Cappuccinos and Castles: 6 Photos That Will Jolt Your Wanderlust
By Cristina Cianci
Trains, planes, and automobiles!
I live for going to new places or familiar ones that hold a special place in my heart. One thing you can bet on, come 5 p.m. Friday you can find me on one of the just mentioned means of transport.
A few of my recent favorites places are:
Lake Como, Italy
Alps, aqua-colored lakes, castles, and of course, all the cappuccinos your heart desires.
Wildwood Crest, N.J.
This beach town, especially at night, looks like you're living in “The Jetsons.”
“Travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living.”
New York City
For all the obvious reasons.
Miami Beach, Fla.
A tropical European-esque escape where a passport isn't needed. A tan and relaxation is always on the agenda.
“We wander for distraction, but we travel for fulfilment.”
Verona, Italy
More cappuccinos, a trip to Juliette's balcony and the arena, but the most fun, strolling the cobblestone streets aimlessly at night.
Big Sur, Calif.
Sunsets on the ocean and mountains in the ocean. Heaven is a place on Earth.
The Writer's Bone Essays Archive
Thanksgiving 2016: The Kid in the Pernicious Penny Loafers
(Photo credit: Anthony Quintano)
By Gary Almeter
Years from now, when I’m facing the firing squad, I will remember that distant evening when my wife and I walked to the Upper West Side to observe balloons inflate.
I will recall on that unseasonably warm November evening—Thanksgiving Eve 1999 to be precise—that we headed out from our East 81st Street apartment and walked through Central Park to the Museum of Natural History.
We were newlyweds, having been married four months prior, and this was our first Thanksgiving in Manhattan. We found the entrance to the designated viewing path and, along with about four zillion others, watched as giant polyurethane Peanuts characters, the Honey Nut Cheerios bee, Rocky and Bullwinkle, and Betty Boop get filled with helium.
Thousands of people, from every direction and with neuroses from every page of the DSM-IV, merged into the designated viewing path (hereafter “DVP”) at its origin, like human tributaries toward a giant festive river. The DVP meandered through and among the helium inflation process for all of the balloons that were to float down Broadway the following day.
While in the DVP, meandering with my wife amidst the autumnal reverie, I was kicked in the head by a boy riding atop his father’s shoulders. I saw him out of the corner of my eye. He didn’t do it on purpose. It’s just impossible to sit on top of your father’s shoulders and not have your feet head level with the person in front of you.
I was soon kicked again and turned around to look the offenders in the eye. The boy was about 3 or 4 years old, a little too big for piggyback rides, but, in light of the circumstances and our surroundings, was not completely out of the realm of acceptable human behaviors. The boy was wearing penny loafers, argyle socks, brown cords, sweater, and a puffy vest. His old man was dressed similarly, but with a shirt, tie, and blazer. They both looked me in the eye and said nothing.
I turned back around, however, I began to eavesdrop on them. The boy’s name was “Larken” and the father would say it twice every time he said it. For example, “Look over there, Larken, it’s Tommy Pickles from ‘Rugrats,’ Larken,” and, “Oh my gosh, Larken, it’s the Cat in the Hat, Larken.” These were all exclamations more than mere observations, as though each balloon was being inflated exclusively for Larken’s benefit and enjoyment.
After Larken kicked me in the head again, I turned around to confront him. The conversation went like this:
Me to Larken: “Larken, please stop kicking me in the head.”
Larken’s father (dumbfounded, as though no one in the history of Larken’s short stupid life had ever suggested he was anything but flawless): “Larken isn’t doing it on purpose.”
Me to Larken's father: “Be that as it may, Larken still needs to stop.”
Larken’s father: “Be that as it may, I can’t make his feet not touch you, buddy.”
Me to father: “Yes, you can.”
Father to me: “I actually can’t, buddy.”
Me to Larken: “Quit it, Larken.”
It was then that my brand new wife pulled me away from the conflict. I think she and Larken’s father, and probably Larken himself, knew that I could have kicked Larken’s ass. I would have too. Thanksgiving or no Thanksgiving, 4 years old or 40 years old, I don’t give a fuck. Anyway, we scurried through the DVP and away from Larken and his father. We probably missed the best balloons.
This event stays with me. I think about that kid with greater frequency than is probably healthy. I don’t do chin ups while listening to Iron Maiden with the hope and expectation of one day exacting my revenge on Larken, but I do think about it nonetheless. Every Thanksgiving Eve, in fact. (Along with the blessings, my children, the good Lord above, the cornucopia, and the blessings again, and the joyfulness, and the turkey.)
Larken is about 21 years old today. Where is he? Does he go to an Ivy League school? Why do I assume he’s attending an Ivy League school? Where does he live? Where did he live in November 1999? Did he and his mother take the train into the city to meet his father after work? If so, from where? Connecticut? Pelham Manor? Larchmont? Manhasset? Some other gilded zip code?
