observations about meeting people in the big city

The advent of mobile technology has made it virtually impossible to give away a dummy phone number these days.

Think about it. When was the last time you scribbled a "fake" phone number on a cocktail napkin so that an unwanted new bar friend would happily slink, bottle and digits clutched clumsily in each hand, back to his clump of watchful friends, and you could get on with your own evening? It was probably a long time ago.

Recently I was at a bar where a guy asked for my phone number, and when I pleaded lack-of-pen, he replied, "Let's do this the old-fashioned way," and flipped open his sleek cell phone, another in the breed of increasingly anorexic handsets that disappear when held in profile. Clever line, I thought. He "took down" my number and then called it, just to make sure I wasn't bluffing.

Herein lies the problem: you can't fib a phone number, because fact-checking is immediate and on-the-spot. It used to be that all you needed was a fake phone number memorized -- maybe it was your real phone number with a couple of digits altered at the end -- in case you had to repeat it on the spot (some guys were *real* skeptics). But there's no longer the lag time, from the minute you leave the person's company, to the time they get home, wait a few days to call, to the moment they find out that you've given them some disconnected line, or some poor soul who lives at your dummy phone number destination. These days, you can immediately call the number you're given, make sure it illuminates the LCD screen on the other person's mobile, recording the missed call and serving the dual purpose of "giving them your number," too.

This brings us around to the fair counterpoint that maybe technology has made the social world a *better* place, because it forces people to be more direct with one another. It makes the game less risky for the phone number requesters. They don't have to wait and see if their call in a few days will be recognized, returned, ignored. I could have just said to this guy, "Well, I don't have a pen, but I don't want to give you my number, either."

But I'm really not a confrontational person. And he seemed nice enough.

In my mind, New York is a gruff enough city that we don't need to be rude to everyone who is trying to make a connection here, and the passive-aggressive fake phone number routine wasn't such a bad way out of a situation that requires some discretion. Give a number, let a person feel good for a little while, maybe they'll chicken out later, when they realize they have to ask you to do something more than appear randomly at a bar that they frequent with their friends, or maybe they'll forget they got your number, or they'll lose it. It's hard enough as it is, making friends in a place where everyone already knows *someone*.

No, the fake phone number ain't gonna hack to it anymore, and I'm going to have to think of a better defense in these situations. Perhaps I should plead no-cell-phone-to-speak-of (a serious consideration at several points this year), but who would believe that?

And anyway, that guy? He didn't call.

an image from the neighb: Cobble Hill escape

This, by far, is the strangest fire escape I have ever seen. I didn't even know you could *do* this. I leave you with that for the weekend! Have a good one.

television, "back then"

I grew up with a television constantly going in the house, and my relationships to the characters who appeared daily in the shows that I watched as a child were probably as formative for me as my interactions with siblings, classmates, my mother and father.

My parents often retreated to their bedroom when they saw that I was comfortably situated on the sofa in front of the TV, starting from my toddler years well into my teenaged ones. On the sofa, I watched Fraggle Rock, Sesame Street, Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, Care Bears, The Smurfs, He-Man and She-Ra, The Transformers, Rainbow Brite, you name it. But some of the shows that stuck with me most were the ones that were investigative, that asked questions of the characters and their captive audience. Does anyone remember Square One TV? Or the mathematic detective work of Kate Monday and George Frankly in Mathnet? What about the team of word-hungry kids solving mysteries on Ghostwriter?

I loved these shows. I remember trying to hone the ability to communicate with Ghostwriter in invisible ink, pen hanging around my neck, as our parents before us tried to summon "the force" à la Luke Skywalker and his light saber.

Reading about the show now, I realize that "Mathnet" and "Ghostwriter" were much more than the half-hour programs I'd rush home to watch after school over a bowl of Chef Boyardee. They were shows that taught us to use numbers and words and letters to improve ourselves and the world around us (Kate and George always carried scratch pads around, and Ghostwriter never failed to suggest that his team consult the dictionary for clues). The shows presented ethnically diverse worlds full of tough adults and curious kids who were NOT ostracized for their desire to learn or solve crimes.

