Tags: #notes-app [[0009. I'm glad you can rest now, Ate]] | [[0011. on singing your heart out]] I'm a bit of a Bourdain fan. In his writing I admire his incisive wit, his clarity, his sense of place, the way his personality *shines* through. In his collection of essays, The Nasty Bits, Bourdain pens an ode to his Manhattan, the Manhattan he loves. Manhattan is the Big Apple, the city that never sleeps, the concrete jungle where dreams are made of, and has inspired myriad essays, novels, songs, and works of art dedicated to all its different nuances and facets, but the ultimate mythos that permeates all is that this is the city where you come to make your dreams come true. And in the process, it'll probably chew you up and spit out your bones unless you learn to give as good as you get. It comes as a surprise to me that I've yet to read a book that was a pure ode to Manhattan, although [Here is New York](https://www.amazon.com/Here-New-York-B-White/dp/1892145022) by E.B. White is definitely on the to-read list. However, I've read several that were set in Manhattan, and honestly, anything set in Manhattan feels like an ode to Manhattan. I have also read and watched several essays, tweets, fleeting words, tiktoks, videos, and feelings on the Internet that are, in their own way, odes to Manhattan. For me the tiktoks are front of mindfascinating. Their tone runs the gamut. You have your standard influencer fare, documenting the 10 best brunch spots in the East Village, your days in the life of your FAANG/finance bro/etc 9-5 office workers, your memes and jokes, your Overheard in NYCs, your "what move do you use to smoothly turn around when you realize you're walking the wrong way?", your hidden gem spots in hidden gem parks that are not-so-hidden, your disdainful, scathing diatribes criticizing the insularity that plagues a certain type of NYC citizen who *only* frequents downtown and Brooklyn, criticizing the rent going up, criticizing the homeless, the politics, the natives, the transplants, but learning to coexist with the rats. Everyone who passes through has their own Manhattan. Let me talk about mine. First of all, I feel weird claiming NYC. I was born in the Bronx and lived there til I was 5. After that we moved north to Yonkers, an urban NYC suburb that is only known for a fuckload of hills, political corruption, a Tyler the Creator song, and Mary J Blige. A city in its own right, and I have love for it because it's where I grew up, but naturally it pales in comparison to our southern neighbor. However, I spent so much time with family in the Bronx, piddling around my mom's feet at her workplace in the Bronx, that the borough feels like a part of me and my roots. And now most of my social life revolves around New York City. Most of my friends live there. My fiancé and I live in opposing suburbs, myself in Westchester, him on Long Island, so the city is our natural middle ground. But still I have difficulty claiming it, like I'm not worthy or some bullshit like that. I might live there some day. I will likely work there some day as well. But as of today--I have never lived or worked in New York City. Does that make my perspective of the city any less valid? Less valid than the perspective of that NYC transplant I mentioned who won't go above 14th street? Arrogant of me, but I would scoff at that idea...if it weren't coming from the place of disdain I'm trying to avoid. Maybe. Maybe my perspective is less valid to a native, to someone who was born and grew up and works in NYC. But not to me. And maybe not to at least one of you who ends up reading this, which also might just be me. As I read Bourdain's recollection of his Manhattan, I realize some parts of my Manhattan are totally different. For one, I've never had a pastrami at Katz. Nor Pastrami Queen. I've had several slices from pizzerias whose names I can't remember, but the only one of the "famous slices" I've had is Artichoke, which is good but is it *that* good? Nine out of ten times I'd prefer the marguerite slice at my neighborhood pizza place. I agree that Central Park is dramatic and beautiful. I've enjoyed picnic dates there, scarfing down a lox bagel from Zabar's and taking furtive swigs from a bottle of wine. I have also enjoyed strolling with my fiancé through many of the parks--Washington Square Park, Bryant Park, Fort Washington Park, Union Square Park, Madison Square Parkthe High Line, as well as many more whose names I don't recall or never knew--lounging on benches, listening to the musicians, dodging the grifters, and watching the world go by. Perhaps you can tell that I'm not a native because I don't have any spots I would call "regulars". I love many spots for different reasons, but