best hits

i'm in my new room in Mayo-Smith, a bag of Costco dried mangoes and a packet of Double Chocolate Milanos within easy reach on my shelf, my blue furry elephant, Humphrey, lounging on the bed, and a large box of Kleenex on the windowsill. with such essentials already in place--although my clothing may still be in suitcases/strewn across the floor--i guess i'm pretty much settled in. which means summer's officially over; thankfully, there's the somewhat jittery limbo period called Orientation to ease me back into school.

that said, i have to tell a few more stories from my summer, especially as those last couple weeks in New York did not pass without incident.

Priyanka's First Blind Date
i may have already mentioned that Irene, the literary agent i worked for, is a force of nature. well, i walk into work one morning and in response to my "Good morning," Irene exclaims, "Priyanka! Do you ever date Indian men?" i answer with a diplomatic, "i'm from California: i don't have a policy." (i should mention here that Irene is one of those white people who's kind of obssessed with India.) well, it turned out that Irene had someone in mind---a young man, half-white half-indian, working at Harper's. she says she'll call him; i laugh nervously.

here's when her India-enthusiasm starts to conflict with her zest for matchmaking. she's calling up this guy when, all of a sudden, she remembers The Namesake---which, of course, she's read, though i have not. in it, apparently, Ms. Lahiri tells the story of an Indian-American youth whose parents are always trying to set him up with a nice Indian girl, and he hates it (see the forthcoming movie for details). recalling the novel, Irene is filled with remorse---is she pressuring us into an awkward situation? she covers her tracks, telling Rafil (for that's his name) that she has a lovely young intern who wants to learn more about the magazine world: would he meet with her sometime and tell her about Harper's?

i end up at a bar in the East Village for an after-work drink with this very nice guy, who went to Princeton and has lots to say about Harper's, the literary world in general, and how i might go about finding a job next year. all in all, it was a pretty interesting and pleasant encounter, although Irene was disappointed that sparks did not fly. (they didn't, in case you were wondering. my mother says my standards are too high.)


Priyanka's Fat Lip and Fat Eye
my last day of work went out with a bang: i'm struggling to grab the LMP (Literary Marketplace---it's the phone book for all things literary) from the very top of the bookshelf, when all three volumes come crashing down right onto my face. i tear up in shock, and although the pain subsides quickly, it leaves me with a very tender and swollen lower lip: Sabrina, Irene's assistant, assured me that it really just gave me a sexy pout, which i was happy to believe all day long. about a week later in California, my mother insists i get a facial from her favorite Russian beautician, Zena. i don't know what happened exactly, but one of Zena's products must have gotten in my eye--my lower left lid swelled up and hurt whenever i closed that eye for a couple days. it's better now.


Priyanka's Brush with Fame
remember 98 Degrees? yeah you do, don't lie. (actually most of my friends did not lie when i told them this story; instead they revealed an embarrassing amount of knowledge about the members of this, and other, boy bands from the 90s. way to go, guys.)
well, 98 Degrees had a lesser-known member named Justin Jeffre (lesser known in that he did not go on to wed Jessica Simpson or have a self-imposed but hilarious reality tv show destroy his marriage). and during my last week in the city, Justin became the latest New Press intern, despite the fact that he's well into this thirties.

see, Justin's from Cincinnati and in 2005 he ran for mayor there. (he lost the race, but he came in before that one ex-convict, so that's good.) despite the disappointment, he's retained his interest in Ohio politics and in independent media. it just so happens that 1) The New Press is doing a book called What Happened in Ohio? about the 2004 presidential elections and is also involved in a law suit to save those ballots from being destroyed in September; and 2) our publicity director, Ina, has all sorts of celebrity connections (she's friends with Moby, for instance). so Justin got in touch with her, wanted to help out with the book and the campaign, and decided to join The New Press as a sort of publicity intern, working for Ina.

before he arrived, i'll admit the staff was worried. how would we restrain ourselves from breaking into dance routines in the hallway? did we need to dress extra-cute for his first day? should the editorial assistant confess that she had seen him in concert when she was 16? and would Justin know how to use a photocopy machine?
i have to say, though, that he turned out to be a very nice and normal guy. i can say this with authority, since he sat next to me during the intern seminar (OMG!). we also had a few intimate moments in the stockroom, where we were both raiding the shelves for books to steal on our way out. it looks like he's going to stay with The New Press for several weeks and actually work on this book. and so i can finally say i met a celebrity in New York, and no, you can't counter that he's a has-been and doesn't count anymore. i have Justin's word for it that the band's been back in the studio recently. that's right, everyone: get ready for a comeback.

