It’s a January Sunday around 4PM, and I’m feeling restless. I’ve spent most of the weekend working on my Generation X blog and my social media brand, and I’ve especially been tweeting a lot. Which is a grueling, soulless, thankless task. If you’ve ever spent any time on Twitter you know what I’m talking about. It’s just a toxic space, is what it is.
So I finally decide to head out of my apartment and take a trip into the city. I live in Astoria, Queens, which is one of the five boroughs of New York City, but it is most definitely not the city. That title refers to Manhattan, and that’s where I’m going.
I grew up on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, and my mother still lives there, but today I’m feeling like I want to head downtown, to check out the trendy scene and just get away from the drabness of Queens. So I make the 12 minute walk from my apartment on 34th Street in Astoria to the subway station at Astoria Boulevard. My regular station, 30th Avenue, is closed for renovations until the spring, hence the 12 minute walk instead of the usual 5.
I board an N train headed south, grab a seat by the end and sit back. I’m listening to Spotify’s “Current Pop” category on my smartphone, and I do my best to just block out the noise and chaos that accompanies a major urban city’s underground transportation system. I mean, it’s better than it used to be when I was a kid, but riding the subway still sucks. It’s loud, it’s close quarters, there’s no sunlight, and it’s just an overall stressful experience. No matter how much cleaner the actual subway cars are.
In fifteen minutes we reach Manhattan at 59th and Lex, and a middle-aged black guy gets on. He gives a speech about how a fire two weeks ago burned down his family’s home, and he’s trying to collect money to support his wife and three daughters. It sounds heartfelt enough, I guess, but I’m a struggling blogger living in Queens and I just can’t contribute to his cause. I’m also somewhat suspicious of his rap, thinking maybe it’s just something he cooked up to make cash. It doesn’t really matter though, so I just let him pass.
At Times Square, a white kid in his late teens with long, scraggly hair gets on and asks if we can give him money so he can get a hotel for the night in Bushwick, Brooklyn, and take a much-needed shower. It’ only $36 a night, he tells us, and he’s halfway to his goal already. Once again, I silently wish him well but just let him pass by. There’s an odor that accompanies him, though, and I see what he means about needing that shower. No one should have to go without a shower, is what I think to myself, so I hope he gets one.
Finally we arrive at Prince Street in Soho and I exit the train. It’s twilight now, around 5PM, and there’s a faint glow in the air. I head south along Broadway, passing high end clothing stores, boutiques, and restaurants. There’s a general air of wealth in the surroundings, and it’s a nice change from my environs in Queens.
At the same time, it makes me just a little bit angry, because I grew up in Manhattan and I used to hang out downtown a lot. Now I’m just a tourist from Queens, wandering around the big city.
Either way, there are a lot of nicely dressed people, there’s beautiful women, and there are interesting characters to keep me engaged. Eventually I make my way west to Tribeca, and I come upon The Roxy Hotel, which also has an oyster bar and movie theater within its grounds. I’m hungry now, so I decide to give the Oyster Bar a shot. I mean, who doesn’t like a good oyster?
I enter the bar at 6th Avenue and pass through a large, open common space with luxurious couches, tables and chairs lining the interior. It’s a little dim in here, and there are couples, or groups of three or four, lounging by the couches and chairs. It’s all very classy, and sexy, and hearkens back to an earlier NYC filled with speakeasies and jazz joints. I like it.
I take a seat at the bar, and the young bartender hands me a menu. As I peruse the menu, I notice a common theme. Everything is expensive. Like, really expensive. I hadn’t planned on that. But then I notice they have a happy hour, with dollar oysters, and that makes me feel good. I mean, an oyster is an oyster, and judging by the beauty and chic of this place, I’m sure these happy hour specimens will do just fine.
I order a half dozen on the half shell, 3 ChincoTeague and 3 Chesapeake Bay, both from Virginia. Virginia is actually the oyster capital of the East Coast, according to Google. Who knew. I add glass of white wine, a glass of water, and I’m ready to roll.
While I wait for the oysters I do a survey of the scene at the bar. There’s a Hispanic guy in his 50’s standing to my right, and he’s just ordered a burger. Judging from his clothes and his jewelry, he’s a well-off dude.
To his right are a European-looking couple, kind of frumpy but wealthy looking, and a chic-looking, 50’ish Dutch or German-looking dude. He’s having a champagne. The frumpy folks are drinking beer. Maybe they’re British.
On the opposite side of the bar are a pair of beautiful blond women in their late 20’s, both wearing black and looking absolutely scrumptious. They’re out of my league, I tell myself, but it’s still nice to look at them. Behind me at a nearby table is a midwestern-looking family, a father, mother, and three beautiful children who look like they just stepped out of central casting. Cute, wholesome, and innocent. They’re also totally out of place at The Roxy. But then again, so am I, so who cares?