So while I have in the past been ashamed of the fact that I watched so much TV as a kid -- and hardly read any books, which is funny to the folks who know me -- I don't feel that way anymore. I am proud to say that I watched these shows, and that I still love them, in my own way; I am proud that I still utter, "Negative, Ghostwriter," when I have nothing to offer my coworkers and proud that sometimes they know exactly what I'm referencing. I do wish that my friends' children had this kind of television to watch, though to be fair, I'm not sure what there is in the way of children's programming today. I have to believe that the reality television barrage has got to stop, and the public television will come back again to reclaim its once glorious throne as a good influence on impressionable, but curious minds.

city of Brotherly Love

I don't ever wonder why Philadelphia is called the City of Brotherly Love. Every time I go down there, people are friendly, interesting, and generally a breath of fresh air from the frantic, appointment-only socializing of New York City. That it is the perfect halfway point between New York and D.C., where our friend Becca lives, made it an ideal destination for a mini-Williams reunion.

We spent some lazy days in the Old City, where Becky lives, on Pine Street, one among many streets named for trees down there. We got caught in the rain, walked around, had an "un-barbecue" (defined by every intention to barbecue on a grill, being put off of it due to the heat, and making a big salad and guacamole instead). We went to see music at a gallery, we went dancing. It was a lovely weekend full of good food and plenty of catching up.

Some more images from the weekend:

Becky running the slide-projector at a multimedia concert on Bainbridge Street.
This was not choreographed.
Lounging behind 732 Pine.
I'm getting addicted to adventures in America's great cities. I've done embarrassingly little travel within the continental United States, and now that my friends have spread themselves around, I intend on making more short trips to see them. I loathe to think of myself as a tourist in my own country -- I mean, I hate it anywhere, but in America, in particular -- and I picture myself as conspicuous as the knee-sock wearing, white trainer-clad, visor-topped tourist on the streets of New York, Chicago, Philly. Hopefully I'll get rid of this hangup, because as Becky might say, it's really "my issue."

If you ever wonder where I get it from...

That's my mom on the back of her boyfriend's Harley somewhere midway through their 3-week road trip to the West Coast, and back.
Need I say more?

My friends, the heroes.

This is a post dedicated to two amazing women who sped through the New York City triathlon on what would become the hottest day of the summer, and who I am proud to call friends, and triathletes!

For those of you who don't know what a monstrous, gladiator-like feat this is, imagine swimming a mile in the silty, scary Hudson River, biking almost 25 through the hilly streets of Upper Manhattan and then running 5 more in Central Park. Then you've got a triathlon. (Makes me tired just typing about it.)

Congrats to Meredith and Sabrina on finishing the triathlon in the top 50 women in their age bracket! (That's under three hours and just over, respectively. incredible.)

Partying at the Park Zoo

Central Park Zoo, that is.

Just an image from a fancy law firm's function at the Zoo. I drank daiquiris with penguins and ate pigs in the blanket near the monkeys. It was a very fun night. (Thanks RJK!) Here are the sea lions during their feeding time performing for families of the firm.
Have a great weekend everybody!

Zidane and why I quit soccer.

We've all had a few days to recover from the excitement of this year's World Cup final between France and Italy, and I've been obsessively following all of the articles written about the game, the rivalry, and of course, the notorious headbutt.

I haven't been a soccer fan for a long time -- I wouldn't have labeled myself a real *spectator* of the professional version of the sport until the Fall of 2001, when I studied abroad in Rome -- but I did play soccer in high school. I basically idolized all the upper class girls on the Varsity team -- Lili, Amanda, Alice, Caroline, Colby, the list goes on -- and I joined middle school soccer for the chance to be mentored by one of them (I got Alice), even though, with my body type, I probably would have been better at field hockey, or volleyball. Off the field, we silk-screened t-shirts for Homecoming, drew "psych signs" emblazoned with each other's names in bright marker and exchanged mix tapes in admiration and mutual respect. On the field, we had joint practices, where we'd play drills with our "sister" players on Varsity, and it would inspire me to try harder and juggle better.

