The Ugli

Last weekend, a friend and I decided we’d get economical and cook ourselves dinner. We wandered around the Food Emporium near her apartment, throwing vegetables into our basket to stir-fry: peppers, onions, mushrooms, bok choy, eggplant…

It was on our hunt for a dessert mango that we spotted it: the ugli fruit. Pronunciation: “ugly.” Yes, actually. And it is hideous.

I was enthralled. I took the thing — which resembles a rotten, green orange the size of a baby’s face — in my hands. I held it to my chest. I deemed it my boyfriend. We eschewed the mango in favor of this rare, gleaming find. As we cooked, as we ate the stir fry, I burst into laughter over and over as I remembered the ugli in our possession.

But then we ate my boyfriend, and let me tell you: it was not good. If it looked like an orange’s neglected sibling, it tasted worse — in fact, it had no taste.

Nonetheless, I continued my fondness for the ugli, which was now a pile of (probably genetically-engineered) citrus in my belly. Poking around online, I discovered, to my delight, that the ugli has its own website! Apparently, “Ugli” is a trademark for the fruit, which is not an orange, but a Jamaican-grown tangelo. Best line on the website:

When buying the UGLI® brand of tangelos do not be misled by their appearance, you will love their sweet and tangy flavour.

“The Affliction is only Skin Deep so the Beauty is in the Eating“™

Amazing. But, according to Wikipedia, the thing is called “ugli” precisely because it looks so deformed: “Its name derives from the unsightly appearance of its rough, wrinkled, greenish-yellow skin, wrapped loosely around the orange pulpy citrus inside.” Now if loosely-wrapped skin isn’t appetizing, I don’t know what is.

On Boston

I visited Boston last weekend. And I have to say: I don’t get it.

Why on earth do people like Boston?

The friends I was visiting liked that it was a city, but not too big, or too dirty, or too mean, like that crummy New York. Well, I understand the desire for cleanliness and a small-town, friendly feel. But then why bother living in a city? The whole point of a city is that it’s exciting! There’s always something to do! There are a billion people you don’t know! The air is polluted! Why not just live in a small town if you want sterility and best friends forever living next door?

I will give Boston the Charles. That is quite a river. But then again, the city is cold. River negated.

Can someone defend Boston for me? I honestly would like to be enlightened.

Brucepack

A couple of Trader Joe’s trips ago, I spied a man with a backpack. That’s cool; I, too, carry my groceries in a backback. (I also try to wear boots and sweatpants so I can feel outdoorsy and hardcore.)

But his was no normal backpack: it was a Brucepack. That is, the word “Bruce” — presumably his name — was etched onto his bag.

Parents are warned not to give their children accessories that announce their identities, which would make them good prey for strangers. But shouldn’t the same go for adults? In fact, I bet adults would be especially susceptible to a kidnapping, because they’d never expect it! Even the word “kidnapping” assumes you’re a baby-faced Oshkosh-wearer.

Stranger: Hey, Bruce!

Bruce: Oh…uh, hey?

Stranger: What’s doing, my man? Great to see you and the wife at that cocktail party last month!

Bruce: Uh, yeah! The cocktail party! Great to see you too.

Stranger: Hey, you know, I’m heading home — want a lift with that huge bag of groceries? Sure must suck to take the bus with that thing. Give us some time to catch up, too…

Didn’t happen. But it could’ve.

Stop Requested

If you’ve never ridden a New York City bus, let me induct you into our elite circle with some info about protocol. Unlike our underground friend, the subway, the bus does not pull over at every stop along its route. No siree! If there are people at the bus stop, yeah, it’ll let them on. But if no one is waiting, something special has to happen.

Are you on the edge of your seat? I present you with the magic formula: to ensure that the bus will let you off, you’ve got to press the tape.

Huh? What’s the tape? Oh, silly you. Along the walls of the bus, at two-seat intervals, are sensor-filled strips, colored yellow or black. When you push on these pieces of “tape,” the bus driver is alerted that you’d like to get off at the next stop. That way, if no one’s waiting and no one needs to get off, the bus can sail right by the stop without wasting time.

It’s a brilliant system. As I mused about it today on the M79, something odd struck me: people usually don’t wait until the last minute to press the tape, hoping that someone will do it before them. With regularity, passengers request each stop way before the bus has reached it.

Why did this surprise me? For one, I’m not one of the responsible passengers: I often do wait for someone else to push the tape. And, whenever I wait, someone else takes action.

“You Must Have Been Hungry!”

