111thBroadway

At end of October, a few leaves on the trees silently turned yellow. Then just a few more followed. But it wasn't until I took a walk in park one day that the overwhelming palette of red, yellow, and orange warned me that fall was here to stay. Here are a few pictures I took along Riverside Dr. by my apartment.





To most who have lived in the cold, the leaves' change of color seem like another mundane detail. But I lived for those weeks of beautiful foliage. I woke up at 7 and walked 30 blocks everyday just to watch those golden and auburn leaves dance in the wind.

But a winter storm at the beginning of November, with gushing winds and heavy rain, knocked off all the leaves. When it was finally dry enough to step outside, there was nothing left. The fallen leaves were swept into the gutter and coated with mud.

"That's not fair," I thought. I haven't had enough. I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye and they were gone.

Until next year.

A MTA bus killed a 66 year-old man during a car accident on Tuesday. I was sent out to do a follow-up story. I knocked on the door of the victim's family, told them why I was there, and got thrown out of their home.

"You have no idea how we feel. The only reason you are here is so you can write a story and meet your deadline" were the words the family left me with. It made me feel terrible because it was the truth.

My concept of what a journalist does had been extremely naive. I thought it was the perfect job of talking to intersting people, writing about them, and getting paid. What I didn't realize until yesterday is how intrusive and insensitive the occupation can be.

I talked to my professor about the incident during our midterm evaluation conference yesterday. He told me that there will be tougher stories I will have to write in my career. But it's all a part of the job.

Oh well, I am sure the Catholic pharmacist who has to prescribe the morning-after pill to a client goes through a much more difficult moral struggle than I do...

On a lighter note, my professor said in the evaluation conference that I am a great reporter, a writer with clarity, and has many assests that cannot be taught! He also promised to write me recommendation letters for some fellowships I am applying. I guess all the hardwork is paying off!!

Okay, time to find another crime story and talk to yet another victim's family...

I try to make my entries somewhat literary and enjoyable to read. I strive for topics that are personal yet resonate with life in New York City in general. Sadly, this entry will be devoted completely to my new haircut, which does not resonate with anything besides my own ego. So bear with me and check out the new hair:

I've been thinking about chopping off the long hair for a while now. I needed something urban and fun. I am so happy with the haircut. It's not so short that I feel like I've lost an organ but it's enough change that I feel upbeat and modern. In other words, I love it, and I hope you love it too!

Until next haircut, no more shallow entries!

Someone once told me that when I start graduate school, I will become one of those intellectual New Yorkers who drink wine, listen to jazz, and talk about politics. Well, just a couple of nights ago, I became of those people.

I was lucky enough to visit a friend's apartment on Central Park West that had the view of the East Side, the park, and the downtown skyscrapers. I am not one who is easily impressed by wealth, but let me tell you, with that view, I was impressed. The apartment not only had a view, but also a doorman, a concierge, and a list of neighbors that included the late Peter Jenning.

I had a very good time with my new friends. The wine, the view, the jazz, ohh, I was so New York.

Although we stayed at the apartment till 3am, the lovely time had to end (mainly due to the 9am class I had the next day). I stepped out of the fancy apartment and stepped back into the real world. Will I visit the apartment again? Probably not. I enjoy the view of someone else's roof top from my tiny window. I prefer gossiping on the phone over political talk. The wine, yeah okay, I guess I could use the wine.

I have been the luckiest girl in the world. Right after a very special boy came to visit, a dear friend popped in the city to say hi. New York is such a multi-dimensional place. It can be romantic one week and exciting the next. No matter whom you are with, there's always a ton of things to do. My dear friend and I dined at a French bistro, walked around Central Park, strolled down Fifth Avenue, and caught a musical (with the cutest understudy)--all in ONE day! Despite how exciting the city was, it was the dear friend who made my weekend special. It was the naughty gossips and the endless laughter that brightened up my hectic schedule. So thank you for visiting, my dearest friend :)
Here are some photos from the weekend:

I used to believe that New York City by itself is a sufficient lover for any woman. The only down side is that I have to share the City with thousands of other people. For those who enjoy monogamy like me, this sometimes leaves you a bit confused. This weekend, however, someone very special came out to visit--someone who belonged all to me.

