Sunday, July 31, 2011

Did You Leave Your Heart in San Francisco?

I left my heart in San Francisco when I moved to New York in 1998, but I packed ambition and dreams. Whether the latter two were going to be realised was another question, but bring them I did along with my new New York clothes, pots and pans that Mom wouldn't let me live without, and sheets for the already furnished 9 x 10 sublet room bunk bed awaiting me in Jersey City, New Jersey (the glamorous part of New Jersey as mentioned in a previous blog).

I happily say that the Jersey City zip 07302 has been my home since then, having grown up and out of my shared living situation of two years into a junior one bedroom for ten years, and now a flat I lovingly named "Cassie" the Casa. Entering the ranks of home ownership with "Cassie" after an exhaustive three year search can only be likened to my dating life which awaits its similarly happy fruition. But I digress. 

The address of my younger years in San Francisco now doesn't seem as close to the heart of this great city as the Westin St. Francis Hotel, my address for this weekend. Framed prints of celebs and figures (the likes of Queen Elizabeth chatting with Ronald Reagan) from the art deco period serve as murals behind the registration desk. Grecian columns sunk in dark marble greet the guests and bring me back to my days as a haberdashery professional at a fine mens' clothing store, Hastings, located below the hotel's main lobby (now MaxAzria).

How differently am I seeing these same halls seventeen years later? Formerly traversed to use the high end men's lounge while on break from my retail job, I am now a hotel guest wondering what happened to the once bustling florist that contributed a genuine waft of roses. Victoria's Secret continues to reveal its sensuality, weathering years of fluctuating economy where many were stripped financially naked. The Oak Room, a restaurant decoratively reminiscent of the world renown Taillevent of Paris (see pictures in "Paris July 4th"on facebook) embraced me with the aroma of what I could only guess as roasted duck breast in a berry reduced sauce. These play harmoniously, marking the passage of time, and in my mind launching into the recognizable (at least for contemporaries) intro to the theme of "Mahogany" where Diana Ross sings the questions "Do you know, where you're going to. Do you like the things that life is showing you? Where are you going to .... do you know?"

This weekend gave me a chance to take stock of such blessings with my loving family and friends, the ones who ask questions that you don't know answers to, much like Miss Ross' . Though it's fair to say that 1998's ambition and dreams eventually convinced the heart to follow my eastward migration, the best of 2011's technological advances have allowed me to be as in touch and involved with the lives of my loved ones. So as I hungrily sink my teeth into the Big Apple, my heart very much breathes the damp fog ridden San Francisco mist,  climbing atop a hill on a cable car from which the bell tolls. 

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Coffee, Tea, or Me?


There are surely as many blogs about the horrors of flying today as there are travelers. Dreadful upon dreadful accounts of luggage traveling to exotic places unbeknownst to its owners,  flight attendants activating life rafts then sliding down along with a coupla brewskies, or ducks caught in a plane's engine causing a landing on the Hudson River. All this have given pause and within reason for those who have developed a fear of flying. 

Yet every so often, even when flying coach, I am pleasantly surprised by a flight attendant who smiles and welcomes you to his/her day at work.  Glad to report that American Airlines fight 17 has been pleasant so far. The Soho Bar at JFK unfortunately cannot be commended for its service, but instead for a decently sized twelve dollar chicken quesadilla that arrived in time to be wrapped to go for boarding. Mind you that Mexican meal came in handy when we sat on the tarmac for two hours due to outbound weather traffic, much to the envy of my seatmate in 25B. But yes, the unintelligible waiter (and pass-the-buck-waiters who deferred to the unintelligible waiter) left much to be desired so it's best to order quick, get your two pre-boarding drinks and grab the check when the order comes! 

Another pleasant surprise is the gentleman named Miguel who commiserated with my restaurant experience, and eventually offered to lift my luggage into the overhead bin. (I do declare that at times, one must rely on the kindness of strangers). Not to mention he laughed at my post Chardonnay free flowing jokes. Too bad this isn't a Virgin American flight where passengers can chat with other passengers individually and/or by group. (Remind me to tell this story for a more intimate evening audience, perhaps my next cabaret "Where In the World Is Anderson Lim?")

