The Big Apple. Home. And the such.

anxious. anxious. anxious. 

Time slows down significantly. I wait to get back to a time and a place that can only be described as "home". I've thought about home a lot lately. In a meeting I had recently with my cell* in Fishtown (or the Fishery, as Jen insists on calling it) we discussed how we define home. Between that discussion and my own experience, I can only deduce that it consists of many different things, depending the person and the situation. 

and so--

I was anxious. Anxious to leave Philly and see the people I consider home. Home was in New York City, a place I hardly know. Home was preparing for an afternoon picnic on sixtieth and fifth in Central Park. Home was waiting for me, and for a reasonable bargain of twelve dollars, I was getting there via the New Century (Not to be confused with the Fung Wah, the Lucky Star, or Apex) from Chinatown. 

 The ride to Chinatown from Chinatown was pretty much the norm. A young asian man proceeds to immediately pass out use my shoulder as a pillow for the duration of the ride. Meanwhile, America is rapidly becoming more obese as the woman to my left stuffs a greasy big mac in her mouth, pausing only to snack on a bag of fritos. You get what you pay for. Eventually, I get to the city and take the train to the East Village where I finally find them all, hanging out in a place that can only be described as the Silhouette of Manhattan. For those of you who have not been fortunate enough to experience the Silhouette, my most sincere apologies...you haven't lived. For the first half hour, it's difficult to even concentrate on conversation, I was so overcome with a sense of relief. I never realized how much I took for granted the fact that I know these people so well until I moved to Philly. Seeing familiar faces is something I got accustomed to in Boston. 

SO a ridiculously amazing 24 hours made short....

Little Italy. Noodle Shop. Williamsburg. Dance Party. 4 am. "Thank You DJ". Laughter. Typical Seven Ashford debauchery minus a few key characters. breakfast at 4 am. Astoria. Sleep. Tea. Gondola's to Roosevelt Island. dinner. and good byes. 

I truly love and appreciate all of them. I'm truly grateful to know and have known them. I'm thankful for their role in my life, not only in my four years living in Boston, but now that we've all scattered and have gone on to new things. 

Our goodbyes were staggered..and to be honest, I'm not all that sure that we'll ever meet up this way again. I left Jenny last, and set off to find the Chinatown bus home, only to run into a young Chinese man, who happened to be in the city to finalize wedding plans. Though Baltimore was his current place of residence, NYC was "home". Home, he tells me, is where his fiance is (their marriage is sometime in november). We talked about this as he led me to my bus. Here, while waiting for the Philly bus, I met two men, waiting for their bus to D.C...back to home. They were telling me how they were ready to leave the unfamiliar skyline offered by New York and get back to a more familiar place. We parted in mutual understanding, exchanging smiles and hand shakes. good words. friendly faces. I found my seat on the bus, only to listen as people kept milling aboard, asking anxiously where the bus was headed. One woman, lost, and trying to find the right bus, complained that she just wanted to get home. I smiled. Home carries many different meanings, so multifaceted, encompassing time, place and relationships.  Sitting on the bus I realized I am home. and yet, I was heading home too. The peace in that overwhelms me and I'm thankful for being aware of it. 

Much Love! 

Lina

God Bless the Indian Summer.

I've been hearing talk of the Last Drop Coffeehouse since I moved to this glorious city...both good and bad...point being, there must be reason for any discussion at all, thus piquing my curiousity. 

From what I've gathered, the Last Drop is a hipster joint...coffee's mediocre at best...severe lack in tea selection...tasty treats for the vegan-ly inclined. The actual space has been described as anything from "worn-in" to "gross" and the baristas are without a doubt, God's gift to the java drinking world in their own eyes. 

When the opportunity finally presented itself for my own inaugural Last Drop experience, I had high hopes for a preconceived coffee shop...forgive me if this sounds oddly familiar. 

ahem. 

My Last Drop is built on the corner of a fairly busy intersection characterized by its local bums, bros, and hipsters...an eclectic, yet fairly interesting crowd. It is flanked by the neighborhood's favorite asian thrift store and a bro bar where only the few, the strong and the brave have ever survived to tell the rest of teh sane world what really goes on in there. There's a cluster or bicycles stacked haphazardly in front and the door is propped open, beckoning passerbys with the aroma of not-so-fresh coffee, vegan cupcakes and the best icecream in town. Upon entering, you are greeted by a loveable, yet silly ginger boy and another girl, who oddly shares my first name (I've met very few that do) though she spells it with an "e". The walls and tables are plastered with a hodge podge of local art and flyers of shows long past. A photo hung lovingly on the back wall pays homage to a  local legend (See Mr.Butch*). The sea of laptops makes it  evident that the free wi-fi was going to good use. On occasion, a middle aged man walks in, skateboard in hand, mumbling racial slurs and voicing anti-Jewish sentiments (see Skateboarding Ninja*)...only to have the redhead at the counter kindly kick him out for what seems like the fifteenth time that day. And today, seventies soul is on, though if you were there last night, you more than likely caught the tail end of some gutterpunk mix. And though the coffee is nothing to write home about, this wonderful establishment serves absolutely, positively delicious seven herb tea. 

