You better have good veins

So toilets. I’ve come to realise it’s extremely important to know where your nearest toilet is at all times. First of all, never ask, “where’s the toilets?” in America. You’ll be met with a dirty look. Please use the words Bathroom, Restroom or Facilities. These words are less offensive to the American ear. Also expect to find an Employees Must Wash Hands sign in every bathroom you see. Apparently Americans need to be reminded to not be filthy pigs.

I am writing on the subject as I found myself in this very situation the other week. I was walking to meet a friend downtown on the east side, when I felt as though I had been punched in the guts. I have no idea what it was that I ate but I knew that I needed a toilet and I needed it now. Of course, neither of us had been in this neighbourhood before and weren’t exactly sure which way we were heading to get to our restaurant. After five minutes and being no closer to our destination, I started to seriously think; I may need to lie down in the street. Also, what would I do if I shat myself? It was that serious. Luckily, I saw a bar and ran inside. Keep in mind though, if I did have to end up lying down in the street, it would not even raise an eyebrow from your follow New Yorker as they stepped over you. I know this for a fact because of the following.
My fellow aussie Loren was not feeling particularly well on the way to class one morning and was made to feel worse by the rocking of the subway, as she also suffers from motion sickness. And then she vomited. On the subway. So of course she decided to get off at the next stop and vomit into the bin on the platform instead. This woman who couldn’t look further from a junkie had people continue to walk by her with not one person stopping to ask if she was ok- which she clearly wasn’t. The only looks she did get were daggers from a mother on the subway as she pulled her son in close.

Speaking of being unwell in New York (or the good ol’ US of A for that matter), I’m sure everyone is aware of their appalling health care system. I have always known that if even I could somehow get a visa to live there, I would have to do some serious thinking before accepting because of this. Now I have experienced this system first hand- lucky me.

Yesterday while sitting in a very Melbourne-style trendy café Culture (in midtown if you wanted to know and as it turns out it’s Australian owned or something) and started to feel a tingling in my hand and foot, both on the left hand side. Now I am somewhat of a hypochondriac, so when it didn’t go away I started to get quite worried. I began to think about all the stories I’d ever heard about people ignoring warning signs of strokes etc. I worked myself up on my way to class and once I got there I was told maybe I should see a GP, even if it’s only to put my mind at ease. Off to the clinic I went.

I felt like I was in a movie. Seriously. “Fill out this form and take a seat.” Once I had signed away my life, paid $125US on credit (thank you travel insurance) and remembered to reverse the day and month when writing the date, I was ready. That’s when I received the Patient’s Bill of Rights. A thick document with every last detail about your rights and records, thus preventing anyone from suing the clinic. My personal favourite was the Pain Rating Scale (pictures to come). The only upside was that I only had to wait about 10 minutes for a walk-in appointment which would never happen in Australia. But of course any one can go to the doctors and not even have to worry about paying in Australia, so it stands to reason that our waiting rooms are going to be busier.

My number was called (ok, it was actually my name) and I entered a rather small room and was told to sit on the end of the bed. No friendly office with a doctor sitting behind their desk typing your symptoms into the computer. The woman asked me about my symptoms, took my blood pressure and just as I was about to ask what she thought was going on, she told me that the doctor would be in shortly. Right. That was the nurse not the doctor. Ok, fine. She left and that’s when I noticed the sign on the wall reading; If you are left in this room for more than 15 minutes, please tell someone at Reception. Good to know that they’re in the habit of forgetting people. Then in walked the doctor and in walked the cliché. White lab coat and everything. She confirmed everything that the nurse had recorded and checked my vital signs and seemed to want to have no part in quelling my fears, instead she ordered I get blood work done and see a neurologist. A neurologist. I’ve had these symptoms for a few hours now and she’s demanding a neurologist. Jumping to conclusions much? She would have booked me an appointment right then and there except in was Friday afternoon and the neurologist would not be in until Monday. She gave me the neurologists number and said to call him on Monday. I just kept trying to think, “what would an Australian doctor do?” Even if they thought it should be acted on straight away, they calm you down. It’s never a big deal. I now get why Americans are so terrified- because their own doctors are putting the fear of god in them. After getting my blood work done by another person with a terrible bedside manner (“You better have good veins”), I was done.

Will I call the neurologist? I don’t know. But I’ve googled my symptoms and it’s currently down to low electrolyte levels, anxiety, diabetes, thyroid disorder, Lyme disease and MS. Fan-fucking-tastic.

No, I’m not paranoid and yes, of course I’m paranoid.

She thinks it's strange out here

New York, I have some questions:

Why is there a wire rack in the microwave? I was told as a child never to put any metal of any sort in the microwave, yet there it is. Hanging out like it belongs there. I’m sure there are some of you laughing at me because they’re probably readily available back home but I have never seen them before.

