Tonight was my first proper organised like evening. Going to see a friend's play followed by a horrendously expensive drink in Time Square. Splendid. Gave myself about an hour and a half to get there on the old underground, meaning I'd have time to grab some pizza etc before the show began at 7:30. Being here a week nearly I don't really get fazed by the subway anymore-its actually a really simple, easy to work out system that you can't really get wrong.
I somehow emerged from the subway at 7:54.
I was confused, frightened and more than a bit angry at what I will put to you as the space time continuum. Who knows what happened during those two hours? I certainly don't. Obviously a number of glaring errors were made, and sadly, they were undeniably all made by me. I'm just not completely sure what they actually were. And I don't think I should try and concentrate on what happened ever again. Oh well. Wandering about in New York on my own it was. Its not like I've done much of that recently.
'Boo!', I hear you say, Time Square? 'We've done it, its over, there was that funny bit with the Russian guy and thats about it. Go sign up for horse riding lessons and leave us alone until you've got somthing new to say!'
All very valid points, and you're right, the Russian story was hilarious. But you know what, this is my blog and if I want to harp on about Time Square, I bloody well will. Except I don't actually. Time Square is about 17 times more (insert previous description of Time Square) at night, and frankly, my eyes, my ears and my very skin just couldn't deal with it. So I decided to hide in a music shop until I'd figured out my next move.
Now this is where things start to kick off.
You know in America, and in England too only perhaps less so, there is the idea of 'try before you buy'? You're with me? Excellent. Now this is a good system, suited to things such as moisturiser or perhaps slippers. A lovely jacket, also. However, there are some items in this world that this idea does not work for. I'd go so far as to say that there are some items in this world that should never be attempted to be inserted into this system, as they will never ever work for. A violin is one of those items.
Imagine, if you will, a large, balding, alarmingly freckly (and I'm no stranger to the freckled) man, holding a violin in his hand, a bow in the other, scraping away with the look in his eyes of one who has just discovered his calling. Beside him is a salesman, with a look in his eyes of one that spends his time introducing the large and freckled to violins, and has become dead inside because of it. It was a bad noise. I mean really though. God it was bad. It was like the violin was dying, and wanted everyone to know how unfair that was by screaming as loud as possible.
I have personal issues with the violin anyway, as I was forced to play it between the ages of 8 and 10. They were not good years. The problem with the violin as an instrument is that there is no middle ground between good and bad. Its a bit like waiting to eat a pear (stay with me). When you're waiting to eat a pear, there is either rock-hard impenetrable toughness, or a gooey mush suitable only for the toothless and half-dead. With the violin, there is either the horrible 'eeeek-uuuurrrgg-AAARRK-MEEEEAAA' let it stop please god let is stop type noise, or wonderful swooshy hair Loreal advert time crisp Chinese brilliance. No one is 'quite good' at the violin.
The years I was forced to practice the violin in my room every other night, in terms of the emotional state of myself and my parents, are the years I might as well have just walked up the stairs and self-harmed loudly with the door open. I'm serious. My family is less strong because I played the violin. But its never mentioned now, so you know.. thats some comfort.
Anyway, the point is, this was happening, and it wasn't doing great things for me. Then a child started hitting me and I had a feeling this evening wasn't going to turn out the way I'd hoped. This was a young child, very young, the kind that can't quite say proper words yet, just mumble jibberish as they punch you in the thigh. At least, thats what I thought it was, until I realised his mother was speaking to him in Russian. I did the smile of a person who is very aware that there are far too many people around to strike an annoying child, and walked away. He followed me. Apparently he'd gotten a taste for blood now, and there was something innately brilliant about hitting me repeatedly. I disagreed, but wasn't really in the mood to argue. 'Heimlich! (oh whatever) schneeeuz miz sshhhaluuttzz muuiiz' said his mother comfortingly. I smiled at her. She smiled back at me. Heimlich smiled at both of us and hit me really hard on the knee. I decided it was time to leave. I pointed Heimlich towards some relatively unsafe looking cables and stormed out of the door, only to nearly fall over a tramp settling into the doorframe. He was grasping a sign that read, in scrawled writing 'GET ME A BEER, MAN'. We locked eyes, and he slowly, not taking his eyes away, revealed a smaller sign he had hidden behind the first one and placed it next to the first. I looked at it. It read- 'YEAH AND GET ME ONE TOO'. I blinked. He grinned a grin that would make a worm look toothy, and began laughing, loudly. I, as tends to be my special move these days, ranny mc ran away, back into the welcoming arms of the relentless Time Square mania flash. Jeebus. I am literally in a world of mad.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
therapy via the means of buying a phone
So, you've been in America a couple of days, things are going well, you've managed to buy a skype headset for under 80 dollars, you're feeling pretty damn clever. Whats the next step? Buying a phone of course! How are you supposed to contact all of the friends you've made without buying a phone? (and by 'all of the friends' I obviously actually mean 'my mum, because if I don't she gets panicked, hacks into my email and rings a random American man who's only connection with me is that he's shown me his apartment for about seven minutes and asks him where the hell I am. He then emails me saying 'call your mom' and never ever contacts me again re apartment.' thanks mum. thanks for that.)
