Classic Alphabet City Evening

Kelly, who reviewed Dik-Dik on Written Road, sent me an e-mail a few weeks ago.

"Wanna check out an event on the 17th? I know it's a little close to when you're leaving. I'm not sure what to expect. It's at an independent bookstore on the Lower East Side, and it's travelers talking about where they've been."

Hmm. Seemed suspicious. And it wasn't close to when I was leaving, it was when I was leaving. But if I left really late at night or super-early the next morning, I could do it. And that's what living in the East Village is for—attending strange, unclear events. And I wanted to meet Kelly.

Off we went, down the street to a bookstore I'd never even noticed before. And it was marvelous—exactly the sort of thing you'd imagine happens in New York all the time. A bunch of book activists get together, open a volunteer-run independent bookstore, and host quirky events.

One speaker had gone around South Africa doing a clown show, another story was a kind of This American Life-esque epic tale of a travel disaster, and the highlight was five hipster nutters who had ridden handmade bicycles—taller than me tall-bikes—around the backroads of Thailand. They'd been attacked by monkeys and they were an instant sensation everywhere they went. As an added bonus, they'd had no idea what they were getting into when they cycled out of the airport and into that madness called traffic in Bangkok.

And the best part? There was an audience. On the Lower East Side on the first brutally cold night of this winter, there were more than 40 people laughing and clapping.

Kelly left for the bus, and when the event ended, I split too. I hunched over against the cold as I walked up Avenue A, passing a scooter club that had parked their scooters and gone into Two Boots for pizza.

Yeah, I thought as I walked, lots of people had added a whole lot of money to the East Village. But they haven't killed it. As long as there is rent-control and public housing, it will be diverse, and as long as places like this bookstore survive, all the $20 entrees and $150 teensy frock boutiques cannot totally wipe out its soul.

Doesn't mean I want to pay what it would take to move back. We'll see. JC is still pretty awesome. And in the rent vs. buy department, I realized yesterday that the interest on my condo proceeds would pay for me to live somewhere really cheap indefinitely—without working. I mean, really cheap. Like, say, Africa. Does even the odds a bit. Before I was leaning towards buying.

I cleaned all night and threw everything into the back of Henry the Ford, patiently waiting at his perfect parking spot. Slammed the trunk and looked around—no one watching aside from the two drivers that swooped in vulture-like to get my space, then moved on when I shook my head "No." I worked hard for this spot. I'll give it up when I'm ready. Once upon a time, I wouldn't dare to leave anything in an unattended vehicle. I guess gentrification isn't all bad.

Laura, who I was subletting from, was due in at JFK airport at 0605. I locked her apartment, pushed the housekey under the door, and walked over to 7A to eat their 24-hour breakfast while I listed what I have to do today, so that I can fly to Barcelona tomorrow.

1) Wait for sun to rise. 2) Bank. 3) Laundry. 4) Find passports in messy garage.

The Godzilla fire truck—a truck from the 14th Street station with Godzilla toys stuck all over the roof—zipped down Avenue A as I sipped coffee. An auspicious start to the day.

And so it begins.