One Day

Some books we read because we know they’re good for us. For example, this seems to be my year of Graham Greene, though at least he’s made me laugh with the last two I’ve read. But I didn’t realise how many of those I was slogging through until I found myself devouring One Day by David Nicholls, and feeling almost guilty about it. Fittingly, I inhaled it within 24 hours, with a fervour I haven't felt since The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, or The Time Traveler’s Wife.

It’s a love story, but then it’s never that simple, is it? Less "boy-meets-girl" than "boy and girl crush on each other from afar, hook up at the end of uni, settle into friendship and play roles of varying importance in each others’ lives". Apologies, but folks, this is going to be a long one...

The premise is clever – checking in with the two protagonists for a single day each year (July 15), for a couple of decades. But what makes the book special isn’t the overarching story so much as Nicholls' effervescent prose and the sharp eye with which the characters are lovingly, gently mocked. Not to mention the accuracy of the pop cultural landmarks, as we follow Dexter Mayhew and Emma Morley through their 20s and 30s, from Edinburgh to London and various other international destinations.

You can’t help but fall in love a bit with the two leads, as imperfect and frustrating as they are. Because they’re US. Embarrasingly idealistic, aimless, careless and blasé, self-conscious and self-centred, narcissistic. When we first meet them, in Emma’s student flat the night after they graduate from college in Edinburgh, Nicholls’ descriptions of the characters are vivid enough to jolt we readers back to our own early 20s. It's 1988 and Emma is bookish, political and utterly lacking in self-confidence:

He exhaled through his nose and shuffled up the bed, taking in the shabby rented room, knowing with absolute confidence that somewhere in amongst the art postcards and photocopied posters for angry plays there would be a photograph of Nelson Mandela, like some dreamy ideal boyfriend. In his last four years he had seen any number of bedrooms like this, dotted round the city like crime scenes, rooms where you were never more than six feet from a Nina Simone album, and though he’d rarely seen the same bedroom twice, it was all too familiar. The burnt out nightlights and desolate pot plants, the smell of washing powder on cheap, ill-fitting sheets. She had that arty girl’s passion for photomontage too; flash-lit snaps of college friends and family jumbled in amongst the Chagalls and Vermeers and Kandinskys, the Che Guevaras and Woody Allens and Samuel Becketts. Nothing here was neutral, everything displayed an allegiance or a point of view. The room was a manifesto, and with a sigh Dexter recognised her as one of those girls who used ‘bourgeois’ as a term of abuse. He could understand why ‘fascist’ might have negative connotations, but he liked the word ‘bourgeois’ and all that it implied. Security, travel, nice food, good manners, ambition; what was he meant to be apologising for?

Dex himself is raffishly gorgeous and has no problems with confidence; it's something of a blessing he exists in a time before Facebook:

He wanted to feature in magazine articles, and hoped one day for a retrospective of his work, without having any clear notion of what that work might be. He wanted to live life to the extreme, but without any mess or complications. He wanted to live life in such a way that if a photograph were taken at random, it would be a cool photograph.

One year later, Emma is carefully crafting mix tapes and airmail letters to Dex, loaded with barely concealed longing; in return she is left searching for hidden meanings in postcards scrawled with things like “DUBLIN IS MAD.. SHOCKING HANGOVER” and “VENICE IS ABSOLUTELY FLOODED”. Some years their stories converge, others they are barely peripheral in the other’s life. The device’s strength is showing the contrast between how the characters see themselves and how others see them.

Later, I couldn’t help but squirm in recognition as Emma struggles to write something she’s proud of:

Emma stopped writing, then looked away and stared at the ceiling, as if giving someone a chance to hide. She looked back at the page in the hope of being surprised by the brilliance of what was there...

Sometimes, when it’s going badly, she wonders if what she believes to be a love of the written word is really just a fetish for stationery. The true writer, the born writer, will scribble words on scraps of litter, the back of bus tickets, on the wall of a cell. Emma is lost on anything less than 120gsm.

Meanwhile, Dex drifts effortlessly into presenting garish late night television, a cautionary tale of the perils of low level celebrity. After they fight and drop out of contact for years, they’re eventually forced into the same circles again with the dreaded “third wave” of weddings, and here Nicholls is hilariously acute – the first wave of weddings were jokey, low-budget affairs, college students taking the piss out of outdated bourgeois traditions. The second wave were still fairly austere, couples in their 20s marrying on shoestrings. The fourth wave will be quiet weddings too, being mostly second marriages and over before 10pm on account of all the kids. But the third wave of weddings are the expensive, ostentatious nuptials of people in their 30s and “no one is laughing anymore”.

You could argue it’s Brit lad/chick lit in the vein of Nick Hornby or Helen Fielding; a less broadly satirical Bridget Jones. But the humour never overpowers what is essentially a story about growing up. One of the simplest, loveliest lines is late in the book when people ask Dex and Em how they met, and they just say “we grew up together”.

I won’t spoil the ending but, y’know, I laughed, I cried, etc. More than that, I dog-eared countless pages and marked countless passages that sang with resonance, and thought of a dozen people I wanted to lend my copy to immediately... after I finished reading it a second time.

