The Bad Example

Sometimes I'm glad when someone else does the thing I sort of contemplated doing, and shows me how bad it would have been to have done it myself.

I was almost finished with my long trip to the Bronx on the 1 line, when a new person entered the other end of the car and started playing loud music.

It is legal to play music on the subway, as long as headphones are used.

At first, I was annoyed and felt like saying something. But a moment later, a man started singing to the music.

In an instant, I changed from hating the music to loving it.

As the train approached my stop, the performer was before me collecting change. He was wearing a traditional South American outfit and carting some kind of sound system on a hand truck.

An irate passenger walked up to the performer and told him that he should not be playing loud music on the subway. The performer didn't understand. He started speaking to another passenger in Spanish. The other passenger explained that the man didn't know English.

The irate passenger got more angry. He complained that the music was a violation of his privacy and against the law.

The other passengers looked annoyed and rolled their eyes at each other. The performer was apprehensive. The Spanish-speaking passenger explained that this was the way the man made money. It only bothered passengers for a few moments, and many of them enjoyed the music. He made a big show of defiantly placing a bill in the performer's hand. He was clearly angry with the irate passenger, who was shouting that playing music on the subway was illegal.

The doors opened, and the irate passenger got out. I was walking behind him and hoping no one thought we were related in any way. He was still fuming and I was still wondering why someone would get so angry about a performance that lasted less than two minutes.

Fruition

I hate shopping, especially for clothes. It is annoying to take my clothes on and off just to check whether something on a hanger will look good once it is on my body.

I often wish I could approach strangers wearing something I like, check that we are the same size, and buy the garment off their back.

Of course, this isn't what I do to build my wardrobe. I shop like everyone else.

Except yesterday.

My dance teacher surprised me at the end of class by handing me a coat she wore a few months ago.

When I first saw the coat, I sent her an email asking if she had bought it recently and where she got it. It turned out she got it a while ago, so it was no longer in stores.

I almost forgot about it until she handed it to me last night.

What a sweet gesture. I am delighted to have it. I have wanted a coat like this for a long time.

Friends who follow astrology tell me the upside of Mercury Retrograde is that things in process reach completion.

My instructor told me she intended to give me the coat a while ago and forgot repeatedly to bring it to class.

Today, an old college boyfriend friended me on Facebook.

A piece of furniture I ordered in September is scheduled to be delivered on Friday.

A friend from high school sent me an email informing me that I would soon get the book she promised to loan me last month.

With all of the missed appointments, mixed messages, and transportation snarls suffered during Mercury Retrograde, it is sweet to savor these fruits.

New York's Finest

As I was exiting the subway at 43rd and 8th Avenue, a young boy stood at the top stair crying and wining. He did not want to move.

A moment later, I could see why.

A mounted policeman's horse was standing a few feet from the entrance, and a small cluster of New York City children were gathered around admiring the animal.

At one moment, the horse made a big movement, such as lifting its neck from the ground to shake it high in the air. The children, who looked likely to be a difficult-to-impress street smart group, were awstruck and delighted.

The policeman was answering their questions with a big grin. He clearly enjoyed entertaining them. It was a joy to hear their childish laughter as my heels clicked down the street.

Gym Pass

As I walked up the subway stairs at 53rd and 7th Avenue, I received a text from my dear friend. He informed me that he got tickets to the Miami City Ballet performance that night, and would meet me at the bar during intermission.

This is the grown up version of passing a note in class to make plans to meet by the gym soda machine between first and second periods. It thrills me now as much as it did in high school.

Another friend, an abstract painter, made plans to see the ballet with me. I admire her work profusely and am intrigued by her astute and unusual perspective on arts and events. It is a treat to spend time with her.

We saw two older pieces choreographed by Balanchine: "Symphony in Three Movements" and "La Valse." The evening closed with the fantastic "In the Upper Room" choreographed by Twyla Tharp.

Each time I see dance performances, I am struck by the young ages of the dancers. If the quality of the performance wasn't superb, I would mistake it for a high school production. This probably is a testament to my own advancing age.

I also find myself pondering the differences among all of the perfect physiques. All of them have been trained in the same way for the same purpose, yet genetics has formed their muscles in different ways. All of them must have about the same body fat ratio, yet some are lean, sinewous, and bony while others are more bulky with more visible muscle.

A variety in body development was particularly unusual in this ballet troupe because it is not diverse. It surprised me that a group based in Miami appeared to include only a few Latinos. I didn't see a single African-American on stage.

Alex Wong was outstanding. His leaps were spectacular. He hovered in the air. One is accustomed to seeing the special effect used in karate films of freezing a jump kick and changing perspective. Wong seemed to bring that effect to the stage.

At the end of the performance, the dancers took a bow with the ballet founder Edward Villella and choreographer Twyla Tharp (still lithe and beautiful at 67). I noticed that she had her arm around Alex Wong but only held the hands of the other dancers. He must be a universal favorite.

The costumes and sets for these dances were very simple. "Symphony in Three Movements" is an older piece with the traditional movements, but it is also quite athletic. "La Valse" was more typical traditional ballet. "In the Upper Room" was an energetic fusion of modern dance in ballet with jerky, mechanic motions and asymetrical movements that seemed unbalanced but allowed each dancer to retain equilibrium.

It was fun to meet during each intermission with my friends to discuss the dances. My dear friend is an avid arts fan, and has seen these ballets before. He pointed out several young dancers among the bar crowd. They looked like average high school students. If I had not been told that they were principal dancers in the New York City Ballet, I would never have guessed that they hid highly trained physiques under those jeans and slouchy sweaters.

