Breaking up is (so strangely) hard to do.

How very odd.

Our break up is now official, New York. The closing of my Harlem apartment happened this week. Without me. Because I had already evaporated, New York. Sorry, I simply could not make it. And as you are well aware, the fact that I was not physically present at our final date was most definitely your fault. So, so typical of you, New York.

So very like you, New York! We had made three dates, marked in ink on our calendars. But they came and went while three lawyers, two real estate agents and a co-op Board argued and prevaricated. Finally, one of the three lawyers suggested a date that I had already said was impossible for me, so I just sighed, sucked it up, signed the POA, sent it to my lawyer and managed the break up with you. Remotely.

So amazingly typical of you, New York, that we simply could not find a mutually convenient time to meet! Next time have your people call my people, OK? You remind me of all my New York "friends" who I only "see" on Facebook because nowhere in their high-powered New York lives is there ever a free moment to meet in the flesh. Ooh so sorry! So wish I could be there! Call me soon? Love you lots. (X bloody O.) You, New York, have been consistent from beginning to end.

Until three hours before closing, I was still getting calls from your lawyer regarding changes in the contract of sale (details which cost me money, of course), but by that point I was already with FF in the car speeding purposefully towards our new life, down way south of the Delaware Welcome Center. "They want to change the XYZ to the PDQ", my lawyer said. Yeah, yeah whatever, I shot back. Just. Do. It.

So in true New York fashion, I let my person meet with your people, and he stood in for me at what might have, could have been,most certainly should have been an important and defining moment. He called me at 5:10 to let me know it was done and that he had deposited the check in my bank account. By this morning there were some extra zeroes right there in my balance, and in those cold, silent numbers was written: The End.

I had hoped for some kind of ritual to end our time together. I had hoped to pass the certificate of shares for my beloved, sunny co-op apartment to the nice French people who had bought it, perhaps offering a little speech, thanking everyone, and going out for drinks afterwards to raise a glass to you, New York. Then I would have boarded the NJ Transit express train to Trenton for the last time, and I would have enjoyed those 57 quiet minutes, pondering what we have been to each other, getting thoughtful as I always do as the train glides across the Meadowlands which are impossibly, unexpectedly beautiful at sunset. Instead, the end came with a 30 second phone call: "OK, I've deposited the check. See you!" Great. Thanks. Click.

So that's how it is, New York, huh? After all we've been through together? After 22 years? A sigh and a fat check?

I know that it's over, New York, but I still can't quite feel it. I guess all big love dies hard. The truth is that as of now I never, ever have to go back to see you again. I am free of you. Sure, I may return someday to visit the few luminous souls who made my 22 years with you worthwhile. Perhaps I will stand once again in the cool, gray silence of the Guggenheim spiral near closing time when all you hear is your own breath and the shuffling steps of the security guard coming to kick you out onto Fifth Avenue. Maybe someday I will again sit motionless in Bryant Park, watching the human comedy speed-walk by in its custom suit and tie. Yes, maybe I'll see you again, New York.

Someday.

But for now, I think it's best we spend some time apart.

Photograph: Untitled (crowd 1), 1992, Alexey Titarenko, Nailya Alexander Gallery, New York

Race, Intolerance and The Selling of New York

This is my day to do a Self-Criticism.

First off, I castigate myself as a bad blogger. Dear Reader, it's been a week since my last post, and you have kindly returned to see...absolutely nothing. I am sorry. And not just for you either, but for me as well. The pace of life (or was it just the pace of my mind?) has been so rapid, that there has not been a pause to ponder. And the worst is knowing that I have had some really cool ideas, and I have either forgotten them or lost my enthusiasm for writing them down in the midst of just doing too much.

One of the things that has interrupted my flow is the marketing of my Friend, the beautiful co-op in Sugar Hill, Harlem. First of all, let me say that I have been touched and comforted by those of you who commented on that blog and understood my angst about selling my Friend. Your comments and the empathetic tears you have reported to me have made me feel accompanied and a little less lonely here in my nimbus of impractical, nostalgic, animistic feelings. You have made me feel a little less weird and so I thank you.

