Camping's for the 'Burbs

As I lay in the stickerbush, my head buzzing with beer, it occurred to me that I probably wouldn't have fallen into a ditch if I had only remained in New York City.

Alas, I was at a camp site in Cape Cod, Massachusetts for the weekend, roughing it on AND off the pitch with my teammates for the annual Cape Cod women's 7s rugby tournament.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Before my detour into the brush, last Friday started off ridiculously enough with my rushing to do laundry and pack at the absolute last minute. I needed to snag a train from Penn Station to L.I. to meet up with teammates, and we were carpooling up to Cape Cod. The train was at a quarter to one, and I'd taken off from my job (I have wisely decided not to boldly state what paper I work for in my blog, seeing as how that violates company policy. From here on, it will be referred to as "Paper X" as Mike suggested, even though everyone knows where I write, as is. Alas, I digress ...)

So I'd taken off from the paper -- my first adult vacation day ever (A Dear Diary Moment) and was cramming my cleats, shorts, mouthguard, PJS, makeup, earrings and a plethora of inappropriate camping items -- neglecting a pillow and blanket, of course -- and whining at how much I hate packing and how I'll NEVER make the train in time ...

Call Kim up to commisserate over how hard my life is, only to learn that Kim had left her trunk unlocked while packing the night before, and while she was snug in her bed, some local misfits (probably intoxicated) stole all the food and the beer that was packed, her dufflebag of clothes, and her new digital camera.

How do we know it was drunk hooligans? Because the little scamps emptied the trunk, but left behind the oranges Kim had packed for Vegetarian Jenny. They also ignored the Coach sunglasses and the iPod. Strangely.

So the trip was off to a great start -- that combined with a tropical storm due to hit southern Mass. that weekend, and I was positively thrilled that I was going to be sleeping on the ground in inclement weather, without cookies. On the bright side, the robbery provided plenty of fodder for jokes all weekend. Example:

Kim, every time anyone did anything remotely pretty or funny: "I'd take a picture, but my camera was stolen."

Kim: "I'd wash up for bed, but my face wash was stolen."

Kim: "We'd have cookies, but my cookies were stolen."

Me: "HA HA HA -- I live in SPANISH HARLEM, and no one touches me. You live in the ritziest nabe in Farmingville, Long Island, and you get robbed. HAHA!"

No surprise, Kim made me ride in the back seat.

All in all, it was a delightful weekend in learning how un-equipped for nature I have become, despite the Childhood Growing Up In Various States, Climbing Trees In Florida and Catching Crawdads in Georgia that I brag so much about. Clearly, two years in the city have made me soft. Three days at the Cape, and I could still not figure out how to get in and out of the tent without tripping. I learned I have the amazing power to Attract All Mosquitos, seeing as how myself and Regina (the other urban rat) were bitten more than anyone else. And, of course, on Saturday night when we were drinking around the campfire, telling stories and playing Kings and Never Have I Ever, I cleverly tried to walk to the bathroom without a flashlight in the dark, got lost, and on the way back to the campfire ended up falling into a ditch and becoming entwined in a stickerbush.

I sat there a moment, pondering my situation, when I saw flashlights bobbing past. "HEY!" I yelled. "I FELL IN A PRICKERBUSH AND I CAN'T GET OUT!"

"Oh no!" one of them yelled, and it turns out that the girls running past were ruggers from a nearby campsite. A couple helped pull me out of the bushes, but on climbing back up to the path, my flip flop fell off.

"Dammit!" I yelled. "I lost my shoe!" We opted to find it by daylight.

So I hobbled back to the campfire, in one shoe, covered in scratches and mosquito bites, and immediately began yelling "HEY I JUST FELL IN A DITCH!"

"Pesce. Shut. Up." said Kim and Hamilton, quietly. That's when I finally noticed the cop.

Well, by cop I mean a young buck in a golf cart and wearing a cardboard badge that he'd probably scored out of the back pages of a Mad magazine. Everyone fidgeted very quietly and respectfully as he told us we were disruptive and had to go RIGHT NOW.

"OK, OK, we're all going to bed," said our coach/teammate Karen.

"No, I mean GO, get out of this camp," said Officer Skippy.

Karen, who is not known for her calm demeanor (refs HATE her) admirably kept her temper. "None of us is in any condition to drive," she said. "We're checking out and leaving first thing in the morning."

"I want you out NOW," he told us.

Regina piped up, "We've all been drinking, none of us can drive. You can't make us drive. That's a DWI."

"Oh, I CAN'T?" he snapped - I kid you not. "Where did you get that badge-" Jackie starts to chime, but someone shushes her.

"No," said Karen. "No one is driving."

He left, telling us he was going to keep his eye on us, and at the ripe hour of 1:30 a.m. we grudgingly doused the fire and went to sleep. We made sure to fly like bats out of hell the next morning. We made it back to the city within a couple of hours. I promptly took a nap in a real bed, and ordered good Chinese.