One Day will make a great movie – particularly the period details – and it’s already being made. Much as I’ve resented her since my ex made a flippant remark about her hotness (it’s disturbing the irrational mental hitlist I have based on such comments), I must admit Anne Hathaway seems a great casting choice for Em.

So: One Day. Check it out. You can read an excerpt here; and the author has cutely included one of Em's mix tapes.

First days in BK

So after the thrilling chaos of East Village, on Friday I moved into a sublet in Brooklyn's Williamsburg for the next three weeks. My sweet new roommate is some kind of musical savant - when I first met her and she said she was learning to play the accordion, I was a little concerned. But the reality of hearing her practice in the next room, accompanied on saw (!) by her friend who's also a painter and web-designer (and great cook), has been that life suddenly feels like a slightly more ghetto version of Amelie. Surrounded by such creative people, it feels like a luxury to stay home and write on a Saturday night rather than brave the bars of the city.

Fairy lights are strung around my open window, the sounds of life and traffic filtering up from Graham Avenue three floors below. The subway that connects us here so easily to Manhattan, the L train, is shut down for maintenance all weekend, so that's been a good incentive to spend more time exploring this new hood.


This morning brought an expedition to the farmers market at McCarren Park, about ten minutes' walk away, after a great coffee from hipster hive Variety. It's weird, great espresso is so taken for granted in Australia that it's kinda funny to see people go ape for it here. Anyway, it's sunbright summery this weekend and the market was even better than expected, bountiful with seasonal produce from the area - apples, sugary plums, bright radishes, jars of honey and bouquets of flowers. I heaved home some huge bunches of beets and monster carrots, which I can't wait to roast, along with organic yoghurt, coriander (we call it cilantro here, posh eh?) and a generous handful of my new discovery, concord grapes. They're round and blue-black like muscats but soft and syrupy sweet inside.

In what can only be a great omen for my new neighbourhood, I actually bumped into someone I know (well, who I've met once) at the market, and later we met up for french toast and bloody marys at Harefield Road, which I suspect could become my local. After that we had coffee and delicious delicacies from Fortunato Brothers, a classic Italian-style pasticceria that serves amazing cannoli, a rainbow of gelato flavours, and is home to a lazy fat cat called Rocky.

Williamsburg is this crazy mix of old Italians and young creatives. A shop over the road which I thought sold funeral ornaments also sells brick-oven-baked bread. The community is reportedly still recovering from the death of an old woman who would get up at 3am every day to make fresh mozzarella and sell it from her doorway. The streets aren't as green as the Village but you just know most the homes have gardens hidden out back. Brick facades laced with fire escapes, bikes everywhere. Expect more details - particularly on food and cocktails! - but I reckon I'm on a winner here.

Take a load off...

Fanny is one of the first discoveries I made in my new neighbourhood - I can find a $5 happy hour martini like a heat-seeking missile. The menu doesn't look half bad either, but my favourite part is the quiet little area out the back, perfect for enjoying the last rays of afternoon sun with a second hand copy of Our Man In Havana, listening to the cries of kids' games over the fence and with strings of drying laundry criss-crossing the sky above.


Just have to get over the "but-that's-a-naughty-word!" blush of its name. Reminds me of the impromptu dictionary of swear-words I composed with my pre-school partner in crime, the discovery of which got my mouth washed out with soap by Mum. (Craig and I had had a heated argument when I was adamant the C-word started with a K - one of the few times I've lost a debate about spelling). And then there were all those Enid Blyton books with characters called Dick and Fanny like she was being rude on purpose....

Chopper

Swore that no bikes would be purchased on this side of the world until gainful employment has been secured, but my resolve is being sorely tested almost constantly. Not only by the fact that all my new pals have bikes and get to do all this fun stuff that's not quite the same without wheels. But also by the steady stream of amazing bikes in full flight and chained up to every street surface... colourful vintage Schwinns, cute pink Huffys, chic black Dutch style bikes and insouciant fixies. Here in Brooklyn whole flocks of hipsters cruelly flaunt their steeds at speed, while I plod the sidewalks and try to swallow my envy.

This chopper isn't quite my size, but it's nonetheless a little stab to the heart each time I pass it on my new street....

Blondie of Arabia

At the last minute my new friend Allison suggested I join her at the Living Theater for something called Blondie Of Arabia on Friday night. At the mention of theatre/performance art I almost baulked - let's face it, we've all been burnt - but I'm so glad I didn't. It was a one-woman-show written and performed by Monica Hunken, who describes herself as an activist, Amazonian blonde with a superhero fetish. The show tells the story of her quest to bike alone through the Middle East, after she scored a trip to a royal wedding in Qatar working for a high-end catering company.

The theatre was tiny and intimate - read: impossible to escape should things turn weird - and the sassy, political opening monologue made me a little nervous. But when the music struck up and Monica rode a bicycle around the audience in superhero costume, it quickly became clear she wasn't going to take herself too seriously. With impeccable accents and mannerisms she reenacted run-ins with the military and the "po-po", couch-surfing with an eccentric Russian woman and handsy arab guys, and a bit of a romance with a scholarly, devout Egyptian tour-guide. She indignantly remembers him making her don his turtleneck to go swimming so she felt like "a drowned bee-keeper", and unconsciously rubbing salt into the wound he mooned: "You know why I know I could marry you Monica? You're not sexy."

