These Streets Are Yours, You Can Keep Them

These Streets Are Yours, You Can Keep Them

Tuesday, March 31, 2015

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I was in Philly for a wedding earlier this month, & I decided to turn it into a more of a vacation than just a quick weekend away. I couldn't find flights under $350, so I planned to make the six-hour drive to the City of Brotherly Love, but I knew that, exhausted & possibly hungover, I wouldn't be keen to make the drive back to Ohio the morning after the wedding.

And so I went to New Jersey for two days.

Specifically I went to Red Bank, where I lived for a year & a half - &, yes, where my ex-boyfriend still lives. I know what you're wondering: No, I didn't go for him. No, I didn't see him while I was there or even talk to him ahead of time. We were on good terms for awhile, & while I guess we still are, we don't talk anymore - which is, I suppose, the way breakups are supposed to work. I worried the whole time that I would run into him around a corner & that I'd seem like a huge creep for being there, until I remembered that people who live in the same cities break up all the time & do probably run into each other, so once wouldn't kill me. Anyway, it didn't happen.

And anyway, I didn't go for him. I went for me.

When I left Red Bank in November 2013 to live alone in Washington, D.C., we decided to try the long-distance thing. I went back to New Jersey for a two-week visit over Christmas, & when I went back to Washington, D.C., I never expected that I wouldn't return - but we broke up on January 4th, & that was that.

There are a lot of things I miss about living in Red Bank, even though I know that leaving was the right decision for me at the time. It's just such a nice place - quirky & cool, with a distinct little downtown full of cupcake bakeries & consignment shops & an indie movie theater & a board game store & the best taco place ever & Kevin Smith's comic book shop &... I didn't love living there, but that's not because it's not a great place. It is. And lately, I'd found myself missing it, like I'd never gotten to say goodbye - because I hadn't, I guess.

So I went back. I stayed in a teeny-tiny hotel room in an historic inn just steps away from my old apartment, on the base of the beautiful Navesink River. I had no plans except to do whatever the hell I felt like doing in the moment, which translated into: sleeping in, shopping, drinking a lot of lattes, eating multiple tacos & macarons, visiting an old lighthouse, wandering around parks in very cold weather, & driving by the beach because it was too cold to get out of my car. And then, when I didn't feel like doing anything anymore? I went back to my hotel room & slept, or caught up on my favorite TV shows, or wrote, or read magazines, or... did whatever the hell I felt like doing in the moment, like I said. And it was glorious.

For some reason, I'd been newly having a bit of a hard time with the breakup, despite the fact that it happened 15 months ago; I guess I've been having a hard time in general, with life. I worried that heading to the town formerly home to my now-decimated relationship would be depressing, particularly after a weekend of joyful celebrations of someone else's love. I feared I was setting myself up for sadness & wallowing & dredging up old memories that are better left buried. But you know what? It was some of that, I guess, but it turned out to be exactly what I needed. Mostly, it was just cathartic & quiet & perfect.

I listed to Bastille's "These Streets" a lot throughout my visit, setting it to play on repeat as I walked up & down the streets of a town I used once knew so well. A lot of those old memories did come flooding back, but instead of pushing them down, I spent some time with each of them, turning them over in my mind, savoring them, & saying goodbye to them. It was bizarre, really, to know that my ex-boyfriend (& our cat) was just a few miles up the road, & to realize that not only do I not know this town anymore, but I don't know him anymore, either. I cried more than once, remembering the people we were & the life we had & the future we tried for; they all seem so, so far away, like someone else's story.

It was hard sometimes, yes, but it was peaceful, too. Mostly, it was closure, the kind that sticks. And as I hummed along to the album that got me through that breakup, I knew this was the last song of my personal soundtrack - that I wouldn't need to come back to Red Bank again. I might want to, maybe, but I didn't need to anymore. This did it.

Goodbye, New Jersey. You're a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.

