The Kisho in Times Square

Sorry, Kisho. Your hair is not quite long enough to block Times Square out of this photo.

Ashton, aka "The Kisho", took his turn visiting me in New York City this time. Much like when Nicky visited me, we basically spent a lot of each day eating food. However, unlike when Nicky visited me, we spent a lot of each day....well....making fun of Nicky. Interesting how that works.

The highlights included: Phantom of the Opera on Broadway, Jackson Hole Diner, Wicked on Broadway, The Nintendo Store, Chopped Liver and Matzo Ball Soup at Carnegie Deli, Sprinting through Times Square, Ground Zero, Chinatown for Chinese New Year, Spicy Food and Sushi in Koreatown, Rockefellar Plaza, Zabar's, and Restaurant Week Lunch at Alfama Portuguese Restaurant. Oh, I also made Ashton come to work with me and remove staples from some of our files. Child labor laws don't apply to New York City.

We found a lot of cheap junk in Chinatown, which happened to go surprisingly well with the rest of The Kisho's wardrobe.

I thought this sign was really amusing. Apparently, the act of merely looking at the Chinatown clothes causes them to actually increase in value. Don't unfold the clothes, or else the Communists will get you!

Ashton, way under-dressed, at 30 Rock.

Ashton and all of the crazy people willing to pay $45 each to go ice skating in Rockefeller Plaza.

Taking Columbus Circle by force! Look at how fierce that stance is.

NintendoWorld!!! I was way more excited to meet Mario than Ashton was. This was before he took us into the back room and offered us some of his 'shrooms. Then I hijacked his Yoshi while Ashton strangled that Pikachu with the WiiMote nunchucks.

Ashton walking to see Wicked on Broadway by himself because we could only afford one ticket, and me creepily following and taking pictures of him.

We took this picture in honor of The Prapo. Any trip is a success if you can slaughter both a lamb and a Pikachu in one day.

We scarfed down a delicious meal at Jackson Hole in the Upper West Side and then sprinted to Gershwin Theatre. There were at least 100 burgers on the menu. Ashton had a massive cheeseburger and some O-rings.

And my delicious mushroom-chicken burger. Mmmmm delicious fungus.

Alfama - Portuguese cuisine in the West Village

This mosaic actually did look a lot like Portugal.

Appetizers! The bread and olives were particular delish.

Ashton's first course were ginger-shrimp meatballs and a ginger sauce. Yeah, we thought it sounded Asian, too. Whatevs.

Caldo Verde soup. Made with kale, linguica, and potatoes. This was more traditionally Portuguese, but Grandma's and Aunt Angelina's are both better.

Ashton's main course was a beef steak with egg and some fries. Yeah, we thought it sounded like typical French steak frites, too. Whatevs.

My main course was cubed pork with peppers, onions, and mussels. Sort of like an extravagant version of dog food.

Ashton's dessert was creme caramel with a graham cracker topping. Once again, very un-Portuguese. Whatevs.

My dessert was bizzarrely awesome. It was an almond/walnut cake with a coconut topping. It almost made up for the awkward waiter we had. And the overpriced food. And the fact that we managed to discover the only authentic Portuguese restaurant that serves absolutely no Portuguese food. Huzzah!

The Prappening

Ahh! The Tofu-Pesto Spelt Crust Pizza at Cafe Viva Natural Pizza had no chance against the famished Prapo.

Nicky, aka "The Prap", came to visit me in New York City. The long weekend, or "The Prappening," as I like to call it, featured the typically absurd occurrences, perilous obstacles, and (satanic?) foodstuffs of the Prapo variety. The astonishing part was that, as carnivorous as I am, I found vegan New York to be quite wonderful. Yes, it Prappened to me, and be careful, because it could Prappen to you, too!

The weekend's highlights included:

Grand Central Terminal, Bryant Park, dinner in Chinatown, movie at Astoria-Kaufmann Studios, lunch in Koreatown, shopping/stealing M&Ms at Macy's Herald Square, walk up Fifth Avenue, Rockefellar Center, the TODAY Show set, the Rockefellar Christmas Tree, Nintendo World Store, The New York Dog Shop, watching USC win the Rose Bowl, Times Square, Avenue Q on Broadway, The United Nations, Hot Apple Cider at the Union Square Greenmarket, The Strand Bookstore, Economy Candy Store, The American Museum of Natural History, Lunch at Cafe Blossom, The Staten Island Ferry, The Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge, Ground Zero/WTC, Battery Park, Lunch at Pommes Frites, Dinner at Kate's Joint, and comedy and drinks at Comedy Cellar in Washington Square.