Still in the kitchen, what’s with the old school kettle on the stove? Where I’m doing classes at the moment, the teacher made a point of saying “and we have an electric tea kettle for you aussies”. She laughed like we were so wacky for a having an electric kettle. Keep up with the times New York. Ps. Betamax says ‘hi’.

Your food is weird. Not so much of a question as a statement but no less true. Although I still haven’t had a huge amount of food related experience, I believe this opinion will hardly change. The other night I was out for dinner and ordered a salad that sounded very yum and very Melbourne. It had baked pear, blue cheese and walnuts. Sounded amazing. Upon being presented with the food I was a little overwhelmed. It came out looking like every colour of the rainbow had exploded on my plate. I wish you could have seen it. This over garnished mess left me gob smacked. First of all, the way the pear was presented made it look as though the skin was that of a chicken. Not cool. The cheese came in these little fried packages looking more like some kind of chicken kiev that you buy from the freezer. And the walnuts were sweet, the sweetest thing on the plate in fact. Knowing that Americans like a more of a sauce than a dressing to accompany their salad, I ordered balsamic vinegar thinking that would be safe. Wrong again. Although still by far the best choice, even the balsamic was far thicker than any balsamic I’ve ever seen at home. It ended up tasting ok but a reminder to not go to New York expecting Melbourne’s food. Even shopping at the supermarket is an experience. Initially I was excited because the prices are far cheaper than our own. But on further inspection, while all your usual foods appear to be right there in front of you, they’re in fact not. Just standing in the cheese section left me contemplating if I wanted the orange cheese or the orange cheese? Thank god for Whole Foods supermarket which is the uppity supermarket for the rich. Which strangely enough equates to our normal Coles/ Safeway prices. Are we being ripped off back home? Probably. But Whole Foods is a joyous place where everything makes sense and the cheese is plentiful (and yellow as god intended).

Ok, so not really a lot of questions but I'll get to more later. Now for the people of New York.

There are two types of people in New York. Crazy people and overly talkative people. Now it gets tricky cos some people are both crazy and over talkative. And over talkative people can be both lovely and rude. I’m lucky enough to have experienced both.

I’ve talked to more strangers in 1 week in New York than I have living seven years in Melbourne. And I’m not even talking about the ones who are trying to pick you up. I was looking displeased whilst shopping in Urban Outfitters when a large man told me very sweetly “It’s fine. You’ll find something. Don’t stress.” I also had a great conversation with a flaming homosexual at Whole Foods about that fact that he didn’t know that they don’t wash spinach leaves before putting them out and had been eating them unwashed for years. Then there’s the other side of the overly talkative: The Rude. I was walking down escalator to the subway when I stopped behind a couple. The man then told his partner to move to one side because some people will want to walk down. Let me be clear that I didn’t ask him to move. I was happy to wait. But since he moved, I continued past only to hear him say “take the stairs if you want to walk down the escalator” and he continued to bitch about me as I walked on. Have a cry, New York.

Last but not least we have: The Crazy. On my first trip to Brooklyn the other day, I walked past an older woman coming out on to her stoop. Her look was fantastic. Board shorts, holey black sports bra, long reddy hair with just a few rollers on the top of her head- and she was holding a cat. “She thinks it’s strange out here”. That’s right, she was speaking on behalf of her cat. The best part (or should I say the worst part) was that she had an Australian accent. That’s right. Maybe all of our crazies come to New York. Or maybe New York makes you nuts. Maybe the cat has all the answers.

Concrete jungle where dreams are made of

On the subway home, I put my ipod on shuffle, wanting some music for the first time since being here. It wasn’t until just prior to the chorus that I realised the song was Empire State of Mind. If any were watching me, they would have seen me grimacing like a fool. I even looked out the window (we happen to just come out from underground a moment before) and saw a beautiful view of the river. And I teared up. Yep, what a geek. I put it down to the jetlag. Welcome to New York.

First impressions of New York this time around are generally lovely. When I told my shuttle bus driver that I didn’t know the person whom I was staying with, he took $15 off the price and waited until I was safely inside (which was about 5 mins). Then there’s Danny whom I met on the street. On asking me if the A train was running express, he about to leave when I said something like “and it’s only my first day here”, which made him stop and chat to me about where I was from and what I was doing here. He ended up giving me his number and told me to call him if I wanted a personal tour guide. I made very sure to tell him that I didn’t have a number yet, despite getting one only hours earlier. Sounds sleazy but really wasn’t. That doesn’t mean I’m gonna call him though.

I’m staying in Washington Heights or “Little Dominica” as it’s affectionately called. Which is great because everyone in Little Dominica thinks I’m smoking hot! That’s right. I’m the only white woman for miles. I got so many “hello beautiful lady” and a lot of things in Spanish which of course I couldn’t understand a word of. Maybe they weren’t calling me beautiful after all…

Also, I’ve decided I may well speak in an American accent when purchasing food as I'm pretty sure I got ripped out by the hotdog vendor. The way he said $5 was like a question. $5? Like “can I get away with it?” Yes, clearly you can.