End of Semester Wrap-Up

Wow. I had forgotten how great the time change is going east to west. My plane left New York in the late afternoon and arrived in Seattle when it was still early in the evening. I woke up at 6:30 am today feeling better rested and more awake than I have been in weeks. I mean, I am chipper, and even my morning-loving parents are giving me that “can’t you dial it down a notch?” look. But I can't keep it in! The semester is over and I’m back in Seattle for an extended winter break. And if you aren’t in a good mood, here is something to fill you with holiday cheer:

That would be a picture of my mysterious unknown fiber. Isn’t it beautiful? When silk comes out of a silkworm there are two strands (or “brins”) attached together with a coating. Usually the coating is removed and the strands are separated, but sometimes the silk is left raw like this. This is what it looks like! Merry Christmas!

Doesn't do it for ya? How about this:

Festive.

So, apparently I just finished my first term of grad school. It is pretty hard to believe. Four months ago I couldn’t tell a warp from a weft. Now I’m that annoying girl who wants to tell you about the weave structure of your coat. I’ve already tried to bring up the significance of the cage crinoline at a party, and I spent part of Thanksgiving dinner staring intently at my aunt’s napkins. As planned, grad school has added rich, nuanced levels to my nerdyness.

But how have I progressed as a New Yorker? Now that I will be gone from my new city for about six weeks, I have to wonder if I will miss it. Have I grown attached to New York, or am I just going through the motions? It is hard to say. I’ve met a lot of wonderful people, but I can’t say I’ve made any close friends. I’ve been up to the Cloisters and down to the financial district, yet I feel like I only really know the blocks between FIT and my subway stop. I’ve enjoyed New York pizza, hot dogs, and bagels, but I still find myself wondering why there aren’t Pho places on every corner.

In some ways, I feel like there must be two New Yorks: the famous one (as seen TV and film) and the one where I live. I live in the every day New York. The one where I get on the F train every morning and stare ahead stoically when it gets delayed. One where the bright lights of Times Square are just a distant glow I notice on my way home. One where weekend evenings are spent watching Project Runway DVDs on the couch with my roommate and his cats.

Terrifying moments in grad school history

I haven't written anything in almost a month, I know. This end of semester stuff seems to be going on forever. Tomorrow I have a big exam that the whole class is rightfully terrified about. During our review session last week the following occurred:

Professor: Ok, here is a dress you haven't seen before. Date it.

Me: 1880s?

Professor: You are not in grad school to say "1880s." Give me a year.

*gulp*

The Crazy: It is Starting

How is it almost the end of the semester? I feel like I've just gotten started! Truth be told, part of me still thinks it is still late August back in Seattle and I am just on some kind of bizarre trip. But no. The end of the semester is coming, and I will soon immersed in the deluge of papers, presentations, and tests. There have been so many things I've wanted to share with you all, either through posts here or personal e-mails and calls, and I feel guilty about how little I have done, So, in anticipation of the end of the semester, I would just like to apologize in advance if I become even less communicative over the next month.

So, before I disappear, here is a little about what I am working on.

Most of the time when I post something on this blog, I sort of wish I had a accompanying picture. But then I go through the recent pics I have taken and most of them look like this:

Or this:

This latter is one of the unknown fibers I need to identify for one of my term projects. The fiber is encased in some sort of mysterious crust. Even my professor said "whoa! what IS that?" when I showed it to her.

In my History of Western Textiles course we have to write a paper about an object in a local public collection. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do, but when I was paging through a book in the library I fell in love with a 17th century embroidered bag that was made by a 10 year old (it is now in the MET). The book described the work as "amateur," but to me the skill seems remarkable. I guess that is what happens when you grow up with a corset instead of a television. I've been researching the motifs in the bag, and one of the most interesting are these figures referred to as "boxers."

Apparently the motif crops up in embroidery samplers all the time, but no one actually knows what is going on. They are always human figures, usually wearing either tight fitting clothes (which is why someone thought they were boxers) or are barely/debatably clothed, are holding a "trophy," and are standing next to some foliage. One source I found thinks that it started as a pattern from a book of "a lover offering a flower to his lady." The lady was apparently complicated to stitch, so over time she was simplified into a leafy bush. Another source was intrigued by the fact that these particular figures appear to be hairy. There might be some connection to the hairy people that sometimes show up in Medieval tapestry. They are said to represent wild people that are untouched by civilization. Here is a female example:

The project that I am currently the most excited about is my paper for Fashion History. Last year at MOHAI we discovered that there was an object in the collection that was supposedly a blood stained scarf worn by Mrs. Lincoln on that fateful night in Ford's Theater. Like good museum cynics, we all laughed at the possibility. But ever since then I couldn't help but wonder how ridiculous that claim really was. Does anyone actually know what she was wearing? U.S. Historians are nuts for Lincoln, it seems like someone must have looked into it. Right? I proposed the idea to my professor, and she liked it. So basically I am researching 1) If anyone does actually know what Mrs. Lincoln wore that night, 2) whether a scarf of that type makes sense for the time period and the setting, and 3) a little about Mary Lincoln and her fashion. It is all a bit morbid, but I am finding it FASCINATING. In essence, there is no reliable source about her clothing on the night of the assassination. The few references I've found contradict each other. The Chicago Historical Society has a bloody cape that has more provenance than the MOHAI scarf, but is far from a sure thing. If you are interested, they have a whole site devoted to a current project of research and lab tests for the cape: http://www.chicagohistory.org/wetwithblood/

I guess I am on a photo theme for this post, so here is Lady Lincoln in one of her controversial low-necked gowns:

What do you think? Do you feel like throwing a lacy scarf over that decolletage?