Other fun details:

*We pitched the tent I was crashing in on the side of a hill, so it was on a slant, and the six ladies sleeping inside all kept rolling on top of each other and squishing each other every night (calm down, fellas.) Jenny, I'm sure, hates me -- especially since I stole her pillow.

*We ladies of the Bull Moose Women's Team may have lost on the pitch (between the two sides we entered into the tourny, we had only one win in six games) but we sure as hell won the drink up (no one could touch us in flip cup or in dancing.)

*Jackie lost her wallet for 12 hours, but we found it in the car.

*I found a four-leaf clover --- and my shoe!

I'm not even supposed to BE here today!

It always cracks me up when I catch myself actually living out a cliche.

This afternoon, I was pacing the platform at the Rutherford train station in New Jersey, squawking into my cell and waving my arms around - when I wasn't stopping to yell at someone standing on the other side of the tracks to ask, "WHICH SIDE IS THE TRAIN TO NEW YORK COMING ON????"

Yes, there I was - a Manhattan know-it-all in the Garden State's court. You could cut the contempt in the air from both sides - NJ vs NY - with a SPOON.

I kid, of course - well, I *was* the annoying New Yorker at the train station, but I really don't hate Jersey -- Long Islanders make fun of Jersey the way those in Manhattan mock Staten Island. It's just the way it goes.

Pardon me -- I'm distracted; "Goodfellas" is on TNT. It's hilarious how many creative ways they have for substituting the F-word. "Freak." "Jerk." "Screw." "Flip." I gotta say, though -- Ray Liotta is pretty smokin'. And Lorraine Bracco is breakin' my heart, here. Alas, I digress.

So I got to Rutherford this morning and immediately called a cab.

"An hour wait," the operator tells me.

"An hour?!" I flip. My interview, of course, is in 30 minutes.

"Yes," he says, and hangs up.

I'm flabbergasted - am I getting the cab or not? Where's the good business practice here?

I punch in the number of the cab company, again, and get the operator, again.

"An hour," he tells me. Again.

"OK," I say. "I have no other choice. That's fine. So, it's coming?"

"It's coming."

"OK, because you hung up on me last time-"

"It's coming," he says - and hangs up.

And NYC is the rude city???

So I'm walking back and forth on the platform, fretting about being late to this interview -- being a journo is definitely tricky when you don't have a license -- when a cab pulls up, and a man and his daughter hop in. Dammit! Pride keeps me from begging to share -

When the cabbie rolls down his window. Where am I going?

Turns out, the same place as the fella and his kid! So I hop in, and to my delight, unlike on Long Island, in Jersey each passenger isn't charged a separate fare - we all get to share. So, on arriving, the fare is $7, and I kick in $5 - big spender. The other guy goes "Woah that's almost the whole tab" and I wave it off -- but the cabbie asks me to hold on. The other guy only has a $20, so we all wait while the cabbie gives him change. Then the guy gives the cabbie $2 - leaving out the tip (tsk tsk ... I'm looking for another dollar or something) but at least the fare is covered-

"OK that's two," says the cabbie, "you still owe five."

This guy and I look at each other, and then I politely tell the cabbie, "I just gave you $5."

"And I gave you change."

"No," I say calmly. "You gave him change-"

"You gave me change," the other guy interjects. Thanks, buddy.

"You gave him change," I continue. "I gave you my fiver."

Yes, I said "fiver." For that alone, I should be shot.

"Oh, I don't like this at all," the cabbie says, so I do the only thing that seems rational - I just get out of the cab and go into the building. My conscious is clear in this matter -- I paid, and more than I shoulda.

Of course, karma has a sense of humor, and so when I call for a ride back to the train station hours later, I'm stuck with a half-hour wait this time - and who pulls up but the same damn cabbie.

"Ah, you again," he says. The feeling is mutual, skippy.

He then turns civil, "So how did the audition go?" (I was covering an audition for a kids' dance squad.)

"Oh, I didn't try out," I explain. "I'm a reporter; I was covering it."

This perks his interest. "A reporter?? What paper?" I tell him, and he whistles. "Oooo, the big leagues."

"Eh, I'm trying," I say. "I'm still just a little guy, there." I ask him if he reads my paper. He snorts, and informs me he reads our biggest competitor instead. Of COURSE he does.

Hence my pacing on the train platform and snapping over my cellphone to buddy-Grant, "This place drives me crazy!"

I manage to get back to Manhattan without further mishap, but I'm wiped from working all day on a Saturday, so I pick up a cup of Starbucks and slump into a seat on an uptown E train.

Here is where Manhattan sucks worse than Jersey:

Impatient mother-s.

There are certain tenets we follow in civilized society. You tend to walk on the right side of a staircase, road, hallway or sidewalk. You hold the door open for the person behind you so it doesn't slam in their face. If someone sneezes, you say "god bless you" or just "bless you" if you're not a religious man. When the elevator door opens, you let those in the car out before you go in - and that same exact rule applies to the subway.