The Prapo goes to the United Nations! My favorite part was when he got all frazzled while going through the security checkpoint. He frantically took off article upon article of clothing, tossed his gum into the bucket, removed all the receipts and papers from his pockets, and fortunately, prior to actually slitting his wrists and draining his blood into the container, I managed to get through to him the fact that none of those items were likely to trigger the metal detector. Sheesh, Prap, why do you always have to come across as a terrorist?

Token photo of me with the U.N. logo. Look how important I am!

A Prapo in Times Square! While I was waiting in line for tickets for Avenue Q, I sent The Prap to try to win some tickets to In The Heights. He was reluctant to go off on his own, but managed to survive the 50 foot journey! The Prap is progressing!

The Prapo in front of the financial district. Don't be surprised if his mere proximity to Wall Street was the direct cause of the recession.

The Prapo crosses the Brooklyn Bridge.

Sailing to the Statue of Liberty. If this were 1900, I suspect that this is as close as The Prap would get before the Americans started throwing stones at him.

Yes, THE New York Dog Shop, and the best doggie treats that $247.00 can buy!

Look at that ferocious beast! Oh, and theres a wolf behind him, too.

And, of course, the veggie food. This is my tomato, onion, mushroom, and broccoli pizza on whole wheat crust at Cafe Viva.

Tofu-Pesto Spelt Crust!

This is vegetarian chicken-fried steak from Kate's Joint in Alphabet City. It's made with seitan (satan?), which is a wheat gluten meat substitute.

Belgian fries at Pommes Frites in the East Village. They let us try several dipping sauces before we picked the one we wanted. It was down to curry/peanut and pomegranate/teriyaki, but the latter won out.

My portobello mushroom, tomato, pesto, and alfalfa sandwich from Cafe Blossom. Everything about this was surprisingly delicious.

Nicky got the grilled setian (SATAN!) sandwich with fries at Cafe Blossom. Nobody does vegetarian like NYC.

The Bonfire of the Insanities: Part Two

(to follow The Bonfire of the Insanities: Part One)

*To read this entry, you need super secret exclusive "insider" permission. Email me (paul.t.moura@gmail.com) if you want to read it.

The Guac of Shame

In my limited time as a resident of Jackson Heights, I have come to the conclusion that the town features a completely self-sustaining and cyclical economy. Every aspect of Jackson Heights is perfectly placed to keep the system perpetuating, and the locals have become slaves to this system. Allow me to elaborate:

Believe it or not, this city's economy runs on taco stands. Yes, taco stands. Everybody either works at or owns a taco stand, and, moreover, everybody eats these tacos 24 hours per day. This isn't an exaggeration. When I walk to the gym at 5:00am, these stands are still running, and people are gorging their tacos and tortas in all their greasy goodness. You'd think they'd get sick of it after a while, but no. The stands give off too luscious of a scent to withstand. The patrons don't even take their orders home with them. They stand and eat it right on the counter of the taco stand itself.

It seems unrealistic to think that an entire city - a city that seems to be growing every day - can run merely on these Mexican food stands. Well, I used to think it wasn't possible, until I saw two more stands start business outside my subway stop, bringing the current total to three taco stands within the same fifteen feet. And they're ALL busy. Always!

Torta of DOOM!!!

With this empire of taco stands in place, the people of Jackson Heights need not ever leave their beloved picante-seasoned city. It's actually quite difficult to escape. On every street that leads away from Jackson Heights, there are stands strategically positioned to draw the attention of hungry locals. Once that rich aroma of pork and beans fills their nostrils, all hope is lost. Before they can escape the city, they give in to their desires and stuff their mouths with the savory tortas (in pork, chicken, and beef varieties). Immediately after the last bite, their bowels command them to walk home to their bathrooms and take care of business. And the vicious cycle perpetuates.

You must be thinking, "Now, Paul, it can't be impossible for these people to leave Jackson Heights." Alas, I wish you were right. It all comes down to one thing: "The Guac of Shame."

You may have heard of the term "The Walk of Shame." The Urban Dictionary defines it as:

"When you walk home shamefully, wearing the same clothes as the day before, usually after a booty call."