....

By now, the "fictional" Last Drop may or may not seem a little too real to be hypothetical and oddly familiar to anyone who's every lived in the Boston/Allston area. haha I'm not going to lie, I miss Herrell's...and a little part of me was hoping to find a Herrell's doppleganger here in Philly. 

So what is the REAL Last Drop like? First and foremost, this place is spotless compared to Herrell's. It's actually nice! All of this complaining about how dirty the place is, let's be serious people. I thought Herrell's was nice. Maybe I'm easily impressed? Low standards? Or maybe I just don't care. I found a spot by the open window on the Pine Street side, where I could people watch and enjoy the weather while doing work. Unfortunately, there is no Mr.Butch. No crazy, homeless people. No "Van Goda" action figure. No ice cream. Free wi-fi still applies as does hipster clientele. The baristas seem hip. The decor's hip in that "dive-bar" sheik sort of way that probably finds its roots in either williamsburg or portland. Even teh typeface used in the logotype was hip and thus more than likely designed by a hip baristas...hip designer friend (*see Rosewood/Romantiques). Regardless, the decaf soy latte was alright and the barista that served me was friendly enough...besides looking immensely peeved when bothered by questions such as, "May I have a soy latte, decaf?" and "Where is the bathroom?" Could be worse. He could've withheld both coffee and information all together? Ain't no thing. As long as the dude does his job, it's cool with me. I'm not all smiles and rainbows when I'm working either. And though the Last Drop did not live up to my dreams as the next Herrell's Renaissance Cafe, it's alright. Allston is a rare breed..one not easily replicated. 

SO. Philly is still wonderful. She's become familiar. I've grown since my move here. I've been collecting the nuances of newly acquired moments. Time. Place. First looks and last looks. Everything and anything that seems worth keeping. The initial joys and excitement of a new city are finding balance with heartaches and growing pains. Loneliness is balanced by newfound friendships. Though with trust comes a certain level of vulnerability...it's a risk worth taking. People stay, people stray. Not one held accountable to the other. It's a strange enterprise but I suppose in a world this large, with so many people, this kind of behaviour is human nature, and we're all guilty of it. 

Well, on a totally unrelated note, here's a video of some graphic work I recently completed for a start up company. 

Much peace to you all. 

*Mr. Butch: Allston legend. see this write up. 

**Skateboarding Ninja: Crazy homeless man. Hates Jewish people. Rides skateboard around Allston.

***Last Drop's secondary typeface is none other than Rosewood Standard and Rosewood Fill, a typeface created by Carol Twombly in 1993. For those not familiar with it..Rosewood is the new Helvetica..used by Coffee giant Starbucks as well as..well most anything. Came into popularity when printmaking/letterpress printing became "cool" again as Rosewood does have the appearance of vintage letterpress woodtype. Rosewood standard is gaudy, though not as gaudy as Last Drop's logotype...Romantiques..a typeface that should only be found in the circus. 

Pianicas. Collies. Jersey.

Have I told you that I love this city?

Although I've only been a Philadelphian for...just shy of two months, I am quick to catch myself speaking in such a way that misleads most to believe that I have, in fact, lived here much longer* (see note). 

In the span of my almost soon to be two months here, I've found an excuse to sit around in Rittenhouse...basically every free day that I have. That park epitomizes the people watching experience. Honestly, I'm already mentally preparing myself for the lack of the Rittenhouse routine come fall/winter. Sure enough, I am slowly, but surely, falling into a premature state of depression over the mere thought. Now that I've settled into that routine, I recognize the regulars and their hangs. I've grown pretty fond of my section of the park, as well. My current favorite attendees consist of a woman...regular "mall walking" material, very determined stride, if you will. She strolls purposefully with her collie...nothing out of the ordinary, the regulars all have dogs in tow...but, this crazy walks her poor pup in a doggie..stroller? It's awful. really. I kind of hate her for it. haha

Favorite numero dos is the pianica player...and not because he's actually good, by all means . I've thought about it for some time and I have come to the following conclusions:

1. This guy obviously thought it was a good idea to play an instrument that no one really knows, or is familiar with...good approach, in theory. I've watched this tactic in effect as many have approached him with questions about the pianica. For those who aren't familiar..The pianica is an instrument that appears to be a keyboard, yet it also comes equipped with a mouth piece...I suppose it kinda falls in the same vein as accordians, autoharps..maybe even a keytar? In any case, it has keys. 

2.Pianica man has stamina. The man did not move from one spot for a good 3 hours. In those three house, I believe I heard the "playlist" (if you could call it that) about 8 times (9?). Meanwhile, one (not two, or three) elderly woman claps along witht he music, loving every second of it and keeping pianica man from annoying another section of the park.