Karl Lagerfeld and the Magical World of Libraries

Just about a month ago, I finally landed myself a work-study gig at FIT. Like everyone else in my program I had applied right away for the two most coveted open jobs: collections assistant and conservation assistant in the museum. Besides getting to work with FIT’s magnificent, jaw-dropping collection of garments, such work would be great resume building experience. Unfortunately those jobs, along with several other back-ups, all went to other people. I was feeling sort of rejected and hopeless when I unexpectedly got an e-mail from someone at the library circulation desk. When I applied I thought it was checking books in and out (front desk! Like MOHAI!), but instead it turned out to be book re-shelving (oh…like Barnes & Noble). As dull as it sounded, I figured I might as well go in for the interview.

When the two supervisors looked at my resume and realized I wasn’t an undergrad, they took pity on me. They wondered if, instead of book shelving, I would have any interest in Special Collections. Special Collections is where all of the rare archives are kept. In terms of gaining good experience and working with amazing items, it is on par with the museum. I salivated accordingly. They weren’t sure if the department was looking for anyone, but they offered to make inquires. We agreed on the following arrangement: I would start with book shelving and they would work on getting me in to Special Collections.

Shelving books turned out to be grimmer than I expected. Besides the fact that numerically sorting books isn’t high on the list of invigorating activities, there were too many people hired for too little work. Often there were three or four of us working to re-shelve a few short piles. I would end up circling the aisles and study carousels waiting for someone to leave a book unattended so I could snap it up and return it to its proper place. [Side note: in order to learn the Library of Congress system I had to sit through a computer tutorial hosted by a wizard who told me he was going to take me on a magical journey through the world of libraries.]

One thing I did like about shelving though was that it gave me a deeper appreciation of the library and the people who use it. It is sometimes hard not to be cynical about the undergrad population, and while there are certainly those that are a few needles short of a full sewing kit, there are clearly some great creative minds here as well. They use the library as a space to get inspiration, work on sketches, finish paintings, and build 3-D diagrams on the computer. It is fascinating to walk through and sneak glances at all the work in progress. Earlier this week I saw two women painting what appeared to be a large metal doughnut. Appropriately, the library collection reflects the needs of the students. The European history section is a bit thin, but the shelves for photography, graphic design, art, architecture, textile history, and fashion stretch on and on. Printed text is all well and good, but sometimes it is wonderful just to get lost in a smorgasbord of gorgeous coffee table books.

Visual delights aside, I was thrilled to be mercifully plucked from shelving duties. The director of Special Collections was desperate for help, but had no budget approval for a work-study student. But, since the circulation desk didn’t actually need me, they were happy to keep paying me and lend me out to another department. So, late in the game and partially by chance, I ended up with one of the best work-study jobs on campus.

I felt at home in Special Collections right away. Like your average underfunded museum or library the department has a small staff with an overwhelming to-do list. That sounds like a bad thing, but it means that I was warmly embraced as much needed help and promptly trusted with an interesting assignment. I’m working on an inventory of personal papers from a woman who worked as a fashion journalist in the 1970s and 80s. The collection is organized by designer, and features mostly articles, photographs, and PR materials. That stuff is interesting on its own, but every so often I come across the archives holy grail: an original designer sketch. Of particular interest are those by Karl Lagerfeld, who if you don’t know, is a design legend who is the head designer for Chanel. He apparently destroys most of his sketches, so seeing originals of his is doubly rare. So maybe the tutorial wizard was right after all. Libraries are magical places.

Things I'm Learning in School

It has been a while since I have written anything substantial. One excuse was my parents visit, and the other is that I've just finished up midterms and am realizing how intense the rest of the semester is going to be.

But speaking of school, one of the main things I get asked by you all is, "how is school going? What are your classes like?" To answer that I thought I would make an interesting/funny/weird list of things I've learned so far this term. Anything in quotes is a direct quote from one of my professors.

According to the ancient Greeks and Romans, patterned textiles are the mark of barbarians

A Senmurv is a magical creature that is part dog and part bird. When depicted in textile form, it looks like a squirrel.

Scarlet is a kind of fabric. You can make a blue scarlet coat.

In reference to adults making knotted rugs: “Even fat fingers can do fine work, it just takes longer.”

“If you are serious about rugs, you should join the Rug Club.”

In order to make flax plant stalks into usable linen, you have to let it sit out somewhere where it can rot. The longer it rots, the better the quality of the linen.

You can make regenerated fibers out of just about any protein. In the 1930s-50s fibers for clothing were being produced from milk, corn, and ground nuts.

Polyester is boring under a microscope. Cotton is awesome

Silk isn’t spun, it is “thrown.”

Linen naturally prefers to be spun in a particular direction. Cotton is like, “I twist both ways. I’m game for anything.”

If scientists can ever figure out how to produce spider silk commercially, we will one day be able to buy bulletproof T-shirts.

One ounce of silkworm eggs will result in enough silkworms to eat 1 ton of mulberry leaves and then produce 12 pounds of raw silk.