Her observations of the different cultures - from the Disney princess decadence of the royal wedding, to a kohl-eyed desert tour guide deviate she dubbed Johnny Depp - were hilarious and also moving. A tiny example that kinda sums up her approach was when she describes a boat ride in Egypt, hip-hop blasting as she watched a woman in full hijab and wondered what, behind the veil, she thought of "The Thong Song". One of the saddest moments was actually when she had to leave her bike behind when flying out of Turkey!

It was a really great show and Monica even answered questions from the audience afterward. Next she hopes to take the show around Europe and dreams of finishing up with a performance in the Middle East. She's also donating to a fascinating cause called Follow The Women, well worth checking out, who demonstrate for peace by doing bikerides.

The weird thing about the night was that on two seperate occasions people stopped me on the street thinking I was Blondie! I guess one amazonian blonde in red lipstick is interchangeable with the next - but I will definitely take it as a compliment!

We finished the night with a late Indian feast at Spice Cove - $10 price fixe three course meal? Yes please! The urban legend about this stretch of East Village they call Little India is that there's just one kitchen hidden out the back, cooking for all the dozens of different restaurants with moody lighting and cushions and sitar players. Admittedly, all the restaurants are on the same side of the street...

The high life

It's hard enough to find a room of one's own in New York (as my battles with Craigslist will attest), but the holy grail of real estate here, a privilege rarer than hens' teeth, is a backyard. One potential house-sit in East Village boasted such a rarity, but having to share a bed with two dogs and a cat for a month, and pay $1000 for the privilege, was a trade-off I wasn't prepared to make.

So the flip side of the lack of private gardens, is the abundance of public green spaces. From the massive oasis of Central Park, to tiny pockets hidden on side streets and reclaimed rooftops. Community gardens and churchyards, playgrounds seething with kids and dog parks where the air is rent with shrill barks and steamy with the aroma of poo... Wherever there is space, there's an explosion of greenery.

Case in point - the High Line. The west side of Manhattan was historically a big industrial area, and when trains at street level proved dangerous (10th Ave became known as "Death Avenue"), an elevated train line was erected in the 1930s. Two decades later, the rise of interstate trucking left the line underused, and after a final train pulled "three cartloads of frozen turkeys" in 1980 (seriously, this historical timeline is kinda hilarious) the tracks were demolished. The area was reclaimed as public space and planning for a park began.

The first section of park was opened in mid 2009, with a further section due for completion next year. From Gansvoort Street up to 20th the Highline unfurls above the Meatpacking District and Chelsea Piers. The design is quite witty, incorporating elements of its history - flowers sprout around old tracks, wooden recliner chairs can be rolled along the tracks.

As well as gardens there are bits of artwork scattered throughout, sculptures and performance installations like "A Bell For Every Minute". Artist Steven Vitiello recorded different bells around New York, and the sound installation is synced to a clock decoding whether the bell you just heard denotes that class finished, you're next to be served at the deli or someone just got married.


Back on the cobblestoned ground level there's some fantastic street art throughout the Meatpacking district, which is a curious mix of high end restaurants, designer boutiques, and the eponymous wholesale butchers.

La vida Lomo

So much of the past week has been spent walking - it really is the best way to see the city (at least, until I get a bike!) and for someone with a poor sense of direction, helps connect the synapses and see how it all fits together. From East Village I took to walking across the island to West Village, a more gentrified kinda area, rich with literary/musical/activist history and loaded with streets of gorgeous brownstones and tucked away parks to boot.

A freelance photographer I'd met through work in Sydney happened to be visiting, so we tramped the streets together for a day or two. It was interesting to spend time with a real photographer and see the things that would catch her eye, and how she would approach the shots she took. I took great pride in taking her to the Lomography store and gallery on West 8th Street, which is a bit like a candy store for photographers - so many colourful plastic cameras with fun accoutrements like fish-eye lenses, coloured filters, splitters and all kinds of analogue goodness.

There I finally had my first roll of film from my Holga developed. The results were pretty wild, obviously it's a form of photography you have little control over but I still have lots to learn. Some shots were crisp, others sunblown and fuzzy. My favourite is a multiple exposure I took when my sister and her boyfriend were walking through Bondi, and he's on my bike:

All the shots I took while riding Big Red turned out a bit crazy, though I like this one:


Back at the Lomo store, Krystle was stoked to pick out a spinner, which takes 360 degree panoramic shots. It's an intriguing contraption, with the camera body mounted on a handle you hold rather like a speed gun. When you take your shot, you pull a string from the bottom of the handle, and the head of the camera spins around to take in the view. She's already planning all the amazing sport shots she'll be able to do, and I can't wait to see what she comes up with! I had to restrain myself from dropping cash I can't really afford, but I know I'll cave eventually - they also run workshops and events at the store so I'll definitely be back!