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You Can Always Go Home Again: My LeBron Moment

You Can Always Go Home Again: My LeBron Moment

Wednesday, November 5, 2014

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On my last day of classes at Kent State University in August of 2007, I sat in a corner of the Daily Kent Stater's newsroom, looking out the wall of full-length glass windows to the grassy hill outside. It was a sunny day, Ohio-perfect, & I was fully conscious of the fact that this was my last time to enjoy this part of my life. This was it, & I wanted to enjoy it as much as I could.

On the phone with my mom, sitting on my knees on a spinning chair as I watched students pass by outside, I told her: "I'm going to D.C. for a year, & then I'm going to come back to Ohio." I'd committed to a 12-month job in D.C., but I imagined grand plans for a life in Cleveland when it came to an end.

As much as I meant it at the time, that's not exaaaactly how it all ended up. At the end of that first year in D.C., I was offered a more permanent job - so I stayed, happily, & it was a fantastic three years of growth & friendship & learning to love myself. Eventually, I hit a bit of a rough patch (read: I quit my job & couldn't afford to stay), so I did move back to Ohio, but just for a brief four months. At the time, I was dating someone wonderful who just so happened to live in New Hampshire, mandated by the U.S. Coast Guard, so I found a job there & moved in with him. Then we moved again, also mandated by the Coast Guard, & then, when we eventually broke up, I moved back to D.C. because it seemed like the best place for me to be if I was going to be by myself again. Needless to say, I never really made it back to Ohio.

"You've moved a lot," people often tell me, out of sheer insistence upon stating the obvious. Yeah, guys, I know. I know.

I've moved a lot, & it hasn't always been easy or wonderful & it certainly wasn't part of my plan, but I don't regret my life or my choices or my locations. Still, I've always said I'd move back to Ohio "when the time is right." I've always known I'd go back eventually because I've always wanted to go back eventually. I returned to D.C. last November because I had an inexplicable sense that it was the place I needed to be at that time. From the outset, though, I knew this would a time-limited return to the District. I just hadn't decided exactly how limited that amount of time would be.

I still hadn't decided, right up until last month.

Last month, I spent two weeks visiting friends & family in Ohio, mentally planning my eventual return & what a life in Cleveland might look like for some future version of me. And then one weekday afternoon, as I was driving back to my mom's house after an afternoon at my favorite coffee shop in Kent, it dawned on me, one of those lightbulb-above-my-head kind of moments: "I could move back to Northeast Ohio right now, if I wanted to."

And as it turns out, I wanted to. I want to.

In a decree of fate, I returned to D.C. later that week to find that my rent will go up by $100 at the end of November, when my lease expires. Sure, I could stay here on a month-to-month basis, paying that higher rent & not saving a damn thing, but... why? Why bother? It's expensive here, so expensive that I can't afford to do most of the things that would allow me to enjoy my life here the way that life here ought to be enjoyed. And while I love my friends & my office & my life in D.C., the simple counter-argument against living here is just that Ohio beckons. Because Ohio has always beckoned.

So on November 21st, I'm going home.

The details don't matter; trust that I'll share them with you eventually. For now, all that matters is that this feels right. For the first time since I moved to D.C. in 2007, I'm moving because I want to, not because I feel like I have to. I'm not unemployed or bound to the military or in the middle of a breakup. I just want to be someplace else - so I'm going there.

An unexpectedly wise man from Akron once said, "In Northeast Ohio, nothing is given. Everything is earned. You work for what you have." And like LeBron, "I’m ready to accept the challenge. I’m coming home."

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A 2013 Recap: Maybe This Year Will Be Better Than the Last

A 2013 Recap: Maybe This Year Will Be Better Than the Last

Sunday, December 29, 2013

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This year...

I was published in the New York Times, even though I forgot to tell you about it here. I was honored to remember my grandmother in this way, both highly public & painfully personal.

I went to Israel for the third time, & it was just as incredible as ever.

I accidentally paid more than $200 for a haircut.

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On Not Having Any Friends, Still

On Not Having Any Friends, Still

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

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Sometimes you find yourself suddenly sobbing into the mirror while brushing your teeth at noon on a Tuesday & listening to a Top 40 song by, oh, God, Train. Now, I know that's not quite what they call "rock bottom," but it sure doesn't feel like the top, either.