“Nothing is more futile than railing against fashion.”

Before the French Revolution bright pinks and purples, flower patterns, and pastels were all common for men’s wear. It was only during the 19^th century that we got the idea (still around today) that dark colors and neutrals are the only appropriate shades for men.

“Never be led astray by something an art historian says about fashion.”

In the 17^th century it was fashionable to have your hair longer on one side than the other. Sort of like a side mullet (business on the right, party on the left).

High heels were invented for men, and the heels were originally red. They were worn at the court of King Louis XIV of France, an initially only the King, his brother, and their 12 favorite friends were allowed to wear them. Slowly they allowed other men the privilege of wearing red heels. It was a huge honor.

In the 1720s a new style of dress emerged for women. They figured, “The old king is dead, I’m going out in my negligee.”

“When fashion is working properly it predicts the future. The French Revolution was preceded by the revolution in dress.”

In the 1780s various shades of brown were in vogue. Some colors included “Paris mud,” “dead leaf,” and one that roughly translates to “poop of the Prince.”

In a similar vein, the following are the names of fashionable colors for men’s stockings in the early 17^th century: Dying Monkey, Amorous Desires, Sad Friend, Mortal Sin, Sick Spaniard, Resuscitated Corpse, and Colour of Hell.

“The only thing that can successfully stamp out fashion is the fear of death.”

Project Roommate

I just got home from saying goodbye to my parents (they've been in New York this whole week), ready to spend the evening relaxing a bit. When I walked into the living room I found my roommate curled up on the couch watching one of my DVDs. Apparently he took the day off work because he was feeling sick, and thought he would check out season 4 of Project Runway. He got hooked and was 8 episodes in when I arrived. I joined him for number 9. Awesome.

Things you might not know about New York...

In the bathrooms at the Metropolitan Opera House, the toilets are flushed using a foot pedal near the floor, and there are built in ashtrays on top of the toilet paper dispensers.

Just thought I would share.

The New Yorkiest Weekend

I don’t know that I’ve fallen in love with New York yet, but in the meantime I’m enjoying playing the role of a seasoned New Yorker. I’ve figured out how to jaywalk without getting run over, where to go to get cheap groceries, and I barely look up anymore to gaze at famous buildings. This week my F train was twice rerouted along another line, and I just shrugged. I knew that wherever it dumped me I would be able to find my way.

In addition to all this, I am finally starting to cultivate a bit of a social life. Tonight I am spending my evening blogging and watching TV on hulu, but last weekend was much more exciting. First of all, I finally went out in my own neighborhood. On Thursday my roommate and I bonded over a drink at a local bar, and on Friday I met up with Marianne (visiting from Boston) for brunch. For the latter, we had a perfect Brooklyn experience at a diner my roommate recommended. We sat at an outside table on a charming street corner, and dined on coconut-banana pancakes and grits with tomatoes and goat cheese. That evening the second year students in my program invited us first years out for drinks. We have all been very congenial with each other, but this was the first time my class really socialized outside of class. Some phone numbers were exchanged, mutual love of Clueless and Romy and Michele’s discovered, and there was even a brief Beyonce sing-along (someone said “to the left,” what else was I supposed to do?). I also got the very New York experience of paying $6 for a bottle of Bud Light.

On Saturday I got some homework done as my roommate and his friends held a stoop sale outside our building (the New York version of a garage sale). In the evening I went to the hipsteriest of hipster parties. It was in the Greenpoint/Williamsburg area in a commercial space converted into an artsy multi-person apartment (I was invited by one of my classmates who lives there). There were multiple bands, beer from a keg, and throngs of people. I swayed along to the moody retro-sounding band and stared out at all the saggy v-neck T-shirts and handlebar moustaches. I had a great time, and managed to stop myself from drunkenly bidding on too many items in the silent auction (the party was for some cause that I forget, but I was assured that it was “for the children”). When I left, I completed my first solo post-midnight subway ride. For those of you who are my parents, I can calm your fears by saying that there seem to be more people on the subway in the middle of the night than mid-day.

I got up at a reasonable hour on Sunday and decided to go to the Cloisters. One of my professors was giving a presentation about Medieval dress, and a classmate was participating as a live model (about eight hands went up in class when we were asked who would be interested in modeling historic garments, but I had to put mine down when one of the stipulations was knowing a boy who could also be roped in). When I arrived, and had to push myself past a parade of belly-dancers, I was reminded that the demonstration was part of the Medieval fair (faire?) going on that day. Oh man. Aren’t Medieval/Renaissance fairs such a great combo of secretly awesome and embarrassingly stupid? I was filled with a mix of snobbery (so many ridiculous interpretations of historic dress!) and affinity for these exuberantly nerdy Earlham types. It was a great afternoon. I learned about authentic 14^th century garb from my professor, fell in love with the Cloisters (again), and successfully resisted the urge to eat some “ye olde fried dough.”

As my final adventure of the weekend, I decided to brave another church. This time it was Manhattan Mennonite Fellowship, and it was even more sparsely attended than the Episcopalian place I tried two weeks ago. However, I think that I might actually go back to this one. While the pomp and pageantry of high church is decidedly grim when preformed on a small scale, the personal nature of the Mennonite style works fine even when only 15 people are there. Parts of it were a little lame, but I talked to a bunch of lovely people and they gave me a free jar of honey.

