Finding My Way Back to Dreamland

I haven't been able to remember my dreams since I lost my apartment three years ago. It's been rather odd, since I used to regularly record my dreams in a pink marble composition book that mysteriously appeared one day. Interestingly, the pink marble composition book also disappeared in the eviction. So I seemed to have lost my old dreams along with the ability to remember new ones.

Sometimes I thought this was because there was too much cement. I always did dream better somewhere rural but come to think of it, even when I was in Taiwan last year or up at a friend's country house, I still couldn't remember any dreams.

On 11th Street, there used to be a pear tree right outside my bedroom window. A truck ran into it at the end of my tenancy and the city chopped it down. It wasn't long after that when I stopped remembering my dreams. Even though the mom and pop of the restaurant downstairs planted a bush of some sort. I began to think of that pear tree as some kind of lightning rod for my dreams.

And maybe there's some truth to that. One morning a month or so ago, I woke up and in that split second before I opened my eyes, I thought I was back on 11th Street in my old bed with the pear tree outside my window in full flower. Then the barking of Cantonese and the grunting of trucks on the Bowery invaded my consciousness and I realized where I was. But that split second with the flowering pear tree stayed with me. It was like my old friend, wherever she was, had somehow finally found me.

A few weeks after that, I dreamed that I said 'I love you' to someone. And then another night, I had a dream about that cute guy at the bank. I think he was dressed in a funny outfit of some sort but I don't remember anything else.  Two nights ago, I woke up with a start in the middle of the night and remembered all of a completely crazy dream, just like the ones I used to have. I was so surprised, I couldn't get back to sleep. So I sat up and wrote it all down:

There was  matador who was showing off to a woman he loved. The entire crowd was fixated as he executed one graceful pirouette after another, so close to the bull, yet dancing away just in time. His cape was made of black velvet. Finally, the matador waved his cape at the bull and the entire audience was struck with the thought that this time, he was not going to be so lucky. Sure enough, the bull came charging at the cape and sank his horns deep into him.

The matador staggers out of the stadium and then suddenly, he turns into a guy with thin blond hair in a light suit who looks sort of like my high school principal. Injured and bloody, he stumbles onto the top of a long metal staircase going down to an exit on the ground floor. There are lots of well-dressed people going up and down the staircase, who scurry out of the way, as the boss (he's now the boss) tumbles down the steps in his death throes.

As he dies, lots of black water begins to seep from the wounds in his body. This is followed by urine. There is so much liquid, it floods the building and creates a pool up to the middle of the staircase. It smells and it's disgusting. Everyone is desperately clambering up the stairs, trying to get out of the fetid water, grimly dealing with the stench. The boss floats upside down in his own putrid water. Then someone takes pity on him, turns him over, and starts to drag him up the stairs in the vain hope that he might still be alive. People applaud and cheer at this exhibit of goodwill.

I look down through the water and see that there are still a lot of submerged people sitting on the benches on the ground floor level of the building, holding their breaths. A few of them fart and bubbles come out of their butt.

What a weird dream, especially after three years of dreamlessness. My subconscious must have a particularly bizarre sense of humor.

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George Washington was in Chinatown

I've probably passed this plaque a million times and never really noticed it. Right on the corner of Bowery and Canal, on that big domed bank that's now HSBC. There's usually a Chinese guy scraping away on a two-string violin under it.

 

"In 1783, the Black Horse Inn stood on this site and the Bulls Head Tavern adjoined it. Here General George Washington began his triumphal march into the city upon its evacuation by the British November 25, 1783. The Citizens Savings Bank organized in 1860 has occupied this site since 1862 and this building was erected 1924." 

Man, there probably was some party that day. I bet there were drinks on Washington.

