since the late 80s.

His companion Louise, 52, and fellow pilot Dennis, 57, and Dennis’s wife Marcia, 53, have been sitting in the bar room of McSorley’s for the past five hours. Now after 10 p.m., their faces are flushed, and they gladly buy rounds for the graduate students sitting before them from New York University. The two generations separated by over 30 years raise their mugs in the air and toast to the New Year, to the blizzard and to meeting new friends. McSorley’s cozy atmosphere still encourages sitting and conversation.

After the bartender has clapped down several rounds of drinks, often carrying eight mugs at once in each red fist, the students and pilots exchange email addresses and plan to reunite at the bar in the future. The pilots impart the wisdom they have gained during their years to their new young friends. "Live each day to the fullest," advises Louise. "Find someone that you are passionate about," says Marcia.

"And if that doesn’t work out," chimes in Emerson, "go down to McSorley’s!"

--End--




--- Nicole Lyn Pesce

Now let's just hope that Professor Serrin likes this!

Yes, it is exciting.

On New Year's Day, it was so hot in my apartment that my friends and I actually had the air conditioning turned on. No one wastes energy like the Americans.

And, even as outside temperatures plummeted off and on last semester, our studio was always toasty enough to prance around in tees and shorts.

The last few days, however, have been bitterly frigid. And for the first time, the temperature in the studio that my roommate Ariana and I share is comparable to the temperature outside. We have found ourselves shivering in sweats and doubled-up socks and slinking to the bathroom or to the kitchen swaddled in our comforters. Why the sudden degree change?

We realized tonight that there are serious drafts coming from the two huge windows facing the street in the main room ... and ... THAT THERE IS A GIANT HOLE UNDER THE AIR CONDITIONER that we had failed to notice. Some kind of storage space or something emitting ice-cold air.

Ummmm......

While Ariana stuffed this crawlspace under the AC unit with some of her old sweaters and a box, to block the incoming cold air, I ripped the fleece throws off of our beds and pressed them up against the bottom edges of the windows to block the draft. We've also rolled down the blinds.

There's still frigid air wafting in from all around the windows. Crap. Our next plan is to try to wrap duct tape around the edges. If that doesn't work, maybe a couple of cheap fleece blankets from Kmart can be hung up against the windowpanes until the worst of the cold snap is over. In April.

How ... sophisticated, haha.

As we were trying to mend matters so that we weren't seeing our breath puff in front of us in our own apartment, I suddenly realized that the cable was out. This is the third time that our cable box has just disconnected itself in one month. Irritated, I called Time Warner and very patiently tried to explain the predicament to the useless imbecile on the other end of the line. I'll admit, I entered the conversatoin out of patience before the customer service rep even hopped on the line because I'd been fighting with the automated voice system for ten minutes prior.

"What seems to be the problem?" the rep asked even as I was finishing telling the automated voice system I wanted to talk to a goddam human being.

I explained that the cable box had disconnected, and our TV screen was flashing a message to call our cable operator, and that this was an emergency because American Idol was starting in 15 minutes.

"So ... you're not getting any channels?"

No! There is nothing on the screen but a message saying to call the cable operator, which is what I have done.

"Ok ... I want you to go to the cable box ... and turn it off."

I could see where THIS was going ... I considered telling her I'd tried turning it off and on several times already, but I bit my tongue. I turned the box off. Ok, now what?

"Ok ... I want you to now ... turn it ON."

Gritting my teeth, I turned it back on. The exact same message, "call your cable operator," still flashed on the screen.

Ariana was in her bed, wrapped in her comforter, and laughing her ass off. Dammit -- next time, SHE calls.

"Hm ... " the rep sounded lost.

"Look," I said, doing her job for her. "This is the third time this has happened in a month. Maybe there is something wrong with the cable box." I tried very hard to be as civil and polite as I could be.

There was silence on her end for a time. Then, she said, "Yes ... that could very well be it. I might have to send someone out there. But FIRST - I want you to try unplugging it, now."

"Should I turn the box off before I unplug it maybe?" I asked.

She thought for a moment. " ... Yes. That might be better."

......

So yes. You can see how that went. A hole in the wall, drafty windows, and schizophrenic cable with incompetent customer service. By the way, our oven isn't working as well. I try to look at it as an adventure. I'll spare you the details of the cabinets that do not shut, the scratches on the floor, and the two burners on the gas stove that only light half way.