My friend from pre-school (oldest friendship!) and I went to dinner at the Bar at Etats-Unis on Saturday. (Side note: delightful, but pricey. I loved my duck salad.) The bartender took a liking to us and gave us a complimentary molten chocolate cake and dessert wine at the end of the meal.

Free chocolate cake? This couldn’t be real. We looked at the cake; we looked at each other. Cake; each other. Cake. We dug in.

This cake oozed molten chocolate. I wanted to jump inside and take a swim. We finished it, scraping the plate.

The bartender came to clear our dishes and gaped at us, the gluttonous mutants, shaking his head. “Remind me not to go up against you,” he said, in mock horror.

I get comments like this at least a third of the times that I go out to eat. (My favorite, at a restaurant in DC last month: “You did such a GOOD job!” It was a sandwich.) My friend is one of the skinnier people I know, and I’m a small girl. Are waiters just baffled that a little person can actually consume food? Or is it that, in looks-conscious cities like New York and DC, it’s unusual to find any female finishing her dish?

Awkward Communications

Saturday night, I went to a great bar (King’s Head Tavern, near Union Square — it has shelves full of books and a working fireplace!). It was a birthday party where I knew a small percentage of people, so I was in intro mode.

“Hi, have we met before?” I extended my hand toward a woman who’d just joined my circle.

My friends gaped at me. “That’s the waitress,” one whispered.

The rest of the night, everyone mocked me: “Jess introduced herself to the waitress!” they chortled. But really, what’s so weird about that?

Admittedly, I didn’t realize she was the waitress. But still, doesn’t this say something about social boundaries? If the same woman had attended the party, no one would have commented on my introduction. But because she was serving us, the conversation had to account for some distance between us. It’s a muted, modern-day version of a caste system — only the castes are often more fluid, based on the roles we’re playing in the moment.

Giving Up Your Seat

On the subway, the woman sitting next to me was kinder than I. A lady with wispy, light blonde hair and a lined face came on board and stood in front of us.

“Do you want to sit down?” my seatmate asked, as I spread my newspaper over my lap.

The standing lady laughed. “That’s okay — I’m not as old as I look!”

There isn’t a better place to observe American social norms than subway-seat offerings. A girl offering a guy a seat is akin to slapping him in the face. A guy can offer a girl his age a seat, but a girl offering another girl her age a seat would get funny looks.

The real judgment call comes with the almost-elderly. Is it an insult to offer someone on the cusp a seat? — Is it like asking a round woman when the baby is due? Or should the seat-offering be a default question for anyone in the vicinity of old?

Welcome Back

I just returned to New York from a five-day trip to D.C., where I was one of the two million crazies who stood in the cold to watch President Barack H. Obama take the oath of office (it was so freezing, and so worth it). I took the bus home, and I’d only walked an avenue when a man stopped me.

“Excuse me, Miss?” he asked, with a faint accent I couldn’t place.

Directions! Of course I could help — back, as I was, in my home city. I stopped and paused.

“Have you ever heard of the Mother of God in the Bible?”

New York. Oh, New York. I guess this was my official “welcome back.”

Almost…

I need to be the first person at the bus stop to spot our chariot in the distance, so I stand way out from the curb and peer down the street. The other day, as I waited for the M15 up First Avenue, I saw the top of some vehicle with a line of tiny orange lights. The bus!

But it wasn’t the bus — it was a truck. As it passed, I thought about how close I’d come to spotting the M15, my savior from the cold.

I used to do this, too, when I waited for my mom to pick me up from school. I’d see her shiny gray Volvo coming down the street…approaching the school…and then — damn. A saggy old man sat in the driver’s seat.

In fact, this makes no sense. A truck that looks like a bus, or my mom’s car driven by a grandpa, are no closer to being what I’m waiting for than an elephant hula hooping down the road.

Engulfed in the Crowd

I met a friend for dinner in Koreatown last night. He moved from Manhattan to Texas a few months ago and, in reminiscing about his city days, said that what most drew him to New York is what pushes so many people away — in fact, the people themselves. It’s a city full of residents who pay exorbitant amounts, he pointed out, just to be around really interesting people.

I’m not sure about that last part — I think people choose to live here as much for the prestige of affording a Manhattan apartment, and for the entertainment and feeding options, as for the interesting people. But there is a thrill to being surrounded by thousands of other humans who have no idea who you are. It’s even more anonymous than being truly alone because being part of a crowd emphasizes that you’re a stranger.