All in all not a bad experience today even with the 2hr delay. My friendly seatmate, a Motorola executive (not Miguel) graciously endured my feedback about my new Motorola Xpert's lack of optmal sync-ing with the Facebook app, obviously a worthy topic. And perhaps some tips will come my way on  the next best equipment. These pleasantries are what have not changed since the beginning of travel: a friendly smile, a helpful stranger, and the eternal romance of flight. I don't mind dating myself when I say I miss the glamorous days of travel when flying economy on United included a wonderfully hot meal of chicken, or beef, a glass of wine (Note I was underage ok!), and a delectable dessert capped off by a cup of coffee with a relaxing cigarette (Note once again I was underage and not smoking then - I am merely reminiscing of a time when this was ok and glamorous though we clearly know better now).

There is a slight bitterness as I am not entitled to the Business Class chocolate chip cookies which are clearly warm as the scent wafts this way. But no worries, this is why I baked a mini rum bundt cake, brought my own Tetley tea, and enjoyed this on a petite ceramic plate gingerly placed on a British Airways biz class table cloth I brought from home. 

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

They Tried to Make Her Go to Rehab ....

But she said no, no, no. And sadly so.

As far as I knew, Amy Winehouse was this pop singer who was known for her bad behavior. Her unfortunate passing has stirred a flurry of media frenzy accompanied by a juggernaut of judgment whizzing past with race car tire burning fury. From "It was inevitable",  "Oh I thought she was already dead", to "We cried" were some comments in passing.

Clearly with no personal connection to this artist, I was compelled to research more of her music (apart from "Rehab") and watched YouTube footage of performances before her stardom and decline. At the tender age of 20, her youthful exuberance was a counterpoint to her emotional depth and access to pain. Her acoustic version of Carole King's "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow" seemed almost like a premonition as  evidenced by her seductive voice / delivery reminiscent of a lonely trumpet player sitting shirtless by a hotel window, blowin some blues with beads of sweat. Her vocal maturity was more akin to that of a weathered 40 year old's.  It was truthful and ironically a beautiful symphony of nails accross a chalk board.

 Could her untimely death simply be a completion of her artistic journey now that she leaves behind an immortal collection of music?  Is her posthumous fame yet to skyrocket ? We never know and I am not the judge. I can only listen to her songs and picture a lost soul from 1960s who had a chance to trail a blaze of glory today, and make a grand exit upon the fruition of such dreams.

As inevitable as it seemed due to addiction and whatever else plagued her, we are brought back to the reality that she is survived by those who knew her as a daughter, girlfriend and family. These people will take no comfort or journalistic glee from comparing her story to those who succumbed to a similar fate at the age of 27. They will simply have to move on,  and I wish that they take comfort in her contribution to the world of music.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Sunset and Splash - New York Breaks 100 Degrees


Friday nights are known for frolic, frivolity, and downright weekend fun. Many an ad agencies have branded this otherwise natural and weekly occurrence as a reason to spend. Club kids are investing in well deserved disco naps for a full night of divalicious dance floor antics.

Perhaps it's my fast paced dayjob, or a constant pang to create, but apart from last Friday's birthday bash for a friend, my Fridays usually trend towards a spa treatment. These treatments (operative syllable "treat") usually commence with a glass of wine, bookended by yet "un autre verre" du Chardonnay, some fruits, as well as a sampling of facial products in a boudoir like environment while jazz or classical selections are offered on an unassuming and ambient volume level.

The fast paced dayjob with its well air-conditioned offices is a much appreciated blessing especially on a Friday like yesterday, the 22nd of July. The thought of traveling anywhere further uptown than 14th Street on the subway to partake in any pleasures described in the previous paragraph was met with an emphatic no from the boss of me (that would be myself).  New York surpassed 100 degrees Fahrenheit (32 degrees Celsius) and walking outside after a full day of pleasant ventilation only made me sympathize with a well marinaded butterball turkey entering the oven.

Being an avid baker,  I can only equate yesterday's outdoor weather with the initial gust of heat as you open the oven door. Humidity may have been a mere 33%, but it did not make the arid air and omnipotent sun any less bearable than if one were to flee from the lair of Lord Voldermort to the depths of Hades. It was HOT, get the picture?