Ariana and I cheerfully rounded out the evening by ordering in a pizza and watching American Idol in fuzz-vision on network television.

And so now it looks like, despite the mountains of work I'm sure I'll have between my classes for William Serrin and Richard Blood this weekend, I will be sitting in my room from 2 to 6 this Saturday waiting for the cable guy. And, possibly, the oven repair guy as well.


On the bright side, my first story for Serrin is on McSorley's.

On the negative side, apparently Blood called this evening to give me my first assignment. I missed the call. He failed to leave a message. And now I have missed out on the assignment, and must merely go to class in the morning. I'm incredibly disappointed.

But, on the bright side, my first story for Serrin is on McSorley's.

A brief convo that no one else will find funny

Cristina, a former roommate: hey chicky how is it shaking?

Me: hey it's doing ok

Cristina: like the new semester so far?

Me: the semester starts tuesday

Cristina: you excited

Me: yeah
Me: i already bought my supplies and ordered most of my books on Amazon

Cristina: amazon is the greatest

Me: i've never used it for myself before, just the occasional gift

Cristina: I'm addicted

Me: i'm holding out on judgement until i get the books. i'm still suspicious

Cristina: it's my new ebay

Me: see i lost 25 bucks on ebay
Me: someone took my money and ran

Cristina: oh I had that happen too

Me: so i have been boycotting internet trading
Me: but i dont want to blow another 400 bucks almost on books

Cristina: but amazon is good they cover everything

Me: yeah i saw that

Cristina: and they actually get back to you

Me: my email inbox has been bombarded man
Me: because i ordered like seven books
Me: each from a different vendor

Cristina: all three of mine have too :-

Me: so i'm getting all these crazy emails like "we got your order!"
Me: and i'm like "great!"
Me: and then i get another one "we're thinking of sending your order on thursday!"

Cristina: LOL

Me: and i'm like "great!"
Me: and then "your order has been shipped!"
Me: and i'm like "FANTASTIC! ENOUGH OF THE FOREPLAY JUST GIVE IT TO ME!"
Me: yeah it's insane.
Me: but i briefly feel popular.

Cristina: I just choked on my coffee I was laughing go hard

Me: nice
Me: good to know i still got it

New Shoes, Good Friends, and Choice Brews

Seeing as how the last post was a self-absorbed downer, I just wanted to say that I've removed my head from my ass and am looking forward to the upcoming semester to give it my all for another round. I also intend to pick up rugby again. Seeing as how giving it up didn't help any, I feel it's a diversion that my body and soul probably need.

As far as dealing with heart-wrenching disappointment, I discovered yesterday that solo-shopping trips are under-appreciated Zen experiences. I walked over to the DSW at Union Square, and spent two productive hours browsing the entire third floor before I left with one sensible pair of shoes (weatherproof boots that I can wear with my pin-stripes as well as my jeans) and a pair of guilty-pleasure goldenrod-colored ballet flats with gold bows. Tres chic.

Leaving a store, satisfied, with moderately-priced shoes swinging from shopping bags in each hand does wonders for one's mood.

That and a plethora of emails and phone calls from sympathetic friends and classmates greatly soothed my battered ego.

Finally, I met up with some cool kats from the journalism department; a pint of Guinness, glass of wine and good conversation brushed away the few remaining strands of hurt and disappointment.

Playing hooky from work today, reading magazines and going to the gym for a good hour were also key.

So, to quote one of my 'mentors' [snicker] ... all I have to say to the journalism department at NYU is: Bring it on.

Kryptonite

Today, I finally received my last three graded stories from Blood: the infamous Times Square story (now there's an anecdote I'll record some rainy day ... no pun intended), the analysis of the Mayor's Management Report Fiscal Year 2004 (regarding the Staten Island Ferry improvements since the 2003 accident) and the Profile (on Sgt. Angelo Melillo at Night Court.)

The stories were stacked in Blood's mailbox and sealed in white envelopes with each student's last name printed on the front. I found "PESCE", hesitated a moment, and fled down the five flights of stairs and out onto the street with the parcel unopened.

I stopped at Starbucks on the way home. I had decided that discovering my final three grades (the MMR being worth HALF of our entire grade in the course ... ) necessitated a caramel macchiato and the privacy of my room.