I thought about him shortly after Sept. 11, 2001. Did he lose anyone he loved? If so, who? Was he scared? Ambivalent? Does he play sports? Lacrosse? Squash? Baseball? Does he still wear penny loafers? Does family still visit the DVP on Thanksgiving Eve to watch the balloons being inflated (and kick other unsuspecting patrons in the head I’m sure)?
What the hell kind of name is Larken, anyway? If I Googled and researched the scant information I have on Larken, would I be able to locate him? Do his parents love him? Does he have siblings? Is he loved? When did he lose his virginity? Is he gay? Straight? Bisexual? Out? Transgendered? Is he a birther? An anti-vaxxer? A vegan?
I am learning that I have a very low tolerance for people who were born on third base. I have zero tolerance for people who were born on third and think they hit a triple, but I do reserve some tolerance for those merely born on third. I assume Larken was born on third base—a safe assumption in light of the fact he was wearing penny loafers and had a smartly dressed father who looked at me with eyes that registered nary a thought, hint of analysis, or a modicum of a possibility that he would ever apologize.
How corrosive is this lack of tolerance? I’m starting to wonder, especially in light of recent electoral events that put on display kids of a famous father who genuinely think that they are superior (genetically and intellectually) to other people. That really bothers me. More succinctly, it is an injustice. I was in New York City teaching kids, many of them sons and daughters of undocumented workers who took the Subway over an hour each way to and from school, went home and took care of their siblings, and did their laundry and cooked their own meals while the parents worked. The third base kids likely would not last a day doing all that.
When I was little, my family had a plaque featuring an old Native American proverb hanging on our kitchen wall. It said: “Grant that I may not criticize my neighbor until I have walked a mile in his moccasins.”
This hung near the heating register, over which we stood on winter mornings to get warm, so it was the subject of a great deal of analysis. We asked questions like:
- “Mom, if you walk a mile in the neighbor’s moccasins then do you have to walk back to give the moccasins back to the neighbor?”
- “What if you and your neighbor have different sized feet?”
- “Who wears moccasins in Buffalo in January?”
- “What if it’s raining and you ruin the neighbor’s moccasins?”
Later, while teaching English in New York, I taught To Kill a Mockingbird and highlighted the passage, “You never really know a man until you understand things from his point of view, until you climb in his skin and walk around in it.”
I don’t hate Larken. I don’t think I do anyway. I don’t know for certain that he is an asshole, but the warning signs were there in November 1999. It’s not his fault his parents named him Larken, bought him penny loafers and a puffy vest for toddlers, and didn’t demand he stop kicking people in the head.
But I have never walked a mile in his moccasins or his steel toe penny loafers of torment. While the Native American proverb is silent as to penny loafers, it would seem that it might be applicable. Luckily, for all of us, empathy is a learned skill.
Essays Archive
7 Photos That Say Farewell To Summer in the City
By Cristina Cianci
Summer is my favorite season. Long hot beach days, soccer camp, bike rides in the neighborhood, pool parties, ball games, and boardwalk strolls made up my Jersey shore summer days and nights as a kid.
Flash forward to current summers in the city. Sticking to the outdoor theme, I find myself in my mid-twenties, still hitting the New York City beaches and West Side highway strolls. Although pool parties have become park picnics (Central, Battery, you name it), baseball is still baseball—now with Shake Shack.
1. You can bet you bottom dollar I'll be at the beach for 11 of the 13 weeks of summer.
2. When time doesn't permit you to leave the island head to Tar Beach, the true New Yorker's summer spot (aka your rooftop).
3. Baseball, an American classic.
4. Crosswalk strolls.
5. Backyard BBQs
6. No time like the summertime to wander and find new hidden gardens, like this one behind Greecologies, a coffee shop in Little Italy.
7. Outdoor movies in the park…or at a museum…are a staple. This was taken after leaving Disney's “Fantasia,” which played on the big screen at The Museum of Modern Art.
On Being Limitless Through Creative Writing
By Lindsey Wojcik
“I am limitless.” Repeat. “I am limitless.”
With my palms together at heart center and that mantra seared into my consciousness, I beam with gratitude as I think about the opportunities that life in New York City affords me. Tonight, the city, specifically Bryant Park, offers me the power of exercising my body and mind with a one-two punch: 60 minutes of yoga followed by a 90-minute writing workshop, both led by respected teachers in the craft and free in lesson and inspiration.
The sun’s rays trickle through the clouds as I move through Sun Salutations on Bryant Park’s lawn. In Downward Dog, I catch a glimpse of the New York Public Library’s backside through the trees. The famous lion statues, arches, and pillars face Fifth Avenue, so from this vantage point I only see the building’s sprawling white marble that spans the length of the park. As I move through Chaturanga Dandasana to Upward Dog, my gaze lands on the spire of the Bank of America Tower and the sky’s blue hues that reflect off the windows on the tower’s sleek neighboring office building, 1095 Avenue of the Americas.
Each skyscraper, framed by the park’s trees through various yoga poses, are reminders of the “I am limitless” mantra. By the time my hands arrive yet again at my heart center and I greet my neighbor with a cheerful “namaste”—a signal that the yoga practice is nearing its end—I am rejuvenated and yearning to exercise a muscle I have not stretched in a long time.