My Friend has officially been on the market for a week now, and on Friday my slow-burning anxiety culminated in spending the entire morning searching for my apartment on line, not finding it, freaking out that my real estate agent was not on the job, and starting to post it everywhere I could think of including, yes, Craigslist.  I guess I really want this to be over soon and not have to live through a protracted goodbye. I hate goodbyes. I am bad at goodbyes. Let's get this over with, I say, and not spend too much time waving on the platform.

So I posted furiously for three hours, and if you're curious about my Friend, try googling the MLS # which is 818576 and see if you find my place (in New York, of course) -- or some former listing of an apartment in Boulder, CO which is what I found on Friday, hence the freak out. You can be assured of seeing my Friend on my Postlets site at www.postlets.com/res/4126432.

Besides condemning myself as a  bad blogger, here is my second, and more serious, self-critique:  Am I  racist, or just equal opportunity intolerant of others in general?

UE's real estate agent is a tall, rangy, good-looking,  glasses-wearing, long-braids-done-up-neatly-in-a-bun-bearing African American man who I will call Kalim. Kalim is nice and soft-spoken, and I chose him and his small, boutique agency to sell my Friend because they know Harlem, know HDFC co-ops, and because I thought my entirely black Board of Directors might feel more at ease with him than some perky blonde from Prudential Bache. Good reasons, all.

One week after signing paper and getting this amputation on the road, however, I started to doubt my decision. Kalim was moving too slowly! I couldn't find my apartment listed anywhere on line, and when I Googled it, not even Kalim's agency's web page came up. I wondered if he was a pro or was he not? Was I socked into a four month exclusive contract with an incompetent? Where was my perky, efficient blonde from Prudential Bache, the agent I had not chosen but in whom, sight unseen,  I suddenly had more confidence than the guy who had referred me a great contractor to do the renovations and had taken hours of his time to talk with me about the apartment? The home team guy? Yes, it took almost no time at all for me to lose the faith and doubt the creds of my local Harlem real estate agent.

When I informed Kalim about what I had done on Friday he sent back a short, slightly weary little note asking me to desist because he was posting in the same places and it would confuse people. And, by the way,  he had an open house planned for Saturday at 1:00 PM.

I felt abashed.

I don't honestly think that race had anything to do with my panicked reaction to not finding my listing online. I come from a liberal, East Coast background and have made a career of teaching educated, often socially insulated white Americans about Latin American culture and language. I have lived in Harlem for 11 years, and New York City for 28, none of which makes me immune from racism, but the trajectory of my life has kept race and community in the forefront of my consciousness. But after my little anxiety attack, I felt that I had to investigate whether or not Kalim's classic red velvet, Barry White baritone, loping walk, and Striver's Row style inspired in me some sort of automatic doubt in his professionalism. If the imaginary PruBache girl were my agent, would I have doubted her after a 10 days and no searchable listing? I think so, but I am not sure.

A question to ponder in future posts: Where did I score on the Racism Scale (if there is such a thing) when I arrived in Harlem, and where do I score now after 11 years living there? Glinda the Good will have to ask Dorothy the all-important question before she clicks the red shoes: "And what have you learned, dear?". That question will have to be answered bit by bit in future posts.

For now, however, Urban Exile must launch into her third (and thankfully, last) self criticism of the day: Generally, I do not trust anyone to handle my business -- or even his own -- as well or efficiently as I do myself. Really. I am a control freak.

My impatience with other people's ways and speeds of doing things has sometimes marred my relationships. I am sure others close to me have seen me as intolerant and impatient and a real pain in the a** at times.  As an artist, I am aware that there are many pathways to a good result because every one's mind solves problems a slightly different way. The shortest path to the result is not always the best, the most creative or the most fun. Yah yah yah. But often that hasn't short circuited that hot surge of impatience that rises in me when I see someone doing something "the wrong way". It hasn't stopped me from stepping in and just doing it my way with, perhaps, a bit of a look on my face and an edge to my voice.