Tourist Goggles

I returned to Manhattan yesterday after a week out of town with my family. After only seven days away, the city looked different — everything that had become invisible popped out. The buildings really are tall.

I also felt oddly disoriented. Somehow, I’d forgotten where everything was and how to comport myself. My friend and I, searching for the tree at Rockefeller Center, took to pretending we were tourists to hide our embarrassment over wandering aimlessly and, finally, asking for directions. I thought I’d learned to navigate subway platforms, but the crowds made me feel woozy: were there always this many people?

Subway traumas aside, I like the tourist’s view of New York. It’s unlikely to have this many bright lights, ethnicities, apartment buildings, restaurants, jaywalkers, ornate buildings, hideous buildings, and smells smushed together on such a small land mass. And, once in a while, it’s refreshing to strip away the haze of everyday life and marvel at this city.

The Hiccups

Last weekend, I’d had a few glasses of wine at a holiday party and started hiccuping. It was cliché. I tried to subdue them, but one of the women in my conversation circle had had a few herself and announced, “You have the hiccups!”

“Yes, I know,” I said, closing my eyes and nodding.

“Don’t be ashamed! Let ‘em join the conversation!” She was excited.

A few minutes later, she tried to scare them out of me: “BoooOOOO!” Soon others joined in the scaring fun. The hiccups stayed.

Everyone started offering suggestions: hold your breath. Drink from the wrong side of the cup. Drink water upside down. (I’ve tried this, and it’s dangerous. The water goes up your nose.) My own method of choice is to clench a pencil in my teeth and keep holding it there while drinking water — not practical at a holiday party.

The Big Apple Circus

Yesterday, my dad took my brother, 20, and me, 23, to the Big Apple Circus. It was his birthday present to himself.

On a Sunday afternoon, the place was teeming with children. I’d seen August: Osage County the weekend before and the culture difference was stark. It wasn’t just the kids’ presence (they gasped and oohed at every circus trick), but also the adults’ behavior. Having children all around made it okay to use normal speaking voices, and to stand up, in the middle of the performances.

I wondered if this bothered the circus performers, especially the musicians. The horse trainer, I imagined, had looked forward to running the horses around the rink since she started training. But was this the trumpeter’s end goal, or did he aim to join a Broadway show’s pit orchestra? I spent the entire first act thinking about how I wanted to ask the band members how they got involved in the Big Apple.

The Brownie of Doom

At 8:16 this morning, a girl, about 10 years old, munched a six-inch-by-six-inch brownie on her way to school with her mother.

There are so many problems with this scenario. It is not normal to eat 17 grams of fat (and that’s for a 100-gram brownie, smaller than this girl’s) for breakfast. How about some tasty cereal or yogurt — foods that are less likely to give kids spare tires? Childhood obesity isn’t just a buzzword — it’s threatening to plague the one in three American children who are overweight with diabetes, joint problems, gallstones, and worse.

Plus, I pity the teacher who inherited that sugar-high girl from her mother.

Free(ish) Fun!

What costs one MetroCard swipe and flies over the East River?

Presenting: the Roosevelt Island Tram! This is my new favorite transport mechanism. It’s a gondola that takes you from Midtown East (60th and 2nd), over the river, to Roosevelt Island. It soars alongside the Queensboro Bridge like a fun little airplane. Once you’re on Roosevelt Island, you can take the Tramway, a tiny bus, all around the island — for only 25 cents! I felt like I was in the olden days.

Coffee: The New Alcohol

I wasn’t into coffee when I moved to New York. I was the anti-addict.

Now, I’m the addict. And I don’t know one person in New York who isn’t.

Drinking alcohol has long been a bragging right for New Yorkers, as for college students. It’s cool to drink, and it’s cool to drink expensively.

Recently, coffee has gained that type of status. It was always an obsession for the sleep-deprived, but now it’s a thing to do. It’s social (though meeting for coffee is often, as a friend pointed out, a way to avoid an awkward dinner). It’s an art form: not just caffeine, but something that should be done right. It’s art. And, like alcohol, if you don’t drink it, people bug you. (“You don’t drink coffee? I mean — why?”)

Central Park Clarinetists

I know two data points don’t count as a pattern. But on a run through Central Park this morning, I saw two dads walking with young children carrying clarinets. I needed to know where they were going.

The most reasonable assumption is that there’s some elementary school near Central Park, and these kids are in the band. But I really hope it’s something crazy! As I ran, I made up possibilities:

• The children are members of the premier Youth Orchestra of New York City (if that’s a real thing, I just took a very good guess).
• There are millions of little children who flock to a cave beneath Central Park the Monday after Thanksgiving every year to play clarinet tunes.
• The clarinets are actually tiny suitcases. The children are being shipped off to be space combatants, Ender’s Game-style.