Where was I? Ahhh yes. Le phone. So, with a spring in my step and a smile in my heart on a sunny NY day, I hop into the nearest phone shop. And something is a little strange. The only way I can describe the ambiance of this shop is you know that feeling when you walk into a room containing a couple you know well, who've just had a massive, traumatic and really personal argument? and you can just feel that the room is full of hate, even though technically, they're smiling and wearing name badges and headsets and pointing at lots of phones? you know? exactly. it was like that. So springing slightly less and trying to avoid the hurt and angry glances firing between the various staff members, I wander around the shop in the way that British people do- which is that even though I know exactly what I want, I know that I'm going to need someone's help and I certainly can't leave until I get it..I'm just going to wander round a bit just in case somehow I can figure it all out on my own.
I can't.
Obviously. All I can do is get kind of entranced by the noisy and exciting display of Tom-toms (or American equivalant, look chill out, we're going for style not substance here ok?) There's one that, for some reason, boasts 'customise the journey to fit your own personality!'- whilst showing the generic road 'sat nav-y' picture, but you can set your 'car' to be a picture of a baby. Or a hawk. Or a police helicopter. Now for me, all of those things only cater to one personality. The personality of a twat. I'm torn away from these musing by a resentful voice saying 'Ma'am, can I help you?' I turn to see one of the staff standing in front of me, arms crossed, hurt in eyes, and I think to myself, this is going to take some time. A really long time. I can just sense it. And it does. I'm not going to go into the forty five minutes (forty five minutes!) it took for her to get a box and make the system go 'bleep' with it, I lived it once and I have no intention of living it again. But I did want to share one thing. For a security question, generally the question you ask is mother's maiden name? Yes? Correct me if I'm wrong here. But in this shop, (and its now that I see why emotions run high and fast here) the generic question is 'who was your first kiss?'. And it throws me totally. Surely to ask someone that question the things in our hands should contain more vodka than its possible for phones to contain. But she's looking at me, expectantly, and I'm English for God's sake, if someone asks me something I'm not going to just not answer like some sort of savage.
So I open my mouth- and there I'm a bit stuck. Because the problem is that I don't know the name of the boy I first kissed. My first kiss was at an under 18's disco where I kissed a stranger because Leah Stevenson had told me that if you hadn't kissed someone by the time you hit 13 you were probably a lesbian. She bet me 5 pounds I wouldn't do it. I was short, freckly and could see no signs of breasts advancing any time soon. I did not need 'lesbian' thrown into the mix right then. Oh god. the shame. And I never got the fiver.
So imagine all of the above happening in my brain in about a second and a half. None of the above, you might have noticed, is an appropriate password. But my mouth is open, and out of nowhere, the name 'Adam' just comes out. This is a bit weird. Phone woman, not noticing anything out of the ordinary, begins the long process of typing the word 'adam' into the system. And i realise that Adam was the name of my primary school boyfiend Adam bloody Toft. and is probably the boy that secretly, I've always wished had been my first kiss. Bloody hell. I just wanted a phone. By this point I'm feeling a bit hurt and resentful myself, so I grab the bag, wait another 15 minutes while she puts the money I hand to her in a drawer and leave the shop of unearthed emotional trauma (we also do phones), hopefully forever.
A small post script to this story. The phone I bought was ten dollars. That, for those who don't know, is pretty bloody cheap. well done me? well done me. However, I did start to notice that I got a couple of funny looks whilst on it. Its fine, i thought, its my quaint and charming accent, they've never heard such beautiful sounds before. Now. I was relating these slightly weird looks to the man I'm renting an apartment from. He asks to see the phone. I show it, with the pride of someone who's just bought a phone for 10 dollars that isn't even made out of wood. He bursts into laughter. This is a bit harsh. I spring to the defense saying
'look I know it's not got a camera or anything but-'
'No no. Tarsh, do you know what kind of phone this is?'
'erm.. yeah. Virgin mobile. It says it on the front. look-'
'No. Tarsh. These phones are known as the phones that drug dealers buy. Everyone knows that. because they're so cheap you can use them once and then throw them away. So they can't be traced.'