At this moment, True Oak gently glides in and sits down in the worn, comfortable easy chair of my mind. She is wearing one of her trademark soft, flowing outfits punctuated on the pedal extremities by that pair of comfortable, solid Danskos she sometimes wears that remind me what a practical, grounded person she is. "Aren't you being a bit hard on yourself?" she says in the low, even tone that lets me know that the most rational answer is "yes" but still leaves the question open to argument. I love the way she pulls me back from the mental edge.

Yes, I am. Way too hard.

The Exile is rather talented at getting things done. And I did grow up in a house that was in such frank disorder so regularly that no one could come over to play. I cleverly recreated that unpleasant atmosphere for myself over the course of several relationships, too, by falling in love with depressive and/or just filthy men. So it's no big surprise that when I see what I perceive as disorder or inefficiency, I bristle and take over with an energy that must be slightly scary for those around me. Making order is a "fight or flight"response for me, and disorder feels to me like threat to my survival.

So am I a racist? No, I don't think so. Am I  a control freak? Definitely. I don't like other people's ways of doing things sometimes. Urban Exile is working on that.

When I doubted Kalim's professionalism this week, there was a problem with my frenzied "Oh, I'll just do it myself then!" attitude. It was lacking in faith and respect. And I am truly sorry. I'll try to learn to sit on my hands the next time I feel like meddling.

Now excuse me, as I need to go fold FF's t-shirts. My way.

Diagram of how to fold a t-shirt by www.Tickledbylife.com

Night Train

Tuesday night and I am on the 9:07 to Trenton. This is the first time I have gone back to Tiny Town on a Tuesday night, the first time I have played commuter. My New York City bed will be empty tonight.

Two women in my car are talking too loudly, first on their cell phones and then to each other: They do not recognize that they are in an enclosed space with other, tired people. The man in front of me is a commuting pro: He has earbuds on and is reading a very big book. The fresh, masculine scent of his cologne drifts over the seat, blown by the AC in my direction, and I am grateful. The last scent I experienced, on the A train from Tribeca, was the rank odor of a rag-swathed homeless man. Homeless funk always makes me sad.

"I hear e-commerce....my web site.....over-saturated....you're trying to fill your business....I didn't lose....I minored in Russian...I...I....I...I..."

The women chat and chat, oblivious. They make a loud, ping- ping-pinging in and out of my mind.

On this 100 degree night I am escaping Manhattan early. No sleepover tonight: I am trying on a new identity as a day-tripper. FF will pick me up at the station at 10:15 and then we drive the good stretch through suburb then countryside to Tiny Town, whose charm lies partly in its near inaccessibility to public transportation. Soon enough FF and I will slowly evaporate into the misty forests of the South, but for now we crouch cosily in Tiny Town waiting for the New York apartment to sell. When it does, we will spring into action.

Waiting for the - my - apartment to sell. My old friend. My shelter and refuge for 11 years.

The nicely scented man gets off in Metuchen and I reflect about the first time I met FF, right there on the platform in Metuchen. Metuchen helps me remember why I am doing this, why I am prosecuting this dramatic plan to break up with New York City.

This morning, I felt content riding the Transbridge Line into Manhattan with a light backpack instead of a suitcase. I got to my apartment, helped the real estate agent take photos, used Mop n' Glo on the floors to make them more photogenic, and then strode off to teach in the 105-degree of heat bouncing off every mile of steel, glass and cement. I was still content, as I slid carefully among the masses of sweaty people in this massive urban convection oven, evading the crowds, letting people enter subway cars and escalators ahead of me. It was easy to be generous: after all, I was leaving by day's end.

