A Park Avenue Starbucks
The weather in New York when I left Uncle's house on Saturday seemed a little dodgy; it was gray. Very different to the wonderful brightness that met me every day morning.
Uncle said it was going to rain. I was tempted to ignore his warnings. But I took the large umbrella he offered me, and changed the paper bag I was carrying to a plastic one.
By the time I got to Grand Central Station, it came down pouring with an intensity I am not used to in London.
I ducked into an Italian cafe/restaurant called Pershing Square - across from the Grand Central. A sign said: "Men in tank tops will not be permitted entry"! (I do not understand.)
The place was pricey and I was not really looking to eat. So, I walked out into the rain.
Manhattan seems like it has a gigantic dragon living underneath it. From the sewer holes to the big subway-ventilation meshes, every hole in the street radiates steam and heat and odours.
While it was raining though, there was something pleasant walking over these ventilation grids, the hot air dried my feet. Yukky but useful. I don't think the dragon minded.
Weaving through the streets to get to Park Avenue, I chanced on a Starbucks that looked calm, quiet and inviting. There was now a little chill in the air, and the streets had been scrubbed clean. Very few people were around. It seemed I had stumbled on an intersection of financial-institution buildings (JP Morgan was next door); the imposing Helmsley Building was behind.
Inside the shop, I wanted to while Saturday away reading the New York Times and sheltering from the unwelcome weather.
They were playing songs from the Trojan Reggae album on the Starbucks music label, and it seemed so perfect. There was a bit of an expanse in front of the coffeeshop; the view was not that usual mid-Manhattan hemmed-in-by-the-skyscrapers view. I was not used to New York feeling that way.
The girls behind the counter were having this conversation:
young woman 1: This is nap weather.
young woman 2: Yeah. Watch TV, stay in, cook something warm.
young woman 1: I wish I could just call in: "Sorry, can't come in today, rain".
young woman 2: If you live in the Bronx and it rains, you know it's going to be horrible.
young woman 1: Like, if it's sunny outside, I wanna go sit in the park.
young woman 2: Yes! Go out, do something.
young woman 1: But this. God, I wish I could have a nap right now.
Such was the mood in the whole place. An elderly Jamaican-looking couple watched me with amusement bobbing my head to reggae beats. A yuppie-type had finished reading his NYT and was zoned out on the sofa.
Then I saw a book called "Listening is an act of love" on the goods table. It was on sale: down from $25 to $16. It was shrink-wrapped and in a gift box together with a CD. The book consisted of a selection of stories from the StoryCorps project.
Apparently, the StoryCorps project has been going on for four years. They install booths in various spots across NYC (and the USA) and people just walk in and tell their stories. The setup is that of an interview. Two people have to be involved (as well as a neutral sound recordist). For example, a husband and his wife, with (say) the husband interviewing his wife. Or, a grandma and her grandson, with the grandson interviewing. All the stories go into a public library archive. The premise is that our lives are full of precious stories worth preserving.
The entire mood of the day (thus far) told me: "YES, buy this book". And so I did.
The mood was so intoxicating, I even went ahead and bought two music CDs the shop was flogging.
I have already read fascinating little stories within the first ten pages of the book. (Interviews are pared down to two-three pages.) One particularly interesting one involves a young Korean woman and her mother (both US citizens). The daughter interviews her mother on why she and her dad are, by contrast to most Korean couples, openly affectionate towards each other.
Turns out that the mother as a young woman had been involved with missionary activities in Korea and one of the key couples at the mission was American. She had observed them being very affectionate towards each other: "oh thank you honey", "i love you honey". Every time the wife served tea, there would be an affectionate kiss of the hands or pat on the arm. The mother resolved that when she got married, she would have a similar marriage.
Right after she got married, she told her husband "i love you honey", etc at every opportunity. The husband complained she was making him feel uncomfortable; she asked him to simply respond in a way similar to her and do his best, and maybe he will get used to it. What do you know, with repetition, he learnt to be affectionate. She reckons those little tokens of daily affection are very important for a happy and lasting marriage.
"Listening is an act of love". (Reading my blog is an act of love.)
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There are a lot of stories in the minds of humans. Today, if you want, you can spend your entire day reading or watching other people's stories. (You're reading one now.) In a way, there is a lot of residual wisdom in mankind. Treasure troves of it.
Yet you have to live your own life. Then you can tell your own stories. But most of them will not be remembered. We're constantly hearing, creating, and filtering stories.
The project is novel in that it gives ordinary folk the power to choose to archive their stories, rather than leave them to the sometimes irrational, forgetful everyday human memory. It is a much quicker way than writing a book (or a blog).
*
The Korean story contradicts Seinfeld's wonderful bit:
Why do men behave in these ways?
Why are we rude, obnoxious, getting drunk, falling down, peeling rubber, ...
Why are we like this?
I know what you ladies are thinking...
"No, no, not my guy. I'm working with him, he's coming along."
No, he's not.
He's not coming anywhere.