Oh bloody fantastic. Not only am I an immigrant, I'm an immigrant with a possible very well disguised drug trafficking trade on the side. If massive black guys start asking me fo some crack yo on the subway I'm really, REALLY not going to be happy about it. Christ. Gonna need some physical backup. Maybe all is not lost with Abdahl....
Where was I? Ahhh yes. Le phone. So, with a spring in my step and a smile in my heart on a sunny NY day, I hop into the nearest phone shop. And something is a little strange. The only way I can describe the ambiance of this shop is you know that feeling when you walk into a room containing a couple you know well, who've just had a massive, traumatic and really personal argument? and you can just feel that the room is full of hate, even though technically, they're smiling and wearing name badges and headsets and pointing at lots of phones? you know? exactly. it was like that. So springing slightly less and trying to avoid the hurt and angry glances firing between the various staff members, I wander around the shop in the way that British people do- which is that even though I know exactly what I want, I know that I'm going to need someone's help and I certainly can't leave until I get it..I'm just going to wander round a bit just in case somehow I can figure it all out on my own.
I can't.
Obviously. All I can do is get kind of entranced by the noisy and exciting display of Tom-toms (or American equivalant, look chill out, we're going for style not substance here ok?) There's one that, for some reason, boasts 'customise the journey to fit your own personality!'- whilst showing the generic road 'sat nav-y' picture, but you can set your 'car' to be a picture of a baby. Or a hawk. Or a police helicopter. Now for me, all of those things only cater to one personality. The personality of a twat. I'm torn away from these musing by a resentful voice saying 'Ma'am, can I help you?' I turn to see one of the staff standing in front of me, arms crossed, hurt in eyes, and I think to myself, this is going to take some time. A really long time. I can just sense it. And it does. I'm not going to go into the forty five minutes (forty five minutes!) it took for her to get a box and make the system go 'bleep' with it, I lived it once and I have no intention of living it again. But I did want to share one thing. For a security question, generally the question you ask is mother's maiden name? Yes? Correct me if I'm wrong here. But in this shop, (and its now that I see why emotions run high and fast here) the generic question is 'who was your first kiss?'. And it throws me totally. Surely to ask someone that question the things in our hands should contain more vodka than its possible for phones to contain. But she's looking at me, expectantly, and I'm English for God's sake, if someone asks me something I'm not going to just not answer like some sort of savage.
So I open my mouth- and there I'm a bit stuck. Because the problem is that I don't know the name of the boy I first kissed. My first kiss was at an under 18's disco where I kissed a stranger because Leah Stevenson had told me that if you hadn't kissed someone by the time you hit 13 you were probably a lesbian. She bet me 5 pounds I wouldn't do it. I was short, freckly and could see no signs of breasts advancing any time soon. I did not need 'lesbian' thrown into the mix right then. Oh god. the shame. And I never got the fiver.
So imagine all of the above happening in my brain in about a second and a half. None of the above, you might have noticed, is an appropriate password. But my mouth is open, and out of nowhere, the name 'Adam' just comes out. This is a bit weird. Phone woman, not noticing anything out of the ordinary, begins the long process of typing the word 'adam' into the system. And i realise that Adam was the name of my primary school boyfiend Adam bloody Toft. and is probably the boy that secretly, I've always wished had been my first kiss. Bloody hell. I just wanted a phone. By this point I'm feeling a bit hurt and resentful myself, so I grab the bag, wait another 15 minutes while she puts the money I hand to her in a drawer and leave the shop of unearthed emotional trauma (we also do phones), hopefully forever.
A small post script to this story. The phone I bought was ten dollars. That, for those who don't know, is pretty bloody cheap. well done me? well done me. However, I did start to notice that I got a couple of funny looks whilst on it. Its fine, i thought, its my quaint and charming accent, they've never heard such beautiful sounds before. Now. I was relating these slightly weird looks to the man I'm renting an apartment from. He asks to see the phone. I show it, with the pride of someone who's just bought a phone for 10 dollars that isn't even made out of wood. He bursts into laughter. This is a bit harsh. I spring to the defense saying
'look I know it's not got a camera or anything but-'
'No no. Tarsh, do you know what kind of phone this is?'
'erm.. yeah. Virgin mobile. It says it on the front. look-'
'No. Tarsh. These phones are known as the phones that drug dealers buy. Everyone knows that. because they're so cheap you can use them once and then throw them away. So they can't be traced.'
Oh bloody fantastic. Not only am I an immigrant, I'm an immigrant with a possible very well disguised drug trafficking trade on the side. If massive black guys start asking me fo some crack yo on the subway I'm really, REALLY not going to be happy about it. Christ. Gonna need some physical backup. Maybe all is not lost with Abdahl....
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
a lesson in bartering
How to buy a skype headset in New York.