Any actual, i.e. non-fiction, leads? Comment.

Subway Kids

Last night, two women boarded the uptown 1 with twin boys, aged seven. (I’m bad at guessing age, so i call any kid between five and 11 a seven-year-old.) These were raucous children. They wanted “window seats,” which apparently means the seats underneath the subway windows, which have no view 90 percent of the time. They also repeatedly threatened to bite their mother’s hands. She laughed.

The second woman, aware of other passengers’ scorn, tried to joke. “Anyone want two boys?” she asked the rest of the car. “Twins, very quiet.” No response.

Trader Joe’s Gripe

The Union Square Trader Joe’s staff members are helpful and cheerful. The customers are often less than pleasant.

Some background: I love Trader Joe’s. I’m a walking ad — I talk up Trader Joe’s about as much as I blab about my current top-five ranking of ice cream flavors (a lot). I brave the lines, the chaos, and the mean shoppers for the staff, the prices, and the high-quality food. But I have to tell you a story.

Looking Young

I’m 23, but I don’t look it. I don’t just mean I get carded — I mean that whenever I’m asked my age, I’m assaulted. “Twenty-three? You look like you’re in high school!”

When I tell the kind lady or gentleman that yes, I am 23, but I get that a lot, I get this: “You’ll appreciate it when you’re older.” (In hundreds of renditions, the conversation has never strayed from this script.)

But a friend raised a good question this weekend: does looking young when you’re young really translate to looking young when you’re old? I pondered, and now I’m not so sure. Looking young when you’re young is the product of facial features and body type. A round face looks younger than a long, cheekboned one; a small person looks younger than someone tall or stocky. But when you’re past, say, 40 years old, it’s the hair color and the wrinkles that make the difference. The grayer and wrinklier you are, the older you’ll look. So a young-looking 20-something’s round face might mean squat once the wrinkles set in — right?

I’m really just looking for reassurance here, so if you have counter-evidence, please comment.

Bus Driver Buddies

Yesterday morning, at the intersection of York and 68th, our M31 bus driver laughed and waved.

I looked out the window to see who he was waving to. It was another MTA driver making a right onto York, in front of our bus.

Did they see each other at this intersection every morning? I wondered if they looked forward to the daily meet-and-greet.

But wait — did they know each other outside of these waving sessions? Maybe they’d never actually spoken, but had just seen each other at this intersection so many times they’d become familiar from afar! I imagined their eventual meeting after so many silent hellos:

Back to the Bus People

I’ve argued repeatedly that bus people are nicer. My brother visited a couple of weekends ago, and while on the bus, I repeated this, apparently my favorite and only sound byte.

“Well, yeah,” he said. “They know they’re going to be on the bus for a long time.”

Is that it? Are bus people just nicer than subway people because they’re committed to an indefinitely long journey? I prefer a cool self-selection theory, or something that involves old people. Thoughts?

Singing in Public

Confession: the day after I lambasted creepy subway singing, I caught myself singing, and not softly, as I walked on a UES sidewalk. What’s worse? I was singing this.

In the days since, I’ve discovered this wasn’t an isolated occurrence. I sing on the street all the time. Broadway show tunes (yes, even Rent), classical music I pretend I can do a cappella, MGMT’s Kids.

To the subway singers of the world: my apologies.

The Police

Not these guys! Ha ha!

Last night I was waiting for the bus at 14th and 1st, and noticed a line of at least 10 police cars sitting on 1st Avenue. What were they doing there? At first I was nonchalant. After five minutes of pondering I had to figure out what they were up to.

I sidled up to a police car with its window cracked open. I was about to ask, “What are you guys doing here?” but, at the last minute, decided that sounded threatening, and these people had guns. “Do the police always hang out here?” (Smooth.)

“No, we’re not hanging out,” said the policewoman in the passenger seat.

Hmm. “Are you…on a call?” I tried.

“No.”

As punishment, all 10 police cars lit their blindy lights, damaging my retinas. Then they left.

Mystery unsolved. Any clues? Comment.

Update: The Vote

Everybody: I voted.

I was not an ideal voter. I took about six minutes in the booth, and that’s a conservative estimate. When I exited, the line had quadrupled, and everyone waiting glared as though I’d just spent a quarter-hour shitting in a Starbucks bathroom.

