It's there if you look for it

Tonight, finally, it all clicked. And oh what a feeling!

My heart raced, my breathing sped up, and I felt this crazy burst of energy spread throughout my entire body. I felt tingly and alive, everywhere! No, I didn't take drugs. And No, it wasn't that other thing that you are all thinking of right now (sick minds, people)...

After a draining, mat-drenching asana class at Jivamukti Yoga Center in downtown Manhattan, I decided to stay on for the Thursday Evening Meditation class. (By the way, this class is totally free.)

I was nervous, to say the least. I was always scared of meditation. Scared that I wouldn't be able to focus, or chill out the incessant thinking that I lovingly refer to as That Damn Voice In My Head, or that my back would hurt and I wouldn't be able to sit still for more than 2 minutes. My experience at an Ashram in India last fall was exactly that - all about the brain, the pain, the fear. That time, in India, it never clicked, and I just felt anxious and frustrated.

I don't really know what was different about tonight. Maybe it was the warmth of the room. Maybe it was the confident voice of Ganesh, the meditation leader. Or maybe I was just ready. And when it did happen, when I tuned in, turned down the volume on my brain, and stopped thinking about how much my back DID hurt; when I finally got still and quiet and truly, totally present, well.... Wow. There it was. Lightening bolt. Rush of energy. Inner Presence. Inner Being. The Inner ME that I have heard about and read about and totally understand on a cerebral level... but have never quite been able to grasp in the non-logical sense of the word. Until tonight.

After the class I shared my experience with Ganesh, and he kissed my cheek and wrapped me up into his huge arms as though he was welcoming me into a secret society for Those Who Get It. I left feeling totally high, and now I want more. I can see how meditation is something like a drug - an addiction - a natural high that sends you soaring. No wonder people do this! It's a feeling of utter joy. Pure bliss. And the cool part is, it doesn't cost a dime. Because it's right there, within me. And I am empowered and amazed to know that such a feeling can be accessed anytime, whenever I need it.

Maybe someday I will be able to reach for it and keep it with me all the time. Live in the bliss every moment of every day. For now, I got a taste of what pure joy feels like, and it's pretty darn incredible.

The crazy thing is, you can to feel it too. It's there if you look for it. If you can get still.

I want to be a dancer

Yesterday, while riding the 103 bus headed uptown, I couldn't help but overhear a conversation taking place close by.

A young girl, maybe no more than 5 years old, sat with her father. She was apparently coming home from school and he from work. With the air of a typical (not yet out-of-work) Ivy League educated Wall Street guy, or maybe an attorney, he was perfectly dressed in a dark suit, carrying a dark briefcase, dark hair combed neatly into place.

Together they sat as she chomped away on a cookie. She looked up at her dad, her huge brown eyes reflecting pure innocence and complete admiration for this man.

"Daddy?" she said. "Do you know what I want to be when I grow up?"

She gestured for him to bend down so she could whisper this revelation into his ear. He leaned in close, but still her childlike whisper was loud enough for me to hear.

"I want to be a dancer!" Excitement spread across her little face.

Dad quickly sat up and straightened up, then launched into what became a lengthy diatribe on her future: the importance of attending a proper university; explaining the structure of higher education (undergraduate, graduate, etc); the number of years she should plan to go to school; his desire for her to become a socially-acceptable "professional" such as a doctor, or a lawyer. She sat, listening quietly, her 5-year-old dreams of being a dancer and doing something beautiful with her life vanishing before her young eyes...

I think my jaw may have hit the floor of the bus at some point during all this. It took everything in my power not to jump up and shake this man out of his own misguided ignorance. She is 5! I wanted to scream. Let her dream! Instead, I bit my tongue, turned away and tuned into my iPod. I simply couldn't listen anymore.

The official start of summer

Have I had my head buried in the sand for the last few years? How is it possible I have never before heard of Josh Ritter? Better late than never, I suppose. And what better time to discover this ridiculously talented artist then tonight, at the Central Park SummerStage kickoff event.

The charismatic Josh Ritter -- backed by the iconic New York Pops -- accompanied by guest violinist Hillary Hahn -- a gorgeous poem read by author Mark Strand -- and the icing on the cake: a surprise appearance by my favorite contemporary artist, the great Glen Hansard.

Forget Summer Solstice. In my book, the opening of the SummerStage concert series marks the official start to summer. As if on cue, the skies cleared tonight after a long and dreary week of rain. The park filled with adoring fans. Josh and company rocked the stage.

And as I have done so often in the past, I began to wonder how I could ever consider leaving this great city.