1. Don't go to Time Square to buy it.
Now this seems obvious, I'll admit- but its trickier than you think. The moment you're surrounded by Times Square is, i promise you, the moment you decide to do something like buy a computer headset. Or marry someone. Or rip all your clothes off, start crying and then burst into flames It's just so electric and move-y and big and flashy flash flash and women in tiny items-y and COKE and 'CHICAGO- 'I'D KILL A CHILD TO SEE IT AGAIN'- says the new york times and brilliant and BUY BUY BUY and just, really really big, that something in your brain goes 'nneeerrrrrggghhh OH MY GOD I HAVE TO BUY SOMETHING NOW AND IT HAS TO BE SOMETHING THAT CAN GO 'BEEP'.'
Trust me. You would have done it too.
So I run into the nearest electronics shop and shout at a man 'ME! NOW! YES! YES!!!'
In terms of my ideal pyschadellic USA buying haze, he's slightly more Russian than I would have liked, but still, I'm not going to ruin the moment with technicalities. However, he does.
'Yes. I have. Is 80 dollars. Good price.'
Now. As much as I would have liked to have gone 'ahahaha YES my good man. And here's a little extra for young Heimlich (or a name that is actually Russian. Or, in fact a name)', I can't help but think that 80 dollars is a lot for what is essentially, some plastic, some high tech-ness that can clutter up Lynchy's blog rather than mine and well, a cover.
'80 dollars? that seems like a lot.'
'no no. is good price. Logitech. good name'
The haze is dispersing now, and I feel a bit like a drunken man who has hired a prostitute and in the sobering light of about 3am has no idea what to do with her.
'yes... yes it is a.. erm.. no, i think i'll just...'
'Ok. 30 dollars.'
'30? ahahaha... well.. thats erm, thats a big price jump.'
'yes. Well you have good smile yes? hahaha.'
'ahahaha. haha. ha. yeah.... yeah....... ok... I think i'm gonna go.'
And I leave, feeling like the MASSIVE glowing poster of a man dressed as Donkey in 'Shrek! The Musical!- 'I THOUGHT I WAS HAVING ABOUT SEVEN HEART ATTACK IN A ROW IT WAS SO GOOD'-the NY journal; is looking down on me in disappointment and disgust. Though to be honest, who is he to judge me?
1. Don't go to Time Square to buy it.
Now this seems obvious, I'll admit- but its trickier than you think. The moment you're surrounded by Times Square is, i promise you, the moment you decide to do something like buy a computer headset. Or marry someone. Or rip all your clothes off, start crying and then burst into flames It's just so electric and move-y and big and flashy flash flash and women in tiny items-y and COKE and 'CHICAGO- 'I'D KILL A CHILD TO SEE IT AGAIN'- says the new york times and brilliant and BUY BUY BUY and just, really really big, that something in your brain goes 'nneeerrrrrggghhh OH MY GOD I HAVE TO BUY SOMETHING NOW AND IT HAS TO BE SOMETHING THAT CAN GO 'BEEP'.'
Trust me. You would have done it too.
So I run into the nearest electronics shop and shout at a man 'ME! NOW! YES! YES!!!'
In terms of my ideal pyschadellic USA buying haze, he's slightly more Russian than I would have liked, but still, I'm not going to ruin the moment with technicalities. However, he does.
'Yes. I have. Is 80 dollars. Good price.'
Now. As much as I would have liked to have gone 'ahahaha YES my good man. And here's a little extra for young Heimlich (or a name that is actually Russian. Or, in fact a name)', I can't help but think that 80 dollars is a lot for what is essentially, some plastic, some high tech-ness that can clutter up Lynchy's blog rather than mine and well, a cover.
'80 dollars? that seems like a lot.'
'no no. is good price. Logitech. good name'
The haze is dispersing now, and I feel a bit like a drunken man who has hired a prostitute and in the sobering light of about 3am has no idea what to do with her.
'yes... yes it is a.. erm.. no, i think i'll just...'
'Ok. 30 dollars.'
'30? ahahaha... well.. thats erm, thats a big price jump.'
'yes. Well you have good smile yes? hahaha.'
'ahahaha. haha. ha. yeah.... yeah....... ok... I think i'm gonna go.'
And I leave, feeling like the MASSIVE glowing poster of a man dressed as Donkey in 'Shrek! The Musical!- 'I THOUGHT I WAS HAVING ABOUT SEVEN HEART ATTACK IN A ROW IT WAS SO GOOD'-the NY journal; is looking down on me in disappointment and disgust. Though to be honest, who is he to judge me?
ohh GODDD
Ok, ok, ok. Just about to leave for the day but HAD to tell someone (so, myself) about what just happened.