Well, it looks like I rambled on for a long time again. Gold star to you for making it all the way through!

Tales From The Apartment Hunt: The Worst

Alternate Post Title: I Like Trains But Hate Railroads

I had this idea that I would end up writing about most of the apartments I saw, but now I’m having second thoughts. As I’ve been taking a stab at it, I think many of them really aren’t that interesting or funny in written form. One filled me with an unshakable sense of grimness. Another seemed mostly ok except that the whole place reeked of cat pee. I saw huge rooms in sketchy parts of Brooklyn, and unbelievably cramped quarters in awesome parts of Manhattan. I had to ask myself questions like, “could I survive with just a mini-fridge?”, “will buying a new mattress pad make me feel ok about sleeping on an old mattress?”, and “can I automatically veto a roommate whose e-mail address is ‘paininlove@hotmail.com’?” Some of it is certainly worthy of mockery, but I don’t think it will really be that fascinating for me to go through each place in detail. So let’s just cut to the chase: what was the worst place that I saw?

I could use a lot of criteria to define the worst, but for me the one that stood out was the one that was the most depressingly/hilariously overpriced. This winner was about $920 a month, and was a railroad apartment. It was located in a surprisingly dull part of Williamsburg (Brooklyn), above a store that appeared to sell mostly Hello Kitty products and bongs. For those of you who don’t know (I didn’t until I moved here), a railroad is one where all the rooms are laid out in one long line. There aren’t hallways or central areas--each room just connects to the next. The room that the woman was renting was in the middle, and windowless. While my prospective roommate did have a door in her bedroom that allowed her to go around (via the exterior hallway), the offered room was basically a passageway between her room and the rest of the apartment. She promised that I would have privacy. “I’ll only come through your room if I really need to pee or something,” she said. She eagerly pointed out that the room had a closet—admittedly not standard issue in New York. The “closet” however turned out to be only around 6 inches deep, and had four metal hooks sticking out rather than a bar for hangers. I think in the real world we call that a coat rack.

As I was sitting in the kitchen chatting with the woman, I noticed a tube of toothpaste near the kitchen sink. Suspicious, I asked to see the bathroom. Sure enough, the bathroom was so small (a half-sized tub crammed up against a toilet) that there was no sink. The kitchen sink was also the bathroom sink.

I think the woman could sense my dismay, and she tried to turn the tide in her favor by talking about how “this is New York” and as shocking as it may be this is just what the apartment market is like. She started to press me about whether or not I wanted to take it. I said I had to think about it, and confessed my doubts about the middle-room situation. “It is really not that bad,” she said, “go in and close the doors, and you’ll see how nice it is.” With a growing feeling of hopelessness, I agreed. I went into the room, closed the doors on either end, and sat down on the bed. A strange feeling of calm came over me. I wondered how long I could sit in there before it got weird and she came to check on me. I had seen enough places by this time to know that for $920 I could do better. But the search was exhausting and I was desperate for it to be over. I knew that as soon as I got up and left, it would mean that I was checking off one more place and continuing the process. The space was quiet and I was alone, and for a few moments it was my much longed for personal piece of New York. But I knew that eventually I would have to get up, get back on craigslist, and make more appointments.

I think it was after visiting that place that I thought of writing posts about the apartment search. It was grim at the time, but I could see that once I was finally settled, some of it would be funny. $920 for a windowless hallway room in a place with no bathroom sink? I mean, really.

Meeting the Locals

I’ve now lived in Park Slope, Brooklyn for more than two weeks. So, what is that like?

• Yes, there are a lot of parents

I knew before I moved here that Park Slope has a reputation for being stroller city. It certainly lives up to its reputation, but it hasn't bothered me much because it doesn't feel like the suburbs. You get the sense that a lot of these parents are defensive about their domestication, and are determined to prove that just because they appear to be part of a traditional mom, dad, and baby arrangement, they are anything but cookie cutter. This is the home of “cool” moms and “hip” dads, hoping to raise a generation of tolerant liberal children. That is all well and good, but it is also a little funny to watch. The other day at a restaurant I overheard a very serious conversation between a mother and her late-elementary age son. He was asking questions about a classmate who had two dads, and the mother was trying to explain that there are many different kinds of families. She actually referenced the book Heather has two Mommies, but when that didn’t ring a bell she conceded that she must have read it when he was too young to remember. This made me wonder, exactly how early in the child’s life had she decided to pull that book out? I mean, I’m sure it is great and all, but I can’t imagine the book as one that a kid would request and love. I sort of picture a toddler, whose favorite book is Fifteen Pages of Adorably Drawn Kittens being told by his parent, “No dear, tonight we are reading Heather has two Mommies.”

Later that week I saw a little boy wearing a Disney-style Snow White gown. Both he and his parents looked very pleased with themselves.

• People are very welcoming. Perhaps too welcoming.

Right after I moved in, I still hadn’t gone grocery shopping, and so was still dependent on restaurants for my daily meals. The first place I tried out in my new neighborhood was a small Sushi place that seemed to have an appealing and moderately inexpensive menu. The food was good and substantial, but the owner of the place kept coming over to talk to me. He repeatedly emphasized what a great, family owned business this was, and how I should feel free to bring people here. I couldn’t tell if his chief concern was increasing his business, or the fact that I was eating alone. It weirded me out a little, but I ended up coming back a week later. I saw no sign of the owner, so I thought maybe I could eat anonymously. Then the waitress came over and asked if I wanted “the usual” and recited exactly what I had ordered last time.