Shortly afterward, sitting at my desk with the comfort drink steaming at my elbow, I took a deep breath and tore the envelope open.

I read the grade, and Blood's critique, at the head of each story.

I then placed them neatly on my desk,

put my face in my hands,

and began to cry.

To say that I am disappointed in my performance my first semester at NYU would be an understatement. We're not talking anything as severe as academic probation, but I was voted "Most Likely to Succeed" in Atlanta, and now I can't seem to tell my ass from my elbow.

It is not just Blood, who everyone agrees is an extremely tough grader. In Editing and in Ethics my final grade was a B+ apiece.

Blood's is still not posted. I can live with that, ha.

No, it is personally devastating because this is all on me. I can't blame partying, because I largely gave that up. I can't blame the professors. And, I can't blame extracurricular activities, because there aren't any (I gave up rugby!) and I cut my work hours to shreds (8 to 12 hours a week? come on.)

It's just jarring. If I'm not good enough at this, then what am I supposed to be good at? Why is it that I was pulling As in the beginning of the term, and then dropped to Bs and Cs? Why, instead of learning and improving, am I making the same mistakes and actually backsliding?

I have this book - Journalism: Stories from the Real World. It has anecdotes on everything - from being used by sources and making rookie mistakes, to even having taped interviews disappear.

However, there is no anecdote in there for the reporter keeps having the same structural difficulties and who overlooks obvious details. It is also missing an uplifting tale following a young journalist who can't seem to get an A in grad school, yet who grows up to become a Pulitzer winner nevertheless.

And what about the fact that Blood wrote on my profile - which I had LOVED and which I was totally expecting to Ace - "This is one boring piece of work ... he is so normal I want to punch him. Did I actually approve of this?"

ouch

After a few minutes of self pity, I blotted my eyes dry and picked up my pen. I rooted around my junk drawer until I found last semester's notebook. I opened it to Blood's section, where I turned to a clean page and copied down his comments and suggestions.

Maybe one day, the tough love will finally click, and I'll actually become the writer that both this man and I want me to be.

Nesting

I dubbed around on Long Island this weekend, visiting friends Katt and Steve, Ron and Grant. Picking up a case of Yeungling, renting all the "Die Hard" DVDs as well as "Open Water," and dinner at IHOP reminded me that, as exciting and sophisticated as the City can be, I miss the simple joys of Long Island. Although notably, when I am out on Long Island, I cannot wait to get back into the City.

I lucked out on Saturday night's beer run when I noticed a sale on Ramen noodles at the local Pathmark Supermarket. Whereas in the City I generally pay an entire dollar for four measly packs, out at Stony Brook this weekend I paid $3 for 24 packets. Those, along with my turkey franks and frozen burgers, and I will be pretty well-fed for the next month -- with weekly reinforcements of produce and dairy, of course.

I also went out with Katt to pay some bills and run some errands on Sunday, and ended up completely falling in love with The Home Goods Store in Port Jefferson. For $38, I picked up three amber-colored wine glasses to match the three I already have (reduced from four after Grant broke one on my birthday) thus completing a set of six at last, so that now I can have "dinner parties." I also bought a set of six really quirky shot glasses (bigguns - doubles) that are slanted and come in vibrant shades of red, purple, white, blue, green and amber. Finally, I picked up four beautiful martini glasses for the martini shaker that I do not have. Yet.

I had the greatest time reorganizing my kitchen cabinets last night to incorporate my new grown-up toys. I believe that this is what they call "nesting." I definitely need a new hobby. Or classes. I bought a book - How To Be Good by Nick Hornby, who also wrote High Fidelity. I meant for the book to last me the next week or so until classes start, but I punched out all 305 pages in two days. Augghhh I can't believe I'm so restless, now. In two weeks I'll be on my knees BEGGING for this kind of leisure time.

Also, Katt cut me a piece of her jade plant, which she will bring over for me next time she visits. The jade, combined with the Wandering Jew (it's a plant ... seriously) and my lucky bamboo will definitely liven the atmosphere in my little studio. Also, I finally purchased a (cheap) floor lamp from Kmart, so now I can see in here.

I definitely find it intriguing that I am just as, if not more, delighted by stemware and lighting accessories, Ramen noodles and foliage, than I was about Christmas.

From the Mouths of Babes

Much to my amusement, I had to defend my love-life choices to a 4 year old while working at the preschool today.