I've been hesitant to write about my struggles to make friends because the last time I did, I got half a dozen anonymous comments lambasting me for being a whiner, for not trying hard enough, for not taking hold of my own destiny, or whatever. Since then, I've kept it to myself, because I'm smart enough not to invite people to kick me while I'm down. But the truth is that I'm still struggling, hard, & if I can't talk about it here, where can I?

Here's my truth right now: I've lived in Red Bank for 14 months now. In that time, I've made exactly zero friends - & it's taking its toll on me. 

I've tried, of course, but I'm just not sure how to find people. Friends have told me that to find like-minded people, I should "do what [I] love" (I think they mean things like volunteering, yoga, etc.), but with all due respect to those people, I loathe this advice because what I love to do is blog & watch TV - two activities that don't exactly lend themselves to fun after-school activities. What else do I love? Being in cities, spending time with friends. And oh, wait, those don't really apply here, either.

Originally, I adopted a mindset that if I traveled all the time - to places where I do have friends - I'd never have to cultivate one. That worked for awhile, but now it's sort of backfired: I never want to be here because I have no life here.

And it's ruining everything. I've come to resent my boyfriend & my cat for all the time we spend together, for the total dearth of other human connection in my life. I'm picking fights, inventing drama. I'm extraordinarily, alarmingly sad, to the point that, apparently, Train songs make me cry. I feel like I'm on the verge of a mental/emotional breakdown all the damn time, & while some of it can be attributed to other issues, most of it, I suspect, is related to all this goddamn loneliness.

It's not like I'm not trying. I am! I am trying!

I joined Meetup.com before I even moved here, & I check it a few times a week for possibilities. So far I've been to exactly no events. Most of them haven't interested me, or I see that all the other attendees are much older than me, so I decide not to go. I even joined a lesbian book club meetup, for crying out loud.

I keep an eye out for things like classes at the library & community centers & stuff, but nothing has caught my eye. I don't want to learn to knit & I don't have kids & I don't run 5Ks.

I joined a gym, went to a couple of classes, even got a personal trainer. Who are you supposed to talk to at the gym, though? I can't work out & talk at the same time, & I don't want to. Nobody wants to be chatted up while they're getting their sweat on. This option is ludicrous.

I work from different locations a few days a week, & I try to make small talk with people when the time is right. I've had some good small talk chats with folks I've met there - like Raoul, who another regular referred to as "the mayor of Starbucks" - but nothing worth pursuing. I even looked into coworking space, but it's $20 a day, & if I wanted to spend that much, I'd commute into my office in the city .

I meet people at bars sometimes, set my sights on befriending somebody like I'm trying to take them home. I've exchanged numbers with two girls, Abby & Meredith, though neither went anywhere - presumably because once sober, they think it's weird to be "hit on" by a potential friend. I suspect I come out of these exchanges looking desperate &/or creepy.

I emailed the local roller derby about joining, thinking I could adopt a sweet name like KATEASTROPE & check bitches on the track & become really fierce, or something. They practice every Wednesday & Sunday; given my frequent travel schedule, though, I can't commit to Sundays, so that's out.

I made plans with two people I met on Twitter, & both were really nice but nothing came of them, no big friendship sparks or mutual interest in making future plans. And now? Now both of those women are pregnant, so all hope is basically lost on that front. 

Maybe I'm not trying hard enough. Am I doing everything humanly possible to meet people & make friends of them? Well, no. But that's only because it's really hard, & not just to find people. It's hard in that it's emotionally exhausting, & there's so little pay-off, & it just... becomes really awful really quickly. It's embarrassing & awkward & consistently disheartening, & frankly, it sucks. Remember when you were a teenager & your mom would insist that you not use that word? Well, sorry, Mom, but this sucks. It sucks my energy & my motivation & my hopefulness out of me. It sucks my positivity away. It sucks. So if I'm not trying hard enough, it's only because it's really hard. Oh, I already said that? Because it's true.

So you tell me: What am I supposed to I do?* I'm thisclose to moving out of this town & back into a city, to someplace where I know people or at least know how to find people. I'm trying my damndest not to see that as my only option, but two & a half years into this no-friends-on-the-premises life & I don't know if I see any other solution.

