A sleek, grey car boldly made a left turn at the moment the traffic light turned green. The driver hoped that he would complete the turn before opposing traffic rolled into the intersection. His efforts were foiled, though, by the pedestrians crossing the street.

The car lurched to a halt at the crosswalk. Pedestrians from both directions approached his car. Oncoming traffic swerved around the unmoving car, some honking their horns at the obstacle in their paths.

The driver’s (failed) intentions were clear. It also seemed obvious that the driver had tacitly agreed to pay penance for his efforts: He did not try to hasten his way across the sidewalk. He instead rested his head in his hand and waited for the pedestrians to cross. He also inched his car forward enough to minimize his obstruction of traffic.

I noted the situation and began to follow my sensibilities: I began to alter my path to walk behind the car. The sooner he got out of everyone’s way, the sooner traffic would flow, and the better off everyone would be.

The other pedestrians in the crosswalk, however, had other designs. And this is when I realized, yet again, that I am clearly not from New York.

One couple, a man and woman, was already shooting dirty looks at the driver. Both driver and passenger had their windows partially rolled down, which was an unfortunate choice. The couple slowed their pace and approached the driver’s window. The woman then coldly remarked, “You did the wrong thing.”

Meanwhile, I noticed The Beau peeling away from me. He then purposefully went out of his way to walk in front of the stalled car.

The couple then followed suit and walked in front of the car.

Not to be outdone, a pair of women behind the couple also approached the driver’s window. By now, the driver, whose car was still blocking traffic, was shaking his head and smiling uncomfortably. The older of the two women suddenly shouted at the driver, “YOU HEAR THAT? EVERYONE THINKS YOU’RE A F@#$ING IDIOT!”

By now, The Beau and I had reunited (I admittedly scampered in front of the car as well, given that this was the safer path to take). Several other people had taken to yelling at the driver for his indiscretion.

“Oh dear,” I commented.

I don’t have internet access in my new apartment yet.

This is the primary reason why I haven’t posted anything. (There is currently a lull at work. This is rare.)

I’m also in the midst of a transition from one job to another… and this whole spotty writing business thing started when I made the transition from Seattle to New York. Now I’m just going through the transition of New York to New York… when I still feel like a tourist here in New York.

Stuff to follow when I can actually get online at home. And more stuff to follow when I’ve gotten far enough away from what I’ve experienced this year at work. That’s not meant to sound foreboding. I’ve learned a lot over the past year. I just can’t put it all in words. Yet.

(Update on 02 July 2009: I still don’t have internet access at home, after an onerous and not particularly fruitful exchange with my previous internet provider. I’m writing nonetheless. Wait for me, please.)

creepy (2): of, relating to, or being a creep : annoyingly unpleasant

I’ve lived in New York City now for almost one full year (!) and there is one aspect of this city that I find creepy.

People are often soliciting you for something, even when you have not indicated any interest towards either the person or the something.

Maybe this constant solicitation is a reflection of the “aggressive” nature of the city. If Person A does not solicit you, then Person B will… and, since some people believe that everything is a zero sum game here, you gotta act or you’re screwed.

Specific examples:

The guys in Chinatown who peddle knock-off Rolex watches. Every single time I emerge from the subway tunnel, some guy spots me and thrusts a sheet of paper into my face. He then begins to chant, “Rolex Rolex Rolex Rolex Rolex…”

The first few times this happened to me, I didn’t even understand what these people were saying. They say “Rolex” so quickly and repetitively that it sounds like rhythmic mumbling.

Though I walk away and make no eye contact, they continue to follow me, chanting, “Rolex Rolex Rolex Rolex Rolex…” until I finally get to the crosswalk.

Sometimes I think they don’t actually breathe. They just chant.

The fellows in the Garment District who sell leather goods. They linger outside of their shops, leaning on circular racks of leather jackets.

“Leather jackets… top quality leather jackets… leeeeeeeeather jackets….”

They don’t physically trail me around the way the Rolex guys do, but they’re not chanting, either. Their solicitations aren’t cat calls, but if you ignore what they’re saying and pay attention only to how they say it, it sounds a bit creepy.

“Leeeeeather jackets….”

Taxi drivers early in the morning. So I’m waiting to cross the street on the sidewalk. I just finished my morning run; my hands are resting on my waist and my face is red. I look up to check if there is any oncoming traffic.

Then I see a taxi approaching, the indicator atop his car revealing that he is available to pick up customers. He slows the car down, probably down to less than five miles an hour, and the vehicle begins to creep past me.

I look up—something has changed in the landscape and my peripheral vision has detected this—and the taxi driver is looking out the window at me. He’s still driving very, very slowly. I look away, too tired to wave him off.

He lingers a few moments longer—he’s now five, ten feet past me—and I continue to ignore him.

When I look up again, he’s finally sped up.

Strangers. I ran a race this past weekend and, while waiting in the corral for the race to start, I was chatting with The Beau’s brother. I sensed someone getting too close and looked to my right.

An older man, probably old enough to be my father, was pointing his finger at my race bib, which was pinned low on the front of my shirt. His finger was almost touching the location of my belly button.

I must have leaned away a bit; he looked up, but didn’t move his finger.

“I just wanted to see your pace,” he said, all friendly-like. In addition to reading the pace printed on my bib, he could also see my name.

“Uh huh,” I said, wondering what it is about me that made him feel comfortable to practically poke me in the belly.

“Your pace tells you where you go in the corrals,” he continued.

“Yeah,” I said, very aware that he and I were talking about nothing. “I just go where they tell me to go.”

“People usually just want to do their nine,” he continued, finally withdrawing his finger and looking at my face.

“Their nine?” I asked.

“Their nine races for entry into the marathon,” he said.

Thankfully, the announcer began to speak, thus interrupting our conversation.

(Though we started in the same corral, he remained ahead of me for the first mile or two; then he disappeared.)

More strangers. I’ve written about the fascination people in New York have in other people’s food.

Still more strangers. #6.

For a city full of so many strangers, there are a lot of efforts to make connections, fleeting or not.