Those who have been tuning in from the beginning, remember Abdahl? the sweet, one liner joke from the first post? he's back. back with a vengeance, and possibly with access to the key to my room.
To fill you in quickly, Abdahl was the moroccan boy who works at the hotel I'm staying in. He greeted me when I arrived after travelling for a million hours. He offered me a tuna wrap. I took it. He offered to show me around Manhatten that night. I said no, I was tired. (i was. but also, he had mentioned he only had 2 friends, and not to be a friend snob, but at that moment in time, I wasn't up for a two-friender, ok?) There it ended. or so I thought.
The next day, he asked me out to Manhatten again. the problem is, I KNOW NO ONE IN NEW YORK. he knows this. I know this. there are very few excuses in the world that involve no one but yourself. Try it yourself as a fun exercise.
'ohh I can't, I'm.. watching a film... alone'
'Sorry but I think i'm giving birth then...'
etc.
I pulled the 'ohh I don't know what i'm doing..' card. so he asked me to phone him. I, being polite said ok maybe, we'll see what happens. Surely, i thought, it really doesn't matter. Or perhaps the tuna wrap thing was a Moroccan rite of marriage I didn't know about, in which case, it really really does.
So. that brings me to this morning.
There I am, chomping away on breakfast (god i love breakfast) when suddenly, out of no-where, likely a springy puma, is Abdahl. Looking at me. With anger in his Moroccan eyes. 'Oh hi!' I say, with a mouthful of egg. No really, i had to chew for what seemed like FAR too many silent seconds as the glare well.. glared at me. there is a pause.
'You didn't call me' says Abdhal (i SWEAR to god, this is all true).
I'm slightly taken aback, but recover with the grace of the British
'oh, well, sorry, I couldnt really work out the phone in my room, and it was a bit late, so I thought-'
'You could have gone down to the front desk and asked them to dial for you'
'oh. erm. yes. I suppose. But as I said, it was 8 o clock, i'm still trying to fix my body to work to this countries time ahahahaaaha (small egg explosion)'
silence.
I try again 'But anyway, I'm off to work today, so not sure when I'll be back, they might keep me pretty late...'
more silence, then he says, slowly and (perhaps to my imagination, with slight menace) 'so, we won't get to see each other?'
now this one floors me. you just DON'T SAY THINGS LIKE THAT. god i miss the wonderful lovely sub-text of England.
I reply with 'ohhh I don't know ahahaha just so hard to know where i'll be as I don't have a schedule yet ahahaha... so... how come your not at University today?'- just desperately trying to move on, and he comes back with
'YOU KNOW I'm not GOING this semester!'
cripes.
So, i say what any warm blooded, vivacious, corner fighting Brit would say, which was
'I'm just going to get some more orange juice'.
oh dear oh dear. Any suggestions for the next move?
Those who have been tuning in from the beginning, remember Abdahl? the sweet, one liner joke from the first post? he's back. back with a vengeance, and possibly with access to the key to my room.
To fill you in quickly, Abdahl was the moroccan boy who works at the hotel I'm staying in. He greeted me when I arrived after travelling for a million hours. He offered me a tuna wrap. I took it. He offered to show me around Manhatten that night. I said no, I was tired. (i was. but also, he had mentioned he only had 2 friends, and not to be a friend snob, but at that moment in time, I wasn't up for a two-friender, ok?) There it ended. or so I thought.
The next day, he asked me out to Manhatten again. the problem is, I KNOW NO ONE IN NEW YORK. he knows this. I know this. there are very few excuses in the world that involve no one but yourself. Try it yourself as a fun exercise.
'ohh I can't, I'm.. watching a film... alone'
'Sorry but I think i'm giving birth then...'
etc.
I pulled the 'ohh I don't know what i'm doing..' card. so he asked me to phone him. I, being polite said ok maybe, we'll see what happens. Surely, i thought, it really doesn't matter. Or perhaps the tuna wrap thing was a Moroccan rite of marriage I didn't know about, in which case, it really really does.
So. that brings me to this morning.
There I am, chomping away on breakfast (god i love breakfast) when suddenly, out of no-where, likely a springy puma, is Abdahl. Looking at me. With anger in his Moroccan eyes. 'Oh hi!' I say, with a mouthful of egg. No really, i had to chew for what seemed like FAR too many silent seconds as the glare well.. glared at me. there is a pause.
'You didn't call me' says Abdhal (i SWEAR to god, this is all true).
I'm slightly taken aback, but recover with the grace of the British
'oh, well, sorry, I couldnt really work out the phone in my room, and it was a bit late, so I thought-'
'You could have gone down to the front desk and asked them to dial for you'
'oh. erm. yes. I suppose. But as I said, it was 8 o clock, i'm still trying to fix my body to work to this countries time ahahahaaaha (small egg explosion)'
silence.