Goddamn, I'm lonely.

*Disclaimer: I don't actually want you to tell me what to do unless you can do it without making me feel terrible, because I already feel terrible. If you want to tell me I'm not trying hard enough, please STFU.

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The Day My Starbucks Life Paid Off

The Day My Starbucks Life Paid Off

Friday, August 30, 2013

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Today hasn't been great. It started out kind of crappy, if I'm being honest. Work is hectic, & I got into a really hurtful argument on Twitter, & everything's just been a little... much, you know?

Nathan got out of work early & asked if I wanted to get lunch together, so I took a break from work & we went to The Chowda House, a new seafood place that just opened up a few blocks from our place. I brought my laptop with me so that afterward, I could camp out at the downtown Starbucks for the rest of the work day.

There was some commotion happening across the street from Starbucks, but it didn't seem like anything out of the ordinary. In fact, there's frequently a commotion happening across the street from Starbucks, where Jay & Silent Bob's Secret Stash is located. It's a comic book shop owned by Kevin Smith (he of Clerks & Mallrats fame, among others), & it serves as the set of AMC's reality show Comic Book Men, which means there are often film crews & large-ish crowds gathered outside. In fact, I was recently reprimanded by a film crewmenber for daring to - gasp! - stop on the sidewalk to take a photo of filming. Not wanting to receive another slap on the wrist this afternoon, I thought nothing of today's gathering & went in for my coffee.

But then the crowd started moving down the street, away from the comic book store, & I heard someone in the coffee shop say, "Yeah, some mayor is in town. Newark? I don't know why, though, or why anyone cares."

Ignoring the fact that such a statement hurts my heart - learn your local politics, people - I went on high alert: CORY BOOKER IS HERE? I walked outside, phone in hand, & joined the small fray walking slowly down the street with him as he greeted citizens of my fair town.

A woman turned to me right away: "Do you want to meet Mr. Booker?" she asked. "You've got to get in there! Come on, I'll take your photo."

And that's how I ended up shaking the hand of my future senator, despite a little bit of verbal bumbling on my part because I was, let's face it, slightly starstruck. Cory Booker, y'all.

"I met you once," I told him, "when you spoke to the Union for Reform Judaism."

The mayor looked surprised, in a good. "Ah, the URJ!" he responded with a smile. "Great people."

Of course, it's possible that a seasoned politician like Cory Booker is an expert bullshitter & that he does not, actually, remember speaking to the great people of the URJ way back in 2007. But hey, he made me feel like he did, & that was nice.

And I was even having a good hair day!

Still smiling like a buffoon, I made my way back into Starbucks & settled in to work - for real this time. Except...

"Does anyone ever tell you that you look like Jay from the Jay & Silent Bob movies?" I heard a female voice ask. I turned to see a grungy, pink-haired teenager behind me addressing a grungy, long-haired dude picking up a cup of coffee.

Oh, you know where this is going.

I started laughing to myself. The Jay "lookalike" turned to me & winked.

"Yeah, sometimes people tell me that."

"You look a lot like him."

"You don't say?"

"Wait. ARE YOU HIM?"

And that's how I accidentally met Cory Booker & Jason Mewes within a span of 10 minutes.

Needless to say, my day got better. And sometimes, man, it's like the universe knows I wish I lived in a city, where quirky stuff like this happens all the time. Thanks for throwing me a bone, life.

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An Adventure That Was Totally ON the Hook

An Adventure That Was Totally ON the Hook

Sunday, July 14, 2013

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The Coast Guard base where Nathan is stationed is at the very tip of a barrier spit called Sandy Hook (not that one). If you're looking at a map (& now you are), it's located right beneath Staten Island & Brooklyn, pointed up toward the middle of the two. A 30-minute ferry ride from Sandy Hook will drop you off in Manhattan's Financial District, & vice versa.

