And the sun begins to come out: Pia's New York; and the sun went in; a New York story

Now I don’t know the odds anymore. One year it rained the entire week in July we were away. I had noticed the weather begin to change several years earlier. Some of my friends were angry at me, as if it were my fault.

If I can’t control the weather, what the hell can I control? I tried pointing this out to them, and when we came home found a web site that gave me weather in the Jersey Shore for many prior July’s. Most had almost perfect weather, but it was beginning to change.

Perfect in my case means 85 and above, with much sun. I love being near the ocean more than anything and can’t imagine living in a desert state, but that’s beginning to change. Not really but maybe I could force myself if enough people tell me wonderful things about the desert. Have to find a great mystery series set in the desert.

Was going to walk to Borders this morning. It’s only a seventeen block walk each way. 34 city blocks equals a mile and three quarters. Then with errands and other things I could easily get it up to four or five miles.

But it’s soup out. Don’t know if that’s a New York expression or not. We seem to have an unnatural love for soup, that I never realized was unnatural until people began to point out how much soup I eat.

If you’re really interested my favorite is split pea and I know when it’s featured in each diner in the hood, and which is the best. Lucia and I can argue over that as it’s her favorite soup also. Then I like vegetable soup, but like to make it myself.

I like to cook despite having an unfriendly to cooking kitchen, and have finally figured out how to make it friendly.

This really does relate to the weather. People think New Yorkers are so lucky. But on a day like today, what’s lucky about living in an overpriced apartment that doesn’t have room for a washer/dryer or even a combo? What’s lucky about having to walk five blocks in rain to get to the subway? Or wait fifteen minutes, in rain for the bus on Riverside?

One especially rainy spring, two years ago, I had bought new shoes and new clothes. The three pairs of new shoes were especially slippery. The five pairs of new pants all ended up ripped at the knee, some beyond saving. And I’m really not the falling down type. But the gutters and streets were all filled with that horrible combo of oil from cars, buses, and trucks, water that spilled over the traps, and it wasn’t fun.

Santa Monica still appeals to me. Unless the weather keeps changing, I know when it’s going to rain.

I need to be outdoors. It keeps me centered and in a good mood. Though I’m taking yoga and Pilates, and getting my Brookstone exercise horse as it’s small and I have no idea if it works or not, it keeps my feet moving, and I need that.

My apartment’s too small for a good eclipse or treadmill and they bore me anyway.

On the fifth day of dreary rainy weather, I’m back to I love this city with all my heart, but want to live a healthier lifestyle. I want amenities.

Yesterday I noticed how miserable everybody looked. Thought the man behind me in Fairway was going to kill somebody. Really, can’t people smile? I don’t care if it’s a phony smile. Smiles beget smiles. Except in Fairway where people are stocking up because they just got home, or are stocking up in between rain storms.

I need friendliness even if it’s forced. I need things that this city can no longer give me.

I never get how happy people can be when they live in a too small apartment without anything most adults take for granted. Tried hooking up a dishwasher. Four hundred dollars later I had a new and gorgeous faucet. And an unsuable dish washer I always meant to put on Craig’s List but will give to Fernando the doorman for his church.

If I didn’t have resources it would be different. Knowing how well I could live other places makes this more unbearable, especially on a morning when I need to take a long walk to regain my sanity and sense of place, but do I dare? It might begin to pour and then I would have to get on a crowded bus, and I hate buses to begin with. Okay I have developed an unnatural fear of rain, but all that slipping two years ago….

It’s easy for many of my neighbors to have a good life in New York. They have large apartments, summer and sometimes second second homes for winter, limos to drive them.

Last night I heard the woman in the penthouse and her daughter talking about how good art becomes devalued when it’s restored. Actually that’s not always true, but I wasn’t about to say anything when they didn’t even acknowledge my presence. They were talking Picasso and other famous artists, as if they buy new ones often.

I have prints by people I know, an oil painting that was the original painting for a romance book cover, and more prints that are meaningful to me. I like that. I would feel strange even if I were a zillionaire having paintings worth more than my net worth right now. First I thought they were talking about the Picasso that’s been in the news, then I realized that they weren’t.

Newsflash to the people in the penthouse: You might have more money than God but you’re classless. People acknowledge other people’s presence. People don’t flaunt their money in an elevator.

I said hello, and smiled. Nada in return. Was it my appearance? Hey I have better hair, better teeth, was wearing clothes similiar to theirs.

I felt like the downstairs staff in an English drawing room novel. I’m not.

The Upper West Side used to be a “we’re all in this together,” type of place. Now people in this building decide who is worth talking to based on the size of their apartment.

I felt horrible thoughts about the family in the penthouse, and hoped that they’re over extended to death. But then we would have to pay their maintenance, and I’m already paying $300 a month more than the dollar per square foot rule.

New York’s the only place that you can buy an apartment for cash, yet still pay the equivalent of rent each month.

I don’t like the way this city feels in the rain. But I’m not supposed to complain because tomorrow marks the beginning of a horrible anniversary.

But damn it, if the people in the penthouse, can talk about restoring a Picasso, and how much it was devalued, I can talk about how devalued I feel.

Would it have killed them to say hello back? New York is as superficial as LA, we just hide it better.

Manhattan is turning into a very stratified city. I don’t like feeling devalued because I live in a cut-up apartment. I shouldn’t feel that way.

The people in the penthouse really need to go to new money school. It’s obvious that they haven’t been rich long. I used to live in the land of old money, 812 Fifth Avenue almost faced my building, 815 was the Fifth Avenue building around the corner.

The people who lived in those buildings then, except for Abe Hirschfield had real class. They wouldn’t dream of not acknowledging my presence and we didn’t even live in the same buildings, they just knew me.