When Lili, Caroline, Alice and co. graduated, I thought my soccer career might come to end, too. It was an emotional time, and I can remember standing on the sidelines at the Asphalt Green during their last championship game. I thought about leaving my own team that year, but ended up sticking wth soccer for a few more seasons, and then quitting later in high school. I didn't go out with a red card like our French friend, although I probably had my share of fits on the field, fouled, muddied, and tired. When I did quit, I did it with a note to the head coach during preseason, who was also at the time the head of our Athletics department. I explained to her that I didn't want to play because being on that field reminded me so much of my father, who had passed away that spring, and who made it to the sidelines on Ward's Island as much as he could during my soccer career. There was something about that emotional, personal element to the game that overshadowed the triumphs and the team spirit and everything great that comes along with belonging to a sports team.

What possessed Zinedine Zidane to headbutt that Italian defender? Why did a man so respected for his technique, a man who came *out* of retirement to play for his nation, a man who I sometimes pretend is my secret boyfriend, turn around, lower his head and ram a man who looked like a waste of time? I've been following this story in the news. First the papers said the defender made some racist remark, and now Zidane has spoken out and said that Materazzi repeatedly insulted his mother and sister. "I am a man before anything else," he said to the press. It seems that he just couldn't get past the personal, even after years and years of playing at the top levels of the soccer world. The last ten minutes of overtime, and that deciding penalty shootout, just weren't worth it to him. I think I sort of understand that, even if it seems like a stretch.

I wanted to end this post with an excerpt from a slate.com article I love about the end of Zidane's career and the World Cup final on Sunday:

"France-Italy wasn't by any stretch the best game of the tournament. It did display, though, that the world is so manic about the beautiful game precisely because it's so often anything but beautiful. A soccer match is a frequently boring, occasionally tragic, and periodically triumphant affair, all compressed into 90 minutes. Yesterday's game, and Zidane's moments of mastery and mayhem, displayed the sport's full range of emotions. Nobody would have fantasized about a final that ended with penalty kicks after the best player on the field got ejected. Not a very romantic turn of events, perhaps, but soccer isn't much for Hollywood endings."

Indy-pendence Day Weekend

Oh, how we love the 4-day weekend, occurring on those intermittent years when Independence day falls on a Tuesday and employers have little choice but to give their employees Monday off, or risk mutiny. (Much respect to all of my friends out there who worked on Monday.) Happy belated July 4th everyone! I hope that wherever you are in the world, you had a great weekend.

While this post will have much less mass appeal than the star-studded one of last week (the Jennifer Ehle fan club webmaster linked to my page, because I attended that event, allllright!), I wanted to share a few images from my weekend on the North Fork. I've been thinking about how easy it is to host guests that are my age, somewhere in between childhood and adulthood: we still know how to entertain ourselves with books, board games and pool toys (yes, that is the same lobster rider we had in the pool this weekend), but we've also learned the art of cleaning up after ourselves and the value of sleep.

Emerson, Jill and Meredith got involved with a kind of fetch-frisbee-pool jump game that a few of us could not be involved with because of potential wardrobe malfunctions (read: two-piece bathing suits). Witness Emerson at the point of contact, having just caught a well-tossed disc a la Meredith:
Over lunch, we continued a conversation about our "Top Five Foods or Meals" as we sat over one of mine, the Sandwich. Since then, I've been thinking about my list, and at this point, it would probably include: * roast beef sandwich * bacon * gnocchi * Hainanese chicken rice * corned beef hash. Does that list strike anyone else as weird?

On our last full day there, Meredith took me and Eliza to a lavender field near the town of Southold, where we picked flowers and wandered the purple ocean of sweet, sweet scents and baked in the sun. It is a tough life. So my greatest hope at this point is to have more weekends just like this. And I wish some of them on you all, too.