Running along one side of "the Hook" are three public beaches facing the Atlantic, including one that's "clothing optional"; on the other side is the bay, where people kayak & fly kites & fish & bring their dogs. In between is federally protected land owned by the National Park Service - bike trails, an Audubon society, a lighthouse, a marine academy, &, what I think is the coolest part, a defunct army base called Fort Hancock. It's home to a number of old gun batteries that are mostly closed to the public & in total disrepair, but some of them are open to the public, either to walk around alone or to tour with volunteer guides.

Yesterday, my cousin & his girlfriend came into town for a visit on their way back from the beach to the city, & we decided it was a good day for exploring the Hook. Everyone else was wearing sandals, but I decided to sport my new Portovelo shoes, canvas slide-ons I got a few weeks back. Portovelo's motto is "bringing adventure & love," which was pretty apt for a day of adventuring with people I love! I find that wearing comfy, close-toed shoes on days of adventure makes me more likely to be, well, adventurous - & less likely to be whiny. I hate when my feet get dirty, & flip-flops suck for walking... anyway, these were the perfect choice.

We were going to head to the top of lighthouse, which was built in 1764 & is the oldest working lighthouse in the United States.



Unfortunately, we learned that the only way to tour the lighthouse it is by guided tour, which we weren't feeling. Instead, we admired it from down below & began wandering the grounds of Fort Hancock - in the very hot sun.

First, we checked out an old mortar, now totally empty but open to nosy wanderers like us. There's not much to see inside - all stone & weeds - but it has a notably creepy feel to it, especially where the foundation is crumbling to pieces & exit passageways leading to God-knows-where are locked with wrought-iron metal bars.

Just outside the mortar, my cousin Patrick decided to climb into an off-limits zone. Because Superman.

 

After mucking through a lot of overgrown foliage - including a substantial amount of poison ivy - he found himself atop a stone bridge that crosses from one side of the mortar to the other. While I was very jealous, I was also a bit relieved to be positioned firmly on the ground & unquestionably rash-free. I've never gotten poison ivy before, and almost-29 doesn't seem like the time to start.

 

While Patrick was off on his own, a friendly bicyclist let us know that the battery down the road was open for tours, so when he made his way back down, we headed in that direction. Along the way, we discovered Battery Granger, which was decommissioned in 1943 & is in a pretty shocking state of disrepair. 

Creepy, I know. Signs everywhere indicate that Granger is off-limits, but the fence in front of it, as you'll see in the photo to the far right below, isn't exactly keeping curious tourists off the lawn. In fact, the fence stops right where the stairs start.

So obviously, I went in:

 
The view from the top was fascinating but eerie, & I yelled down to the rest of the group that I felt like I had entered Panem. Of course, none of them appreciated this reference like you will, Internet. Observe:

And that... is as much as I explored because, well, abandoned, dilapidated army batteries are kind of scary, & I wasn't about to be offed by falling rock or military ghosts. One last victorious photo from the top, & I bolted.

It's a good thing I got out when I did, because a park ranger came ambling down the road just a few minutes later. Hey, who says you can't be a little bit rebellious as you near 30?

Battery Granger behind us, we made our way to... Battery Potter. Yes, really.

Of course, both batteries are named for Civil War generals & not for Hogwarts legends, but being the HP nerd I am, I got a little kick out of the coincidence. I must not be the only one, because our tour guide, an elderly parks volunteer named Carl, started off with, "Let's get this out of the way before we start: This place isn't named after Harry." Noted.

Battery Potter was massive & wet & dark, & our tour lasted all of 10 minutes, but it was cool to hear about its background from a friendly army veteran who clearly has a passion for such history. As a bonus, the reinforced concrete behemoth basically has built-in air conditioning, so our time inside was a nice, cold respite from the blazing sun. 

After our tour, we were feeling pretty spent, so we headed out - but not without admiring some prickly pear cacti along the side of the ride first. Who knew that cactus grew in New Jersey? Not I! Garden State indeed.

It's taken me nearly four hours to finish writing this post, but only because I keep finding myself distracted by reading the history of Fort Hancock & other parts of Sandy Hook. I learned, for example, that in addition to the mortar & two batteries we saw/explored, the base is home to (at least) 14 other defunct batteries, all seemingly as dilapidated & overgrown as Battery Granger. I can't believe we live so close to a place filled with such history, & I'm eager to keep exploring, but don't worry,. Mom: I don't think I'll be crossing anymore "KEEP OUT" fences to do it.

