Everybody Loves Governors Island

It is rare in New York, where our endlessly diverse tastes are satisfied by a seemingly endless array of activities, to find so many people I know buzzing about the a single event. Yet since returning from Brazil, everyone I ask has either already ventured to Governors Island or really wants to go there. Apparently this quirky patch of land between Manhattan and Brooklyn is where it's at.

Right: A dragon sculpture made from found furniture by Benjamin Jones and Anna Hecker

A few weeks back, the New Yorker profiled this Island's storied history and uncertain future in comprehensive profile, details of which I won't repeat here (it would make a great urban policy case study). I will tell you that it was one of the cheapest and easiest city-exit-strategies I've found. Hop on a free ferry at South Ferry, watch as the island approaches for about 10 minutes, disembark, and wander.

It's a hard space to get a sense of and, were it not for the views of the financial district, Red Hook, and the Statue of Liberty as constant reminders of place, it could be quite disorienting. In one section I felt like I was on a New England college campus, complete with deans' houses, another section looked like abandoned housing projects, and one side of the island has a maritime feel with a series of decaying piers. Yet this spacial and temporal disjuncture lends the island a certain mystique while also leaving each visitor to discover the island as she wants, without a prescribed itinerary or agenda.

Part of the Wind Nomad exhibit of 400 "flapping" paintings set up all around the island.

We never figured out how they flapped

And this is just what we did. Our visit coincided with the New Island Festival (created by Dutch artists), so there was funky art around every corner and many performances including a jumping cow (we saw the cow twice, but never a jump). We wandered into a gallery space that had been created in one of the island's many empty buildings and enjoyed the pencil portraits of Flemish-New Yorkers by Ellen Depoorter. We took a ride to one tip of the island called picnic point and lunched in the shadow of our lady of liberty, watching families flying kites and throngs of bikers pedal by. We played mini golf on a course made entirely out of recycled materials. There was no one telling us where to go or what to see and therefore no pressure to do anything beyond what struck our fancy. In short, it was a beautiful way to spend an early fall day at no cost. If you haven't been to Governors Island already, you should go. But chances are you were already planning to!

This oversized table maze is actually a hole on the recycled mini golf course. It was really hard!

Carnaval, West Indian-American Style

Two weekends ago I attended what I'm told is the largest parade in the U.S., and yes, we're too early for Thanksgiving. This parade was in Brooklyn and featured no inflated cartoon characters, though I did see a devil, a snake man, butterflies, and many other fantastic creatures. I also saw a lot of bodies, barely dressed in the most ornately decorated bikinis, and a lot of sensual dancing. This was the West Indian-American Day Parade (also known as West Indian Carnaval), held every year on Labor Day Monday in the neighborhood of Crown Heights, Brooklyn. It draws somewhere between 1 and 3 million spectators. On this balmy early September day, my boyfriend and I took the subway down to Brooklyn and met up with a high school friend, Will (also the creator of sublime sculptures), who was in town for a visit.

We wandered around for a while along the parade route as the opening acts filed past--political candidates, unions, and professional associations (our favorite were the New York City corrections officers which rolled by in two nearly empty school buses). Eventually we swam upstream and found a spot that offered good views as the different Masses (as the parade troops are called, like in New Orleans Mardi Gras I'm told) prepared to pass the judges booth. Each Mas had a semi truck filled with speakers and a crew of organizers, DJs, and dancers perched atop a wooden frame dancing, sunning, and yelling to the crowd and their throngs of dancers below.

Though I was a shade disappointed that none of the Masses we saw had any live musicians, the costumes made up for it. Bright plumage, bejeweled bodices, glittering leggings, headresses--we were all mesmerized (especially my male companions). Personally, I most enjoyed the dancers' footware, from sneakers to slouchy boots, that each dancer had decorated with spray paint, glitter, jewels, or dye. I also enjoyed the inventive larger than life puppets, mounted on rolling frames pulled by key paraders and representing that Mas's theme.

Snake/scorpion man in frame costume

Unfortunately we didn't get to see any of the Masses in formation, catching them right before they were to head past the judges. We did get to see hundreds of young people, who, though restless and overheated, were clearly excited and proud of their elaborate costumes and having a lot of fun. Still, after nearly two hours of watching all that flesh shake and gyrate down Eastern Parkway to the pulse of highly amplified soca music on a sea of fuschia and gold features, I had had enough. For this year.