My other “too welcoming” experience was one I probably should have seen coming. Last weekend I decided to attend a local church. Having spent previous Sundays hoofing it from one apartment appointment to another, I was ready for a new routine. I enjoyed St. Mark’s in Seattle, so I thought I would try out the nearest Episcopalian church. When I showed up five minutes before the service was scheduled to start, my first thought was that I had gotten the time wrong. There were less than ten people scattered about a space that could probably fit a few hundred. By the time the service started, the total had probably swelled to 25. At first I tried to think, “this is charming. I’m sure it would be a great close-knit community to join.” But as things continued, I started to admit that it was kind of grim. The processional consisted of three people who, after reaching the front of the church, gave each other a few awkward “now what?” side-glances. When we sang hymns, there were a few designated women who sang into microphones--presumably to flesh out the anemic sound of the congregation. The priest had an accent--which was easy to understand when he spoke in a dull monotone, but near impossible to decipher when he became animated and wanted to make an important point. So I caught only the blander parts of an already cliché sermon. When I decided to refrain from communion, a woman took the opportunity to come over and have me fill out a visitor card. As she pressed it into my hand she said firmly “I will collect this from you after the service.” Equally frightened of both the woman and the prospect of forever being on a mailing list, I briefly considered making a run for it. But, I decided that there was no way I could do it inconspicuously. When we made it to announcements, a woman entirely unfamiliar with the concept of brevity was given a microphone. She cryptically alluded to “our troubles” and how she was sure that God would provide. About the time I realized that the service was going to creep over the two-hour mark, the woman asked if there were any visitors this week. Everyone turned around to look straight at me, and so I had no choice but to stand up and croak out my name. As two-dozen faces beamed at me, I suddenly had this feeling that—as it was clear that attendance was part of “our troubles”—I was perhaps being taking as a sign that things were on the upswing. When the service ended, I managed to sneak out without depositing my visitor card. I half expected someone to come running after me.

• Do Orthodox Jewish women work out? If so, what do they wear?

Yes. They wear running shoes, black leggings, a below-the-knee black skirt, a black ¾ length shirt, and a heavy black hairnet. And they still look less frumpy than me when I run.

Photos of my Apartment!

If I was really organized, I would have written all my blurbs about the other apartments I saw, and then posted these pictures. I could have taken you on a beautiful narrative journey through grim process of looking for a place, culminating in the joy of finding the right one and moving in. But my neither my time management skills nor writing ability is up to that task, so here are the photos. I'll probably keep posting stories from the apartment search as I get around to it. The first image is of the living room, and the later three of my Ikea-ed out bedroom.

As you can see, I've decorated my room a lot like my one back in Seattle (and at Earlham), with favorite photos, postcards, and things found in magazines. If you want to send me something, I'll probably put it up!

Tales From The Apartment Hunt: The Perfect Place For Someone Who Isn't Me

I once saw the movie Transformers and found it completely bewildering. Then I was hit with the realization that absolutely no part of this movie was made with me in mind. Everything that was leaving me cold was the most awesome thing in the world for someone else. One of the apartments I saw was a little bit like that. It was actually a sort of cool place, but not for Clara Berg.

The apartment was in Williamsburg, on the other side of the expressway [the east coast term for freeway, apparently] from all the Bedford centered hubbub. The building was a former toy factory, and much of the interior still looked like an abandoned warehouse. The door to the residential area was reached through a series of concrete hallways and industrial metal doors. The apartment itself had a small upper level and a large lower level. The living room had tons of windows, several couches, and a swing attached to the ceiling. There was one bathroom and six bedrooms, all of which seemed quite small and stuck into odd places throughout the space. The available room had a very low ceiling and the only windows looked out into the living room. In one corner of the living room there was an elevated platform. It was pointed out once as the location of someone’s room, and a second time as the DJ booth when they have parties. They admitted that they had just thrown a pretty serious party last night, and were still recovering. One of the housemates had a recording studio set up in his room, and there was no room for a bed. He explained that he had various places to go and spend the night.

The residents were showing the place in an open-house style, so there were several other prospective roommates milling about. I saw other people’s eyes light up when they saw the space, and they started to aggressively sell their personalities to the roommates (this was one of those situations where everyone interested writes down their name and the current tenants pick their favorite). I asked a few standard questions and made small-talk, but eventually said to myself “who am I kidding? I am not enough of a bohemian for this.” Even if I thought it was a good idea, there was no way that they would pick me. I was sure these hipsters were bloodhounds for prudery and could sniff out my awkwardness from a mile away. I politely declined to put my name down for consideration and headed for the door. Then I had to come back and get directions for finding my way out of the building.