Oh, & the rest of our day? Was spent eating Thai food, playing Scrabble, & watching Forrest Gump - because outdoor adventuring is best countered by indoor relaxing.

Disclaimer: My Portovelos were provided free of charge, with only the request that I work mention of them into a blog post. All views are my own, & I was not otherwise compensated. I just really like these shoes, & I think you will, too.

All photos are my own, except for the picture of the front of Battery Granger, which came from Fort Wiki. If you're interested in learning more about Fort Hancock, this is an incredible resource chock full of info & photos.

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An Indoor Kid's Unexpected Revelation About the Outdoors

An Indoor Kid's Unexpected Revelation About the Outdoors

Saturday, June 29, 2013

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Blanket statement: I don't like hot weather. This is in part because I am the absolute sweatiest & in part because... well, mostly because of sweating. But also because of things like sunburns & frizzy hair & having to wear clothes that reveal things I don't like revealing, like arm fat. For the most part, I just don't like hot weather because it's not cold weather, which I really love. Winterfell is my jam, bro.

A lot of people don't understand this, of course, & think I must be broken. When I tell people Nathan is in the Coast Guard, approximately 75% of people say something like, "At least you'll always live near a beach!" This would be cool, if I had any desire to ever go to beaches, which I do not not.

Until yesterday?

Yesterday, I woke up to an amazing view outside my hotel window in Fort Lauderdale & thought, "Imma go hang out there today." I had to give a presentation for work in the morning, & as nervous as I was, I got through it by reminding myself that when I was done, I was going to go relax on the beach.

And I did.

And I liked it.

I bought myself a spray can of SPF 70, which Nathan told me is "like wearing a jacket to the beach," & slathered up my pasty-white skin. I put on my black one-piece bathing suit from Land's End, which I suspect is geared mostly toward a much older demographic than the one I'm in but which makes me feel kind of pretty. I rented two towels from the front desk & marched out to the shore, where I promptly claimed a lounge chair & took a few "OMG I'M AT THE BEACH" Instagram pics. And then I laid out there for, like, an hour & a half. And then I did it again today. It was sweaty, yes, but it was also so relaxing, & the water was so blue, & I felt so peaceful & blissed out that I couldn't possibly care. Hey, all that sweat & sunscreen & saltwater even made my hair look great!

And all was right with the world - especially when I remembered that I live at the Jersey Shore & can do this any time I want.

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Newark Airport Thinks It's Better Than Your Airport

Newark Airport Thinks It's Better Than Your Airport

Saturday, June 22, 2013

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I travel a lot. How you noticed that I travel a lot? I used to think I didn't, that I just happened to be on a travel tear, but that tear has lasted about a year & a half now, so I think it's fair to just call it a lifestyle.

The closest airport to me is Newark Liberty International Airport in wonderful Newark, NJ. (Ahem. Newark's mayor is wonderful, anyway.) For the most part, I don't mind this airport at all. It's easy to get to: three blocks from my apartment to the train, an hour-long train ride to an air tram, & a 10-minute air train ride to the airport. (OK, I guess that doesn't sound all that easy, but it is!) Newark Airport is mostly clean, staffed by folks who are largely friendly, contains basics pre-flight restaurants & amenities, & is home to a staggering number of Dunkin Donuts.

BUT.

You knew there was a "but," right? The but here is that every time I fly out of Newark (which is every time I fly), I find myself annoyed to no end by the fact that this airport's TSA agents enforce different rules than do their TSA compatriots at basically any other airport in America that I've ever flown into or out of.

As a somewhat experienced flier, I take pains to streamline my security experience as much as possible - no jewelry, slip-on shoes, etc. - so when I purchased an iPad, I was thrilled to learn that TSA doesn't require travelers to take them out at security & place them in their own plastic bins. What a relief after years of traveling with my laptop! But not at Newark, oh, no. Newark is above streamlining security measures & following the same rules as everyone else. At Newark, you must put your iPad in its own bin so they can be sure it's just an iPad. Tucked it deep inside your backpack? Dig it out.

