Here is Rai Rai Ken, a Japanese restaurant on 10th St between 1st and 2nd Ave. Inside, there are no tables, just a bar and some bar stools. The bartenders, as it were, serve up delicious steaming bowls of ramen. If you go here, make sure to bring your own newspaper, as they only have Japanese papers on hand. 

The awe-inspiring view out of my bedroom window. Take that California! 

My humble abode. 

Another odd occurrence

Because of all the reading and work for class, I've had little time to carry out my culinary mission of eating at every restaurant in New York. Most, if not all, of the places I've tried so far have all been within a 3-block radius of my dorm (if I'm not mistaken, there must be thousands in that small area alone). Here's a description of one of the more eventful meals I've had:

While perusing one of the local newspapers (I'll read anything as long as it's not my Civil Procedure textbook), I found a listing for a small sandwich shop called BB's. According to the paper, this diminutive restaurant has been a fixture in the collective NYU student diet for many years. So, on Thursday, between classes, I decide to check it out.

Upon entering, I noticed that there was no menu to be seen. I checked the usual spots - the walls, the tables, and near the cash register - but, as far as I could tell, there was no guidance for the uninformed customer. The proprietor called to me from the back of the restaurant before I could figure out what was going on. "One or two?" he said with a glance in my direction.

My response was automatic: "Uh, one, please."

A quick scan of the newspaper and magazine articles decorating the walls confirmed my suspicisions: this place only offers one type of sandwich. There was no menu because there's no need for one.

It was at this juncture that I discovered a noticeable lack of cash money on my person, a condition that can be convenient, and even fortuitous, when you are eating with generous friends but frustrating as hell when you are flying solo. If there ever was a place that wouldn't accept credit cards, this one-trick pony sandwich shack was it. Sheepishly, I inquired about paying with plastic, fully convinced that in seconds I would be turning around and leaving sans sandwich.

To my surprise, he took the ATM card from my hand, uttered something incoherent, and scrawled the total of my meal - $5.85 - on a piece of paper. It was at that very moment when an impish child appeared at my side, like a demon conjured by some dark ritual. My card and the note were handed to the gypsy kid and he exited the door, with what looked like malevolent purpose. Unfortunately, the child, powered as he was by youth, was too fast to follow. So I decided to sit down and let fate decide whether or not my credit card would provide the funds for the sandwich or a Playstation for the kid.

My sandwich came shortly thereafter and I devoured it with speed. While not a cheesesteak in the traditional sense, it did satisfy my desire for thinly sliced steak, melted cheese, and carmelized onion. By the time I finished, the kid was still nowhere to be seen, so I resigned myself to reading the newspaper.

As time passed, paranoia began to show its ugly head. Where was that gypsy? In my mind's eye, I could see him in Toys R Us having the time of his life, sharing a laugh at my misfortune with that damn giraffe. I was, as you might have guessed, worried for no reason. Before I could fully descend into panic, he returned, with my card and a receipt for $5.85.

Just goes to show you, contrary to popular belief, you can trust gypsies after all - even in New York.

On a conveyor belt...

Meeting new people en masse is, I find, a strange and disorienting experience. At NYU, the effect is intensified by the fact that I am thousands of miles away from home, stuck in the middle of a teeming metropolis.

Striking up conversations is easy. At this point, I am a master at quickly and efficiently extracting such facts as a person's undergraduate institution, hometown, area of study, what he or she has done since graduation, and so forth. People here are from all walks of life and originate from all over the United States, so it is usually interesting to hear their story.

Sometimes, regrettably, I find that I simply do not have any overlapping interest with the other person. And, honestly, after talking to so many people in the last few days, I find that it is becoming way too easy to be disinterested in the standard fare that is served up with every introduction. Avoiding the awkwardness that comes when the conversation screeches to a halt is enough to keep me blabbing, though.

Lucky for me, I've met a good number of people, some of whom are very cool. But whether or not I am making any connections that will evolve into real friendships remains unclear. My one hope is that all this effort yields results because it's left me weary and exhausted - and I've got reading to do.

A common occurrence?

A few nights ago, while on the return trip from a bar in the East Village at approximately 3 am, I had what I would consider a quintessential New York experience. Note: For the squeamish, please avert your eyes, because what I am about to recount may cause you distress.

By some unfortunate turn of events, I managed to kick a large rat that, without warning, scurried out from the refuse on the sidewalk. How I did this, I do not know. Why the rat decided to run headlong into my foot, I do not know, either. What I do know is having your foot connect with a football-sized rat while walking home from a bar is not a pleasant experience.

The funny thing is, the guy I was with, a 2L who has a younger brother at Pomona, also happened to kick the rat as at careened off my foot. This leads me to believe that the rat has some penchant for being kicked by intoxicated law students. This, of course, endears the rat to me even though I find it vile and disgusting.

Oh, New York, what a twisted web you weave!

Do hurricanes reach New York?

On Peter's recommendation, I decided to make the trek to Bed, Bath and Beyond to stock my dorm room. It's located about 15 blocks north of where I live, which, when you are reluctant to ride the subway, is quite a distance. Unfortunately, my room is in dire need of stuff, so I really had no choice but to go.

On the way, a small street faire caught my attention. Being someone who is incapable of ignoring street vendors, especially those that sell tacos from a truck, I decided to put off the hike for a few minutes to grab a quick meal and see if I could find anything that could spice up my dorm room.