As pictured above (titled "Sunset and Splash"), I found this scene down the street from my home to be particularly telling of yesterday's temperature tantrum. The liberated hydrant sprayed a sexy and generous arc of water without end. Precious children a few blocks away with a similar makeshift fountain danced with wild abandon along with scantily and inappropriately clad mothers. The loving dog owner pictured above dangles her pooch by the inverted waterfall. Cackles, laughter, and Latin music harmonized with the swishing spray of hydration. I was glad to be home, as I am now on a Saturday afternoon debating whether I should brave similarly oppressive climate (Oddly enough I've heard myself say the same thing in the middle of winter.)  The sense of Guilt is attempting to creep into bed with me and my billow of eight pillows, but the pang of Hunger at this lunch hour is really vying for my attention. Did I mention Creative Juices as the other bedfellow in this menage a trois? May the best lover win.

I appreciate the cool refuge I call my home. What is yours?

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Bridge Over Romantic Waters


In the most fashionable city of Paris, it's en vogue to wear your heart on your sleeve, jump into a romance like an unsuspecting tourist gambler in Vegas, and hold a kiss for five minutes or more on the street midday (yes I did see that and clocked it at six minutes). So here's a picture of one of many notable bridges as seen from a boat ride at dusk.

Luckily, the previous week's heatwave gave way to cooler nights where one could sport a casual coat and a light scarf on what was a glorious time of Bastille in Paris. I ate my fill of magret du canard and confit du canard so I wouldn't yearn for it until next year's visit. I drank the gifts of the vine and yes they were divine. I spoke the language of the natives with a more than novice command of the vocabulary and accent,  and was warmly received despite my horrific grammar.

Along with the one night cabaret engagement at Swan Bar which was a pleasantly suprising comedy of airs, a very pleasant date on a Friday night, and a kaleidoscope of pictures shot with veracity, my third trip to Paris proved to be another success. It also spoke to the old adage  "Do one thing everyday that terrifies you". As the boat approached the bridge you hear the American accented English recorded tour guide blaring through the speakers "And here is the most romantic bridge in Paris. Now turn to the person you're with and kiss them." My travel buddy Eric would not have appreciated such a move on my part, nor was I longing to follow what seems to be the French equivalent of the mistletoe tradition. Right then and there I acknowledged the thought that I might actually be happy not kissing anyone - and that terrified me.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

What Places Do You Call Home?


Hello Ladies and Gents
They say that regardless of her global fame, both in the real world and online, Oprah still journalizes - writing longhand in a certainly much treasured journal. While I am trying to continue a personal tradition in a similar fashion (one that started on a sick day from school at the age of twelve), it's a bit of a challenge when you work an average of 50 hrs/wk, are usually producing / performing in a cabaret on Sundays, performing Off Broadway every Saturday, and catching enough episodes of "Glee" or similar shows that keep you on the beat of pop culture. But as the old adage expresses, a picture says a thousand words, and I will never cease to carry my Lumix camera every day when I live/work in a city like New York and call Jersey City my home (yes that's New Jersey folks, but the obviously glamorous side).

I invite you to chime in, stay a while, chat get a glass of wine. And like a visit to my home, I promise to provide good conversation, a good laugh, and perhaps a glass of wine

The photo above was taken on West 44th St. as I was heading West towards The Irish Rogue Pub, to join my friend Craig's birthday bash. My Facebook comment was something like "Serenity over New York" ...identifying the moon as the sole representative of serenity over what we clearly know as the most beloved and attended chaos called Times Square.

I love New York City for putting a much needed fire under my ass as a theatre hopeful upon moving from San Francisco on June 1st 1998. I love New Jersey for its lack of pretense and real estate sensibility, where I also now happily own my piece of the sky (and what a sky it is especially at sunset). I love San Francisco for being the cradle in which I gained lifelong friends, where I had lain and honed my craft of singing, dancing and acting. I love Manila, Philippines for its dietary dangers, its sense of family, and tight knit Filipino-Chinese community which I consider to be home, as much as the Yankees.

What places do you call home?