At other airports, you show your ticket & ID in the security line, & then you put them away until you board your flight. But not at Newark, oh, no. Newark is above streamlining security measures & following the same rules as everyone else, remember?At Newark, you take your ticket & ID through security with you, to be meticulously checked yet again by the TSA agent on the other side of the body scanner. Returned your ticket & ID in your wallet until travel time? Dig 'em out.

And it's not JUST "dig 'em out." It's "dig 'em out while being subjected to a loud public shaming from a TSA agent who makes you sound like someone who had never traveled before in your whole entire life." It's "dig 'em out while everyone behind you sighs loudly & waits for you to get your shit together so that you can follow rules that aren't rules anyplace else."

When I mentioned this to a friend, she said, "Maybe it's because Newark is so close to New York." Maybe! Good thinking! Except at JFK & LaGuardia? You can keep your iPad in your bag & your documents stowed through security. Same goes in D.C. & Boston & Los Angeles, & what other big cities are there? Because probably there, too. And you're not even a big city, Newark, so calm down & stop putting me out.

What I'm trying to say is: AIN'T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT.

@CoryBooker, can you fix this, please?

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Jersey Strong, But Really (Alternate Title: I Cried the Whole Time I Was Writing This Post)

Jersey Strong, But Really (Alternate Title: I Cried the Whole Time I Was Writing This Post)

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

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[Warning: This post contains lots of photos. Also, lots of emotions.]

Prince Harry made headlines today when he visited Seaside Heights, N.J., the town where Jersey Shore was filmed & which Hurricane Sandy essentially laid bare. Have you seen post-storm photos of a roller coaster sitting in the ocean? That's Seaside Heights, & that roller coaster was torn down today. It used to be on the shore, of course, not in the water, & it was a main attraction at the Casino Pier boardwalk, one of two competing amusement park piers that were a summer destination spot for families & guidos alike.

Let's talk about the Jersey Shore for a minute, shall we? I'll get to Seaside Heights shortly, but let's start with nearby Asbury Park, home of American legend & all-around badass Bruce Springsteen. I'd been to AP only once before - last October, just before the storm hit - but a few weeks ago, Nathan & I found ourselves in town on a Sunday, grabbing coffee at America's Cup & brunch at Toast.  Though downtown Asbury Park appears unscathed (at least by now), I was shocked by the remaining damage we witnessed along the boardwalk just a few blocks away. Signs say the Jersey Shore is open for business, but, well, it sure doesn't feel like it:


The AP boardwalk is mostly in tact at this point (it reopened in March), but there are still telltale signs of damage:


The beautiful old Convention Hall at the end of the boardwalk is open to the public, but only sort of. Many of the doors are still boarded, & not much is going on inside - just a store or two open for business.


The abandoned old casino at the other end of the boardwalk, creepy even before the storm hit, has been even more gutted than it already was, & it remains closed for the forseeable future.

Along the boardwalk, a few places are back in biz, but the majority of stores & kiosks are still unopened, visibly damaged, boarded up - with no indication as to their return.

Because I thought the remaining damage in Asbury Park was devastating, Nathan wanted to take me through Seaside Heights, which is only a few miles away from our home. I'd never been - either before the storm or after - & he wanted to show me some of the real devastation there that is, essentially, in our own backyard.

I cried more than once that day, as we drove through a beach town that was clearly once a bustling summer hotspot but is now, in the bluntest of terms, absolutely trashed. At the boardwalk, called Funtown Pier, you could almost envision the way this place used to be, just a few short months before - bright & colorful, loud & crowded, home to so many people's best summer memories. In one night, though, Hurricane Sandy wiped it away.

When we arrived on that windy April day, the boardwalk itself was open but many of the stores & restaurants along it were still severely damaged, not yet ready to re-open for the upcoming summer season - if at all. There were sandbars in places where no sand should be, a remaining telltale sign that something wicked had this way come. We bought penny candy from a taffy shop, one of the only stores open that day, doing some small part to support the once-vibrant Casino Pier as it tries to rebuild itself, this place, these people.