Nostalgia in a Bamboo Leaf

My parents were workaholic Taiwanese immigrants whom I was lucky to see at 8:00 at night. Most times, we grabbed fast food from Arby's or Sizzler's or some fish shack my mother liked, but occasionally, we would make a foray from the depths of Queens to Chinatown. This was before the Taiwanese community formed in Flushing, so Chinatown was where we got our dose of culture. One of the places that we regularly stopped at in Chinatown was May May on Pell Street. It was the only place in New York City you could find a decent zongzi (粽子) or bah zhang (肉粽), as they're known in Taiwan.

Bah zhang from a Taiwanese article about the Dragon Boat Festival.

The food you eat as a child has a certain nostalgia. I think this is because of the way babies and small children feast on everything so completely with all their senses and their entire bodies. The taste of your first foods seep into a deep visceral layer. It combines with the feeling of security you have as a child, with love, with feeling satiated, content and whole. I always wonder what is up with American children who only will eat plain spaghetti with butter. I can't imagine a child in Asia refusing to eat something put in front of them, or wanting colorless food with no taste.

For those who don't know what a zongzi is, it's been compared to a tamale. But instead of corn husks, it's wrapped in bamboo leaves. And instead of corn meal, it's glutinous rice. In China, bah zhang is traditionally eaten during the Dragon Boat Festival, but in Taiwan, bah zhang is so iconic, it's almost synonymous with the place. It's like hot dogs and pizza to New York City. Or gumbo to New Orleans. There's even a sentimental song (烧肉粽 or "Hot Bah Zhang") that always cracks my mother up, about someone who graduated college but can't find a job so s/he's making a dismal living selling bah zhang on the street. It might be an Occupy Wall Street anthem if it weren't so syrupy. Click below for famed Taiwanese diva Teresa Teng singing the song, with subtitles in English. For the full effect of seeing this with my mom, I ought to include a high-pitched laugh track.

The bah zhang in Taiwan are studded with steamed peanuts, dried black mushrooms, and meat. Often, a roasted chestnut is included, which always seemed like an extra treat to me as a kid, like finding a gold coin in a cake. There's also a Cantonese version of bah zhang that has a dried powdery egg yolk in it. Cantonese people don't put such an emphasis on rice as Taiwanese people do and their version of bah zhang always seemed to me like pizza from some random town in the middle of America. Dry, dense, and mealy. But I know there are plenty of Cantonese people who prefer their version of bah zhang, which they call joong.

May May had about eight different kinds of Taiwanese-style bah zhang even though it was in the heart of Cantonese Chinatown. There were even three vegetarian kinds. You could smell the aroma of rice and bamboo halfway down the street. I used to buy a half dozen at a time to put in school lunches for my kid. It was perfect for the early morning slog of trying to rouse the child, get him dressed, cook breakfast, and prepare lunch - all I had to do was steam the bah zhang for 15 minutes and pop it into his lunch box. I didn't even need to wrap it in anything since it already was wrapped in bamboo.

So when May May closed in 2007 after 42 years of serving nostalgia in a bamboo leaf to hungry Nuyorasians, I was devastated. I looked for bah zhang everywhere but I either had to go all the way to Flushing or settle for those bleh Cantonese ones.

May May before it closed. 

Where May May used to be. 

Last week, after a panel at CUNY's Asian-American/Asian Research Institute, I happened to sit next to Antony Wong at dinner. Talk somehow turned to Chinatown and I lamented about May May closing. Antony told me that he had just learned that some people from May May went across the street to the old coffeeshop and they are now selling bah zhang there.

That old coffeeshop is a living authentic relic of good old Chinatown. I've passed by hundreds of times and noted its sign, which has the Chinese going from right to left, so it must date from the 1960s or before. The next morning, I finally went in, and sure enough, right at the door, I encountered a big pile of three different kinds of bah zhang for just $2.25, which is less than what May May used to charge. I bought one for lunch, and was happy to see that they're the Taiwanese-style ones. And they're really good; the only thing missing is the mushrooms. And the chestnut.

Finally, a place to find bah zhang in New York City! I've also just learned that this the place to go for roast pork buns. Mee Sum Cafe at 26 Pell. Pass it on.

Mee Sum Cafe on Pell Street.