"The Guac of Shame" places a slightly different spin on this concept, though it still involves shameful self-indulgence. I have witnessed this event several times. Here's how it works:

Outside every subway stop in Jackson Heights, there are many taco stands, each of which is known for smothering their dishes with succulent, mouth-watering, and most importantly, delicious-smelling guacamole. In their attempts to use the subway to escape the confines of Jackson Heights, locals must cross this line of aromatic defense in order to get into the station. During my daily commute on the subway, some actually manage to break through the barricade, and even make it upstairs to the subway platform.

Now, here's the kicker. The 7-train is one of the few subway lines in New York that runs above ground. Clearly, this is intentional, as it allows the savory aroma from the taco stands to waft up through the bottom of the subway platform and infiltrate the nostrils of the fleeing residents. Once they inhale, the craving begins. You can see the hunger in their eyes. If they attempt to resist it, their legs become weak, and they start to perspire and look around nervously, their faces red with anxiety. Typically, they'll succumb, and walk down the stairs to feast. But every once in a while, a lucky passenger makes it to the platform just as the train arrives and sprints in quickly to make their escape. The doors close behind them, and the train drives away from the stop.

They think they've succeeded, but sadly, their liberation is short-lived. Once the subway reaches the next stop in Jackson Heights, the doors open and the entire car fills with that luscious, rich smell of avocado, cilantro, and tomato, complimented perfectly by the scent of greasy meat cooking on the grill. It's impossible to resist. During the ten seconds when the doors are open, the escapees endure an arduous experience. Their stomachs crave the satisfaction. Their taste buds lust for the heavenly flavor. Their hands yearn to hold that warm tortilla in their cold and empty palms.

It's no use. It takes about five seconds, and then they're out the door and headed down to the street level. They place their order, hand over two dollars, and proceed to chew on their guacamole-drenched bliss, each gulp filling their body with a warm sense of satisfaction. With the last bite, the bowel's command is not unexpected. They have accepted their purgatorial fate. They step back from the counter, lower their heads, and begin their shameful walk back home to their toilets, beneath the ominous shadow of the 7-train.



Jackson Heights....you can buy tacos at any time, but you can never leave....

The Bonfire of the Insanities: Part One

"Nope, there's no denying it. Believe me, I gave them a chance. I gave them the benefit of the doubt for as long as I could. But, alas, the evidence is incontrovertible."

*To read the rest of this entry, you need super secret exclusive "insider" permission. Email me (paul.t.moura@gmail.com) if you want to read it.

The Eviction

I considered myself fortunate to find a decent living situation upon moving to New York, particularly because I was on my own and was unfamiliar with the city. Still, it didn't take long for a few problems to surface. One evening after work, I was welcomed home by a pleasant "NOTICE OF EVICTION" on my door....



*To read the rest of this entry, you need super secret exclusive "insider" permission. Email me if you want to read it.

The Heights

Let's get one thing straight: As far as the New York boroughs go, Queens will never be cool. Still, Jackson Heights isn't so bad. I'd say it has, well, character. For people outside of New York, Jackson Heights is probably best known as being the home town of Betty Suarez in "Ugly Betty". The television show gives a pretty good representation of the city. The people of Jackson Heights, in fact, look a lot like this:



Moreover, I've noticed some pretty wretched eating habits here, and this city itself is filthy. Regardless, it is what it is. In some ways, the town feels like a third-world country. The food at the grocery stores seems pretty questionable ($1.99/lb turkey breast?), nothing is ever labeled with a price tag, and they always make me hand over my bag when I enter in order to prevent shoplifting. Everything is sort of haphazardly organized. It took me forever to figure out where they keep the peanuts. I guess I should have assumed that they'd be in the dairy section, right?

Another thing: I find it odd that there are at least four hair salons on every block. What's even stranger is that they all seem to be packed and bustling with activity day and night. Those inside are often about my age, pregnant, and also have two children running in circles around them. Is it possible that these people are not concerned with showering, but are more than happy to get their hair done every day? Well, I think the salons are more of a social scene, too, and the women of Jackson Heights go there to gossip and exchange techniques for frying plantains.

For me, the most ghetto thing I have to deal with in Jackson Heights is my gym. When I was looking for an apartment, I wanted to live somewhere within walking distance from a place where I could exercise. What I found was "Gymnasio": The best gym slash planned parenthood center slash brothel in Queens. ¡Que bueno!