Yoga ends just as the Word for Word writer's workshop gears up in the Bryant Park Reading Room—and room is a loose term. The Reading Room is not as majestic as the nearby Main Reading Room of the New York Public Library, which is currently closed for renovation, but the spacious room is merely a cluster of Bryant Park’s round green tables and folding chairs under an eggshell-colored tent that is branded with the words “HSBC” and “Reading Room Bryant Park.” Chairs spill into the outskirts of the tent, and it is there I find a seat near a under a tree near the speaker system. I am hoping I am close enough to hear the lessons that the workshop’s facilitator, Alex Steele, president at Gotham Writers Workshop, will deliver.
Creative Writing 101. “Creative writing can include fiction and nonfiction,” Steele explains. Tonight, the class is filled with aspiring writers of all skill levels that will explore creative writing through a series of exercises. Here, I will be bold enough to share some of my unedited exercises—and advice from Steele—with you. Class begins promptly with a writing exercise.
Exercise No. 1, part one: Write down an extraordinary or unusual event that happened to you.
I passed out on the N train during my morning commute.
Exercise No. 1, part two: Write down an extraordinary or unusual event that is partially true or completely made up.
I passed out on the train tracks just before the train pulled into the station.
Steele then calls on volunteers from the group to read their statements. One man says he was falsely accused of stealing jeans from a store. His second statement is that he fell asleep on the train and woke in Coney Island. Steele asks the students to decipher the true statement. My guess is Coney Island. However, the fact is that he was falsely accused of stealing jeans from a store.
I realize my written statements are too similar. Had I volunteered, the other students would have easily figured that my first statement was the truth. Though, determining fact from fiction is not the point of the exercise. “We all have lots of good stories to tell,” Steele says after three more volunteers read their statements. “These stories can come from our past or they can be made up.”
How can we gather and process ideas? Through the powers of observation and imagination. “Writers observe the world more closely than most people,” Steele says. “We carry notepads around with us or utilize the tools or apps through our smartphones to take notes.”
This is true. I always have a notebook on hand, and I have a dozen half-written, unfinished ideas scribed in my smartphone’s notes tool. But how can writers learn to develop their power of observation? “Keep your eyes open,” Steele says. “Don’t spend all of your time looking at your phone when you’re out in the world. You’ll find so much material.
“Observation applies to the past. Play the past like a movie, and you’ll draw upon memories that you didn’t even know you had,” Steele says. “Observation also applies to feelings and thoughts, which is very fertile ground for ideas.”
Steele offers up a quote from Yogi Berra: “You can observe a lot by watching.”
With that, we’re on to our second exercise of the class, which is to practice the power of observation. Steele invites us to pick something interesting in our surroundings, observe it, and write about it.
Exercise No. 2: He leaned over and put his hand on the small of his partner’s back. His eyes darted towards his opponents at the opposite end of the table as he whispered something into his partner’s ear. With the swing of a red paddle, the lightweight white ball soared across the green table. Plink, plunk, and over the net waiting to be swatted at by a blue paddle at the end of the table. Another plink. Another plunk. And the satisfying volley of the evening’s game made him hungry to score.
My closer boosts my confidence, making me eager to share my observation with Steele and the rest of the class. However, sitting near a tree on the outskirts of the tent camouflages me, and, alas, I am not called upon. Deflated, I half-heartedly listen to the musings of the chosen volunteers and perhaps I miss valuable lessons on observation.
Steele moves the lesson forward to the power of imagination, an attribute I feel I lack; thus, I do not practice creative writing often—much to the disappointment of some friends (ahem, Daniel Ford) and even myself.
“Imagination can mean pulling ideas out of thin air or probably relating it to something that you’ve observed in real life,” Steele explains. “In fiction, imagination has to seep deeper than what you’ve observed in real life. Put two people you know into one character or imagine a place you’ve never been. Sometimes you want to let your imagination run amok.”
How can writers think about topics to write about? Steele prompts: “Let yourself play with ideas, notions, and things you’ve observed, and see what happens.”
Steele draws on the inspiration of Albert Einstein to propel the class into its next exercise. “Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere.”
For Exercise No. 3, we’ll start with a title using “the” plus a noun and writing a story that matches the material. Steele asks for sample nouns from the class and accumulates a list: The Sea Cockroach, The Horse, The Statues, The Dog, The Carousel, The Playground, The Owl, The Rickshaw, The Foster Home, The Reading Room, The Chewed Up Gumball, The Attic, and The Parachute.
The exercise requires us to chose a title, start writing a story, and see where we end up. We’re given roughly 10 minutes to explore the title, and develop a setting and characters before Steele asks volunteers to share with the class. I am daunted by the task. Imagination is not my strong suit, but I attempt the short story as people around me write furiously with their pens in notebooks of all sizes, while others quickly pound away at the keyboards of their laptops.