Why so long? First, because I started tearing up in the voting booth. True story! I couldn’t read until I waited for the tear ducts to calm down.

Second, because as I was about to pull the lever to register my vote, I saw this in the bottom-right corner. It was a proposition I didn’t even know about! I frantically tried to read it. But there were so many negatives — “eliminate,” “disability,” “disabled.” What was this thing saying? I read; I reread. But imaginary clock ticks and tocks boomed in my head. I panicked. In the end I didn’t trust myself to vote on it.

Oh, Proposition 1, my downfall!

Voting Confusion

I moved from Brooklyn to Manhattan in August, but I forgot to change my address with the Board of Elections until a week ago (read: too late). Not a big deal; I’ll go to Brooklyn to vote. And also, not surprising, because I’m the type who would forget to change my address, or not know how to do it.

But is it just me? A few of the smarter people I know have had issues, too. One, who graduated from college in June and works at Goldman, thought he could change his address on voting day. He’ll either have to go back to New Jersey to vote or forget it. Another, who lives in New York but is from LA, sent in his papers requesting an absentee ballot on time. But last week, he got a letter informing him that there wasn’t time to process his papers and mail him an absentee ballot, so he’d have to vote in LA. (Of course, he can’t be there, which is why he wanted to vote absentee.)

Creepy Subway Singing

Three times this week, the person sitting next to me on the subway has started singing. I don’t mean singing along with music. I don’t mean singing for money. I mean singing a soft, creepy tune, as if to themselves, except not.

This isn’t okay. When I’m on the subway, reading my book, and a stranger launches into one of these ditties, I feel (a) distracted, (b) irritated, and then (c) afraid. I repeatedly jump to the conclusion that the person is haunted. Logical?

Halloween in New York

Last year was my first NYC Halloween, and I acted the part of newcomer: I went to the Halloween Parade. Big mistake. In an attempt to cross the street, I was pressed between one man’s butt and another’s stomach. The stomach pressed into my chest so forcefully that I thought I might pass out from lack of oxygen. Do not try this.

Since I was otherwise occupied, I didn’t answer my biggest question: what does trick-or-treating look like in New York City? Do the kids buzz random apartments to get into buildings? Do they just trick-or-treat in their own buildings? Or…is there no trick-or-treating?

The Gift that Wasn’t

A friend of mine just got an enormous shoe rack in the mail. The thing — at least 30 pounds in its unwieldy box — took 20 minutes to move from her living room to her bedroom. She spent four hours constructing it. She spent 10 minutes looking for six pieces the company didn’t include. She spent two hours deconstructing it, repacking it, and taping it up to return to the company.

Another friend’s aunt presented her with a couch from the ’70s that was both outdated and decomposing. Her mom insisted she keep the couch so as not to insult her aunt. Now she has to sit on a pile of mothballs that offends multiple senses.

How much do you have to put up with for gratitude’s sake? And what’s the threshold between a bestowal and a burden?

Share your thoughts and non-gift stories in the comments.

Cute Alert

I was approaching a street corner on a run this morning when a father and his toddler daughter jumped onto the curb. They’d just sprinted across the street and were panting and thrilled.

The father looked up at me from where he was crouching, cueing his daughter to do the same. “Look, she’s running, too!” he said. I laughed.

They get my Cutest Thing I’ve Seen Today award.

The Lost Doll

This morning, on the way from the 6 train to the turnstyle, I spied a doll lying on the ground. She was yellow, with pretty yarn hair. She was also dirty, as she’d been mashed by the soles of many shoes.

I tried to make myself walk through the turnstyle. But I couldn’t! I kept picturing a kid realizing the doll was lost and shrieking in mourning. I turned around and picked up the stinky doll with two outstretched fingers. I was a hero!

Dolly and I turnstyled. I approached the ticket booth. “Hi, I found this doll on the floor,” I said. “Is there a lost and found?”

“It’s on 34th Street,” she said. She didn’t swoon at the sight of the stuffed child.

Rich Kids

Every morning as I walk on the Upper East Side, I swoon at the children on their way to school. They cover the sidewalks. But these aren’t ordinary children: these are rich children. And they dress the part.

I have a fetish for shoes — teeny, tiny shoes. (This sounds like the pedophiliac version of Sarah Jessica Parker. Pretend it doesn’t.) So when I see a little girl sporting a plaid skirt, gray tights and little patent-leather Mary Janes, I have to refrain from swooping her up and running away.