When I first walked into the gym, there was a woman sitting at the front desk. She was probably about forty years old, fairly obese, wore stained gray sweats, had severe acne, and went a little overboard with her makeup. We had a nice conversation about what to do for fun in Jackson Heights. I asked her if she went into the city much...

"No, way," she responded. "The subways are so dirty. I would never set foot on the subways in this city. I have everything I need here," said the filthy woman as she reached for another dorito.

I told her that I was interested in a gym, and asked if I could look around. She said, "No.", and that I could only enter after paying for a membership. I asked her if there were any trial memberships just to see if I liked the gym, and she said "Nope." Hmmmm. It sounded quite sketchy, but at less than $20/month, I figured I could take the risk.

Well, as far as gyms go, it's pretty bad. Half of the machines have said "out of order" since I've been here, most of the treadmills are broken, there aren't enough weights or benches, all of the cables are frayed, most of the patrons bring food and consume more calories at the gym than they burn, and nothing is ever cleaned. I frequently see condom wrappers in the stairwell by the entrance, too. Not sure what that's about.

I suppose I have made a friend there, though. One day, a woman was using the abdominal machine next to me. She was short, middle-aged, and overweight, but seemed pretty determined to get in better shape. Anyway, she got into the machine and started to do some crunches, when suddenly her weight caused the seat to unlock, and she plummeted and crashed to the ground, and then rolled for a few feet onto the floor. It looked painful, and I rushed to help her up. She said she was okay, though I imagine she had to be mortified.

A few minutes later, I was messing around with some five-foot long poles that they have lying around the floor for some reason, and I started spinning them like I used to with my marching band mace. The woman saw this, walked up to me, and asked me if I could teach her how to do it, too. I realized just then exactly how shameless she was, both because she wasn't embarassed after breaking the machine with her weight, and because she was blithely talking to me despite the disgusting dripping sweat stains over her crotch area.

Sure, Jackson Heights probably sounds ghetto, but there's a lot to love here. I really enjoy how ethnic it is. The Latin and South Asian presense provides for some excellent food. Also, my subway stop rocks because six lines run through it, and I can get almost anywhere in NYC with relative ease. Honestly, it truly is refreshing to come back here after spending all day in the chaotic and expensive city. It feels more "real" compared to commercialized Manhattan, and the people are much nicer. For a year, it's not a bad place to call "home."

The Jump

I walked down the bus stairs and onto the crowded sidewalk. To my right, I could see the Chrysler Building rising just above the concrete urban jungle. To my left was the Lincoln Building, where I would report early Monday morning. Straight ahead was Grand Central Terminal, with its gothic architecture serving as an island of aesthetic beauty amidst a sea of corporations and caffinnated commuters. Behind me, was my entire life. No, no, I don't mean metaphorically. That would be so cliché. I mean literally...I managed to fill my whole life into two small suitcases, and now I was here in Manhattan, homeless and alone.

So, what happened? I was ready to start law school at Notre Dame, but at the last minute, I decided that it just didn't feel like the right choice in my life right now. After exploring several alternatives, I was offered a job working at a law office in New York City. A one-way flight from Detroit to LaGuardia, and a shuttle ride from the airport to Midtown, led me right to this spot.

Perhaps fortunately for me, I have had a lot of recent experience being homeless and living out of a suitcase. I recently spent a month in Europe, where I kept my entire life in a backpack and moved from hostel to hostel. My introduction to New York City was just an extension of this nomadic lifestyle. No, I had never really been to New York before, but I wasn't worried. All I needed was a subway map and my laptop and I was ready to seize the day.

First thing's first: Finding a place to live. Through the magic of CraigsList, I spent the past few days emailing people who had rooms available. I had a list of six addresses and phone numbers. I walked into Grand Central Station, purchased my monthly subway pass, and commenced.

The first place was in Woodside, Queens. There was an unfurnished room available in a house with three guys in their twenties. The guys were all chefs in Manhattan, and all very nice. The place was a pigsty, though, and it was obvious that they were all pretty unhealthy. Still, the location was not bad, the rent was cheap, and the room was nice. But then they told me that the room wasn't available for another month. Gee, guys, thanks for letting me know. I crossed that one off my list.