I stare blankly at the title I’ve chosen: The Parachute. Moments pass before I prompt myself to write anything before time is up. Bravely, I will share those words with you:
Her lip quivered as she leaned through the open door, gazing at the distance between her and the green and brown patches of land she would eventually rest her feet upon once more. The sun beamed in her eyes as the wind wailed against her face. She trembled and agonized about the leap she had longed to take when she turned 30. “Am I too old to do this?,” she thought. Then, she remembered the certified instructor strapped to her back was older than her, and it made her feel weightless. She grabbed the man’s hand as a signal that she was ready to go and soared into the sky. The fall felt freeing, though she knew the feeling was fleeting. She closed her eyes, soaking the feeling in before being jolted upright by the tug of the parachute.
The Parachute is not something I want to share with everyone, and, full disclosure, it has since been tweaked. Steele listens to a half dozen volunteers and gives notes on the positive attributes of the quickly scribed stories:
- “Bring things to life with words through the senses.”
- “Sometimes you can write a better story if you don’t think about it and say, ‘here’s a title,’ you can let it flow.
- “If you want to write a complete story, you need to learn the craft. Writing great stories isn’t simple, but these are great starts.”
- “Everyone is unique. Find out what your story is. What’s your story—something that no one else will write?”
A volunteer with a timid voice grabs the microphone, readying herself to share her story, “The Statues.” An ambulance speeds down 42nd Street, wailing its sirens midway through her first sentence.
“Hold for sirens,” Steele requests. “I want to hear this.” The woman pauses and continues on after the noise dissipates.
However, before her story ends, another ambulance whisks by. “Hold for the sirens,” Steele requests once again. “The suspense is killing me.”
The sirens fade toward Seventh Avenue, and Steele asks the woman to resume. A beetle falls from the tree above me, landing on my notebook, startling and distracting me just as the sirens had. I swat it away and listen to Steele’s critique of the woman’s story—another positive review. Steele reminds us: “Your imagination will get you everywhere.”
As he wraps up the class, opening the Reading Room to a few questions, it starts to rain. Logic tells me to leave before the storm consumes the city’s sidewalks; yet, I stay for a few more words of wisdom.
“Writing prompts are a great way just to get you going,” Steele says. “Go outside, look around you and observe something that will get you started. Read a newspaper. Pick a person you don’t know, observe that person and write.”
Someone asks about the best way to build a writing stamina. Steele replies: “Find a time that is most productive to write. Writing is like exercise, the more you write, the better you’ll get. Write everyday.”
For more essays, check out our full archive.
How ‘Goodbye to All That’ Convinced Me to Stay in New York
By Lindsey Wojcik
“I am going to die in New York City.” As morbid as it might seem, it was the answer I gave to my friends and family when they asked when I was going to come home to Michigan before I had even left. I wouldn’t touch down in the metropolis for months, but I had resolved that once I moved there I would be there for good.
Five years later, I’m living in Astoria, N.Y., with my boyfriend in the nicest apartment I’ve rented since first moving to Manhattan in 2009. My journey through the boroughs of New York hasn’t always been comfortable or satisfying, nor has it been what I expected. I can no longer say with confidence I will die here.
Last year, during a particularly rough time, I picked up Sari Botton’s Goodbye to All That: Writers on Loving and Leaving New York, a book of essays inspired by Joan Didion’s 1967 essay of the same name. Botton’s collection features 26 essays penned by women, including Botton’s own (“Real Estate”), who have loved, lived in, and left the city I call home. Some of the writers have eventually found their way back to New York. The book’s authors, from born-and-raised New Yorkers to transplants that hail from the Midwest (like me!) and elsewhere, present the perfect mix of relatable, yet very different, perspectives on only-in-New-York experiences.
The first line of the first essay, Hope Edelman’s “You Are Here,” pulled me in just like New York had. “Like so many New York stories, this one begins with real estate.” Edelman’s got that right, I thought, recalling the first apartment-related essay I penned at the start of my New York tenure.
During my slow read of Goodbye to All That, I was closing in on my five-year anniversary in New York, feeling drained from urban life—financially, at least—and stuck in an uninspired editorial career. However, after finishing the book’s last essay, “Minnesota Nice,” I realized I was not quite ready to say goodbye and here’s why:
An aerial view of New York City
Because I still get a New York high.
New York has a super power. The sights, sounds, and smells give its explorers a sensory overload equivalent to a euphoric high that leaves its lovers wanting more. I experienced it the first time I visited the city as a tourist seven years ago and each subsequent visit I made before moving.
I am not alone. In her essay “Crash and Burn,” Eva Tenuto writes: “From my first hit of New York City, I was hooked. I got high off the energy and craved it when I returned to my quiet, boring country home.”
Tenuto’s words were a gentle reminder that, after five years, I still get that high. I get it every single time I decide to walk to my destination instead of taking the train. For example, a few weeks ago, I walked from my apartment in Astoria to Central Park. My legs wanted to stop, but Manhattan’s skyline and George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” blaring through my headphones gave me a high that lured my tired body over the Queensboro Bridge. When I reached my destination, the park was speckled in autumn’s colors, giving me the highest of New York highs.