While sitting at "the round table" at lunch time, I felt a tapping on my knee. Turning to the right, I found myself looking down to meet the blue eyes of Violet; dressed impeccably in a green long-sleeved shirt and matching green & black striped skirt draped over a pair of jeans.

"Nicole," she asked, "do you have any children?"

I couldn't help but laugh in her face. This is why I shouldn't work with small children. No tact at all.

"NO!" I said.

"But you DO have a husband?" she pressed, delicately putting her organic apple juice down and selecting a Saltine.

"No," I said, still smiling.

"How come?"

Oh, how to answer this one.

A myriad of completely inappropriate responses for a 4-year-old child's ears came to mind before I settled with, "Well, I think I'm too young right now. I'm still in college." I felt no need to explain that actually I am in grad school with no clue of which direction my future is heading in and therefore feel I need to focus on myself before sharing my life with someone else and besides who wants to sleep with one person for the rest of their life when they're only 24?

"But you WILL get a husband when you're older," she said.

"I don't know."

"Why don't you know?" Now she looked completely perplexed. I tried to remember being four. Adults were supposed to grow up, get married, and all of a sudden more four year olds appeared. Well wait, not in my house. We had divorce to contend with. I grew up in a household where Mom was the hero - unclogging toilets and mowing the lawn by herself. Hmmm ... think, Nicole. Think.

"Well, it depends on whether or not I meet anyone I like," I said. "I'm not going to marry someone I can't be friends with."

"FRIENDS?"

"Yeah, sure. You are supposed to love your husband, and if you can't be friends and get along, then that's no fun."

"So why haven't you found anyone yet?"

Oh, the question of the ages, hahahahaha.

"Well," I said, lying, "I guess I'm just picky." As I later told Katt, I didn't feel like explaining feminine insecurities and rejection and competition and failed relationships and so forth - the child will eventually learn all that on her own. Sadly.

"Picky?"

"Picky-Nikki," I said, and we both laughed.

Then, wrinkling her nose at me disdainfully (oh didn't you know - a child can be the epitome of disdain when he or she wants to be) Violet laid down her winning hand.

"Well, I already know who MY husband is going to be."

Well lah-di-DAH, hahaha.

And with that, she threw her juice box in the garbage, and I said a prayer for whichever poor boy she was referring to in our classroom. I suspect it may be Weston, since she was all over him while he was trying to play with the Lego zoo animals.

You Know You're a Dorky Grad Student When ...

... you pop into Staples merely to replace your Expo dry-erase markers ... but lose control and pick up portfolio folders, superglue, pens, reporters' notebooks, regular notebooks, and a weekly planner -- all of which you won't be needing for another two weeks, if ever.

Some women have a shoe fetish. Mine, sadly, is school and office supplies. Not as sexy as Carrie Bradshaw, I'm afraid. My show would be more along the lines of, "Sex-less but Well-Organized in the City."

Ah well, haha.

I had a pretty New York City Moment of Zen while running my errands in the rain this evening. It was a little after 5 p.m., and while I was walking, the rain changed to sleet, and then ... snow flurries. It was something to see over the pedestrians in scarves and umbrellas dodging buses and cabs. Alas, the flurries didn't stick, and now it is merely raining.

Now I'm trying to plan out a work/class schedule for the upcoming semester. Since the work-study job is insanely non-lucrative, and I am very broke, I'm considering a second mode of income. I need to see whether I can handle my courseload first, though. I just worry that by then, there won't be any available jobs left.

As long as I budget my loan refund -- and stay away from Staples -- I should probably be OK.

Getting into Gear

After spending the last three days doing almost nothing besides catching up on the sleep I missed all last semester and at home, I awoke this morning realizing that I need to get back on track.

This is why I am convinced journalism is the profession for me - without a deadline or a list of set tasks demanding immediate attention, I will sleep, read, procastinate and otherwise waste time in Olympic proportions. So, as I always do in such situations where I have a pile of obligations and absolutely no motivation (I find that when it is dismal and rainy in New York, as it is this morning, I have no drive to do anything) I made: A List.

