Julie’s Bite of the Big Apple

So it isn’t exactly a tree growing in Brooklyn, but today at my internship in Soho, I saw  radioactive mushrooms. My boss Tom first noticed the uber-fungus in the potted tree near his desk. There was a little colony of neon yellow finger-sized shrooms. He called me and Vivien over to observe the freak of nature. After a few shrieks and gags, Vivien decided that the mushroom was too gross (and too much of a biohazard) to keep in the office. She took a deep breath, grabbed a plastic bag and slowly approached the monstrous growth. In the meantime, Tom is gliggling and running to get his camera so that he can document this very important chapter in the office’s history.

 Vivien bent down, grabbed the bundle of mushrooms and ran to the trash while laughing, shrieking and keeping the bag as far away from her body as possible. (She’s a very good multi-tasker.)

 So that is my story of alien life forms in New York. I doubt I’ll ever witness such a horrific kink in chain of life again. But then again, there are a lot more New Yorkers I haven’t met yet.

On Saturday, I met a legend. It was not a day unlike any other. I got off of the R train at Prince Street and I was ready to do a little shopping with friends in Soho. And as soon as I got to the top step and walked out to the sunny sidewalk, there he was: the made-famous-by-various-reporters (including one from Vanity Fair) man selling potato peelers. The spread in April issue of VF was simple, but the writing was moving. It told the story of a man who sells potato peelers on the streets of New York while demonstrating his product. (Since the article has hit newsstands already, he gives a mini-copy of the story to anyone who buys 4 peelers.) He sells the peelers for only $5, but he claims that it’s the most honest sale in the city. For five dollars, the peeler is not a phony. He sits on the street, hunching over his cutting board as he slices potatoes and carrots into fries, stars and shreds. He’s a craftsman and a showman. I could have watched him peel and give his schtick for hours–it was truly hypnotic. He’s the first celebrity I’ve seen in New York, and I know he will be the most impressive.

After two weeks, it has become obvious to me that one of the biggest differences between New York City and Columbia is price. It’s not just the cost of rent, or even the cost of food–EVERYTHING is more expensive in New York City. Even a simple hamburger at a restaurant is at least $15 and let’s not even begin on drinks. (I had one the other night for $13!) There’s no such thing as Walgreens out here. Instead, we have Duane Reade, a drugstore with everything that Walgreens has, but again, it’s more expensive. To save a little money, we became members in their buyer’s reward card. We just think it’s cool to be members. And the Columbia Mall is non-existent in New York. Instead, it’s Soho, a trendy area that includes little boutiques as well as Chanel, Prada and Burberry. None of those are cheap clothing stores.

 The best way to save money in New York City, then, is to not eat, sleep or dress yourself.

Ever since I read Toby Young’s “How To Lose Friends and Alienate People,” I have been obsessed with the Conde Nast culture. His memoir doesn’t exactly compliment the publishing powerhouse (he calls the people who work there “Conde Nasties”), but it gives access to the glamorous and sometimes ridiculous practices that go inside the building that produces Vogue, Vanity Fair, GQ, Glamour and The New Yorker, to name a few.

Today, the 20 students in the New York Program toured some of the Conde Nast building (including a lunch in their much-talked-about cafeteria), and met with editors at Gourmet magazine. As I waited in the lobby for our entire group to arrive, I spotted at least three stick-thin models, men in suits, and leggy ladies who, no doubt, came down from the offices of Anna Wintour’s (ahhh!) Vogue.

Travel Editor Bill Sertl of Gourmet led us up to the most extraordingary area of the building (besides the clothing closet at Vogue), the cafeteria. Bill confirmed rumors that S.I.Newhouse, the patriarch of Conde Nast, forbids garlic to be served in any dish of the super-swank cafeteria simply because he doesn’t like it. (I’ve also heard unconfirmed rumors that good ole’ S.I. equipped his office with special airways and purification systems so that he can smoke cigars in his office. Smoking is prohibited in the rest of the building.) S.I.must have liked glazed salmon and fresh mozzarella, two of the ingredients in my super-posh Conde Nast salad. There definitely was no garlic. The dining area is filled with plush circular booths that can divide the Vogue-rs from the Self-ers from the GQ-ers. Let’s just say it was no Plaza 900.

And Conde Nast? Well, it’s no Columbia Missourian. However, I was very impressed with much of their editorial policies regarding press trips. For instance, Bill explained that each trip a writer makes is paid for by Conde Nast, not the host of the stay. It’s funny to hear this coming from the same publisher that used to include Tina Brown’s apartment rent in her paycheck, but Gourmet seems to take every step to assure there’s no funny business in the editorial department. Of course, Conde Nast can afford to send Bill on $18,000 trips to rate hotels, restaurants and write about them later.