Because I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.
Everyone comes to New York in search of something. Most are looking for success in a career or in love. In “A War Zone for Anyone Looking for Love,” Liza Monroy expresses the fear that “living anywhere else meant you’d given up,” and “the successful people were simply the ones that stuck around.” Monroy adds that she was determined to become one of those successful people, and I am too.
Of course, success is subjective. In many ways, I’ve crushed it in New York City. I found love and a home, however, my professional choices haunt me every day. I moved to the city hoping to eventually see my name on the masthead of a glossy, consumer magazine. The years and the desperation for steady income have led me down another path—one I’m very grateful for in this economy—but that does not meet my creative needs. I don’t want to leave the city until I’ve rectified that by either “going consumer” or finding another creative outlet.
Socrates Sculpture Garden in Astoria, N.Y.
Because I’m still up for the challenge.
Do I sometimes get tired of the grind? Absolutely. Otherwise, I would not have questioned my ability to last another year or two here. New York shovels a lot of shit into the faces of its inhabitants. Sometimes, it’s literal shit. However, New Yorkers take it all in stride, and I have learned to do the same.
Goodbye to All That helped me realize that the inevitable challenges of life will ultimately follow me anywhere I go. I will have to find affordable, comfortable housing in another town. Instead of frustrations that come with the MTA shutting down an entire subway line, I’ll have to navigate closed roads and construction. And crime, similar to the apartment burglary I experienced during my first year in New York, happens everywhere.
At this point in my life, I am not searching for anything else, like I was when I first moved to the city. If anything, I’m looking to improve my New York life, not escape it. So, no, I am not ready to say goodbye to all I’ve got.
For more essays, check out our full archive.
Urban Escape: 7 Photos New York City Slickers Will Love
By Cristina Cianci
Since moving to New York City for the first time this past summer—post-college shenanigans, of course—I've learned a few new things about the city, while others were like a trip down memory lane from yesteryear.
1. Nothing compares to that feeling of pride in downtown Manhattan, especially in September.
2. It’s still one of my life goals to jump down from a fire escape. This one was my grandpa’s in Little Italy.
3. The Metropolitan Museum of Art on the Upper East Side never disappoints for inspiration. I can get lost for days, which I did on this day and wound up on the roof.
4. My morning view ensures I never take this life for granted or too seriously. I pinch myself daily.
5. Brunch, brunch, and more brunch. Three times a day if needed, and, most certainly, per weekend. I found this is a gem of an alley in the Lower East Side after eating at Freemans.
6. Always carry an umbrella, or run to the nearest Duane Reade to invest in one, or else you will Mary Poppins down Third Avenue. I learned this lesson the hard way during a typhoon this past June.
7. Tar Beach should be your new favorite beach in the summer. Become familiar. No more Jersey Shore. Rooftop barbeques, beer, new friends, and kiddie pools are to the Atlantic Ocean as bottle caps are to sea shells.
For more essays, check out our full archive.
Water Works: 10 Photos To Cool You Off This Summer
Haven't spent enough time at the beach, lake, or any other preferred body of water this summer? Don't worry, Writer's Bone photo essayist Cristina Cianci's latest post is the perfect cure-all for the summertime blues. Feel free to share your own water photos by tweeting us @WritersBone.
By Cristina Cianci
I grew up 20 minutes from the ocean. You can find me on the beach winter, spring, summer, and fall (in the appropriate seasonal wear of course). Nothing beats a quiet beach interrupted by the dulcet sound of waves spilling over the sand. I even have an alarm clock that makes that noise.
I have to get back to my beach towel and brightly colored cocktail, but enjoy my favorite water photos (seagulls and soothing waves not included):
1. A lagoon in my friend's backyard in Florida.
2. The Atlantic Ocean. This was taken during my first trip to the state of New Hampshire! It's also the farthest north I've been in the U.S. Check those off the list!
3. The Hudson River from my new neighborhood in New York City.
4. My pool at my family's home in New Jersey on a sunny day.
5. Lago di Caldaro in Italian Alps.
6. Magical September sun beams on the Venetian canals.
7. Post winter waves in New Jersey.
8. My cousin fully enjoying herself in Lago di Resia, Italy.
9. Post Friday night cocktail with views of lower Manhattan.
10. My favorite home away from home, our summer escape in Wildwood Crest, N.J. It has held many memories and secrets for the past 25 years, and will hold many more during the next 25.
For more essays, check out our full archive.
Manhattan Moments: 7 Photos of New York City That Define Me
Cristina Cianci, Daniel Ford, and Stephanie Schaefer frolicking in New York City.
By Cristina Cianci
Born on Staten Island + raised in New Jersey + my love of the shore, loud talking with hand gestures, pasta (and my ability to eat it three times a day) = I proudly wear the Italian American badge on my sleeve.
Living in Manhattan during college was a whole other ball game. From thee hidden treasures I found and made my own to the spots I frequented as a kid, these are the seven I hold close to my heart and badge.
The Brooklyn Bridge
Day or night, rain or shine.