Tales From the Apartment Hunt: Weirdest Landlord Situation

I saw my first potential apartment the day after I arrived. I was still in a confused and exhausted state, so luckily Kate was available to come with me. The ad had caught my eye because it was in my price range and said that all the roommates were grad students. The contact person was very chatty and wanted to give me detailed directions and have me call him when I got off the train. At first I had thought he was one of the roommates, but when we arrived it was clear that he was the landlord. He had Kate and I come into his living room, sit down, and talk a little. He asked me about my grad program and my background, and he in turn told me about himself, how long he has been renting the place, about the neighborhood, and a bit about the spaces in the apartment. Eventually, he decided he was ready to show the room, and took us next-door and upstairs. It was a six-bedroom apartment with two bathrooms, and a relatively small kitchen/living room space. There were two available rooms, and each came furnished with a bed, a desk, a dresser, and small flat screen TV mounted to the wall and wired with cable. There was also a bedroom apartment in the basement that shared the same entrance. There were no rooms available in that area, but he decided to show it to us anyway. Then he took us back into his place to talk some more. When I had a question about something, he took us back in to see some things again. Then we went back to his place and chatted some more. The whole process took about an hour.

The more I thought about it, the more the “reasonable” price started to seem exorbitant. The spaces were small, the commitment was long (1 year), and it was relatively far south in Brooklyn. Kate pointed out that, while it was great for the landlord to only rent to “responsible” grad students, it meant that he was hand picking the renters rather than the roommates having any say about who they wanted to live with. In addition to choosing the roommates, he had also selected all of the furniture, decided to install TVs with cable (something that I didn’t really need or want to pay for), and seemed pretty comfortable just letting himself in to all areas of the building. You got the sense that you would walk into the bathroom one morning and he would be there re-filling the toilet paper and asking you why you use generic brand floss. He described himself as a “hands-off” landlord though, so maybe I should have ignored all the red flags and taken it.

Clara Moves In With A Boy

I finally found a place! Exactly three weeks after the day I arrived in New York, I moved into my new apartment. Kate was a wonderful hostess (as was Myra last weekend), but I was very ready to be settled and spend my free time doing something other than wandering the city seeing rooms. As much as I wanted to spend all of this weekend setting up everything and making the place perfect, I also had to focus on work since my first major assignment is due on Tuesday. So the room is still in a bit of a disarrayed state (and let's be honest: I got so excited about seeing the bottoms of my suitcases again that I sort of started throwing things everywhere). Eventually it will be fit for pictures, but in the meantime here are the basics:

• Located in the southern part of Park Slope, Brooklyn. My room does not face the park, but the apartment is directly across the street from Prospect Park
• In a two bedroom apartment with windows in every room
• One roommate: John. A late 30s gay man who just finished a grad program in photography. I found him via craigslist, and so far he seems to be very nice, easy to live with, and not the sort of person who will murder me in the middle of the night
• John has two cats who will be moving in in November

Now that I have a place, a huge weight has been lifted. I feel like I can actually start to enjoy New York. Also, now that it is all over I can find humor in the apartment process instead of being terribly depressed by it. I plan to write some posts about it soon, but that too is going to wait until after Tuesday (when I give a riveting class presentation about archival cardboard).

Pitching a FIT

FIT is a weird place. I don’t mean that it is a bad school or that I’m questioning my decision to come here—I mean that so far it has sort of been a bizarre ride to be a student here. My program continues to show solid evidence that it is high quality, will teach me a lot of interesting and practical things, and may in fact set me up with the right contacts to find a job. But everything outside my program (ie: everything not encompassed in floor 6 of building E) is fascinatingly strange. Clearly, a big part of it is the fact that I had a liberal arts undergrad education in Indiana, and this is a design school in the middle of New York City. All the buildings are tall, I have to wear my ID badge while wandering around, and “dance team” is one of the only varsity sports. But for some of this stuff, there is no excuse. If was Jerry Seinfeld, I would be saying, “Seriously. What is the deal with FIT?”

• Every student in my program has had some sort of frustration with various offices requiring paperwork. For me this started before I even got there. Remember when five days before I got accepted to the program, they e-mailed to say that they hadn’t received half my applications materials despite having confirmed their arrival months ago? That was fun. This week I spent just about every day calling or visiting health services to try and clear up an issue with my immunization forms. New York requires the form to have a doctor’s stamp, and Washington doctors don’t have stamps. They helpfully suggested that I could get all the shots again. I’ve been advised to “be a New Yorker” and yell at them until I get what I want. As a Seattleite I feel guilty doing it, but it does seem to magically solve problems and make missing papers re-appear.

• If you enjoy people watching, you should come hang out on campus. My pre-conceived notion about the undergrad population was that it would be a bunch of gay boys and artsy females previously known as the out-there individualist at their high school. Much like the delusional Project Runway contestant who is shocked to be eliminated for making a chicken suit, I imagined most of the students carrying that “the world isn’t ready for me” attitude that is adorably obnoxious coming from someone who is 19. To some degree that is true. I’ve seen a lot of “ironic” early 90s ensembles, heads shaved in unexpected places, and perplexing piercings. But there is another FIT type that I wasn’t expecting—the group frequently referred to as “those little FIT girls.” These specimens look like they very well might have been the most popular girls in high school. They are all super thin, have long straight hair, wear tiny cute outfits, are covered in makeup, and carry designer bags. I heard a rumor (92% likely to be an urban myth) that the cafeteria sprays the lettuce in the salad bar with cornstarch so that “all the anorexic girls will get some calories.” The other day I sat next to one that was particularly amazing. I saw this girl with lips that looked suspiciously collagen enhanced, staring off into space, with her mouth partially open as if she wasn’t totally clear on how to close it.