Inside Mee Sum Cafe, old style NYC. 

The pile of bah zhang at Mee Sum Cafe. 

A Day in Beacon

The city blahs had me last week. I felt weighed down from too much asphalt and car exhaust. My blood vessels felt as constricted as the traffic by the Holland Tunnel. I was gasping for air. Sunlight. Green things. And it was my birthday, damn it. So even though I was broke and had a rehearsal to attend on Sunday night, I convinced Z to steal away with me and head upstate to Beacon.

I've been there before, but only to Dia: Beacon and the waterfront park. This time, I wanted to see the town. And I thought it would be nice to climb Mount Beacon. Except I didn't really have the proper shoes for that, but I figured, well the West was won with women wearing low heels, no?

Beacon was originally two small towns: Fishkill Landing, a busy port, and Matteawan, a manufacturing center. The area was "bought" from the Wappinger natives in 1683 by former New York City mayor Francis Rombout, who died shortly after and left the 85,000 acre estate to his four-year old daughter, Catheryna.  She single-handedly developed the area, carving out farmland, building a major grist mill on Fishkill Creek, and creating the first produce cooperative in the Hudson River highlands. Beacon was a stronghold for the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War and it became a major manufacturing center in the 1800s, with factories producing paper clips, biscuit wrappers, coats, air brakes, and especially hats and bricks. There were purportedly over 500 hat factories in Beacon at one time. Rockefeller Center and the Empire State Building were built with bricks from Beacon. The town boomed until after World War II, when the factories began to close and it went into a sharp decline that only changed when Dia: Beacon opened in 2003. Since then, it's become known as an arts destination, but most people, like me, day trip it to the museum and never really get to know the town.

We set off from Grand Central Station and arrive at around 10:00 in the morning. Getting out at the Beacon Station, you cross the overpass, hike up the hill, and cut across the police station to get to Main Street. Beacon shows its history as a factory town. It's not as pretty as the Saugerties or even Cold Spring. I was reminded of the town of Catskill, which is also solidly working class. But there's a nice authenticity about the town. It's definitely not an artificial suburb. And I was surprised how multi-ethnic it is.

Beacon's Main Street with Mount Beacon in the distance. 

Pinoys in the town. 

Apparently there's a Muslim contingent too. 

Wait, I thought I left Chinatown...

Halfway down Main Street, antique stores became ubiquitous. Z and I prowled through most of them, although we couldn't really afford anything. But wow, prices are really fantastic.

Antique shops on Main Street. 

A 1950s bubble bath on Main. 

Gorgeous cupboard in basement of Studio Antiques for $265.

Lovely dresser from the 1800s for $225 at Studio Antiques.

Great display of antique bottles at Dickinson's Antiques.

Hoosier Cabinet at Dickinson's Antiques with tambour door and flour bin for $275. 

Then we made out way to Bob's General Store where the trail for Mount Beacon begins. It was actually called Fishkill Mountain until Beacon was incorporated in 1913. Interestingly, the original name of the town was Melzingah, after a local Indian tribe, but when New York City newspapers mocked the name, the townspeople chose the name Beacon instead, after the beacons that were lit on the mountain to warn the Continental Army of British troop movements during the Revolutionary War.

In 1902, the mountain became a tourist destination when an incline railway opened to take tourists up to a casino and hotel. Built by Otis Elevator, it was the steepest funicular railway in the world, going up 1,540 feet on a 74 percent grade. The railway ran until 1978, when it closed due to a financial difficulties. Then in 1983, a huge fire destroyed the railway from top to bottom. In 1996, a restoration society was founded to bring the railway back, but it still remains a steep climb to a marvelous ruin and a beautiful view.

Along the East side of Main.

Main Street railroad tracks.

The bottom of Mount Beacon - this is the remains of the old Station House where people would get on the funicular. 

After walking a couple hundred yards, a stairway up the mountain appears.

200 steps, then it's a steep climb along a rocky trail.

Nearly at the top!

Ruins of the old power house at the top of the mountain.