Not For Tourists

my plan was to go to the West Village this weekend, find a cafe, get a little work done, and have a celebrity sighting. i got some things done and saw no famous people. i did, however, see the kind of city culture that would fit right onto the pages of Bust magazine. i was slowly working through an oversized sandwich in a semi-hip cafe, and right next to me was this ginger typing away on her glossy Apple laptop. she had on a white shirt with literary slut stamped in black across the chest. later on i walked by a coffeeshop/knitting store with bright spools of yarn on the wall, and tables around which people were drinking coffee and knitting together. very very Bust afternoon.
anyway, so back to the cafe with the sexy girl next to me. her friends then showed up and they were cute and late-twenties, the South Asian girl in grad school, her boyfriend doing something more structured, like banking or something (brief lapse in my otherwise-skilled eavesdropping). and they were chatting away, and the ginger kept referring to "my novel" and the two girls gushed about Anais Nin, and talked about not having any money. they were really just being young and breezy and kind of intellectual, and probably sounded a lot like my friends and i will sound five or six years from now. it's just that they were also kind of irritating. you really can't classify strangers into social groups without making yourself look down on them a little---even when you fully realize that their social category is your own, that you betray your group ties just as obviously as they do.
but who doesn't love that scene in Annie Hall when they're sitting on a park bench and Alvy's making Annie laugh by cutting in to every innocent passerby, summing up the lives of all these strangers. or when he meets that early girlfriend Allison backstage at a show, and after about one second's conversation, he goes, "You, you, you're like New York, Jewish, left-wing, liberal, intellectual, Central Park West, Brandeis University, the socialist summer camps, and the father with the Ben Shahn drawings, right..." and then she responds in that sleepy voice, "No, that was wonderful. I love being reduced to a cultural stereotype." (Woody's punchline: "Right, I'm a bigot, I know--but for the left!")

i ended up eating half of the sandwich and moving to a different cafe, where i am now. Housing Works is less crowded; the music is quiet and the lighting is calm. i have a view of big pricey art books, shiny sloping bannisters, and plaster pillars rising up to meet the exposed piping in a network of off-white tubes. i congratulate the designers on making a charitable bookstore/cafe also feel a little French, a little luxurious.

this summer i've been careful to know where i'm going. i look it up if necessary, get down the address, sometimes make lists of stores or cafes i might want to try---then i write it all on a post-it and stick it in my little black book, facing the appropriate map of the neighbourhood. as the summer's gone on, my Not For Tourists guide has become a real scrapbook of my time in New York, crammed with bits of paper with friends' addresses and a recommendation for a good stationary store in Soho. i feel only a small amount of embarrassment about my allegiance to this guide, because, really, this is how i'm learning. so what if i get judged when i consult my guide in the subway? the information has stuck with me, so that now i can turn up somewhere new and just start walking in the right direction. they're small victories, but i am feeling much more comfortable in this city now.

granted, i feel comfortable with a very tiny fraction of this city. last night a friend and i considered going to a party on the Upper East Side. i had to take pause.... i haven't been that far north since i got here. isn't it really far away? i mean, i occasionally work in the Flatiron district; i've had to pass through Grand Central a few times; and once Lisa and i got dragged up to Columbus Circle to see a movie. (that was the only time i've walked through, or been in sight of, the park since i got here.) but the rest of my life seems to take place between Houston and Fulton Streets, with occasional stops in Brooklyn. okay, i'm not a tourist, but nor am i used to the idea of inhabiting the whole of this very large city. it's not a big deal at home to get in the car and drive however long to get someplace; it seems to be a very big deal to traipse up and down this island, especially knowing how far downtown i have to go to get home at night.

about a month ago, i brought my mother to Housing Works (a real gem, introduced to me years ago by an insider ), and we pulled out every single one of our guides--Zagat, Michelin, Eyewitness, and the NFT--to figure out where we were going for dinner that night and brunch the next day. i have to admit it was fun to be so brazen a tourist, if just for a weekend.


the above was written on Saturday; now it's Monday and i'm sick. and like sometimes happens when you've had a rough couple of days and you're sick in a foreign spot---i've decided that i'm done. never mind liking New York, never mind being gutsy and transient, never mind living in five different spots over the course of the last year and being excited about it. the city is hot and glaring, my apartment has cockroaches, and my throat hurts. i want to go home now. not on Saturday, when i'm actually going home, but now. i'd even settle for going back to school; in fact, school sounds wonderful. either one will do, but summer's got to end.