• Now onto my top issue with FIT: THERE ARE NO BATHROOMS AT THIS SCHOOL. As part of living in a civilized world, one expects that when in a tall building, if you ask “where is the bathroom?” the answer should be something resembling “down that hallway and to the right.” The answer should NOT be “oh gosh…let’s see…well I think…is there one on the third floor? Maybe…the 5^th?” I have been in two buildings (one with 6 floors, the other 8) where my inquiry regarding bathrooms has been met with confusion, and then the admission that my best bet is to go to the first floor. And the first floor bathrooms aren’t nice and large with rows of stalls. No, they usually have between two and four stalls, and are a mess because of all the heavy use. Come on, isn’t this America? Doesn’t the Statue of Liberty say “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning for a decent restroom?” If my ancestors wanted to travel long distances to wait in line for a smelly bathroom they would have stayed in Russia.

Train Station II

Before they starting waving handkerchiefs and running down the platform

At the Train Station

With the folks

Little Victories

I have now been in New York for a full week. The apartment hunt is not going well, so don’t ask about that. But other things have been good, and I’ve had a lot of moments when I have felt like a success or genuinely excited to be here. Here are a few:

• I managed to not look naked in my ID photo

While standing in line to get my FIT ID photo taken I suddenly realized I was wearing a sundress with spaghetti straps. Depending on how the image was cropped, this could result in no clothing appearing in my photo. I had this problem with my international student ID I got for Vienna. You think, “well, maybe no one will notice.” Everyone notices. I explained the issue to the photographer, and even though he pretended not to care, he cropped it just right. Visible clothes! Success!

• I survived my first week of class

This week was not the official start of school, but was instead the “proseminar” in which they made sure we were all on the same page about reading, doing research, and writing papers. Five years ago it was a full semester class. After that it was two weeks. This year they decided to condense it to one week, and the result was about what you would expect. We had papers and presentations all week and all got kind of burnt out. The plus side was I think it helped me make the mental switch back to school mode. I had a freak out about the work on Tuesday, but then got organized and it came easily.

• I have generally felt appropriately dressed

One of my big fears about New York was that my wardrobe—oft complimented in Seattle—might as well be socks and sandals by New York standards. It turns out frump exists in New York as well. A couple of weeks ago I put on an outfit and commented to Elise that I was sewing my tacky oats before I moved to the big city. This week, that outfit was one of the only things I could locate in the messy pile inside my suitcase. I wore it, and no one threw rocks at me.

8/24/09 First city rats, first day at FIT

I can’t believe I have only been here for three full days. Yet, one week ago I was still in Seattle, having drinks at Linda’s. Since I have arrived I have mostly been recovering from general physical and emotional exhaustion of moving across the country. Today however, was the first day when I think I got really excited about the city (oddly, I was a bit excited yesterday when I saw my first genuine NYC rats in the subway station, but I’m don’t think I’m supposed to find that charming). Since my cab ride from Penn station, today was the first time I’ve gone back into Manhattan. There is really something thrilling about coming out of the subway and being in the middle of it all. Instead spinning around and throwing my hat, I felt happy to stomp down the street with my fast New Yorker gait and act like I knew where I was going. When it turned out I was, in fact, going the wrong way, I tried to act appropriately scowly.

I was in Manhattan because today was my first day at FIT. In the afternoon we had orientation, and later in the evening we had our first class. The group is all women (even “Patrice” whose name seemed suspiciously male when I saw it on the list), most are in their twenties, and many have quite a bit of experience under their belts. Clearly, not everyone has museum experience though, as a couple tried to bring food and drink into the conservation lab (most of you reading this are probably shrugging, but I know a few are gasping in horror). There is one other West-Coaster (Carmel, California), a few from various places (Toronto, Detroit, Israel), but most are from New York state. Oh, and one poor woman is commuting from Philadelphia.

As interesting as it was, I’m finding that I haven’t quite switched over to school mode yet. It seems weird that I am officially a “graduate student.” When our professor was talking about all the different libraries we could use and how the special collections were open by appointment only, one woman raised her hand and asked if they would allow us to make appointments and what kind of connections we would need to have. Our prof. responded by saying “You are graduate level researchers. That is what special collections are for.” Oh, yeah! You’re right!

8/22/09 I Made it to New York!

Because of the way my new train room was laid out, it seemed logical to sleep on the top bunk rather than the bottom has I had been doing. This was a mistake. The tracks were really rough, and the train shook violently all night. The upper bunk has a safety harness, but even so I wasn’t eager to get thrown into it in the middle of the night. So I slept sporadically, rolled over toward the wall as much as possible.

I slept through Ohio and Pennsylvania, and spent most of the day in upstate New York. There were rainstorms moving through the area, which apparently train tracks can’t deal with. My train ended up being delayed by about two and a half hours. My fellow passengers were grumbling (especially since the snack car had gone to Boston when the train separated in Albany) but I was a bit nervous about arriving, so was happy to sit tight.

When I finally made it to New York, I had to figure out how to get more stuff than I could carry to a cab and then up into an apartment. I also needed to get the cab to stop twice: once at a bar to get keys and directions from Kate (who I am staying with), and a second time at a Brooklyn apartment I had never been to. It ended up working out, and as the cab drove me through midtown and across the Brooklyn bridge, I stared out the window like a starry-eyed tourist.