The Difference a Day Makes

I am up late at night worrying about what I will do when I am laid off. What should I do next? Where will I live? When should I give up and move out of New York? It isn't an exaggeration to say I am terrified about my economic prospects.

The country is in an awful mess. My office had another 10% staff reduction a couple of weeks ago, and I suspect the lay offs will continue. The whole publishing industry is dying, so there are practically no job prospects for unemployed publishing professionals.

It is bizarre that under such circumstances, I am stirred by an event that doesn't effect me directly.

I was not an Obama supporter. I backed Hillary because, as a former Washington lobbyist, I knew she was a brilliant politician and I thought he was too inexperienced to be an effective president.

Yet, I could hardly focus on anything but the inauguration today. If I began to even ponder the transition that would take place, I got teary.

The whole office stopped to watch the proceedings on television. I felt foolish bringing a tissue with me to the lobby, and then watched half of my colleagues cry openly and share a big box of tissues.

I couldn't understand what was making me feel so emotional.

Seeing an African-American assume the presidency proves profound changes can happen in the U.S. Seeing an unapologetic liberal garner so much support leads me to believe things will get better. If McCain had won, I assume he would continue the horrid policies that led to this crisis. I would have no hope for recovery.

The expression on George W. Bush's face as he walked through the Capital crypt told a story I was eager to see come to fruition. In the past he had proudly claimed that he did not reflect on or feel regret for his actions. I found this boast deeply disturbing because it shut out hope that he would recognize the harm he caused or feel remorse for it.

As Bush moved toward the inaugural platform, he wore the expression of someone who had come to a dark realization. It appears that during the inauguration he finally realized how much people despise him, his policies, and his effect on the country.

I didn't hear it when I watched the ceremony, but I read in newspaper coverage that the crowd of two million people were loudly booing and hissing as he and Chaney stepped onto the platform. A moment later, the record-breaking large crowd was chanting "O-bam-a" as the president-elect entered the stage.

You could tell by the look on Bush's face that he was bracing under the rebuke. He is a man who prides himself on being liked, and he was just dissed by two million people in one of the most watched live events aired on media outlets around the world.

What is at issue isn't simply the rebuke of a person. It is the wholesale repudiation of his philosophy and policies. For eight years he and his ideological brethren have had free reign to test their ideas -- deregulation, markets managing themselves, trickle down economics, hawkish aggression, indulgence of short-sided gains -- and they have brought this country near to ruination.

It took a while to figure it out, but I realized the source of my tears was profound relief.

Reclaiming Pride

I had a wrecked bathroom to clean. The ceiling began sagging months ago, and it finally fell in two weeks ago. The repair was about as messy as the ceiling crashing down.

I thought I would listen to the We Are One concert while cleaning. Instead, I was glued to the computer screen for the entire concert. I don't have a television, so I watched online.

Before the concert started, my throat was tight with oncoming tears. Seeing the crowd at the decorated Lincoln Memorial made real the big transfer of power about to happen.

It surprised me that I was so emotional. The songs were mostly standards and I tend to regard celebrities as uninteresting. Yet, seeing Bruce Springsteen perform "The Rising" with a full gospel choir before Lincoln's statue made me choke up. It set the tone. This country has been through eight hellish years and now we are on the road to recovery.

Performance after performance emphasized the things I love about this country. Things that are discussed but discounted, such as diversity, plurality, culture, and tolerance. I love that I live in a country with such a rich musical culture. Americans watching the inauguration of a leader in France, Russia, China, or Brazil would most likely not be able to hum along to the tunes sung in celebration of those leaders. American music is popular world wide. I suspect most foreigners would recognize at least a third of the songs played at this concert.

I love that much of the music popular in this country has been made by disenfranchised and impoverished people -- from slaves and farm workers to rappers and American Idol winners. I loved seeing a gay men's choir sing with Josh Grobin and Broadway star via Trinidad Heather Headley. I loved that country superstar Garth Brooks was backed by a group of beaming, energetic teenagers that represented just about every race. I love that he generously gave one of those teenagers a moment in the spotlight.

U2s performance summed it up for me. Here were four men that grew up poor in Dublin, Ireland. At the inauguration ceremony of our country's first African-American president they played their hopeful song about Martin Luther King, Jr. and nonviolence on the very steps where MLK delivered his "I Have a Dream" speech. Bono basically told the audience that he was proud of America for this achievement. That the world would once again look upon the United States with respect.

I realized at that moment that this inauguration marks this country's shift from being an international disgrace to being the pride of the world. Although this country is in the grip of a crisis, it feels is as if we are emerging mindfully from a dark age into a renaissance.

Appearances

As I was walking down 23rd street today, a woman stopped me and started speaking to me in a foreign language. When she paused, I told her I didn't understand what she was saying.

She looked puzzled, then pointed to her head. One of the words she said sounded like "Rooskie."

At this moment, I realised that she thought I was Russian because I was wearing my big fur hat.

She said in English "F train" and "Coney Island." I walked her to the F stop entrance that was a few feet away, but poorly marked.

It is intriguing to learn how I am perceived by others and the basis of assumptions that are made. This is the first time I have been mistaken for a Russian.

Now that I think about it, the hat was made by a Russian furrier on West 28th and 7th Avenue. Perhaps he left a Russian imprint on me.