I try again 'But anyway, I'm off to work today, so not sure when I'll be back, they might keep me pretty late...'
more silence, then he says, slowly and (perhaps to my imagination, with slight menace) 'so, we won't get to see each other?'
now this one floors me. you just DON'T SAY THINGS LIKE THAT. god i miss the wonderful lovely sub-text of England.
I reply with 'ohhh I don't know ahahaha just so hard to know where i'll be as I don't have a schedule yet ahahaha... so... how come your not at University today?'- just desperately trying to move on, and he comes back with
'YOU KNOW I'm not GOING this semester!'
cripes.
So, i say what any warm blooded, vivacious, corner fighting Brit would say, which was
'I'm just going to get some more orange juice'.
oh dear oh dear. Any suggestions for the next move?
Monday, April 27, 2009
Thoughts from day 2 in a hopeless lack of order
The good thing about asking for directions in New York is that somehow, everyone in the city seems to know where everything and everywhere is. This, as you can imagine, is exceedingly useful. However. The bad thing about asking for directions in New York is that for some unknown reason, almost any set of directions you are given will contain one, and only one, massive falsehood. The problem is that there is absolutely no way of knowing whereabouts the duffer is, near the beginning, the final one, somewhere in the middle, your guess is as good as anyone's. But to clarify, there will only be one wrong turn, everything else will be almost frighteningly accurate.
So what can you do?
Nothing, is the answer. It's like the price you pay for the rest of the directions being so damn good. You just have to go on instinct, and hope to Jeebus that your brain serves you well. Its a bit like that bit in Beauty and the Beast, where Phillipe can clearly see that the road filled with sunlight, hope and daisies is the one him and pops need to shuffle down, but stupid old daddykins goes for the one where the trees have faced carved with evil and the flowers are actually made of WOLVES. just because the map tells him to. yeah. a bit like that.
Also, had completely forgotten that my name is pronounced wrong here. so very wrong. Natarsha. what the hell is that about? the worst part is, those who wish to be friendly call me Tarsh. as in almost rhyming with Gosh. Testing times indeed. It's kind of past the point where I can correct them too, seeing as I was just so shocked when it was first plunged out (makes no sense but I dont care). 'This is Tarsh.' Tarsh? crimety. Oh well. Too late to turn back now. Tarsh it is.
Just wanted to share a wee little gem I heard at my first production meeting today (though it was only with actors- this will become clear later on). God I hope they don't read this, cos they're really nice. Really really nice. And I'm going to be mean. Oh well. Basically one of them was fishing around desperately for the word that mean 'the guys who do the computer stuff in offices'. Now. In England we call them I.T men. I know this for several reasons, from doing 'I.T' at school to watching 'The I.T crowd' on channel 4. Its a wide spectrum, and I'm happy with it. But hey, what do I know? Letters like 'P', 'F' and even one crazy 'M' were being bandied about at an almost frightening speed, so I stayed well clear, hoping even to learn something about the technical world of the US. But finally, one girl said, tentitively 'wait.. is it I.T?'
They all sigh, lean back and smile.
The girl looks pretty happy- 'yeah... Internet... Technology'
They all nod solumly. God only knows who they call if there's a problem with mircosoft word or something.
And finally, the phone numbers here don't start with '0'. May not seem like a big thing, but I just don't feel prepared to enter the dialing house without a friendly '0' to greet you at the door. It feels a bit like trying to say a long sentence without taking an breath in first. If you know what I mean. 775-672-889... thats not a phone number. thats a health risk.
Bye for now- the films on American TV are brilliant and endless. Last night there was The Mask, Four Weddings and a Funeral, Sex and the City and Catch me if you Can. BBC? BBshit.
So what can you do?
Nothing, is the answer. It's like the price you pay for the rest of the directions being so damn good. You just have to go on instinct, and hope to Jeebus that your brain serves you well. Its a bit like that bit in Beauty and the Beast, where Phillipe can clearly see that the road filled with sunlight, hope and daisies is the one him and pops need to shuffle down, but stupid old daddykins goes for the one where the trees have faced carved with evil and the flowers are actually made of WOLVES. just because the map tells him to. yeah. a bit like that.
Also, had completely forgotten that my name is pronounced wrong here. so very wrong. Natarsha. what the hell is that about? the worst part is, those who wish to be friendly call me Tarsh. as in almost rhyming with Gosh. Testing times indeed. It's kind of past the point where I can correct them too, seeing as I was just so shocked when it was first plunged out (makes no sense but I dont care). 'This is Tarsh.' Tarsh? crimety. Oh well. Too late to turn back now. Tarsh it is.