The guy behind the counter preparing my oysters looks Dominican or Puerto Rican, in his mid-20s. He was very friendly to me when I asked what the different kinds of oysters were like, so I’m optimistic.
My wine and water arrive, and I take a big sip of the white, followed by some water. This is cool. I’m out of Queens, I’m in a nice, hip place with a luxurious vibe, I’m drinking wine and water, and I have a half dozen oysters on the way. What could be so bad?
And there they are. I look up from my phone and the guy has placed my oysters in front of me. I examine what I’ve got. The guy tells me the ChincoTeague are on the right, and the Chesapeake Bay on the left. They’re accompanied by some kind of sesame oil/soy sauce combination in one bowl, and cocktail sauce in another, and a large wedge of lemon. I snap a few photos, and then I dig in.
I pick up a ChincoTeague, add the soy/sesame combo, some cocktail sauce and lemon, and pop it in my mouth. Jesus. This thing tastes great. I mean, it’s sweet, salty, briny, lemony, and it tastes of the ocean. It’s really hitting my brain’s pleasure centers. I try a Chesapeake Bay next, and it’s just as delicious. I take a big swig of wine, wash it down with some water, and pop in another loaded ChincoTeague. Man, after the trek down here and the subway and everything else, I feel like I’ve died and gone to hipster oyster heaven, and I don’t ever want to leave.
I polish off the six oysters and my wine, and I’ve got a slight buzz going now, which is nice. I’m still hungry, so I check the menu and see what else they’ve got. I briefly consider an overpriced lobster roll but decide I’m going to roll with oysters tonight. I order up another half-dozen, and another wine while you’re at it, thanks.
I’m feeling good now, so I look around the bar again. The blond, Nordic looking chicks are talking and gesturing loudly and swaying their hair around like they’re Valkyries come down from the mountains or something. I’m turned on, that’s for sure.
The Hispanic guy is telling the Dutch dude and the British couple that he’s actually Cuban, and he’s come up from the island for work. But he’s not staying at The Roxy, he’s just checking out the bar, because he has his own place in the city. Damn, I think to myself, this dude is from Cuba, which has seen its share of troubles and tensions with the US, and he’s up here killing it.
I’m fascinated by the story he tells the Europeans, about how he works at the crossroads of tech and infrastructure, and about how he’s a Communist, but also a capitalist. My dad is a Marxist, and I grew up in a very left-wing household, but really, aren’t we all capitalists now, even the Communists? So I know what he’s talking about. And I’m a little jealous of him, because he’s killing it and I’m not. I tell myself to work even harder and make it happen.
Just as I’m starting to fall into a bit of depressing self-reflection, my next half dozen oysters arrive. I snap to attention. Once again I’m immersed in a world of salt, brine, and sea, and everything seems right in the world again.
I’ve had two wines now, so I have to pee, and the bathroom is downstairs, around the corner, up another staircase, down again, past the movie theater, and there you go. I finally get there and relieve myself. There’s another dude in there with me, and we both reach the sink to wash up at the same time.
The sink is some kind of fancy Japanese garden-type deal. It doesn’t spray water, it emits it in cycles, or something like that. We both wash up and look at ourselves in the mirror. He’s wearing a black blazer, black button-down shirt, red tie, and dark gray slacks, with dress shoes. He’s about 50, and I must say he looks good. Authoritative, commanding, a master of the universe having a cocktail at The Roxy.
Then I look at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing a gray baggy zip up sweatshirt that I got on Amazon for $20. I’m wearing jeans, also from Amazon. And Timberland boots, because I gotta’ represent my NYC roots. But it’s fair to say that in the fashion department, and also the wealth department, this dude’s got me beat. Oh well, I tell myself. The oysters taste good, the wine feels good, and the world is what it is.
I head back to the bar and consider my options. I’m still slightly hungry, but I’ve just eaten a dozen oysters. I’m also on a diet, so I don’t want to overdo it. I google the calorie count for oysters and see it’s about 175 calories per half dozen, so I’m at 350 calories now. Fuck it, I think. What’s one more half dozen?
As I wait for the last order, I sip my wine and once again take in the scene. The vibe is just so, oh I don’t know, laid-back, easy, chill, relaxing, moneyed, luxurious, and positive. It’s literally the opposite of Queens, no offense to my home borough. Well maybe just a little offense.
The Cuban dude is going on about some other philosophical political question now, and the Dutch guy is listening to him, entranced, as he sips on what must be his 4th champagne now. It’s all just so, freaking, chill. I want to rent an apartment at The Roxy and never go back across the East River.
