Eating With Strangers

Rainy Nights in Washington Heights

There was nothing but a muffled thump of music when I knocked on Cara’s door for the third time, but the door was unlocked, so hesitantly, I let myself in.  “Cara?” I ventured.  No response.  (Really going to get myself killed one of these days.)  Then the black and yellow-striped ballet flats in the hallway caught my eye.  I was washing my hands in the kitchen sink when Cara walked in.  “Oh, you found it!” she said jubilantly.  “I was on the street looking for you.” 

I met Cara at the Bee Ball a few weeks ago, where I was selling honeyed popsicles for a gala fundraiser meant to support the legalization of beekeeping in New York City.  I’m writing an article about beekeeping in New York City, so I’ve been going to lots of bee-related events; plus, it was an opportunity to sell popsicles and to support a nonprofit I like.  Cara, in the adorable bee costume above, came up for a popsicle, wearing the distinctive homespun shoes that allowed me to recognize her apartment when I trespassed there a few weeks later.  I watched her from behind my booth as she danced all night.  She was irresistible, flowing from moue to caprice to shimmy with ease.  She was having a blast out there. 

Given my article, it seemed legit to probe into her reasons for becoming a beekeeper.  They spilled out like marbles from a pitcher, slow at first and then a flood, and before I knew it, I’d been invited to dinner.

Everyone complains about The Gentrifiers (even the Gentrifiers).  They swan in, raising rents.  They call the cops when the “atmosphere” that once made the neighborhood so appealing gets too loud.  Eventually, they push the locals out to pastures farther away and much less hip.  And Starbucks moves in.

People complain about The Corporations, too.  Soulless and bloodletting, they cut corners, screw their staff, extort their suppliers, destroy the environment, all in the name of profit. 

And then there’s The Government.  Stupid rules devoid of any common sense, insensitive officials, mired in bureaucracy.  Corrupt.  Disinterested.  Stagnant.

Thing is, the argument breaks down when you’re confronted with one of the actual people in these groups.  Frustratingly, they’re often really nice.  Well-intentioned.  Un-evil.  Ultimately, difficult to dismiss in such simplistic ways. 

And I’m not just saying this because I’m a Gentrifier.

Inspector Collector

My mother thinks I’m the biggest pack rat in the universe, and she hates it.  I can’t really blame her.  My peripatetic existence ensures the accumulation of crap from all over the world, and whenever I move, I ship anything I can’t carry in a suitcase to Miami, where it piles up in my childhood bedroom, and, increasingly, into other parts of the house.  Maman is always threatening a massive purge, even though she knows my soul might actually implode if she went through with this.

What do I collect?  Sunglasses.  Playing cards I find on the street.  Dolls from different countries; soaps labeled in foreign languages.  Coins, in particular pennies from every year of my life.  Antique postcards.  Airplane boarding cards and train tickets.  Menus.  Over four hundred cookbooks, particularly on the following subjects: the Savoie, Appalachia and the wider South, self-published cookbooks, community cookbooks, books on English cooking, and domestic economy manuals.  I need a spreadsheet to manage them; they live in caches in France, New York and Miami.  And then there are my Crap Boxes.  Every year, memorabilia I can’t bear to throw out gets stuffed into big boxes labeled Crap Box 1, 2, 3, etc.  My mother really hates those, especially when they start to smell. What can I say?  These things matter.

Harley was waiting outside in the rain for me as I gingerly crossed a puddle-spattered sidewalk in Queens.  He wasn’t waiting, really.  He was scrutinizing the peach tree above his head, which this year has about two buds on it.  “Last year, we got hundreds of peaches,” he said, shaking his head sorrowfully as big gloppy raindrops fell on our upturned cheeks.  “Well, come on in.”