A phone call interrupted my exploration of the faire pretty much as soon as I got there, so I took refuge in an alley to chat. That's when the darkness emerged. Suddenly, the sky, bright and welcoming a second before, was grey and ominous. Still, I thought nothing of it and stayed put.

Not minutes later, I kid you not, a veritable hurricane touched down on my exact position. Rain, like bullets from the heavens, vigorously attacked me. Pieces of trash, whipped up in a frenzy, flew by. I covered my face with my hands, but it was not enough; not even the building offered protection. It was as if someone had turned on one of those giant 10-ft movie fans and pointed it directly at me and the rest of the faire-goers. With a yelp, I hung up and began to run back towards Washington Square Park, dodging garbage all the way.

The vendors, too, were making a break for it, struggling to cover wares that could be harmed by the rain. Some were attempting to pick up those items that had already been blown away from their designated spot, a futile effort in most cases. At this point, everyone at the faire was running at break-neck pace. What had just a moment ago been a bustling marketplace was now a wind-battered alley of flying detritus and fleeing patrons.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was my first experience with a hurricane. I'm happy to say that I survived and find myself safe and sound inside the dorm. Don't let people tell you that hurricanes are all that bad. I've been there, done that, and must say that they've got nothing on a nice, strong earthquake.

John Walker: The Musical

As if my experience here could not get any more bizarre, yesterday night I accompanied my roommate, Andy, and his "lady friend" to the 11:15 showing of "John Walker: The Musical". Here is the official website (http://www.johnwalkerthemusical.com/JW/index.html), if that title piques your interest.

This production tells the story of John Walker Lyndh, commonly known as the "American Taliban", a mistreated youth drawn to the Koran and Islam out of a search for greater purpose and meaning. Evidently, a traumatic experience in fourth grade during which his feelings were hurt by a female classmate combined with the fact that none of the kids in Marin would smoke dope with John were reason enough to fly halfway across the world to fight the good fight with everyone's favorite oppressive misogynists, the Taliban.

John's crusade and subsequent capture made him the perfect scapegoat for America and our "minimal effort man" of a president, E.D.. (Don't ask me what that acronyn means - it was over my head). E.D. sends Don, a hapless, flabby reporter, to help trump up charges against John during a fixed escape from captivity. An extra from the Matrix movies, Jackie, also a DOJ attorney, is on her own quest to exonerate John and expose the president for what he is - a master manipulator of public sentiment - but she is no match for E.D.'s androgynous lackies.

Oh, poor, poor John. He was doomed from the start. An innocent caught up in a political war between America, the tyrant, and peace-loving, tender-hearted Islamic fundamentalists. I won't ruin the end, but I'll just say that Dan would undoubtedly shed a tear or two from this emotional climax.

Don't get me wrong, though, I did derive enjoyment from parts of the production, particularly the rousing rendition of "I'm no Hemingway" (a reference to his cowardice and inability to write well) performed by Don, the reporter, and the S&M scene between the president and his busty therapist. It was also fun to be out in Manhattan doing New York City-type things, in spite of the fact that i sat through an hour and a half of thesbians singing about the American Taliban.

Awful falafel?

Went to Mamoun's Falafel on Macdougal Street tonight. Apparently, it's quite famous.

Now I see why: $2 for a handful of pita, falafel, lettuce, tomatoes, hummus, and delicious white sauce.

While in line, I overheard a seasoned customer give a fairly serious warning about the "ketchup" (the hot sauce is dispenced from red squeeze bottles) to an uninformed newbie. Still, I didn't expect the stuff to have such a kick and layered it on. Wow! How rare it is to find a fast food restaurant that caters to people who know ingesting anything with the label "hot" should result in moderate to extreme pain.

Even though I appreciate its existence, next time I think I will reduce my intake of the "ketchup" for reasons of personal safety.

A Brave New World

I'm in New York and everything is odd, even the Kmart.

My temporary dorm room, Mercer 302A, which will be my home until early tommorrow, came equipped with lots of open drawers, a mattress constructed entirely of plastic, very little light, and a foreboding sense of emptiness. Needless to say, it did not offer the welcome I was hoping for.

The emptiness, I should add, is at least partially my fault. Oblivious as always to reality, I packed like I was going to Vegas for a weekend instead of New York for three years. At the beginning of today, I had no towel, no blanket, no pillow, no toothpaste, no shampoo; now, at 8 pm, all of those luxuries have been acquired - except for the pillow. Though, when you have no blanket and are sleeping on what is essentially a plastic box, it's amazing how insignificant a pillow can seem.

Thanks to the frugal nature of my parents, my remaining possessions are being shipped at the slowest possible rate from Fairfield. From what I can gather from the cost, dog sled must be the primary method of transport. Tracking numbers reveal that the boxes should reach my more permanent home, D'Agostino Hall, by the time I graduate. Well, that is if snow allows the dogs a path directly to the dorm.

Despite all the slip-ups, oversights, and bone-headed mistakes, I did manage to make it to a Gray's Papaya for a hot dog and papaya juice. Heavenly stuff, let me tell you. Anyone who visits me will be treated to both. If that doesn't entice you, I submit that you are either (1) a vegetarian, (blissfully?) ignorant of life's true pleasures; or (2) a heathen, doomed to spend eternity somewhere where there is no purveyor of hot dogs and papaya juice.