When Folly Turns to Madness

Update on Il Gatto.

As he was napping today, full up on leftover pasta (here even the cats eat pasta twice a day), he managed to conjure up a friend. Will and I nervously peered through the kitchen window, and there, in the yard, was Il Gatto Due (cat #2).

Luckily, Due didn't last long, just long enough for Will and I to discuss the fact that if we started feeding two cats, it wouldn't be long before we were feeding three, then eight, then sixty and I'd be carrying around six purses at a time and eating mayonnaise straight from the jar.

By lunchtime, it was business as usual with our odd little "nuclear family". Will and I sat at the table outside, no longer prisoners of indoor dining since we decided to adopt Il Gatto. Well, maybe not "adopt" so much as "stop chasing away".

To MAY to, To MAH to.

Two bites into lunch, the whole thing just fell apart and we were back to scare tactics to rid ourselves of IG. Just after Il Gatto hopped up on the bench next to me (from where I was about to shoo him anyway, since he is not allowed to actually sit with us at the table), I saw that there was something attached to him behind his neck.

The poor bastard got a tick!

Not wanting to leave an open invitation for Lyme Disease or cooties, we hurried to move our meal indoors and shook the water bottle at him in hopes he would flee. And flee he did. But probably not for long... we've been so emotioinally back and forth with this poor cat, he probably thinks we're just having another fit of the crazy and he should just check in again with us around dinnertime.

Would it be weird to put a flea and tick collar on a stray? Is there a way to get rid of the tick without Will or I actually having to touch it or Il Gatto? Have I finally gone just plain batty?

I think this is why I don't have pets.

Quickie Update

The internet point. Convenient, but not exactly leisurely. That's where I'm writing from, in Città di Castello, so this will be brief, but hopefully entertaining and informative.

It's hot as the hottest thing you can imagine. I won't go into it.

We've got a cat. Sort of. Word on the hillside is that the Italians enjoy the feeding of stray cats. This little guy saw "sucker" written all over Will and me. He would roll up to the house (we've been staying at Will's folks' place in Umbria... "the country" if you will) when we were eating and try to get real friendly. We tried and tried to shoo him away -- Will even got really serious with the water hose for a day. Finally, we realized that il gatto has a will to eat daily that overpowers our will to interrupt dinner. That, mixed with a tiny bit of feeling bad for the poor starving little bugger, and we've got a pet.

A note to Maura and Larry, Will's parents, in case you're reading: Il gatto sta fuori. Solo fuori. He's tried to slip in, but we stand firm on that. (for those of you without my stellar language skills, the cat stays outside.)

It looks likely that we're going to silent camp on August 12. That's right, I am going to attempt ten days of silent meditation. Why? Well, why not?

Then it's off to the South of France for a week of beach fun with Matt and Fany.

It's all in extremes here, but life is good.

August. What a Great Month to Take a Vacation. All Month!

Will and I spent the weekend at his folks' house in Umbria where there are sunflowers in bloom everywhere. And the grape vines are starting to sprout actual grapes-- they still feel hard as rocks, but they're on their way.

As we were walking down to check out the vineyard, I took a little spill in my flip-flops (not exactly the best footgear for dirt road walking-- someday I will figure that out). As I was dusting myself off and limping up to the house, all turned right again with the world when I noticed a fig tree in full bloom. Even a skinned knee can't bring you down when you're eating figs fresh from the tree!

Now, back in Rome, it's hot as h-e-double hockey sticks, so we're packing it up and going on vacation. I know we're already on vacation, I guess, but this is like a travelling vacation!

We're not going just because it's hot. It seems that all of Italy and gigantic chucks of Europe all take off for some large part of late-July through August. I'd say they're on to something...

August will take us on a road trip through Tuscany and Umbria, hopefully finding some out-of-the-way vineyards and such to visit. Then a couple of friends of ours are going to be in the South of France at the end of August, so we're going to take a trip there. But I don't think they have fig trees, so how good can it really be?

So this little blog will be out of commission for a short while. But it will return with all kinds of photos of grapes and sunshine and stuff.

See you in September!

New York, Only Ladylike

I would like to personally thank the French for Paris.

It was my first visit to France, and although there were a handful of downsides (a socialist country does not make it easy to hail a cab, to be explained in detail later), I adjusted to Paris like a fish to a Meuniere sauce (pardon the culinary pun, it's the only French I spoke). Our friend Jon Evans, who lived in Paris for a blissful spell a few years ago, was a godsend pseudo-tourguide, meeting us at random metro stops and linguistically maneuvering us through some sticky situations with a prickly (read: snooty) watiress.

I think he summed it up best when he likend Paris to New York as the more feminine version of our fair New York City. I wholeheartedly agree.

The city looks and feels like a girly teenage girl's bedroom (you can see heavy Parisian infuence even in the American suburbs even if you're not BFF with a 14 year old-- just stroll by an Anthropologie store in any old mall and see frills and "Shabby Chic" galore), but it's got a serious city vibe (and Metro) like Manhattan.