Today has mostly been a blur. I’ve responded to some apartment postings, tried to finish up the last of my assigned reading, and wandered a little in the neighborhood. With a bit more sleep tonight I’m hoping I’ll be more alert tomorrow, and with orientation staring on Monday, I’m excited to see what this grad school thing is really like. Thank you to everyone who has called, e-mailed, or texted over the last couple of days. I really appreciated it!

8/20/09 Train Trip Day 3

Today was mostly the same routine. I got to see Minnesota and Wisconsin before the train stopped in Chicago (so add Illinois to the list if you are keeping score). Milwaukie wins for having the grimmest train station. Most of our other stops consisted of a little station, some outdoor benches, and a paved platform. I got in the habit of getting out to walk around every time we had a long stop so I figured Milwaukie would be no exception. However, the stop was under some kind of overpass (so it was dark), had no visible station (nothing to look at), and something near the station smelled really bad (possibly poop). I returned to my cabin immediately.

Once in Chicago I hauled my pile of stuff to the first class lounge and I camped out there for most of my layover. Like the train-attached hermit I had become, I went out only once to search for food. I followed signs for the “food court” and was led to the bottom of a set of escalators that were only headed down. I stood there for a while, staring longingly up to the unreachable food court. Eventually I found my way to the secret up escalator and was able to locate a pretty decent sandwich.

Later in the evening I boarded my second and final train. I still had a roomette, but this was on a “Viewliner” train so it was a bit different. The train was not double-decker so the rooms had higher ceilings, and I had my own toilet and sink. Having the toilet made the room bigger, but it still seemed weird. The toilet was not in a separate room, it was sort of like if you had a toilet attached to the end of your couch. It would be convenient, but weird. I assumed I wouldn’t have to use it but it turned out there were no public restrooms in the hallway. So I pulled the blinds closed and used the creepy room toilet.

Soon after the train left Chicago, we entered Indiana. Even though I was nowhere close to Richmond, I got strangely excited and a part of me felt like I was coming home. I think this bodes well. I love Seattle, but if I have a place in my heart for Indiana, I think there is room for New York too.

8/19/09 Train Trip Day 2

Basically, this is how cross country train travel shakes out: each morning you wake up earlier than you want because there is always some time change in the middle of the night, you eat three meals a day in which you are seated with people you don’t know, and at any and all long stops you get out and walk the platform in an attempt to re-invigorate your legs. Otherwise you sit and read, talk to people, or stare out the window.

Today we toured Montana and North Dakota. In the morning we were going through beautiful mountain areas, and for the rest of the day it was pretty much farmland. One thing I like about train travel is the chance to really see the country. Before I end up in the big city, it is an interesting contrast to remember all the parts of the country that are still very rural. In the morning I was given a free copy of a local Montana newspaper. The two lead stories were Troublesome Griz Killed and Quilt Judge Illuminates Art of the Stitch. The third item down was actually a kind of interesting story about a 63-year old woman who was lost during a fishing trip, and was presumed dead. She had gotten stuck in some brush and was found sunburned, dehydrated, covered in insect bites, but alive. Her son was quoted as saying, “She’s always out doing something that she probably shouldn’t have been doing…Like this.” Brutal.

In the late morning I decided to walk the full length of the train and see what there was to see. What there was to see was several sleeper cars, more coach cars, the dining car, and the observation/lounge car. The best part of the lounge car was the Amish people. I sat down to read right next to this older Amish man and his daughter. He and another woman on the other side of me (not Amish) actually talked to me briefly and I told them I was going to New York. Part of me wanted to tell him that I was raised Mennonite, but I was too afraid that he would give me the once over, roll his eyes, and call me a brazen hussy. Later, the Amish father left and went to talk to some other people from his group, and his daughter stretched out on the two chairs next to me. There was some pretty visible Amish ankle and calf in view, so I guess I wasn’t the only Anabaptist hussie on board.

8/18/09 Train Trip Day 1

For most of Tuesday I was being reminded that nothing unhinges me quite like packing [also known to certain college roommates as “rodent mode”]. I basically went through several phases of panic, weepiness, and gnawing on furniture. Eventually the time came to go to the train station, and my parents and I loaded up the car with bags of stuff to go back home, suitcases, and Olivia Geffner.

Once at the station I checked my two 49.5 pound bags (the limit was 50) and sat down to wait. Along with Mom, Dad, and Olivia, I was eventually joined by Ethan, Holly, Meera, and Elise. I felt so loved! Unlike air travel there was no security, and once the train was open for boarding everyone got to crowd on and check out my roomette. For those of you not familiar with high-class train travel, a “roomette” on a Superliner train, consists of two single person couch/chairs facing each other with a retractable table between. There is a sliding door, a tiny closet (big enough for about one to two outfits on hangers) and a small shelf. At night the chairs become flat to make a lower bunk, and an upper bunk comes down from the ceiling. The space is small, but private. I was on the lower floor the train which I was initially disappointed by, but later I liked because there was no through-traffic down my hallway.

So basically I made all my train-mates jealous, because I had a charming team of well-wishers there to see me off (really—I heard several passengers ask if I was the “popular” one who had all the friends at the station). We all had this idea that we would wave as the train pulled away, just as in days of yore. It didn’t pan out quite like that though, since in true Amtrak style, the train decided to depart late. So the goodbye party decided to wave while walking backwards in slow motion down the platform. It was pretty classy.

Once alone in my room, I got a little weepy. Then the car attendant offered me some complimentary Champagne and I cheered up a bit.