The logic doesn’t apply to adults. Kid in a Burberry coat: adorable! Parent in a Burberry coat: greedy.

Never mind that these children have an 83 percent chance of maturing into spoiled teens who say “Whatevs.”

Hidden Behind Plexiglass

A woman in a taxi’s backseat picked her nose today. I know because she hunted for squishy treasure while the cab was stopped at the crosswalk where I stood.

Why do passengers think car windows are one-way mirrors? They’re not. If you can see out, people can see in.

The misconception makes for hilarious people-watching, though. People rock out. They change their clothes. They do unmentionable things. They see how long they can flare their nostrils before their nose muscles reach exhaustion.

Best sighting? Report in comments.

Subway Rage

I berated a woman for her sidewalk rage, so I have to come clean. Yesterday, I had subway fury.

On entering, I spotted a lone empty seat. I lunged for it. But a 50-something woman with googly-eye glasses lunged faster, jetting in front of me to snag the spot.

I think it was the manic look in her eyes that made me envision myself growing into the Hulk and yelling a lot of scary, loud garble. For the 20 minutes I spent on the 6 train between Spring Street and Grand Central, I glared at her. Even as she took out a map and I realized she was a tourist, I glared. As she shrunk into her seat, I glared. As I said to myself, “You were about to steal the seat from her, and besides — you’re 23! I think you can handle standing,” the manic look flashed in my brain and I glared some more.

I have now repented.

Apple Purity

A guy in the elevator was eating an apple. I caught myself wincing: he wasn’t good enough for that apple.

Background: I am beyond an apple aficionado. I’m obsessed with apples — I eat at least two a day. Granny Smith are my preferred variety. The crispness, the acidic bite: is there anything purer?

So I caught myself judging this apple eater and I stepped back to analyze why. The guy was smacking his lips. His belly hung over his pants and stretched the buttons of his shirt. He brought the words “sleazy businessman” to mind. Here he was, holding this symbol of purity — ingesting it, even — and emitting sleazy rays throughout the elevator. It was incongruous!

Sidewalk Rage

This morning, I caught a rampage. A woman who had just crossed the street turned around and screamed at a driver, “You could’ve said excuse me!”

Do people understand that if drivers’ windows are closed, they can’t hear you? Also, “excuse me”? Sounds like a case of misdirected aggression to me, composed pedestrian.

Then again, when someone slows down to let me cross the street, I pip, “Thank you!” Any chance that makes it through the glass windshield?

Hiding in the Crowds

There’s no privacy in New York. But I consider some places “private” because, even though I’m surrounded by people, I don’t know any of them. Privacy via anonymity.

On the bus this morning, I was being anonymous and antisocial, peering over the top of my newspaper at the other passengers. Another woman (“Janice”), across the aisle, was doing the same. A few stops along, a hefty woman (“Franny”) boarded and made it apparent to the rest of the bus that she and Janice were comrades. Janice faked pleasure. Franny didn’t get the fake vibes and wiggled in next to Janice, striking up a conversation that lasted until they both got off at the same stop.

As I watched, I grew frightened that I might run into my own fake friend and slouched further behind my paper. I rarely run into people I know in my public-space hideaways. But then, I only moved into my apartment and started using these transportation routes a month ago. What if I’d lived on the Upper East Side for years and had a community there? Where would I hide? No escape!

The Brilliance of Alien Children

Foreign kids impress me.

If a child walking with her mother declares, “Mommy! Ice cream is cold!” I shake my head and think how smart I am by comparison. (“Do you know what Fahrenheit means? How about Kelvins? Got ya, sucker!”). But if a beret-clad French child turns to her mother and says “blahblahblah, Mere!” I gasp in wonder. The words I don’t understand! The guttural rs! She must know about Kelvins and can probably name water’s freezing point.

If the kid speaks Mandarin, forget it. The less I know of the language, the smarter she must be. Never mind that she may not speak English, the Hardest and Best Language On Earth.

The Point of Commonality

On Friday, my father took me on a dinner cruise around Manhattan. When we got to the Statue of Liberty, the band played America the Beautiful and the whole cruise emptied onto the deck to take pictures. I scoffed at the multitudes snapping digital shots of the big green lady (“Do you think this is what it was like coming in to Ellis Island?” someone joked).

As I tried to overcome my hokeyness aversion and appreciate the statue’s symbolic power, another ship passed by. Everyone on our boat started waving at the strangers on the other one. My brother, who was standing next to me, commented on how weird this was. “It’s like, the farther away you are from the point of commonality, the less you need to have in common,” he said.