I'm a master at making lists. They actually work, but only if they are of a modest length. I find that if I tack 20 things to a list, I'll often only complete eight, and then I end the day feeling really mad at myself. If the list includes only 10 things, however, including some funny ones like "don't forget to eat lunch" and "call Grandma," then I find I am not only able to complete said-tasks, but I go to sleep feeling satisfied. Plus, putting things on paper where I can run a decisive pen mark through each item offers me a semblance of control in an otherwise manic existence.

This morning, I read those articles in this week's Time Magazine that I usually don't have time to get around to during the hecticity of the semester. I also pain-stakingly plowed through the entire main section of The New York Times, since I have fallen behind on current events. It took an hour, and by the time I pulled my exhausted eyes away, I only had the energy to skim through the remaining sections - although I was entertained by an in-depth look at oatmeals in the Foods Section.

I also scrolled through the many many organizations offering aid to South Asia before opting on UNICEF to donate my meager $25 to in support of tsunami relief. I know it's not a vast amount of money, but it's money I would probably have blown away on a couple of cases of beer, so, for a graduate student anyway, I feel validated. It's one thing to shake my fist at the TV news and agree that US government aid has been relatively stingy, and another to kick in some money of my own. I figure, if we all kicked in $25 - a.k.a. a modest meal at the Olive Garden - it could make an impact. I tend to have a soft spot for children, and UNICEF allowed to me earmark my money directly to tsunami relief, so I chose them over some others. A fairly comprehensive list can be found via Time Magazine Online at Tsunami Aid.

I also called my preschool, West Side Cooperative, where I earn some spending money for books and Ramen noodles through work study via the NYU branch of America Reads, America Counts. They miss me, and I'm scheduled to report for duty armed with a cheery smile and Crayolas tomorrow morning at 9 a.m., where we will settle on temporary schedule for the rest of the holiday break as well as a new permanent schedule around my classes for this semester. Therefor, I will now be forced to go to bed at a reasonable hour, and four hours of my day will now be spent productively, as opposed to dancing to NOFX in my pajamas.

The internship hunt/freelance scouting, although belated, will now begin in earnest as well, to meet my goal of getting published and amassing clips. I expect a series of rejections, but I am sure it will be an amusing, enlightening experience to prepare me for post-graduation rejections.

And although I have been warned by classmate Lee not to do reading of any kind in the next two weeks before the semester starts, I may pick up a novel or two as well. As long as it's not of an academic nature, I figure I am allowed.

And Now for Something Completely Similar

Blood's Class - December 8, 2004


Resolutions. Whether they're actually articulated or not, everyone wakes up hungover at some point on New Year's Day with thoughts about what they want to see happen in the upcoming year. Just as you head to class on that first day of school with your pencils sharpened, determined to do WELL this time around, most folks I know at some point look in the mirror (or perhaps at their own weary reflection in the toiletbowl water) on January 1st with lofty goals of increased exercise, fatter paychecks, and more satisfying relationships with their friends and family.

I had a very quirky New Year's Eve - I'd had this plan to have a party in my apartment. However, I suppose such a classy evening was just not written for me in the stars; not only did my friends all gravitate to other plans and places (not that I wasn't invited ... I just wasn't "feeling" it) I also came down with a pretty tenacious cold. A few of my best friends - Katt and Grant and Steve, members three of The Thursday Night Crew from my Stony Brook years - were hitting a club in the city that evening, and were going to meet up with me afterwards and crash at my place. I went to a family party with another friend, Alex, in the Bronx, which was a Russian affair. I had a really great time; having shots of vodka as well as pickled cabbage and gefilte fish while the family bickered and laughed around me in Russian, to my uncomprehending ears, haha. After ringing in the New Year, we returned to Manhattan. While he went to Brooklyn to party with friends of his for a while, I found myself trying to collect my own wayward friends. I rescued Grant, who was inebriated and lost on Astor Place. Katt and Steve eventually caught a cab back to Washington Square. Alex met up with us, and Irish Car Bombs and MGDs were consumed until we passed out with the rising of the sun at 7 a.m. On waking at 2 p.m. Saturday, we all spent the afternoon recovering in my apartment with turkey sandwiches, ham and cheese Hot Pockets and Mountain Dew. I found myself feeling completely satisfied and happy with my life at that moment. What was there to be resolved about? I'm healthy, I have good friends, and we have Good Times.