none wind up becoming *regular*, part of a routine, because I don't really have a daily routine that includes NYC. I go *often*, there's places I *frequent*, but I don't have a regular coffee shop, a park I regularly stroll through on a weekend morning, a route for a run, a church, etc, etc. Just places at which I meet friends. My Manhattan is those bars near St. Mark's, the crunch of soy garlic chicken wings and intense spice of tteokbokki at Boka, the decadent buttery rich golden toast at Spot, slurping down pork tonkotsu ramen at Ippudo, at Totto, at Ramen-ya, at Ichiran, at Nishida Sho-ten, the chaos and questionable odors that permeate all of our Ktown haunts, especially in this age of outdoor dining, the shaved ice cream and sweet honey boba at Grace Street, singing your heart out at Space Karaoke, Turntable Chicken, and many, many other places that alcohol has blurred from my memory. My Manhattan is always looking for bakeries and desserts to bring to my parents who anxiously wait for me at home in our urban suburb--a sort of smaller, less exotic version of what we know in Tagalog as *pasalubong*. I typically bring cream puffs from Beard Papa's or crepe cakes from Lady M, but sometimes gooey chocolate chip cookies from Insomnia or Levain, occasionally a pudding or a cake from Magnolia. Once I brought home a new (to us) Brazilian treat, a box of brigadeiros that arrived in shambles, haphazardly knocked around from my carelessness in handling on my journey home. They wait up for me, I bring them food, they mumble their appreciation and say that what I brought is too expensive. How we show our love. My Manhattan is the Manhattan my friends have showed me, the Manhattan I fell in love with my fiancé in, introducing him to the wonders of fresh sushi at Blue Ribbon, him stealing a kiss in front of the tree before running away to catch the subway and accidentally getting on the train in the wrong direction, exploring museum after museum as a pretense to wile away hours together--sitting in the darkness on that bench tucked away behind the Astor Chinese Garden Court at the Met, taking in the views from the balcony at the Whitney, the myriad soulless money grabbing pop up exhibits that plague this city, but always and forever returning to the Met. (By the way, I have yet to see a 3D immersive experiential exhibit that comes anywhere close to the magic and thoughtfulness of TeamLab Planets in Tokyo, but I eagerly await the day I am proved wrong.) My Manhattan was once Pier 94 and Pier 36 and Electric Zoo, dipping my toes into the wondrous world of electronic dance music and rave culture for the first time. Freezing in my skimpy clothes under my winter jacket as I stepped into those industrial piers, prepared to have my mind blown by the blaring music and bright lights, amped to feel like myselfx100 and dance all my worries away. I will never forget seeing the Chainsmokers for the first time in 2015 -- *New York City please go easy on me tonight*. But the city doesn't go easy on anyone. Not even those just passing through. I am just passing through. I felt that keenly all those evenings I sat at the Yankee Stadium station waiting for the 4, eager to get home, counting down all the stops until the end. I feel it more keenly now that all the subway assaults plastered in the news have led me to avoid taking my usual subway route, instead opting to commute back and forth to Grand Central on the Metro North. I think -- who is this version of me with a little more disposable income whose willing to spend a little extra for the perception of safety? I think -- who is this version of me that pays attention to the sensationalism in the news? I think -- who is this version of me that is a little older, has a little more to lose, is a little more afraid? PS Fuck Manhattan. In Queens you can still get a delicious, fresh sushi platter for lunch at affordable prices. My Queens is sometimes Flushing but mostly Woodside. Little Manila, the Internet calls it. I don't know if anyone calls it that in real life. When we're craving fast food we pick up our Jollibee usual, the ridiculously sweet Jolly Spaghetti (which Bourdain called "[deranged, but strangely alluring](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lS-c1oKMJOg)", and I have to agree), then head down the road to Red Ribbon, where we order palabok and halo halo, and raid the shelves for bags of fluffy mamon and ensaymada. On other days we go for the crispy pata from Tito Rad's, the delightfully salty and crispy pork legs which we bring home and eat at our own dining table, dipped in vinegar and accompanied by rice, as we recount the monotonies of our day. --- Created: December 2, 2022 Last Modified: December 2, 2022