The Bethesda Fountain in Central Park
For those times you wish you were in Europe, but have to settle for Central Park.
This View From My Friend’s Roof in Midtown Manhattan
Oh, hello.
Madison Square Garden
The best overpriced beer and hot dogs.
Little Italy
For some historic Cianci stomping ground and really good cannolis.
Caffe Roma
See previous description.
The New York Public Library
For some light reading and escaping the hustle and bustle.
For more essays, check out our full archive.
Why the 'How I Met Your Mother' Finale Wasn't the 'Best Burger in New York City'
The "How I Met Your Mother" finale was the opposite of this moment.
By Stephanie Schaefer
I remember watching the series premiere of “How I Met Your Mother” when I was sophomore in high school. It was the perfect sitcom to fill the void left by the end of my favorite show “Friends,” provide distraction from my math homework, and entertain a 15-year-old girl stuck in the suburbs without a driver’s license. The truth is, at that point, I didn’t have a great deal in common with the show’s characters. I had never been in love and the thought of settling down seemed like a continent away, but I enjoyed the premise nonetheless. After all, isn’t that what sitcoms are for? To allow us to escape, dream, and laugh?
As I watched the crew gathering at MacLaren’s Pub each week, I envisioned what it would be like to be a 20-something gallivanting in New York City, dating eligible bachelors, and chasing an exciting journalism career like Robin. Back in 2005, I wanted the happily ever after between Robin and Ted. After all, I was young, naïve, and didn’t know anything about love.
A lot has changed in the past nine years since the pilot episode. In fact, after graduating college I did end up moving to Manhattan where I got my first taste of a journalism career. I soon related to the main characters more than ever. There were moments I shamelessly cried on a crowded subway like Robin, wondered if I’d ever find lasting love like Ted, and debated if I should stick to my career dreams or find a more financially stable job like Marshall.
Many of the creative and well-written early episodes resonated with me. Whenever the city got me down, I would retreat to my closet-sized room and watch reruns. I remember one episode that hit the nail on the head. Marshall and the gang go on the hunt for the “best burger in New York City.” Like most of the show’s iconic symbolisms, the burger meant more than just a meal. Marshall recalls the time when he first moved to the city eight years prior and tasted a bite of heaven in a tiny burger joint. Eating that delectable burger once again would make Marshall feel okay about putting his dreams of becoming an environmental lawyer on hold—especially when he disappointedly realizes that the location of the eatery had turned into Goliath National Bank (the corporation that recently offered him a job). However, in true “How I Met Your Mother” fashion, the five best friends finally taste that perfect burger after a long search in one of the most memorable moments of season four.
The gang in more hilarious times.
Similar to the HIMYM crew, in the midst of the confusion, heartbreak, and soul searching in New York, I did experience the moments that made me feel alive and as on top of the world as someone tasting the best burger they’ve ever had. Like Lilly, Marshall, Ted, Robin, and Barney, I met my friends at Irish bars after work, enjoyed amazing food, and even fell genuinely in love.
So kids, you may be wondering how I felt about the finale. I could dive into every flaw and tear the sitcom’s ending apart like many critics. Honestly, that was my original plan for this piece. However, after giving myself a few days to process the much-talked-about ending, I decided to take a slightly different route.
Like most HIMYM fans my age, I’ve grown up a lot in the past nine years. But while most of us gained maturity and insight over the near-decade, it seems as if the once beloved sitcom and its characters seemed to become less mature and more one-dimensional—which can be blamed on sloppy writing, poor character development, or failed attempts at humor.
The finale and episodes leading up to this big moment only increased my frustrations with the characters and their total lack of growth. Essentially, they were right back where they started, but we, as viewers, were not. Robin and Barney divorce because the two weren’t mature enough to handle Robin’s work schedule. Barney immaturely recreates his chauvinistic playbook and impregnates a one-night stand. And perhaps in the most frat-boy move of the show, instead of revealing her name, Bays and Thomas call the mother of Barney’s daughter “31” — as in the 31st woman he’d slept with that month. Hmmm, I wonder what will happen with Barney sits down to tell his daughter the story of how he met her mother…
What did change toward the end of the series, however, was the magic of the first few seasons. Anyone who’s watched the sitcom religiously knows how special the beginning of the series was. If you would have told 15-year-old me that future Ted Mosby shows up with a blue French horn at Robin’s doorstep to win her back once again, I would have thought it was romantic. But now I know that if you love someone – I mean truly, deeply, and unconditionally love someone – then you don’t make any excuses not to be with them, which is the main problem I have with the Ted/Robin courtship. When you know that you want to, or at least hope to, be with someone forever you do things that may seem illogical—like give up a judgeship so your wife can live her dream in Italy (à la Marshall), or, in Ted’s case with Tracy McConnell, cancel your plans to move to Chicago at the last minute.
Taken away in the worst way possible...