Just wanted to share a wee little gem I heard at my first production meeting today (though it was only with actors- this will become clear later on). God I hope they don't read this, cos they're really nice. Really really nice. And I'm going to be mean. Oh well. Basically one of them was fishing around desperately for the word that mean 'the guys who do the computer stuff in offices'. Now. In England we call them I.T men. I know this for several reasons, from doing 'I.T' at school to watching 'The I.T crowd' on channel 4. Its a wide spectrum, and I'm happy with it. But hey, what do I know? Letters like 'P', 'F' and even one crazy 'M' were being bandied about at an almost frightening speed, so I stayed well clear, hoping even to learn something about the technical world of the US. But finally, one girl said, tentitively 'wait.. is it I.T?'
They all sigh, lean back and smile.
The girl looks pretty happy- 'yeah... Internet... Technology'
They all nod solumly. God only knows who they call if there's a problem with mircosoft word or something.
And finally, the phone numbers here don't start with '0'. May not seem like a big thing, but I just don't feel prepared to enter the dialing house without a friendly '0' to greet you at the door. It feels a bit like trying to say a long sentence without taking an breath in first. If you know what I mean. 775-672-889... thats not a phone number. thats a health risk.
Bye for now- the films on American TV are brilliant and endless. Last night there was The Mask, Four Weddings and a Funeral, Sex and the City and Catch me if you Can. BBC? BBshit.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Day One. If you love long stories about taxis- read on friend. read on.
Too soon? Look. this is how I live now. Fast and crazy.
Also I have no one to talk to as yet. So I'm effectively talking to myself. But through the status of Blog, it is not typing masturbation, it is in fact a public document enlightening a nation and possibly beyond. Score!
Mainly, I just wanted to re-live a couple of things that have happened thus far.
As you can imagine, in the last couple of days I have been in a whirlwind of cocktails, high heels, baggage handling Morrocan psuedo stalkers and parties. -Alright only one of those things is actually true. Can you guess which?
Before I get into Abdahl (or before he gets into me, wahhhheyyy- look its a joke Jack ok?) I just want to tell you (me) about the taxi journey from the airport.
So I arrive in NY. Its exciting; I'm excited, you're excited, we're all excited. Turns out its a bit of a distance from the airport to my ghetto homey home so into a yellow cab I pop, resisting the urge to take a enthusiastic picture of the yellow cab as I pop. So far, well done me.
The first problem arises when it transpires that the taxi driver (of undefined eastern european origin) doesn't actually know where we're going. My first instinct is to point towards the large Sat Nav sat jauntily on the dashboard. But hey, I'm in New York, I'm chilled, I'll let the man just do his job. So I just lean back and admire the view. My rather excellent admiring is interrupted by the driver groaning slightly every few seconds, I try to just ignore that and continue to look out of the window, ready to be all overwhelmed and such. Sadly, at that moment the only thing to see is a man wearing a neon vest with the words 'Help God's Special Children' written across it, dancing in the road. Judging by the man's appearance God's special children are the very very ugly. And mad.
I tear my eyes away from this disturbing scene when the taxi driver asks me for the hotel's number. Now. I don't like to be harsh about other people's language skills. But a kind person would describe this man's English as Spanish, possily Spanish-whilst-eating-thick-steak. With a bit of portugese and a healthy dose of mad. But again, hey, this is NY baby, maybe they all speak like that here. He dials the number. iI turns out they don't all speak like that here. Still, he asks the following question to the man who answers.
'OK, I PHONE TO ASK HOW TO GET TO EFLLEFF MEERG BAAAHHAHAHAA BROOKLYN BRIDGE'
there is a pause.
'I'm sorry sir, you want to get from where to the hotel?'
'LOOK, I KNOW WHERE HOTEL IS OK! I KNOW! I WANT TO KNOW HOW TO GET MAJEERRKIN FLARG BEGGIN FLEETBOG BRIGE'
longer, slightly more horrendous pause.
'Sir, do you need the address?'
Taxi man hangs up phone in disgust. I start to wonder whether I should point at the Sat Nav after all.
Taxi turns to me. I get a bit worried as the traffic outside can only be described as jurrassic, and but he says 'I have been ill for 2 weeks. 2 weeks. Come back to work today. Allah is punishing me.'