Last minute bead attachment en route to judges booth

[Since you've probably noticed that food is a big part of how I experience the world, I won't leave you hanging: I ate well at the West Indies Day Parade. Surprisingly, though, it wasn't the pricey styrofoam dish of spicy jerk chicken, dirty rice, and fried plantains that most tantalized my palette but instead the $2 plastic sack of small fruits that looked like key limes but behaved like lychees. Parade spectators in the know (those sporting flags of West Indian nations) were snacking on them, so I followed suit, buying mine from an older man who had dozens of bags hanging off his fingers. I thank my friend E. for later revealing the identity of my mystery fruit. She told me: "It sounds like you had what is the genipa, quenepa, quenette, genip, mamoncillo, or Spanish lime, depending upon which tropical land you're in. It is in the same family as lychee, that is the Sapindaceae. And yes, it is a pain to eat." Try one. You'll see why.]

Tagging through the grime

I understand that some graffiti is about adding (applying paint, paper, light, knitting to surfaces) and some about taking it away (scraping into subway windows, etching into paint, peeling a message into paper).

Today I saw a very satisfying example of the latter variety: Someone had tagged the 7th Avenue subway stop walls by cleaning their name into the grime. The New York City subway is notoriously filthy--most every visitor I've spoken to concurs. So seeing how the signature layer of sooty grease had been cleaned away to reveal, in the bright white tile, someone's stylized signature, struck me as genius, not to mention free. And, at the rate those walls get cleaned, this "wash me" approach is probably more permanent than many spray-painted tags in public places. Go Semz.

La Reunion, TX

I've decided to continue my blog stateside, where there is no shortage of interesting cultural happenings to write about. First stop: Texas.

Today I had the opportunity to take a tour of an emerging artist residency in Dallas. La Reunion, TX (LRTX) was founded three years ago with the support of an active community of artists and architects in the Dallas area who wanted "to create an arts residency that inspires, sustains, and renews artists and community through education and outreach."

La Reunion (located in present-day Oak Cliff) has a fascinating back story: it was founded as a utopian socialist community in the mid-19th century by Victor Considerant who traveled to Texas with a following of artisans, philosophers, musicians, and lots of good ideas. Unfortunately, ideas and art weren't enough to get the settlers through a drought and the colony was disbanded. Many of the Considerant's enlightened compatriots filtered into Dallas and infused this growing city with their ideals and talent.

On this surprisingly cool August day, I met with LRTX's founding director, Sarah Jane Semrad, for a tour of the site. In addition to some incredible tree sculptures (like this sweater-donning tree above), I got to see a beautiful coral snake, hand-sized yellow and black butterflies, and exuberant birds all making their ways through the dappled afternoon light. The 35-acre site has a huge amount of potential to support the creative process and engage the Dallas community. Already kids from the Student Conservation Association have worked on various restoration and clean up programs on the site. LRTX also engages local artists in diverse social change initiatives in the Dallas area. One such program is Art Chicas Unidas which pairs high school-aged girls from under-served communities with professional female artists, selected by jury, to work on a site-specific artwork.

Defunct train tressle on the LRTX site

As one of Dallas's first artist residencies, I was excited to see such innovative programming in action and its attention to the preservation of this gorgeous greenspace so close to the city center. It's not an easy moment to be launching an artist residency, but this is exactly the sort of community-minded artspace we need more of.

A saideira

Last night was my last in São Paulo so I rounded up my friends for a saideira (one for the road). It ended up being one of my best nights here. We met up at Drosophyla, a laid back bar near Consolação for caipirinhas. Drosophyla has perhaps the coolest light fixtures I've ever seen--made from large copper colanders that let pass just enough golden light to find the straw to your caipirinha. By midnight, most people had headed home to bed but a valiant three chose to stick it out and continue on to Bar do Cidão for some choro (a bit like samba de mesa but with a slightly different rhythm and more wind instruments).

Cidão is the owner of this Vila Madalena bar (and bartender and chef). He runs a unpretentious establishment known for its nightly live samba de mesa and chorinho. When we arrived the musicians were on break so we chatted with them outside and then found a table. Samba de mesa and choro are typically placed around a table or simply in a circle. This time, for the first time, I was invited to join the circle and try out some of my newly acquired percussion skills. The hour I sat in the roda playing pandeiro, tamborim, and even a cuica (or was that a tan-tan?) with this group of talented young musicians was one of my all-time musical highlights. Granted I faked some of the rhythms and most of the technique, but I managed to keep up.