Throughout the past nine seasons this “I can’t live without you” mentality was never the case for Ted and Robin, particularly on Robin’s part, but they’re both to blame. The timing between them was always off. Either Robin didn’t want a commitment or was “too busy” at work or Ted was chasing other women or Robin was preoccupied falling in love with shallow and sexist Barney, etc. Bottom line, they never fought for each other. They only ended up together in the very end when it was convenient for writers who had grown too lazy and too reluctant to change their original plan.
But, you know what Bays and Thomas? Love doesn’t always mean convenience. Love, although at times messy, means sacrifice, commitment and compromise. It’s finding a way to greet your spouse at the airport even when it’s snowing, like Marshall did for Lilly. And, most importantly, it’s staying by someone’s bedside when they're sick like Ted did for Tracy. Ultimately, love means more than stealing a somewhat superficial (yes, I said it) blue French horn.
Like many “How I Met Your Mother” fans I was disappointed by the lukewarm ending—a conclusion that didn’t allow me to escape, dream, and laugh quite like I did while watching the show as a teenager. All and all, I hoped the finale would make a return to the sitcom's initial magic and leave me satisfied like eating the best burger in New York.
However, all I found was a Goliath National Bank.
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Refilling the Treasure Chest: How I Moved On After I Was Robbed of My Writing
By Lindsey Wojcik
Who steals a jump drive?
Better yet, what motivates someone to steal an item that's relatively cheap to purchase at any office supply store?
I often obsess over what plausible answers to these questions would be because four years ago my jump drive and laptop—both of which contained my entire college portfolio, among other valuable items. My prized writer possessions were stolen from me by faceless, unknown person or persons who burglarized my New York City apartment—an apartment in a new neighborhood that I had just moved into three weeks prior. I was saved from the frightening experience of a home invasion, however, losing everything I had written—digitally, at least, published and unpublished—was, in some ways, more frightening.
I was a recent college graduate chasing an editorial career in the big city, miles away from home, and my entire body of work was taken from me. I felt helpless and much like Carrie Bradshaw when her computer crashed (as someone who had recently moved to New York City, I was also a “Sex and the City” addict). “What if everything I’ve ever written is gone?” Carrie ponders. “When’s the last time you backed up?” Miranda asks. I thought I was the anti-Carrie by backing up my work by using a jump drive. As it turns out, it didn’t matter.
Again, I have to ask: Who steals a jump drive?!
I too wondered if all was lost, so after experiencing the five stages of grief, I began a mental checklist of the important work that my stolen technology contained. Every single thing I ever wrote for my university's student newspaper—where I worked for three years, eventually becoming editor in chief—came to mind. Was that all erased?
Thankfully, the journalism department at my alma mater required a portfolio to graduate. That lovely black portfolio with hard copies of only some of my standout pieces was safely nestled near the crime scene. All was not lost. Although it felt like it because, with the exception of those few printed pages, PDFs of every story that I’d written and published in college were on the hijacked jump drive.
Being a pack rat was my saving grace. I had kept a hard copy of each volume and number of my college’s newspaper stashed away at my parent’s home back in Michigan. There are two Sterilite totes filled with those newspapers, as well as copies of the weekly alternative newspaper I interned at, stacked in my childhood closet. And even that got me thinking: Are those totes are waterproof? I sure hope so. If I lose those because of water damage or, God forbid, a fire, I will lose it.
However, all of the unpublished Word documents saved on the stolen computer that held my college-aged thoughts and ideas vanished, which is soul-crushing in many ways. I’ll never know the end of those old, unfinished sentences scattered over many saved pages with ambiguous names. And any future memoir recounting my college years will require long, deep thought from my wine-addled brain.
Though I’ve accepted the loss of those material items (okay, maybe I am still harboring a bit of a grudge) and have since replaced my computer, the experience made me re-think how I archive my written work. My personal archive is still a work in progress, but since the break in I’ve kept a paper trail of everything. I’ve also tried to leave a digital footprint of my work (published and unpublished) somewhere on the Internet.
My professionally published work is mostly digital, so I have a compiled list with links to those stories stowed on my email account. Perhaps, as an added safety measure, I should consider printing out each story with my byline. I also have hard copies of each magazine I've written professionally for in some of those totes at my parent's home. I am grateful they allow me to store so much of my stuff there. My current New York City apartment wouldn't allow such storage (and as Daniel Ford points out, the New York Public Library might not be enough).
My unpublished pieces now reside in a folder on my Google Drive. You can steal a woman's laptop and jump drive with precious content once, but steal again and all is not lost for the woman—unless Google is down. Does that mean that Google owns my life’s work? Maybe I should check into that.
I have half-filled notebooks in every room of my apartment scribed with ideas, half-written pieces, and some nonsense. It helps to look back on those lost thoughts, and often, it tailspins into a cohesive piece that I could eventually publish. After all, that’s how this post began.
A writer’s archive of work—published or unpublished—is a treasure allowing the writer to display the sparkling gems that earned great praise or even strike gold with the rediscovery of an old thought. It is sacred, and it should be treated as such.
Go forth a build your own treasure chest. Just make sure to put a LoJack on it.