Below, the poem read tonight by Mark Strand (accompanied by The Pops):

Black Sea
by Mark Strand

One clear night while the others slept, I climbed
the stairs to the roof of the house and under a sky
strewn with stars I gazed at the sea, at the spread of it,
the rolling crests of it raked by the wind, becoming
like bits of lace tossed in the air. I stood in the long
whispering night, waiting for something, a sign, the approach
of a distant light, and I imagined you coming closer,
the dark waves of your hair mingling with the sea,
and the dark become desire, and desire the arriving light.
The nearness, the momentary warmth of you as I stood
on that lonely height watching the slow swells of the sea
break on the shore and turn briefly into glass and disappear ...
Why did I believe you would come out of nowhere? Why with all
that the world offers would you come only because I was here?

On The 6

I approach the Astor Place subway stop, headed uptown. It is late, near midnight, but the station is as crowded as always. I descend down multiple flights of stairs, treading slowly as the stairs are cracked and flooded by recent rains. I clutch the rickety banister, praying it doesn’t give way.

Waiting on the crumbling platform beneath rusty signs and broken tiles, I get a whiff of Eau d’Subway: a subtle blend of mildew, trash and urine. I wonder if people actually pee on the subway platform, or if the smell has wafted through the vents on sidewalks above. I have seen a dog or two relieving itself directly into these vents. Breathe through mouth, I think to myself. Think happy thoughts.

I want to look away, but like a train wreck (no pun intended) I can’t pull my eyes from the family of fuzzy rats skittering expertly across train tracks flooded in a sea of rain water, dejected soda cans and candy wrappers. They look perfectly at home.

An express train shrieks by, sending a gust of wind through the tunnel. Hair blows in my face as I plug my ears, trying to block out the piercing sound of metal scraping against metal. The mildly-drunk couple next to me eagerly explore the inside of each others' mouths, blissfully oblivious to their surroundings.

Finally, a 6 train pulls into the station. As I step inside, an empty bottle comes flying through the car doors, whizzing right past my head and landing on the platform. The thrower of this bottle sits casually inside the train, laughing; he seems to find this hilarious. I am annoyed, but one good look at him and I decide to keep my mouth shut. He is enormous – at least four times my size. A black Raiders cap sits backward on his oversized head, his jeans hang loose around his gigantic knees. He is a kid, a punk, probably no more than 18 years old. If I were my mom, I would say something witty and cutting to make him feel bad about what he did. But I am not my mom. And I really don’t need to get body slammed tonight.

I glance away, taking in instead the scene around me, the trash that blankets the sticky floor of the subway car, the streaks of dirt on the car doors. Most everyone who is standing holds tight to the metal bars that run overhead. I watch one guy diligently explore the inside of his left nostril, then reach back up to grasp the bar with the same finger that was just inside his nose. The woman next to me is devouring a slice of pizza, grease dripping down her chubby chin and onto the floor of the car. At the far end of the train, a man without a home is stretched out on a bench, sound asleep with his dilapidated old wheelchair sitting at his side. I can smell his urine-stained clothing from the opposite end of the car. It makes me sad.

The brakes squeal for mercy as the train pulls into the next station. A glittery 20-something in stretch pants stands at the door, ready to step out. As she waits to exit, the giant in the Raiders cap utters some sleazy, sexual comments to her, then cracks up at himself as she walks away in disgust. The doors close and the train lurches forward once again. Still laughing, he pulls out a miniature Bible and gets lost in its words.

Visit The Cloisters. Take food.

Take the A Train to 190th Street. Walk about 15 minutes through the gorgeous Fort Tyron Park, following the path that winds along the Hudson River. Your reward: The Cloisters.

Today, after five years spent living just a few miles away, I finally made the trek to visit The Cloisters, a branch of the Metropolitan Museum located in northern Manhattan. And it was certainly worthwhile – particularly on a day as gorgeous as today happened to be. The museum, in all its medieval glory, is nestled inside Fort Tyron Park in the Inwood neighborhood of Manhattan. The park itself is gorgeous and immaculately maintained, and with sweeping hilltop views of the Hudson River, lush gardens, chirping birds and minimal crowds, you might for a moment forget what city you are in.

Now, I do not claim to be a lover of 12th-15th century medieval European art, which is the prized focus of The Cloisters. In fact, I know little about the subject and admit to have neared boredom after about 30 minutes inside. But as someone who is all about ambience (call me shallow) this stately structure does not disappoint. The medieval architecture (of the same time period, for those who are interested) is truly remarkable, offering a potent reminder of how enterprising and creative our ancestors were, and how completely lazy we are today… Ikea, anyone?