3.  I dont know if I hate him...or just the tone of the actual instrument. The thing sounds like its whining the whole time. 

Well, on a more serious note, I truly enjoy the energy that surrounds Rittenhouse, pianicas and doggie strollers aside. That many people together sharing common space makes me smile. (if you know me, then I'm sure it's generally understood and common knowledge that I rarely smile. In fact, I rarely go a day without some random stranger telling me to smile...another peeve of mine. Seriously though, who the heck smiles all the time anyway? pansies). Rittenhouse brings out every stereotype known to man, with no exceptions. It leaves me with an odd sense of community, one in which you don't necessarily have to know one another in order to share the collective human experience of simply existing. It's in the hum of conversation and laughter that blankets the park. All the while, the cicadas seem engaged in the own conversations while the green leaves quietly turn gold and gracefully begin to wrinkle along their edges. This is how life should be, in my opinion. Although, the Caste System still applies**

On a somewhat unrelated, yet related note...it's kind of strange, but as of late I see sound as color. Is that weird?  Whether it be music, or conversation, or any sort of layered sound...I see it as color and motion. I think that it might have something to do with being a visual artist and constantly responding to my environment visually? I've also been listening to a lot of classical music as of late, especially while doing work. Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D. Brahms' First Symphony. Beethoven's Seventh. Dvorzak's Ninth. Chopin's Etudes. I have a feeling that it might have to do with the seeing sound thing, as well. Especially since I've started to attribute color to certain composers/musicians. 

That's all for now...Enjoy these summer afternoons. much peace to you all

* Common Transplant Trait 1: Repping Philly, though you've barely lived here long enough to know your zip code. 

addendum 1: This rule is especially offensive in regards to transplants from dirty Jersey. 

addendum 2: If it so happens that transplant offender is from the dirty trash heap that is the toilet bowl known as the state of New Jersey, it is best that you take every necessary precaution to keep anyone who's anyone from knowing this. You'd be better off if you told them you were Canadian. 

**Rittenhouse Caste System: Future blog..I have yet to fully break it down to a science, though I am foreseeing this an Information Architecture project...interactive map? yes?

A Day in the Life, pt 1

I ride my bike almost every day to Marathon Grill in West Philly, where I work with the cast from "Waiting". Philly would have you believe that she is completely flat and easy on the legs. But, alas, she is a tricky one. Let me tell you. 

The ride across the Walnut St. Bridge is basically the same every day. I stop downstairs to say hello to Yonny. Yes, Yonny. My wonderful Greek landlord. Go figure. Yonny owns a breakfast/deli below us that is--for lack of less cute-sy adjective--adorable. It's mom and pop sheik? (Think: Grecian Diner meets Second Cup Cafe for all of you Allstonians out there...and if we really need to get technical, it has the convenience store effect of the Brookline Spa).  Anyways, Yonny is great. And I'm not just saying that cause he's Greek. Okay, well maybe just a little bit. 

We greet one another, in Greek and exhcange our thoughts for the morning (or early afternoon, depending on the given day, of course). He has become a sort of local GPS system for me, bike shortcuts and the such. I then ride up to Walnut, dodging fruit trucks and SUV's that have no real concept of what it means to share the road. When I hit Walnut, more than likely ensues a battle. Lina versus the SEPTA bus system. The game is simple. Lina laps bus. Bus does not care to share road with bike. Bus nearly runs Lina over in an attempt to lap Lina. lays down on the horn. Lina laps bus. I think you get the idea. In passing Rittenhouse, about half way down he street, mid-SEPTA bus fun, I'm somewhat scrutinized by a group of tattooed kids in cutoff jean short standing/sitting beside their customized bikes at the entrance of the park (full explanation of the Rittenhouse Social Caste System in future blog). Once I hit the bridge, I'm biking uphill, in the ridiculous heat. Simultaneously, I am now peddling against the wind, always. It's not a bad hill, more of a steady incline. I think it's just hot. But the hills have become somewhat less difficult, easy even, since I've started riding to work every day. Good sign. 

There's a stoplight at 34th that marks the bottom of a hill before another incline begins. To date, I have yet to perfectly time my ride downhill so as to beat the light before it turns red...to clarify, I gain momentum, only to stop at a light and work my way uphill again. It's rather frustrating. 

So. 

It seems that I am no longer a Bostonian. No longer a Masshole, even. Who would've thought? I am a firm believer that life guides us forward to new places and situations only when completely ready to do so. It is something understood in hindsight. Just based solely on this theory, the thought to move to Philly months ago must be something I'm prepared for. I made it down here, didn't I?

I enjoy it here very much so. It feels so new and yet, so comfortable at the same time. I've also forgotten how much I truly enjoy writing about my day to day. I'll be doing this more often.