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How Photographers See the World Differently Than Writers
The Writer’s Bone crew asked some of their photographer friends if they would contribute to the website so writers could get a sense of how different creative types see the world around them. This is the first post in an ongoing series.
By Cristina Cianci
The combination of the way light reflects off objects and a perfect human reaction is such a rush to capture!
When I was 11 years old, I was given my first real camera as a Christmas gift from my aunt and uncle. I was instructed to take it with me to Italy that summer. A gold 35 mm film point and shoot camera that fit perfectly in my little bright blue drawstring GAP backpack. By age 12, I was too cool for that, so I upgraded to Kodak throwaway cameras. They came with me everywhere: field trips, field days, and last days of school for the next three years. I loved a really great snap shot, a moment filled with a lot of high energy and emotion. Age 16: I got my first digital camera, with a memory card and the whole shabang. Throughout high school, I stuck to the status quo with Canon digital point and shoots.
I went to the School of Visual Arts in New York City to study photography. During this time I learned about an array of different mediums and photographers, and soon realized I really loved film photography. As I was training my eye, William Eggleston inspired me. My professors and confused friends constantly informed me that this was a prehistoric art form. I've learned to be quick witted in my responses to "What is that thing?" and "But how do you get them on Facebook?"
It's been fun.
Ever since college, I've been married to my Kodak disposables, all my film cameras, and of course my iPhone camera. Nowadays, they come with me everywhere, in all shapes and sizes, and as many that can fit in my Mary Poppins bag.
Here are 10 of my recent favorite moments captured on film (or iPhone!):
1. My sister from the lens of my iPhone.
2. Venice, Italy, from the lens of my Minolta 35 mm film camera this past summer.
3. My cousins in Italy reaction to my arrival from the lens of a disposable camera.
4. A reflection that caught my eye from the lens of my iPhone in the Italian Alps this past summer.
5. Summer sun rays in the backyard from the lens of my iPhone.
6. First dance as husband and wife at a family wedding from the iPhone.
7. Dunes at dusk this past fall from the iPhone.
8. My cousin, about to fall off a boat, but managing to save the found Starbucks in Italy from my Minolta 35mm film camera. #priorities
9. Backstreet Boys reunion tour bliss this past summer from my iPhone.
10. One of my favorite snap shots from Verona, Italy, this past summer caught on 35 mm film from my Minolta camera.
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Sean's Take: How I Became Mike Hammered
“How c-could you?” she gasped.
I only had a moment before talking to a corpse, but I got it in.
“It was easy,” I said.
I, the Jury—Mickey Spillane
It was after reading this iconic closing that I became a fan of noir tough guy fiction and mostly a fan of Mickey Spillane. I first picked up I, the Jury, the first of the long running Mike Hammer detective series, in eighth grade. Like a heroin addict, I was hooked on the junk. It was fantastic, it was jaw- dropping, it was as if I had located a hidden door to a secret and magical world where men wore suits and toted .45 automatics with tough dames who could break men with their icy stares. Mike Hammer, the short tempered New York City private detective quickly became my hero and his creator became my idol.
Most teenage boys worship football players, rock stars, or actors, but I worshiped at the altar of Mickey. It was a place where there was no bullshit and the only talk was tough talk. I was, and still am, a gentle person. I am not a tough guy by any means. I could eat pizza and watch PBS all day if allowed, and that is something I have learned to accept. However, I was able to enter and take part of the tough guy world through Spillane's words and leave without getting any scratches.
I, the Jury came out in 1951 and was runaway best seller. It was a risky book for the time—filled with sex, violence, and a seedy underworld. Spillane wrote for money and he never hid that from the public. Spillane once said "I am writer, not an author. A writer makes money."
Spillane pumped I, the Jury out in seven days because he needed cash to help pay for a house. Seven days! One week and the man wrote a book that changed the landscape of the American detective novel. What have you done in seven days? Nothing that changed the world! Stop reading this blog, go do something awesome! Never mind, keep reading. This blog is awesome! Carry on.
Mickey Spillane
What I took away from Spillane was that he wrote for fun. He wrote so he could make a dime and I could enjoy myself. Many blamed Spillane for dumbing down the market with his quick and easy style that was filled with action and sex. What he really did was show the writing world how to be an entertainer. Mickey wasn't some stiff, quiet writer with glasses who spoke softly about the need for character development. No! He was from New York City, he knew how to control a room when he walked in, and he told stories that pulled you in and kept you reading. Spillane was on talk shows across the country making people laugh, he acted in films based off his books, and he even starred in Miller Lite ads. If James Patterson did an ad for Budweiser would you buy it? Maybe. But when a wise cracking New Yorker with a fedora on his head tells you to drink Miller Lite you are going to drink it.
It's been more than 10 years since I first picked up Spillane, but I still go back and read one story once a year. Are the stories dated? Yes. Are there racial slurs? Yes. None of that takes away my love for the stories or for the man who brought them to me.
I'll leave you with one more classic line from Mickey Spillane:
"I have no fans. You know what I got? Customers. And customers are your friends."
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