The maze-like construct includes a number of striking examples of unfathomable architectural ability, and the building is designed around a series of intimate courtyards – also known as cloisters, funny enough – that house trickling fountains, singing birds, plants in bloom… and the occasional child-on-a-leash. Beautiful and quite peaceful, The Cloisters is a smartly laid-out space that provides a welcome reprise from the frenetic pace of pretty much every other museum in Manhattan. The colorful gardens boast everything from medicinal herbs to poisonous flowers to your everyday root vegetable; listen in on one of the daily Garden Tours for details on how to cook up a mean veggie pottage, medieval style. If this lecture gets your gut growling, as it did mine, you might want to pop on over to the adjacent Trie Café for a more modern selection of café cuisine.

Or, maybe not.

Traveler’s tip: Before heading to The Cloisters, pack a picnic. The café inside the museum is anything but; on this busy Sunday afternoon, the café actually ran out of food. Nothing left but a few oranges and some slices of pound cake. Rapidly diminishing blood sugar levels brought an end to this museum visit, and so my friend and I ventured hungrily back into Fort Tyron Park in search of sustenance (but not without first considering that prized vegetable garden just around the corner).

Well, it seems as though the always-there-when-you-need-‘em hot dog and pretzel vendors that blanket New York City do not dare venture north of 125th Street. No food to be found in this park. Anywhere. We were nearing desperation, seriously contemplating whether we could crash some kid’s birthday party, when suddenly we spotted it up ahead. Like a beacon in the night, a lighthouse pulling us out of the starvation-induced fog… there was the Mister Softee truck.

Anyone who has spent a decent amount of time in New York City knows about Mister Softee: that ubiquitous white van that seems to sit on every corner of the city, playing creepy music while serving up overpriced ice cream sundaes and chocolate-dipped cones to overweight kids. I am not a huge fan of ice cream in general, and had not yet experienced Mister Softee personally. But clearly, today was the day.

As far as ice cream goes, a Mister Softee cone leaves much to be desired. In fact, it kind of sucked. But beggars can’t be choosers, and as I polished off that last miraculous trace of ice cream-drenched cone, I was grateful to acknowledge one simple and utterly reliable fact of life: when in Manhattan – anytime of the year, in any part of the borough – there will be a Mister Softee truck somewhere nearby. And it will be playing that creepy music.

And so my friends, the moral of the story is this: Visit The Cloisters. And if you dislike bad soft-serve as much as I do, take food.

KOOZA!

It’s Friday night in New York City. The heavy summer rainfall that began early this morning shows no sign of letting up. Just like New Yorkers, rain in this city is no laughing matter; it is full of energy and alive with purpose. Each raindrop bounces off the hot pavement and clings to the bottom of your pants, soaking your ankles, flooding your toes, and sending your shoes flying from your slippery feet. (Fashion tip: wearing rubber flip-flops on a rainy day in this city is a very bad idea).

So, what to do on such a day? Option: hunker down, stay indoors, stay dry. Better idea: don sensible shoes, head out to Randall's Island, and step inside the fantasy world of musical and visual delights that is Kooza.

Cirque du Soleil's production of Kooza might just be the most fun I have ever had in a tent. (This from a girl who has spent a good deal of her life camping). Overshadowing the bleakness of Randall’s Island and compensating for a cruddy day of weather, the gigantic blue and gold-striped structure transforms its dreary surroundings into a happy and colorful place. The tent itself is a marvel, and from the moment I step inside, I am transported to another world: that carefree, circus-like world where reality disintegrates to make room for pure fun. Rain-resistant fun.

The performance itself is phenomenal. The story begins, thunderous music strikes, and the tent is brought to life as a sea of performers flood the stage, costumed in rich shades of red and gold. What ensues is purely amazing, and somewhere around 10 minutes in, I realize my face is frozen into an expression that is half stupefied grinning, half jaw-dropping awe.

Time and again, a thick red curtain set toward the stage’s rear is drawn aside, revealing one tremendous act after another: a duet of contortionists, two young women who might be triple-jointed if there is such a thing. In perfect unison, their bodies twist and curl into ridiculously impossible shapes that make my five years of yoga practice seem like an absolute joke. The bare-chested unicyclist, who never misses a beat (or a peddle) as he lifts and flips his lithe partner over and onto his head. There she stands tall and erect, her feet firmly planted into the top of his skull. The tight-rope walkers, the juggler, the high-flying trapeze artist, the crazy dude who climbs a ladder of chairs... one after another, an endless succession of impossibly fabulous acts unfolds, interrupted by silly interludes that call upon audience members to volunteer for some harmless public ridicule.