The beach that runs parallel to the boardwalk - & the amusement park that used to stand there - was closed, decimated, blocked off with fences & police tape & signs warning lookyloos away from it.




What we saw beyond the fencing was horrifying, stomach-turning; at one point, I thought I was going to throw up, & instead I just started crying these hot, silent tears that I couldn't stop. Even now, having seen much of it myself, I can't look at pictures of the Funtown Pier taken by professional photographers in the immediate aftermath of the storm without that vomity feeling turning my stomach again. It wasn't just sad - it was scary, too, in that eerie sort of way that the ocean sometimes is, when you remember that it's not just beautiful. It's also powerful, & we are, quite simply, not.

Only four of Funtown Pier's 40 amusement park rides made it through the storm, & more than 50 feet of pier fell away when waves began to batter the coast. What's left of the beach was scattered with the carcasses of once-welcoming rides, now knocked over & covered in sand, rusted & mangled & dirty.

A year ago, this was a place tourists & locals alike flocked to for a fun day at the shore; I never saw that side of Funtown Pier, but I could almost imagine it before me, kids licking ice cream cones & begging their dads to win them cheap stuffed animals at dart-&-balloon games on the boardwalk, their biggest concerns sunburns & splinters & long lines.

What hit me hardest at Funtown Pier was the sight of a beautiful old Ferris wheel sitting solidly in the ocean, attached to almost nothing on land. Though it was still standing, its position - again, solidly in the ocean when the pier below it crashed into the sea - rendered it wholly unsalvageable. Nathan & I visited on a Sunday; just a few days later, the iconic Ferris wheel was demolished. 

When we left Funtown Pier, we drove through the town of Seaside Heights, down the road that runs parallel to the beach, where many people people live(d) & rent(ed) modest summer homes. The beach access roads were all closed down, orange barrels advising explorers to turn the other way or risk police questioning. Down some of the streets were Dumpsters, cranes, construction vehicles, people out working - & down other streets, there was almost nothing at all, because there's simply so little hope of rebuilding. We saw houses & apartment complexes that burned to the ground when they caught fire after the storm, homes that looked as though they'd been hit halfway through with a wrecking ball, homes you could see straight into & outr the other side of, homes in piles of rubble with caved-in roofs lying atop them, homes with boarded-up windows & phrases like "We'll be back" spray-painted upon the siding. Big homes, little homes, homes with Halloween decorations still hanging in the windows. Homes where maybe no one will ever live again.

It took me almost a month to write this post, in part because I'm bad with time management, & in part because I was so emotionally impacted by what I saw in Asbury Park & Seaside Heights that I just didn't know what to say. I've lived here for nearly a year now (!), & for months, I've carried on with my life just miles away from absolute devastation. I never visited it, never volunteered to help rebuild after it, hardly even thought of it beyond seeing it on TV. My heart broke for the people affected by it, but I didn't fully comprehend that these people are my neighbors now.

The other day I was in the locker room at my gym, changing out of my sweaty gear, & I overheard a conversation between two women. One was saying that it turned out to be a blessing in disguise that she couldn't have children because she can't imagine experiencing homelessness with kids in tow. Homelessness. As I eavesdropped further, I realized that she had been displaced from her home in the storm - & that "displaced" is not even the right word because her home is gone now, & she's living on friends' couches while she tries to figure out what to do next. The Jersey Shore is full literally thousands of people like this woman, living in my town & in my gym & sitting next to me in Starbucks, & I didn't even get it, you know? I just had no idea, not really.

And what am I doing about it? The answer is still nothing. I just don't know. I still don't know, & I don't feel good about that. But I know that's it's horrible & painful & unbelievable & that, if nothing else, visiting the shore last month solidified one thing for me: For so many people, Hurricane Sandy was not just a scary thunderstorm that tossed a few docks into the backyard, like it was for Nathan & me. This shit is real, & it's still really bad, &... & we're connected to it, whether we want to be or not. We live in New Jersey now. We are part of New Jersey now. We were here for this, & we're still here for this, & that matters to me much, much more than I thought it did.

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