Golden Poo

"Are you sad because you're on your own? No! I get by... with a little help from my friends." -- Lennon/McCartney

I pride myself on knowing a lot of stuff about a lot of different things. I'm well-read and well-educated, I'm familiar with many subject areas, I can hold a decent conversation with many types of people, and I have a head filled to bursting with many random facts. Thus, it's very rare for me to find myself in a place or a situation where I'm totally out of my element.

Well, it happened last weekend.

After two days that fit every possible definition of "homecoming," I found myself wandering around Chinatown. It's something I've done countless times before -- I've traversed Canal Street, ventured into Pearl Paint, eaten dim sum, and browsed the wares of the street vendors pretty regularly for years. However, I'd never been to Chinatown accompanied by actual Chinese people... and, accompanied by Q and DW, Chinatown was a whole new world.

They led us to places I never even knew existed -- streets that barely looked like New York City and shops that contained no English signage whatsoever. We went to a grocery store selling live frogs in a garbage can. I became acquainted with dried shellfish, and I'm still not sure if it requires rehydration or if it's eaten as is. I waited on line to buy dried udon noodles and briefly panicked about whether I could use US dollars for my purchase. We had Vietnamese for lunch and I didn't know how DW's coffee pot worked. Q took me to a bakery to get some buns I once tried, but all I remembered about them was that they had sweet yellow filling and that description basically fit everything in the display case. We went to an underground shopping mall filled with plush depictions of bear excrement. ("Golden poo" is allegedly a symbol for good luck, but no one knew why.) I pointed at what I thought was an endive and was told that it was actually a torpedo vegetable. I then pointed at a vegetable that looked like a carrot, asked what it was, and was told that it was a carrot.

We continued to wander, deeper and farther into shops and streets that I never knew existed, and I truly began to feel as if I had been transported out of New York and onto a different planet. Despite my cultured upbringing, the obscene amount of time I've spent with my Chinese friends over the years, and all of the reading I've done during the course of my life, I was totally clueless about everything. I felt incredibly ignorant.

Then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, we stumbled upon a pocket of Little Italy. Q decided that she wanted sfogliatella, we stopped into an Italian bakery... and and all of a sudden, my world once again made sense. The sights, the smells, the biscotti in the window and panettone boxes hanging from the ceiling all felt comfortable and familiar to me.

We approached the counter. One of my companions pointed at a display case, turned to DW, and said, "Ooh, have you ever had a cannoli?" I'm not sure how he answered; I was too stunned to listen. Have you ever had a cannoli?! What kind of a question is that?! In my world, asking someone if they've ever had a cannoli is like asking them if they've ever breathed oxygen or if they've blinked at least once today.

I then realized that I was the only person in the crowd with any Italian blood, and that my companions probably weren't weaned off the bottle onto cannoli like I was. And then my entire day made sense. I wasn't ignorant -- I just have a different cultural identity than the one I happened to be facing. And I'm lucky enough to have an open mind and friends willing to help me fill it. All in all, it was a pretty amazing afternoon.

The Lure of the LBD

"I've got a new interpretation and it's a better point of view: while you were looking for a landslide, I was looking out for you. I was looking out for you. Someone's looking out for you." -- Brandi Carlile

This weekend, I drove out east and spent my Saturday morning at the mall. I made a few insignificant purchases, but they don't matter -- today I'm writing about the item I could not buy.

On my way back to the parking lot, I paid an obligatory visit to my favorite retail chain and spotted a gorgeous black dress. Do I really need another black dress? Nope. Is this particular black dress entirely too fancy to wear to work? Yep. Do I have more important ways to spend my money than on another fancy black dress? You betcha.

But god, this dress was perfect. Soft, stretchy, plain and tailored but with interesting origami-like folds snaking across the front. I knew the hem would graze my knee in exactly the right place, the seams would hug my curves to perfection, the neckline would make my chest look twice as shapely as it actually is. I had to have it.

I wandered around the store for twenty damn minutes searching every rack, shelf, nook, and cranny for the dress, but aside from the one on the mannequin's back, I couldn't find it anywhere. So I went to bother my favorite fitting-room attendant.

"Hi. I'm looking for that dress."
I pointed. She chuckled and shook her head.
"Honey, the whole world is looking for that dress. We have one left in a size ten."

Damn. No worries though; I work within walking distance of two more stores and one of them was bound to carry it in my size. Right?

I visited one of them after clinic today. Wandered around, located a rack of the dresses, found three size eights and a twelve, learned that the store was sold out of their entire stock except for those left on the floor and wouldn't be restocking any time soon. The attendant suggested that I try the other store but didn't offer to call ahead for me, so I headed towards Lexington Avenue and started walking south.

On 62nd St., a cab pulled over to the curb, the door opened, and an older lady slid her legs out and leaned back to collect her bags from the seat. Half a block away, an approaching cyclist shouted "Watch out! Watch out!" and sped towards the cab's open door. The woman turned and looked, but she wasn't fast enough -- instead of slowing down or (gasp) steering around the cab, the cyclist crashed into the open door at top-speed and fell off his bike. The cyclist screamed at the lady, the lady screamed back, the cab driver honked.

I know, I know -- that anecdote has nothing to do with my quest for the dress. It didn't seem like a good omen, though.

I went into the second store in search of my dress and -- surprise -- they carried a size two and a size zero petite. They wouldn't be restocking any time soon, either. I spent a good five minutes staring at the size two, debating whether I should try and wedge myself into it, before a sales associate approached me.

"Excuse me? I'm sorry, but I just wanted to say that I love your boots."
"Thank you." I moved my coat aside so she could see the cut of the leather and the little buckle near the back of the knee. "I got them at Bandolino."
"Bandolino? Where's that?"
"These came from Bloomingdale's, but I think there's a store on Madison, near 42nd Street. Shoe Woo across the street carries the brand too."
"Thank you so much! I have to go look for them." She blinked. "So can I help you with anything here?"
"Yes, actually. I've been to three stores looking for this dress in a size 4, but I can't find it anywhere."
"Well, you won't find it in any stores, I'm afraid. That dress is close to sold out everywhere."
"Damn."
"But... I actually have a 4 on the rack in the fitting room. The stitching on the front is torn -- some woman who was definitely not a size 4 tried to squeeze herself into it and ripped the dress -- but you can try it on for size and order it from the website if it fits you."

I tried it on. It was every bit as gorgeous as I thought it would be and it's due to arrive in five business days.

And in other news, this is my 100th post on Literatura Mundane. Many thanks to those of you who are still reading!

A Lesser Babka

"What are we going to do now?! If we can't get the babka the whole thing's useless!" -- Jerry Seinfeld

I had dessert in my favorite bakery this evening, and after I settled my bill, I decided to buy some pastry for the road. I waited in line with the intention of purchasing a particularly delicious-looking chocolate babka I had been eyeing in the window all evening. Then, when I approached the counter, a woman appeared out of nowhere, cut in front of me on line, and ordered my babka. She left, I repeated her order, and, as luck would have it, she had nabbed the last one right out from under me. With no babka alternatives, I left empty-handed.

As someone who can quote whole episodes of Seinfeld from memory, this was one of the most thrilling things that has happened to me in a long time.