Instead of depending on the City for its inconsistent support, I had someone who held my hand and toured through New York with me. We visited museums, strolled through the park, walked around school. But the best part was when we ordered delivery and stayed in my 11' by 10' room. When you are with someone you love, the surroundings can be as spacious and exciting as you want it to be.

Good times are always short lived. Now I am back to sharing the City with the Jewish lady, the bum around the corner, the crazy cab driver...

Here are some pictures...

Highrises in Midtown and neon signs of the Theater District used to blind me from the real New York. Now that I actually walk the streets and take the subway, I see the lives of regular people. I used to wonder why I was afraid of the ghetto or felt threatened by the homeless. I was afraid and threatened because I was never exposed to people like that. People who miss a step and fall behind for the rest their lives; people who live without cabs, fancy dinners, and glamorous outfits. These people make sad but they also make me appreciate New York. It is a beautiful city not only because the trees change color in the fall or because department stores put up decorations during Christmas but also because it embraces the diversity of human life.

Classes finally began on Monday. I was not usually this excited about classes, but after four days of orientation (i.e endless self-introduction and deep-fried hors deurves), I was quite ready to start.

The first two days of classes made me feel like a real reporter in training. Although I pride myself in my narrative writing experience, I lack the basics of a daily news reporter. I felt as if I stepped into a foreign world, bombarded by jargon such as "beat", "stringer", "leads", "break outs" etc. I struggled particularly with the drills section, where under a tight deadline, I needed to generate articles based on some simple notes. I now have so much more appreciation for the news articles I read. I will never again choose the features article on shoes over the front page war coverage(Okay, maybe I will read both).

I start covering my beat (yes, the lingo catches on quick), Flushing in Queens, on Thursday. I need to research the police precinct, government officials, religious leaders, business community, and minority patterns in my beat. Every week, I visit my beat for 3-4 days and write both brief and in-depth articles about its happenings. In 16 weeks, I will be a lean mean Flushing machine!

On my way to a haircut appointment today, a couple approached me with an Eastern European accent.

"Excuse me, do you know where is the subway?" They signified on their map that they wanted to go downtown.
"Yes, I do. You go across the street and walk one block south. Go down the stairs and take the 1 train downtown towards Times Square," I said proudly.
"Thank you so much. You are the nicest New York person we've met!"
I secretly chuckled at the thought of being mistaken as a real New Yorker.

After the haircut and dinner with my friend Sheena, I walked down Broadway at 9pm when it was already dark. Just as I was proud of myself for being brave and knowing my way around school, a homeless person appeared out of nowhere. I jumped. I screamed. I ran--as if I was chasing after an Olympic medal.

I guess I am still just a Californian!

Here are a picture of my new haircut. It's a bit shorter and a lot more layered. Let me know what you think!

The Hamptons: a place where men pair suits with shorts, women wear cashmere during summer. Through my father's business connection, I was able to summer in the Hamptons with the rich. I spent three whole days, sun-bathing on the Atlantic shore, indulging in gourmet meals, hopping between private beach clubs and strutting through fancy boutiques. I thought I had seen it all in California, with the yachts and the beach-front mansions. But 3000 miles across the country, I met people 3000 times wealthier--men who ran errands in their Ferrari and women who bought Fendi bags with their pocket change. Since most of these people had a year-long address on the Upper East Side, I was tired of introducing myself as the journalism student who lived 10 blocks away from the public housing projects in Harlem. At the end of the weekend, I missed my tiny apartment. I missed the eclectic flavor of the City. The Hamptons was like a dream and here are a few snapshots of it:

Our host's home:







View from the home:




At a private beach club: (Yes, I was holding onto a Long Island Ice Tea. And yes, they are VERY stong)

I traded a five-bedroom house in California with cable television and a large community pool for a two-bedroom apartment in the City with homeless neighbors and a basement laundromat. Sure, it's not a Park Ave. penthouse, but it's a clean and relaxing retreat that shelters me from all that harshness from the City. Here are some pictures of the little bird cage I call home...

Before I sprinkled my magic dust...









After I moved in...










P.S Please note that my chair matches my bedspread. That was not an accident.

After years of browsing through others' online journals, I am giving in and jumping on the bandwagon. I can't promise to update religiously like most livejournal fanatics, but I will let you in on all the ups and downs of my affair with a new lover --New York City.