Hell Freezes

It's a flaw, I guess. Idealizing the good things about a place, and discarding the bad memories...You have to remember the bad things because--as with a bad relationship-- it's the bad memories that protect you.

Now I remember why I left. It was 1993. Winter in upstate New York. I was here serving a year in VISTA. That's Volunteers In Service To America, or the domestic Peace Corps. These days it's called Americorps. Corporatized, like everything else these days.

When this VISTA opportunity unexpectedly materialized, I went for it. It was the realization of a childhood dream. I grew up in part during the Kennedy Administration. Peace Corps and VISTA commercials were on TV all the time, along with those Look For The Union Label commercials.

JFK ( a childhood hero) said, "Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country. " A year of service right here at home sounded like a good idea to me.

Winter in upstate New York was brutal, especially following the seven years we had lived in Miami Beach. It was made even more so by the landlord who did not provide heat. The fellas upstairs had the controlling thermostat for the apartment building, and they often stayed out until the early hours of the AM, turning off the heat when they left. A neighbor with a toddler expressed her concern about the lack of heat (and its effect on her baby's health), as did a few other tenants. We asked the guys upstairs to show some compassion, and turn up the heat, but to no avail. Heat in the building was sporadic at best.

One frigid winter morning when we got up my $5 wall thermometer showed an indoor temperature of 50 degrees. I called the landlord and invited him over.

When I showed him the thermometer in our apartment, he blew it off, saying the thermometer was "inaccurate."

I called the city codes inspector. He brought a thermometer of his own. This one was a small electronic one. He left it with us, and told me to record temperature readings every hour or so.
He returned in a couple of days to collect his thermometer. It showed the exact same temperature readings as my "inaccurate" wall thermometer.

The landlord was cited and had to replace his malfunctioning furnace. We were warm in our apartments--finally.

The years passed, and I remembered fondly my year of VISTA service, the opportunities it gave me to learn and stretch, and the interesting, supportive, and idealistic people I worked with at the time. That hasn't changed.

Now I've come full circle. Forced to relocate as an economic refugee from Florida, I'm freezing here. Again. My bones, already stiffened by the arthritis that set in after two car accidents, are further hammered by the cold. In a place where home air conditioning is not so common, summer heat--although short lived-- can be brutal here. And winter's cold is equally brutal.

But not as brutal as the reality that people I love are a thousand miles away, and photos are a cold comfort. I would give up one of my kidneys to see my granddaughter in person on Halloween. B-r-r-r-r-r.

Rooftops of Brooklyn

It's fun to stay at the YMCA. Except last night.

Last night, a record cold one here in the Big Frozen Apple, the lights went out in Brooklyn--some of the lights, anyway. Some rooms on the third and fourth floors of the Greenpoint YMCA suddenly went dark around eight pm. Because of this the third and fourth floor bathrooms were closed and locked and everyone had to use the bathrooms located on the second floor. The YMCA has shared bathrooms, located on each floor. And in fact, according a recent internet article, this trend is spreading to other hotels in the NYC area. Booking a room at the Y includes full use of the gym and swimming pool.

It's a no frills establishment--cheaper by far than the Plaza, or the Waldorf, or even the Ramada Inn, but still not cheap for a working stiff if you factor in the cost of eating out. A handful of the residents are "permanent"--if such a thing exists in rental housing: some are people on disability who can't afford to live elsewhere. At least two current residents had been forced out of their apartments when their buildings burned down, and the Red Cross and the city put them up here in the Y.

New York's Bravest--New York City firefighters---visited the premises twice last night, and found a problem with some electrical wiring. Con Edison had to be called in to fix it. Flashlights were provided to any one who requested one. The next morning, I received a requested wake up knock by a Y staffer, since my alarm clock had been knocked out of service.

After a rough night, residents and guests awoke to a chilly hotel with no hot water. Because of this, Y management told everyone they would attempt to relocate us to another Y. I rushed to do my laundry at the laundry mat in the next block, because I didn't want to pack a bunch of dirty clothes in my suitcase. Especially since I've been plagued with some kind of itchy bumps since I moved into this room and I don't know the source or how it's spread. A friendly Rite Aid pharmacist suggested I try Benadryl cream but added it would not be effective if the bumps were caused by insects. I only know I can't afford to go to a doctor for a non-emergency and I want this to go away.

Before noon the heat, hot water and lights were fully restored. (If only all NYC landlords could be this prompt with repairs.)

After relating my concerns to the Y staff about the itchy bumps, my room was changed, and housekeeping was dispatched to inspect the mattress. The next morning, I'm happy to report, the itching is gone.

In a building this old and distinguished, power outages happen. It happened in a designated historic apartment house I lived in in Florida, and more than once. Long time Y residents told me this is the first time anything like this has happened. So I guess it's still fun to stay at the Y---but I want an apartment-- I need an apartment so I can do my own cooking again. Restaurant food is good sometimes, but it gets pricey.

From my new room, if I look straight ahead and down I can see a brick wall and a rooftop. If I raise my gaze just slightly, I can look out over the rooftop of the next building and see the Brooklyn skyline. I see smoke billowing from an industrial smokestack, I see a restored brownstone with bay windows a couple blocks away, and the light from a television or computer screen flickering inside the corner apartment. I can see trees and sky. I can see possibilities.