Next stop: East 28th Street in Manhattan. I had high hopes for this one. On the map, this looked like a great location. The rent listed was also reasonable. The owner was a middle-aged guy named "Sal", and he met me on the steps of his apartment. Now, apartment may be an overstatement here. This was a glorified closet. The kitchen was just a sink and microfridge. The bathroom was just a shower with a curtain, and the toilet was sort of in both the bathroom and the kitchen. Also, the "available room" was not really a bedroom. In the small entryway between Sal's bedroom and the kitchen, there was a curtain set up with a bed behind it. Nice. Apparently, Sal was able to take pictures for CraigsList from angles that made it look like an actual place a human being could inhabit. Alas, it wasn't. Cross that one off.

The next place was on East 32nd Street in Manhattan. This was a little more expensive, but sounded nice, so I figured it was worth checking out. It was owned by an older couple, and the man had a clear accent over the phone. I called him to schedule a time and place to meet. When I walked to the meeting place, there was no one there. I tried calling his number, and there was no answer. Not even a voicemail. Awesome. Cross that one off, too.

My next try was a room that was available on Roosevelt Island. This is a small island in between Manhattan and Queens. It seemed a little isolated, but it does have a subway stop, so I thought I'd give it a try. The CraigsList had said "must not have an aversion to Chinese food." Sweet! I love Chinese food. The owner seemed nice in his emails, and he told me to call him when I got to the island. Upon my arrival, I dialed his number. Unfortunately, this guy's accent was so bad that I could not understand a single word he was saying. He tried to give me instructions in his broken English, but it was useless. At that point, I knew this one was a dead end. I told the guy that I would try to call back or email him later, and I got back on the subway. Yup, cross that one off, too. (Note: I emailed him that night to tell him I wasn't interested, and he angrily responded saying that I wasn't "man enough" to check the place out. Sheesh...even the best Chinese food isn't worth this much trouble.)

At this point, I was getting a little worried. My best bet was the first place in Woodside, but I would have to couchsurf across the city for a month before I could move in. My next try was a place in East Harlem. It was conveniently located on the 6 line, which goes right to Grand Central Station. It seemed promising. The room was being used by a 20-year old from South Africa. He was really nice in his emails, and desperately wanted to find someone to find his room because he already had a new place lined up for himself. This apartment was in the slums of Harlem, and, like Sal's place, was way too small to be inhabited by human beings. Nevertheless, the were four people living there. Two didn't speak English, and one was a Russian bodybuilder woman named Olga. The young man showed me his "room". It was astonishing. There was a mini twin bed inside, which took up 90% of the room. The other 10% consisted of a small schooldesk...like, the kind you use in elementary school where the chair and desk are attached. It was a disaster. This poor guy was a fool to think he could find someone to live in these conditions.

"As you can see, it's fully furnished with a bed and a desk," he said to me. I suppose that appeared to be true.

"Actually, I think I'm going to take the desk with me to my new place when I move out," he added surreptitiously.

"Of course," I thought. I mean, who would ever want to part with a magnificent piece of furniture like that. Sigh...this place was a disaster. I told him I'd give him a call and let him know what I decide.

East Harlem

I had one place left. This was bad. None of the options seemed reasonable so far. Perhaps my price range was too low and I needed to look at more expensive rooms. Well, anyway, the last place on my list was in Jackson Heights, Queens. It was two stops beyond Woodside on the 7 line. The apartment was on the top floor of a law and realtor's office. The overtenant's name was Jackson (Jackson in Jackson Heights...weird). He and a guy named Dave, both in their mid-twenties, were living there. Both of them were from Michigan, in fact. The available room was furnished with a bed, had a decent amount of space, and had a closet. The bathroom and kitchen were both small, but manageable. And the living area had a nasty-looking couch and a TV.

Overall, I thought it was fine, but I wondered if my standards had dropped throughout the day. I walked around the block to check out the neighborhood. Most of the signs were in Spanish, and the restaurants and people were all Latin or southeast Asian. Around the corner were two supermarkets, and the groceries were far cheaper than what I saw in Manhattan. Down the street was a public library, a post office, and a small school. The subway stop was a block away, making the commute to Manhattan just under 30 minutes. This could work.

Under the 7 train in Jackson Heights.

So, there you have it. In one LONG Saturday, I went from being homeless, to becoming a resident of Jackson Heights, Queens, New York, with a solid job at a Manhattan Law Office.

And so began my year as a California boy and Michigan grad living and working in The Big Apple.