Later on, after everyone took off, I found myself alone in my digs at going-on three a.m. for the first time in a long time. It occurred to me that my roommate won't be returning to the apartment for another two weeks, so I'm going to be alone until classes start and everyone returns to the NYU area. This is not a bad thing - I think alone time is a ripe opportunity to get myself organized for the upcoming semester, as well as to learn a bit more about myself. I come from a big family, and have generally always been surrounded by a loud and charmingly raucous group of friends. Some downtime might not be a bad thing. It's time to start getting serious.

And there is where the resolution finally became clear to me. This is a big year - at the other end of it, I'm going to be graduating with my master's from NYU and turning 25. This semester, no matter how busy classes get, I'm determined to get published. I want to do well in school, and I really want to get my career off the ground. More importantly ... I want to discover the perfect balance of being strong and independent, and yet ... being able to let go and accept help from other people instead of being so stubborn all of the time. It is not necessary to always be the tough guy. In fact, maybe I can open myself up this year to becoming a part of a relationship. It's not *necessary* to have one - but I don't have to keep everyone at a distance.

I also want to travel more.

So, three cheers to 2005. I must say, I'm pretty excited about this one. Graduating ... living a few more months in the city ... my cousin having a baby, my brother going to college and my best friend, Katy, getting married ...

I have a feeling it's going to be intense.

One Down, Two to Go

You knew it was bound to happen. Some sort of reflection on what it means to have completed my first semester of graduate school; the places I've been, the people I've met, the tasks I've accomplished, the assignments I've survived.

I'm already looking to the future -- to next semester and my next assignment, to planning mini soirees in my place, as well as saving up money to possibly go to Bosnia this summer via NYU. Last year ... I was just floating. This time around, I'm 24, and much more fiscally responsible and all-around focused on what I want to do and where I want to go. Some of the same insecuries and idiocies remain - more than I'd like - but I look in the mirror and see a very different Nicole Lyn looking back at me, and it's interesting.

I've roamed almost every borough of the city (the only one I didn't really hit up was Queens) - from riding with the NYPD in one of the worst sections of the Bronx, to cruising the Staten Island ferry ... repeatedly ... to inadvertently crashing a random flat party in Brooklyn when none of my friends showed up, haha ... to briefly working in Midtown, and, of course, running all over Times Square in a state of utter exhaustion and sans-wallet in the pouring rain (thank you, Professor Blood.) I'm learning the rhythm and ways of my Village neighborhood, and I've finally tasted (relatively) real Mexican food and Thai. I roam the cheap stores and the expensive ones. I work out on a rooftop track. The subway is my personal chauffeur. I sincerely do the homework and read the textbooks, now, and am both exasperated and amused that, sometimes, even that won't guarantee an A. Whereas I was too timid to force the Bryant Park safety officers to divulge their names on my first street reporting assignment, I am now ballsy enough to chase down the assistant captain of one of the ferries, and persistent enough to wait four hours to speak with the night court judge for five minutes. I can now call strangers on the phone and stop strangers on the street. I had my wallet and cellphone stolen and, as I predicted, not only did I take care of business and survive, I now find the experience funny and wear it as a badge of honor: "Yeah, I've had the total New York experience. I've been robbed."

Sometimes I get lonely; lugging all my luggage, alone, onto the subways, or having to struggle with fifty pounds of groceries, alone, down the street and up to my apartment. But largely, being a single gal in the city has been oright. I come home, flick on the lights to my little studio, and sip a Yuengling and make a pot of Ramen while I jam to the "Kill Bill" soundtrack, and find a quiet joy in being on my own, all the same.

It's been very, very interesting. And very, very exciting. And very, very, tiring. I feel I have grown apart from a lot of old friends and family, and have grown still closer to others, and at the end of the day I'm not sure how I feel about that. This is a very Nicole-centric time of life. I hope to come out of this bigger and stronger, and able to be the adult I want to be, and the friend I want to be, and the daughter I want to be. Grad school is like my own personal pupa. I'm not sure what is going to emerge, exactly.

What has hit me over the head harder than any trick Blood had up his sleeve, any ridiculous grammar exercise that was vaguely explained in Editing, or any ethical dilemma that had no satisfying answer in Penenberg's class, is that this semester, which has been as overwhelming and intense as my first semester of undergrad was, and crammed with just as many new and eclectic experiences, has also flown by faster than any three and a half months that I can remember in recent memory.

There's only two more semesters left. That's it. Then it's already done.

So ... geez. Who wants a drink?