Z in front of the ruins of the power house.

The view at the top. Turkey buzzard wheeling in the sky.

The climb back down was harder for me in my utterly wrong shoes. It was pretty darn steep and I picked my way down carefully as Z in his flat sneakers took a few spills. We made it down in 40 minutes and had enough time to check out another antique store and stop for an ice tea before getting to the station to catch the 5:13 back to the city. But just as we arrived at the platform, I realized that I left my phone plugged into the wall at the coffeeshop. With Z's goading, we managed to race up the hill to Main Street and back with just a minute to spare.

We caught our breath as the train slid into the station, and this time, we made sure to sit on the water side of the train. It was gorgeous, especially seeing Bannerman Island gliding past us on our way back. I love islands and exploring an abandoned island with the ruins of a 19th century mansion and arsenal sounds like a great way to spend an afternoon. One day when we have more time and money, it would be great to kayak over there. We could also take a sail on the Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger's sloop. And visit Dia: Beacon again. And have dinner in one of the restaurants. With so much to do, one day in Beacon is just not enough.

One Small Car, One Big Dresser

I was on my way home yesterday when I spotted this lovely thing sitting on the street.

Take me home! 

For the past month, I've been trying to figure out how to afford a dresser. Now that I have a semi-permanent spot in Chinatown, I've been dying for a place to put my socks. I sold all my furniture from my apartment on 11th Street (except for the porcelain top table, which is still buried in storage).

Specifically, I want a 19th-century dresser, since I don't really decorate a place, I basically make a set piece out of my apartment. And there's something about the place that feels like a 19th century farmhouse or maybe a rustic cabin to me. Don't ask me why - maybe the wood panelling? So I'm looking for Victorian shabby, kind of like Christopher Walken's little cottage in Heaven's Gate. Or like this picture from the 1880 Koepsell Farmhouse in Wisconsin.

But I've been too broke to do anything but drool over furniture on Craig's List.  So I stopped dead on my tracks seeing the dresser on the street. There were lots of scuffs and dings, but the drawers all worked well. Nothing weird in them. But how to get it home? I looked in my purse and counted the money I already knew was in there - $4.00. And my bank account had 28 cents. I was expecting money the next day but the dresser would definitely be gone by then. 

I began calling friends who had cars. My friend in Ditmas Park couldn't come, but he suggested two other friends who might be closer. I called one of them. Out of town. The second suggestion was Chip, who said he had to call me back in ten minutes. I put up a note on facebook, "Anyone downtown or on the west side who has a vehicle and will help me get a dresser to my apartment?" Across the street, a Latino guy was getting into his giant SUV and I considered asking him for help but chickened out. A friend out in Sunset Park responded to my facebook post. He considered coming back into the city, but in the meantime, Chip called back and said he could come get me in half an hour. 

It was getting cold. Two other people stopped and checked out the dresser, so I draped myself over it and tried to read my book. I'm on the chapter in Jane Jacob's amazing book The Life and Death of Great American Cities that's about gentrification. Chip finally arrived and it turned out his car was small. Very small. For some reason, neither of us had thought to check whether the dresser would fit into his vehicle. After trying to stick it in the trunk (no...), we put it on the roof. 

Um, yeah, but how will it stay up there?

Then we looked around in the car but there was nothing to secure that dresser with except a ball of twine that happened to be floating around. So we wrapped twine all over it, trying to ignore that it was kind of fraying as we did so.

Good way to Tie Die. 

Yep. REAL secure. It looked like a spider-web inside the car. Well, we only had to get it across town, but man, it was a harrowing and slooooow 20 minute drive. Chip had his hand out the window to make sure the dresser wasn't shifting too much. We gingerly skirted around every pothole. People were laughing at us. One lady said as we drove by, "He's HOLDING it up there!!!" 

But here it is in my bedroom this morning with the old mirror that I bought a thousand years ago at Obscura when it was on 10th Street.  Now I need a hurricane lamp, and a Jenny Lind bed, and a nice paint job in the room...