I make a noise that I hope could simultaneously mean 'ahhaha what a great joke'/'no no do not worry friend, our Lord will not leave you'/'please God turn back to the road'. He makes the groaning noises again, only now they are accompanied by the odd comforting 'shit... shit shit shit'. I'm just about to offer to ring the hotel for us, when the New York skyline bursts rather inconvieniently into view, and I'm filled with such touristy wonderful slobbery joy I completely forget about any directional difficulties and want to just have a jolly good cry instead. The soundtrack is a bit unfortunate, seeing as all I can hear is a very gushy radio news story about Susan Boyle (they really do love her here) followed by a cockney lizard selling insurance, but still. I'm in a good place. The driver obviously isn't however, the groaning is getting louder, and its at this point he decides to put on a previously unseen pair of glasses. This is a bit worrying, so I concentrate on the outside. One of those cars like on Pimp My Ride (got the lingo down) drive past blasting out what I'm pretty sure is Disco Opera. We've been driving for about half an hour now, we must be pretty nearby, and for fun Taxi man reaches for the Sat Nav to guide us through the last 10 minutes.
An excellent start, I'm sure you'll agree.
Also I have no one to talk to as yet. So I'm effectively talking to myself. But through the status of Blog, it is not typing masturbation, it is in fact a public document enlightening a nation and possibly beyond. Score!
Mainly, I just wanted to re-live a couple of things that have happened thus far.
As you can imagine, in the last couple of days I have been in a whirlwind of cocktails, high heels, baggage handling Morrocan psuedo stalkers and parties. -Alright only one of those things is actually true. Can you guess which?
Before I get into Abdahl (or before he gets into me, wahhhheyyy- look its a joke Jack ok?) I just want to tell you (me) about the taxi journey from the airport.
So I arrive in NY. Its exciting; I'm excited, you're excited, we're all excited. Turns out its a bit of a distance from the airport to my ghetto homey home so into a yellow cab I pop, resisting the urge to take a enthusiastic picture of the yellow cab as I pop. So far, well done me.
The first problem arises when it transpires that the taxi driver (of undefined eastern european origin) doesn't actually know where we're going. My first instinct is to point towards the large Sat Nav sat jauntily on the dashboard. But hey, I'm in New York, I'm chilled, I'll let the man just do his job. So I just lean back and admire the view. My rather excellent admiring is interrupted by the driver groaning slightly every few seconds, I try to just ignore that and continue to look out of the window, ready to be all overwhelmed and such. Sadly, at that moment the only thing to see is a man wearing a neon vest with the words 'Help God's Special Children' written across it, dancing in the road. Judging by the man's appearance God's special children are the very very ugly. And mad.
I tear my eyes away from this disturbing scene when the taxi driver asks me for the hotel's number. Now. I don't like to be harsh about other people's language skills. But a kind person would describe this man's English as Spanish, possily Spanish-whilst-eating-thick-steak. With a bit of portugese and a healthy dose of mad. But again, hey, this is NY baby, maybe they all speak like that here. He dials the number. iI turns out they don't all speak like that here. Still, he asks the following question to the man who answers.
'OK, I PHONE TO ASK HOW TO GET TO EFLLEFF MEERG BAAAHHAHAHAA BROOKLYN BRIDGE'
there is a pause.
'I'm sorry sir, you want to get from where to the hotel?'
'LOOK, I KNOW WHERE HOTEL IS OK! I KNOW! I WANT TO KNOW HOW TO GET MAJEERRKIN FLARG BEGGIN FLEETBOG BRIGE'
longer, slightly more horrendous pause.
'Sir, do you need the address?'
Taxi man hangs up phone in disgust. I start to wonder whether I should point at the Sat Nav after all.
Taxi turns to me. I get a bit worried as the traffic outside can only be described as jurrassic, and but he says 'I have been ill for 2 weeks. 2 weeks. Come back to work today. Allah is punishing me.'
I make a noise that I hope could simultaneously mean 'ahhaha what a great joke'/'no no do not worry friend, our Lord will not leave you'/'please God turn back to the road'. He makes the groaning noises again, only now they are accompanied by the odd comforting 'shit... shit shit shit'. I'm just about to offer to ring the hotel for us, when the New York skyline bursts rather inconvieniently into view, and I'm filled with such touristy wonderful slobbery joy I completely forget about any directional difficulties and want to just have a jolly good cry instead. The soundtrack is a bit unfortunate, seeing as all I can hear is a very gushy radio news story about Susan Boyle (they really do love her here) followed by a cockney lizard selling insurance, but still. I'm in a good place. The driver obviously isn't however, the groaning is getting louder, and its at this point he decides to put on a previously unseen pair of glasses. This is a bit worrying, so I concentrate on the outside. One of those cars like on Pimp My Ride (got the lingo down) drive past blasting out what I'm pretty sure is Disco Opera. We've been driving for about half an hour now, we must be pretty nearby, and for fun Taxi man reaches for the Sat Nav to guide us through the last 10 minutes.
An excellent start, I'm sure you'll agree.
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