Capice?

I don't care how much of a hurry you're in - there's always time enough to act like a decent human being.

So the train pulls into the station, and I stand by the door, waiting for it to open so I can make my transfer, come home and take a nap.

The door opens, and before the guy in front of me can even take a step out of the car - before he, I or the crowd behind me, actually, can attempt to vacate the car so that it empties out and those waiting on the platform can actually have space to come in -

this woman SHOVES her way in, yelling at the five kids she's dragging behind her "HURRY COME ON"

rams into the guy in front of me

who stumbles backward, into me

my full cup of coffee pours all down my blouse, burning my chest and my neck, and splashing into my FACE and in my hair!

"HEY!" I actually screamed at the top of my lungs. "HEY! WHAT THE FUCK!?"

The guy in front of me, abashed, runs out of the car and turns around, apologizing profusely. But it's not his fault, it's the WOMAN - and the people behind HER, pouring into the car -- AND WE HAVEN'T EXITED IT YET!

I stumble out, roaring for a fight with this woman but biting my tongue because frankly, I'm better than that, and frankly, she had five kids with her and it wouldn't be appropriate to say the things I want to say.

I stomp up the steps to my transfer, come home, and here I watch "Goodfellas."

Hm.

Hm.

Our main character, Henry (Liotta), is in court and preparing to enter the witness protection program. Ray Liotta was much hotter *before* he began ratting out the goodfellas to save his own tail.

And muggy Saturday nights in Manhattan blow when you're cranky and watching TNT with the cat.

I never said it was perfect ....

Oh, Manhattan.

My Uncle Ray forwarded this hilarious Craigslist posting that brings tears of laughter and loathing to my eyes:

Dear Pigeons Eating Puke on the Sidewalk
Date: 2006-06-01, 11:31AM EDT

OK, look. Living in NY gives you a pretty thick skin. I've seen some pretty nasty stuff. I'm not a queasy person.

But as I'm strolling to work this morning I accidentally look to my right to see a big puddle of puke and you two bastards hopping around in it like two fatties at an all you can eat buffet.

It took me a moment to register what I was looking at. And I wish, I WISH, I could go back in time and erase the details my brain unfortunately absorbed.

This was nasty, nasty puke. And fresh. Food bits undigested. I noted some peas and carrots in there. But it was not only food. There was an oatmeal like ooze that the bits were floating in. And with this heat, no odor escapes a passerby.

As if the puke weren't enough to turn my stomach, you motherfucking pigeons sealed the deal. In the 4 brief seconds I happened to look at you I witnessed you pick out the pukey food bits and ingest them with imcomparable eagerness.

Then it happened. The horror of what I just saw registered. The smell of it registered. Mouth watered. Ears tingled. Throat clenched.

I fucking puked on the street! In front of people! At 8:30 in the morning. ON myself!

Do you know how humiliating that is???? I'm at work with fucking puke on me because when you suddenly projectile vommit on the street you don't think to aim! I had to lie about taking a taxi and getting motion sickness. And let me tell you pigeons something. YOU are going to pay the dry cleaning bill to get the stomach acid and latte off of my silk blouse!

Oh, and stay the hell out of MY puke!

Rotten birds

Copyright © 2006 craigslist, inc.

On the other hand -

I rediscovered Central Park for myself this weekend. When the sun finally emerged after days of unceasing rain, I grabbed a cup of coffee and a copy of the News and vegged out on a park bench to soak up some vitamin D and relax. My entrance to the park is in the upper East 90s, and I realized that there is this lovely, grassy bowl-shaped depression that is a hidden treasure for the shy sunbather. There were about a dozen people with their blankets spread on the bowl's rim and sides, and then at the bottom of the depression was a soccer pitch where a handful of kids were dribbling a ball around while a radio blasted dance music behind them. There were just enough people so that one wouldn't feel conspicuous laying out in a bikini, but not so many that everyone was breathing down each other's necks, able to pick out everyone else's tummy rolls, varicose veins and other imperfections. I ran home to get my own blanket, and soaked up the rays Saturday AND Sunday, laying the base foundation for a summer tan at last. Better late than never.

THEN, Sunday at dusk, I was trying to read on the couch, when I realized the light outside had gone a garish burnt-orange color. I poked my head out the window and noticed we were having a thunder shower on my block - black clouds, driving rain, lightning - yet the sky was clear and the sun was setting in Central Park just an avenue and a half away. It was absolutely beautiful, and quite eerie. I climbed outside and sat on the fire escape, ignoring the rain, and watched the show until the sun finally sunk below the skyline.

It's tricky -- the city can be gross, then gorgeous, in the blink of an eye. I couldn't imagine living anywhere else, though.

Added bonus, however -- Though I'm far from rich (I'm not leaving SpaHa anytime soon, I'll tell you that!) I didn't have to think twice before writing the rent check this month. It's nice. The job. Security. Very nice.