Finally my order arrives and I dig in. Once again, I’m transported to Nirvana, bivalve style, and it feels great. After the third oyster I take another long look at the Nordic chicks across the bar, and I realize I’m starting to get a hard on. I’ve already had 15 oysters, and everyone knows they’re supposed to be an aphrodisiac, so these ladies are really turning me on. I feel so aroused, in fact, that I’m ready for a threesome with Selena Gomez, Taylor Swift and Miley Cyrus. And me. So I guess that would actually be a foursome. Sign me up!
I polish off the oysters, finish my wine, and call for the bill. It’s $49, and I decide on an $11 tip, because the waiter and the dude who made my oysters were both cool as hell. I put on my jacket, pick up my new $39 black Jansport backpack that I got from Amazon, and head out into the New York night.
I wander the streets of Soho and Tribeca for awhile, and then I get hungry again. Because I did have 18 oysters, but they’re pretty small creatures. So I stop in for a slice at Pomodoro Pizza in Little Italy. I get a diet coke too, sit down, and dig in. While I eat I check Facebook. I read a story by a high school friend about how he left his job four years ago to care for his special needs child, and now he’ll be writing a column for his local paper in Massachusetts about it. I find myself genuinely moved by this, so I leave a comment for him, telling him how moving this, and how great his story is, and wishing him the best for the future.
I finish the slice, swig down the diet coke, and head toward the 6 train at Spring Street. While I’m walking I pull out my glass pipe and take a hit of the weed that I packed specially for this trip. It gives me a little buzz, but I’m just as buzzed by the oysters, the wine, and the scene at The Roxy. I walk a few more minutes in a very chill, semi-trance like state through Soho, and then I reach Spring Street.
I board the 6 train, take a seat, and settle in for the long ride home. I pop my headphones in and put on a radio station I created on Spotify based on the song “I Need a Girl Part II,” by P. Diddy featuring Ginuwine, Loon, Mario Winans and Tammy Ruggeri.
And I hit the jackpot because the song comes on right away, instead of a similar sounding song, which usually happens when you create a station. P. Diddy’s soothing, laid-back, monotonous voice calls out, and it helps to relax me. I’ve been listening to this song a lot over the past year, and especially over the past six months since I broke up with my last girlfriend. It’s all about a man’s longing to meet a woman who can love him, and who he can love, forever after. The man is looking for his wife.
And the lyrics that really get me are the chorus, where Diddy says:
What I need
(Yeah take that)
Is a pretty woman next to me
A pretty woman yeah baby
To share the dreams that I Believe
(Dream with me, believe in me)
Maybe we could start a family
Start a family baby
Someone who truly understands, how to treat a man
This is what I need
It may sound a little cheesy, but I desperately want to meet someone myself, and for some reason this song has really resonated with me. And I want to maybe start a family someday myself, even though I’m 43 and getting a little long in the tooth. But it’s not too late, I always tell myself. And Diddy and the Crew really capture the vibe of a man dreaming of meeting his woman, his love, his everything.
So I rock out to the song as the 6 train heads north through Manhattan, and at 59th and Lex I transfer to the N train to Queens. I keep the music on the same station, so a bunch of different R & B hits from the 2000’s are coming at me. And it helps to block out the noise and cacophony of the train, because once the N crosses under the East River, another homeless guy pops into our car and gives a speech about how he lost his job and is trying to get back on his feet. And I start to feel bad, and a little guilty, that I almost never give money to homeless people anymore. But I’m broke, and I just can’t help the way that some other people.
As the guy passes by me, an African-American woman standing near me hands him a $5 bill. He thanks her profusely and keeps moving. That’s nice, is what I think to myself. If more people could or would do that, the world might be a better place. Not that you can end homelessness with piecemeal donations, but her gesture meant something to him. It was like she acknowledged his existence, and his dignity, instead of just looking away, like I and most other people were doing.
And she could have given him $1, the standard guilty donation. But she reached back for that something extra in herself and gave him a $5. She lives in Queens, she’s probably not rich, but she did what she felt she should do. And I liked it. It was a nice scene.
The train pulls into the station at Astoria Boulevard, and I make the 12 minute walk back to my apartment. I stop at the liquor store around the corner on the way home and pick up a bottle of Jameson Black Barrel, which is like the poor man’s luxury beverage. But honestly, it’s not bad, so who gives a fuck.
I reach my apartment and make the three flight walk to my one bedroom. I put the whiskey in the kitchen and head for my bedroom. I take off my coat, put it in the closet, and put down my backpack.
Then I lie down on the bed, and I just chill. I’m tired, but I feel good. Today was a good day. I got out of Queens, had oysters and wine, and chilled in a cool environment. I forgot about my troubles. Tomorrow I’ll be back to the stresses of my my blog, my brand, and my writing. But for one day, this day, at least, I put all that aside and just had fun. And that’s all that matters.