Throughout the show, the global blend of music is otherworldly – sometimes sensual, other times heart-pounding, always thrilling. Raised high above the stage is a small orchestra, and the lead singer, a beautiful Indian woman, has that kind of mesmerizing voice and presence that lifts you up and out of your seat. With her powerful voice as background, I remain transfixed on both her and the performance: one part horrified (how on earth did he do that?.... Oh god, please don’t fall!) and many parts amazed. Time and again, I find myself clutching at my face, squealing as though I were a teenager at a Beatles concert. By the end of the show, my neck hurts from looking up, my jaw hurts from laughing and my throat hurts from screaming. The lights come up and I step back outside, the smile planted firmly on my face. I barely notice it’s still raining.

No Problems in Jamaica

Something funny happened on my way through Jamaica: I fell in love. Not with the dude in the photo above (sorry, mom) but with Jamaica. It’s true what they say: it always happens when you least expect it.

Jamaica had always fallen very, very low – to the point of nonexistent – on the long list of places I want to visit in this lifetime. When a business trip was scheduled to the island I wasn’t overly thrilled, but decided anyway to make the most of the experience and create a mini vacation out of it. After all, Jamaica does have sun and beaches, and I had a friend willing to meet me there. So I proceeded to plan the long weekend with low expectations; little did I know I would be blown away.

Nestled among the colorful family of Caribbean Islands, Jamaica stands out from the rest like a middle child: without too much effort, as though it was meant to be different. With deep roots in slavery and a rich African heritage, Jamaica presents a tapestry of individuality and flair unlike any other island culture I have witnessed. The people, the food, the music, the landscape... all go hand in hand with the often-spoken phrase “No Problem”, which may as well be the island’s national anthem. Jamaica is the land of no problem. Of seemingly untroubled souls. Of gleamingly bright smiles. Jamaicans are kind, considerate, hospitable, informed, and totally laid back. Maybe it’s the almighty herb that contributes to this general state of “whatever”. I'm not judging.



After a week of Luxury Imprisonment behind the concrete walls of The Ritz-Carlton Rose Hall in Montego Bay , I returned to the madness of the Montego Bay Airport to join up with my incoming friend. Together we boarded a Jamaica Tours Ltd. bus bound for Negril, and at the precise moment that bus pulled away from MoBay, I breathed a heavy sigh of relief for having escaped 5-star, culture-less, white-washed glitz. The oversized, overly-air conditioned bus was packed to the gills with eager tourists, but at $25 per person it was perfectly convenient. And with Derek as our driver and guide, we were treated to a 2-hour comedy routine and lesson on Jamaican culture, history, food and language. (According to Derek, a woman with a very large rear-end is said to have a “Wicked Bumper”. I still don’t know if this is a good or a bad thing).

As the bus inched slowly toward Negril, I watched Jamaica's stunning landscape unfold before me: forests of lush, green trees giving way to long stretches of white, sandy beaches; tranquil ocean waters as translucent as glass, glistening like diamonds in shades of turquoise and emerald green. I had arrived in Jamaica expecting nothing. Ten days later, I departed having discovered a glittering gem floating in the Caribbean Sea.



Below are the highlights – plus a few lowlights – of my experience in Jamaica. Content edited to be suitable for all audiences.

Xtabi on the Cliffs: Heaven on the Cheap
I fell in love with this quaint little resort, with its spotless rooms, inviting swimming pool, friendly service, and the airy, bright octagonal bar and restaurant overlooking the sea. As proof of my love, I devoted an entire post to this resort.

Rockhouse Hotel: Heaven on the Not-So-Cheap
This resort, just down the road from Xtabi, is all it’s cracked up to be and more. Maze-like stone paths wind through lush gardens, leading to sleeping cottages that sit precariously on the cliff’s edge. A gorgeous bar and restaurant space creates an intimate dining experience, and the on-property spa offers a full list of services at decent prices. Maximum peace, quiet and privacy are what you will be treated to at Rockhouse, not to mention unbeatable sea and sunset views… and a healthy dose of luxury.

Yoga Negril Center
A large, open-air yoga studio built of gleaming wood sits proudly amidst the tranquil gardens and cottages of this small hotel on Norman Manley Blvd. The Iyengar yoga class led by Fanette is slow-moving and of low intensity, but perfect for loosening up achy muscles after a long plane ride or one too many pina coladas. The “café” serves up a healthy menu of freshly-made treats including vegetarian omelets, yogurt and granola, and soy vanilla shakes. The Yoga Center is an adorable and homey place located right across the street from the glorious seven-mile beach, making it the perfect option for yoga buffs and solo travelers who want to feel safe and sleep beachside on the cheap.