That is totally me playing a pandeiro

We lost another two after Cidão, but luckily there were more friends waiting for us at a bar near Rua Augusta. I can't remember the name and wouldn't recommend it if I did, but it was the perfect last venue to listen to a DJ spin reggae and Brazilian soul before exhaustion overcame us. As we left the last balada (club), the first birds were beginning to sing and my stomach was starting to grumble. Our last destination was the famous Estadão, known for its delicious roasted pork sandwiches. Here it's not uncommon to see prostitutes eating next to taxi drivers next to journalists from the newspaper headquartered across the street. I devoured by pernil and washed it down with a suco de abacaxi e hortelã juice (pineapple juice with fresh mint) and was even feeling pretty awake as I said good-bye to the last friend standing and hailed a cab.

Lanche de pernil com suco de abacaxi com hortalã--the best way to end any night on the town

The day's produce lined up outside Estadão

The cabbie drove me through the Centro and down into Santa Cecilia and I watched the city stream by--people waking up and heading to work, stopping at the lanchonete for a morning coffee and coxinha, cuing up outside the public hospital, returning from a night out. Beneath the minhocão (meaning giant earthworm and SP's longest elevated highway) the endless graffiti and pichação was swathed in the morning light. Even at 6 am the traffic was thick as we turned onto Cardoso de Almeida and up to Turiassu. I got out on my corner, already bustling and entered Edificio Elza. On the stairs I said good morning to a neighbor who was starting her day just as I was ending mine. It was a good last night in Sao Paulo.

Some of my favorite under-minhocão wall art

The corner of Turiassu and Cardoso de Almeida--my home in São Paulo

Festa de Nossa Senhora de Achiropita = Good eating

Bixiga (officially known as Bela Vista) is Sao Paulo's Little Italy. It got its pejorative nickname of Bixiga (bladder) during the late 19th-century when residents suffered from bladder infections. Today Bixiga is much-loved by Paulistanos, over half of whom claim Italian heritage.

At once quaint and seedy, beloved Bixiga is still home to a large Italian population along with other immigrant groups and features some of SP's best Italian restaurants. For three weekends in August, the neighborhood celebrates the festival of Our Lady of Achiropita with a street fair, which, as far as I could tell, was dedicated solely to Italian food.

My friends and I arrived late Saturday afternoon, while it was still possible to circulate through the neighborhood without knocking over someone's plate of pasta or sticking an elbow in someone's tiramisu. We scoped out all the food stands, as Italian classics blasted through a mega sound system. The music was interrupted by an announcer indicating where the shortest lines for fogazza (a fried dough stuffed with tomatoes, cheese, and herbs) were and reminding us that mass for the Achiropita would be starting at 6:00. Every half block there was a private security guard standing on a platform three feet above the crowd (I guess the pasta-eaters can get pretty rowdy).

After great deliberations, I opted to try the stuffed eggplant and the polenta with bolognese sauce. The eggplant was a little cold, but well flavored with garlic, basil, and olives. The polenta was divine. We walked around a bit more, marveling at the 100 kg provolone cheese that was being raffled to benefit the Achiropita parish. It was as tall as me.

I finished my Bixiga culinary experience with a thick wedge of ricotta tart. A bit sweet for my taste, as are most desserts here in Brazil, but I had no problem eating it.

Sunday morning at the Teatro Municipal

After 10 days of garoa (drizzle--Sao Paulo's choice in weather), last Sunday dawned bright and sunny. I met a friend and we took the Metro downtown to the Teatro Municipal which offers affordable classical music every Sunday at 11 am.

The Teatro Municipal sits like a well-used jewelry box in the heart of downtown São Paulo. Completed in 1911, its design and decor borrow liberally from a range of European styles. Today, the Teatro's facade is being restored and hence covered by a series of grafittied wooden panels that add yet another style to this eclectic building.

In honor of the Year of France in Brazil, Sunday's program featured pieces by Ravel and Debussy played by the Orquestra Experimental de Repertório. It was the first time I heard one of my favorites, Pavane pour une Infante Defunte, played live and I was not disappointed (even if one of the violin players did leave the stage mid-performance). The Sunday morning crowd was small, but enthusiastic as the music surged beneath the benevolent gaze of Aphrodite (left).