And that’s only one reason why I would give my right arm to work at Conde Nast. Well, the cafeteria doesn’t hurt, either.

So, I’ve been here for one week exactly, and I’ve been very good about blogging. However, I haven’t been very good about posting my ramblings. World, here they are in chronological order starting with my first day in the Big Apple.

Sunday, May 28, 2006

Today’s the day I take my first bite out of the Big Apple! So far, it’s hard to find any similarities to Columbia at all. I moved into my dorm today at the New School. It’s in the Financial District, which is a classy part of town. In fact, on the cab ride from the airport to our dorm, one of my roommates, Caren, asked the cabbie, “Are we living in a nice neighborhood?” He turned to her (from the driver’s seat while we were speeding down a large highway) and said, “Are you craaaaaazy, girl?” So I guess the Financial District isn’t so bad after all. There are men in expensive suits, and we’re only a few blocks from the Trump Building.

Thursday, June 1, 2005

Getting lost is something I’ve never had to worry about in Columbia, Missouri. Sure, I had glanced at a campus map before leaving for classes during my freshman year. And I’ll admit it, I even glance at one before every semester as a refresher. But in New York, the campus is must bigger. The Broadway that hosts Columbia landmarks such as the Fieldhouse and City Hall is much different that the one that hosts Times Square and Central Park. And oh yes, there’s the subway. I have never encountered such a confusing mode of transportation in my life! Let’s take last night, for example. The four of us (roommates Lesley, Dana, Caren and I) are on our way home from Bryant Park (about two blocks from Times Square), and I decide to guide us home on the yellow line, which has four trains: Q, N, R and W. I was fully confident that we were taking the correct route home because it was the same line that I had taken for the past two days for my internship in Soho. As we boarded the subway, I gave myself a little pat on the back for directing us in our voyage back home. Ten minutes later, Lesley looks out the window of the train and says, “Julie, we’re outside! We’ve never taken the train outside before!” Oh crap. I had led us onto the incorrect train, and we were now on a bridge heading towards Brooklyn, which is off of Manhattan Island. Instead of getting on the R or W train, which would have led us home, we got on the N that led us in the waaaay wrong direction. Whoops. Half and house and trip through City Hall Park later, we made it home. An adventure like that would have never happened in Columbia.

I’ve gotta go. They’re filming Spider-man 3 right across the street, and I want to see if I can catch a glimpse of Tobey McGuire. So far, it’s only been extras. Boo.

Friday, June 2, 2005

While Columbia may boast KOMU, New York City has the TODAY show! Destined to see Matt, Anne (Katie had left the show two days earlier) and Country Music Award winner Brad Paisley perform live in Rockefeller Square, Lesley, Caren and I boarded the uptown subway at 5:30 a.m. Wow. To make matters worse, we didn’t get much sleep considering the lights from Spider-man 3 were shining through our windows when we went to bed at 2 a.m. and were still shining when we awoke. Did I mention it was raining outside?

 So there we were, waiting in Rockefeller Plaza for the show to begin. The rain had let up, but the woman in front of us refused to close her umbrella, which caused use to miss most of Brad’s sound check. One woman next to me even called the umbrella stickler a “witch” and a “wench” because she wouldn’t unfold her umbrella. While my roommates and I tried to hold back giggles, I realized that a scene like that wouldn’t have taken place in Columbia. Don’t get me wrong, the people in NYC have been more than friendly, especially in giving us directions just about everywhere we go. But there are a select few that stand out as nasty, rude and obnoxious. For example, on my way to my internship in Soho, I walked past a frazzled woman who was screaming into the driver’s side of a parked mini-van. The only New York accented phrase I could pick up on was, “Your wife called me 10 times yesterday!” And the man in the driver’s seat shouted back at her. I could still hear them battling it out from a block away. Welcome to New York.

I hope you’re a hungry reader because you are about to sink your teeth into a fantastic adventure: my summer in New York City. It’s a far cry from Columbia, Missouri, a place I’ve called home for the past three years as I studied Magazine Journalism at the University of Missouri-Columbia. In the fall, I’ll begin my senior year and will stick around (hopefully!) for another year to get a higher degree.  But until then, I’m chillin’ in the Financial District with my three roommates Caren, Dana and Lesley. We’re all interns this summer, and we love our apartment on the 16th floor of a fabulous dorm.  

There will be much more to follow. This is only the first bite.