Rick’s Café
Yes, it’s touristy and crowded and borderline cheesy. But this expansive, cliff-top bar and restaurant draws hundreds of people nightly for a reason. Blended cocktails, live reggae bands, a swimming pool and the daredevil antics of well-toned (read: incredibly hunky) cliff divers all work together to create the perfect atmosphere for watching the afternoon sun drop into the Caribbean Sea. The view is spectacular, the scene is lively and the drinks are reasonably priced, making Rick’s Café the perfect setting to kick off an evening of antics in Negril.

White Sands Negril: Where it’s all about the beach
This beachside hotel is less than spectacular, leaving much to be desired other than near-heavenly access to the seven-mile stretch of sand and sea that make Negril an incredible place to be. A lengthier review can be read at Virtual Tourist .

A few others worth the shout-out:

Patsy: A lovely lady blessed with the hands of a man. If you are lucky enough to discover Patsy resting idly on the seven-mile beach, you are in for a treat and one hell of a fresh-aloe foot massage. $8.00 and 20 minutes under the spell of this uncommonly strong woman will leave your feet and legs limp and bruised – in a good way.

Scotchies (MoBay/Rose Hall): Open-air Jerk Joint with three menu options scratched on a chalk-board: Jerk Chicken, Jerk Fish, Jerk Pork. Lively bar scene, good food, tons of flies, stray dogs, even a stray rat or two. A truly local experience.

Native (MoBay, on the Hip Strip): Amazing local cuisine, gorgeous open-air setting. Possibly the best meal I had in Jamaica. Go.

Cosmos On The Beach (Negril, Long Bay): Bad food, uninspiring ambience, lots of mosquitoes. Don’t go.

Shark’s Seafood Restaurant and Natural Juice Bar (Negril, West End): Overshadowed by the nearby and popular Alice’s, and so small you might just pass on by, this fairy-lit mom and pop establishment is 100% operated by mom and well worth a visit. For fantastic local cuisine with a serious kick of flavor, request your jerk cooked with “two spice” spiciness.

Bar 237 (Negril, Long Bay): Hoist yourself up onto one of the ridiculously tall benches at this spacious bar on the beach, and you won’t be disappointed. Blended cocktails, reggae tunes, beachfront location. Chillaxing…. Jamaica style.

Heaven On The Cheap

For travelers who want to soak up the bliss that defines Negril but not spend a fortune on accommodation, Xtabi on The Cliffs in Negril, Jamaica is the ideal place to stay.

Nestled among the jagged cliffs that line Negril's West End, Xtabi is a small, intimate and rather quaint resort that boasts a nice variety of clean and spacious rooms to satisfy all budgets, and efficient, friendly service from the receptionists, management, and restaurant staff. Half of the property is located across the road from the sea, where standard but comfortable sleeping rooms are set against lush gardens and a well-kept swimming pool. If you are budget conscious, book a standard room in this area of the resort. The upper floor rooms are splendidly airy with high ceilings and balconies, some with views of the sea. Lower floors all have verandas that step out into the resort's gardens. This feels remote at first, but once you cross the road and get a glimpse of the view, you probably won't be spending much time in your room anyway!

The cliff-front side of the resort is freckled with funky, colorful cottages that sit atop the island's ledge, all surrounding an appealingly mellow bar and restaurant space from where you can lazily waste away the entire day, then enjoy a banana daquiri as you watch the sun spectacularly fall into the turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea. Sturdy ladders are built into the cliffs, offering an easy path to climb down into the cool water and explore the many sea caves and reefs below. If you are feeling adventurous, you could just dive right in - as long as you are given the "OK" from Andrew, Xtabi's hunky, daredevil watersports and diving guru, that it is a safe point from which to dive.

I was with a friend, and as two female travelers we felt completely safe and secure at Xtabi. We would often leave our personal belongings on lounge chairs when off snorkeling or swimming, and never once feared that something would get stolen. We felt as though the entire staff was looking out for us, and was helpful and kind if we needed anything at all.

As well, we appreciated being able to walk nearly everywhere we went. West End Road is not nearly as dangerous as some have made it out to be; from Xtabi we walked with ease to many of the surrounding resorts, food stalls and restaurants - including to the gorgeous Rockhouse Hotel. Of course, as you would anywhere, be safe and look both ways before crossing the very busy road!

All in all I loved Xtabi, and would highly recommend it to all future visitors to Negril.