This is not the last goodbye, New York City, but it presages the last goodbye. And though I was feeling great all day with my little secret shining inside of me,  now that I am here on this late night train sliding through the night, feeling alone with myself in the way I only do on trains, content has morphed to mope.

I experienced a stab of guilt leaving my apartment this afternoon to go teach my 5 o'clock class. Can you believe, dear Reader, that I left, backpack on, locked the door, and then actually reopened the door to whisper to the quiet, now nearly empty apartment, "I'll be back soon"? Well, I did. As if I were comforting it, as if it were sorry to see me leaving again having only just arrived. I animate things, as does FF (or did he only start since we met?), and my apartment is now animated beyond what is prudent for my own emotional well-being. It is an old friend wondering why I don't visit anymore.

("Wasserstein.....does bankruptcies....sounds SO familiar!.....Call me.....Divorce....technical action....now THAT'S a good attorney!...Philly?....ping-ping-ping...)

Tonight Urban Exile's real estate agent will post those lovely new photos on the internet and thus formally lead my old friend naked up to the auction block to be at the mercy of all comers. And I am running away to the country. Oh, what a bad friend I am!

What if someone comes to buy who wants to rip my arts and crafts beauty to pieces to achieve the dreaded "open concept"? What if they offer my asking price? What will I do? Will I hand over the keys and a complimentary crowbar and leave my old friend to the ungentle mercies of this appalling person? Really?

I've worked so hard to preserve my apartment, its beautiful architectural details, its solid oak-wood doors, its old glass door knobs, its thick, cool plaster walls. When FF came along, my friend perked up quite a bit: FF worked with me, adding impetus, spirit and purpose to the renovation, kindly adding his credit card to the mix as well.  What I know about FF is that he would have helped whether or not I was going to sell. He just likes to help, which is one of the aspects of his character that won him my heart.

"The next station is... Jersey Avenue...." says the machine voice. I can still smell Metuchen man even though he got off two stops ago. Thanks for the memories.

It is true that my income did not suffice for some of the renovations that we did, nonetheless I could have afforded some of the work myself. When FF and I met, though, things that had never fallen into place before somehow starting falling nicely. Like the $165 custom wood radiator covers which always before had been priced over $400 apiece. Like the new windowsills throughout the apartment for $500, when always before it had cost thousands. When I was a woman living alone I presented as raw meat to ravenous contractors, dry cleaners and plumbers alike. When a nicely muscled man was standing next to me, saying absolutely nothing, the prices went down.

So now, my friend is looking pretty sharp which makes it even harder to say goodbye. Only my friend and I know what it felt like that hot summer day I moved in with nothing but a hot plate, some ugly wood end tables, a refrigerator and a mattress. Only my friend heard me cry all night when that relationship didn't work out, and the next one didn't either.  And my friend watched me come and go, nose to the grindstone, working and sweating and sleepless, and also witnessed those rare times when I stumbled in, too late, too happy and maybe too drunk.  My friend alone witnessed the hours of vocal and guitar practice to learn over 300 covers songs for the Finnish cruise ship gig. Yes, we have a lot of history together, my friend and I. And no matter where I wandered in the world, my friend was always here, waiting quietly for my return.

"Princeton Junction, next stop...." "So you need a kidney transplant?....Intense...My cancer is rising in Leo...ping-ping..."


One of my favorite students, who I'll call Aquaria, said to me comfortingly, "After all, it's just plaster and bricks. It's just a thing." Aquaria is older and wiser than I, and I know that she understands that her message to me is not as much true as it is necessary to believe. For we have to agree with ourselves to think certain things, true or not, in order to move on in life. I must not allow myself to think about my friend all alone, waiting still and darkened in the hot Manhattan night.

Yeah, it's just one of those things.

I hope I reach my stop soon.

Interested in Urban Exile's Manhattan apartment? Go to http://www.harlemhomes.com/sale_details.asp?listing_id=1758