Paris is abound with art and restaurants and people speaking French. The girls wear dresses and the men, although not nearly as painstakingly groomed as Roman men, are well put-together in suits or expensive pastel shirts. The main passtimes seem to be picnics, chatting, occasional outbursts of musical theater and choreographed fireworks.

Can it get more girly than that?

Another Hiatus

Friends, family, people who have inadvertently stumbled across this blog and are a millisecond from clicking goodbye:

I won't have any posts for the next few days as Will and I are off to Paris. I know, it's a tough life, blah blah blah.

I wonder what's safer for us at this point: do we even mention that we've been hanging out in Italy (what, with the World Cup wounds not yet healed...) or just roll in as plain old American tourists? Do you think they've forgotten that whole ridiculous "freedom fries" embarassment?

I'm really just going for the picnic, anyway...

300,000 of Our Closest Friends

Will managed to get some great photos of the masses at Circo Massimo the other night.

It's over 48 hours after the victory. I think the cheering has finally come to a calm. Although I did hear someone still humming that bassline at the beach today. Word on the street is that tear gas was employed to get people to go home. Italians know from how to celebrate.

Forza Italia!!!

In case you, like an unfortunate many Americans, haven't been following the World Cup for the past few weeks, you can at least keep up with a little water cooler conversation knowing that as of last night, Italy is the 2006 World Champion.

Will and I, along with our friend Ashley who is visiting from New York, watched the game at Circo Massimo with about 300,000 of our closest Roman pals. It was insane. I've been to places with large groups of people: a few Lollapaloozas (a music festival with probably around 15-20000 people), one Buring Man with 30,000 and the Anti-War March in London in 2002 with 2 Million people in the streets, but never before have I seen this many people gather. To watch television.

There were three projection screens set up: 2x25' and 1x50' and people came to Rome from all over the country. We came from the other side of town on the most crowded metro car ever. It was filled with fans, young and old, in various red-white-and-green get-ups including face paint and wigs. Also, you couldn't swing a dead cat without whacking someone in an Azzuri (the Italian team's blue) shirt. On the metro platform at Termini, the crowd started chanting a tune that we assumed was the lead-in to a national anthem or war ditty. Only later did we realize that their battlecry was the insidious baseline to the White Stripes Seven Nation Army.

Just before the end of the game, we climbed the hill to face the crowd-- we were itching to see what that many people looked like all smooshed together (amazing). Not realizing that there were like three penalty kicks for Italy to take before the end of the match, we thought Italy had won when the crowd erupted the first time. Literally thousands of Italian flags waved, big and small, in every direction.

But when the last point was finally scored and the win was official, the crowd exploded into absolute madness. Flags, fireworks (directly above the crowd, no less) and cameras went off, people cheered, they cried, I even saw one tough guy sprint uphill, high-five his friend and then give him a kiss on each cheek before he took to the streets on his moto to wave his flag and beep his horn with everyone else. Literally everyone.

We walked home among the throngs of exuberant Italians, cheering and screaming and tooting and flag-waving as if they themselves had scored the winning goal. I felt a little reserved, actually, which is not a familiar feeling in my world. But even without a flag, it was incredibly exciting to be in the company of champions.

As one shirtless painted man exclaimed to me with a boatfull of giddy in his eyes, "campioni del mundo!!"

We drank a bottle of Spumante in celebration and I finally went to bed around 130am with horns still beeping and people still cheering. A few people in the building next to us were so ingenious as to take the lids to their pots and pans and take to the streets like a marching band! Middle-aged adults! For hours!

Now as I write this over 24 hours later, horns are still beeping and flags are still waving and that damned bassline just won't let go of it's place in my head. Surprisingly, it hasn't gotten old. Yet.

I wonder what they're doing in Paris...

We're Back!

Sorry I've been MIA, but we were stricken with a little case of a travel bug/scheduling commitments, and magically our travels kept leading us to places senza internet.

The week before last, spent a little over a week in Umbria with Will's mom. It was hot as the bejezus, but beautiful. We visited the little Medieval Fortress town of Perugia which sits practically vertically on top of a hill. We also rode out to Pitigliano, also a fortress-looking town (the Italians liked to build their towns on a hill-- there's a detailed explanation, I'm sure, but I'll just call it paranoia for now) for a walk through the Etruscan tombs. Really cool.

Then we travelled back to New York for my friend Mark's wedding, where we danced all night to the song stylings of a 12-piece Funk Band. There were also surprise fireworks and surprise wedding crashers and a big bottle of Dom Perignon to round out the night. But seriously, if you've never seen a 12-piece Funk Band do Havah Nagilah, you just haven't lived.


Our time in New York was quick and sleepless-- after daily naps in Rome, Will and I were out of practice for the likes of Manhattan... but we made it, and managed to see more people than we expected, including a bunch of people at the Brick when we went to see the latest Bizarre Science Fantasy. We then spent the 4th of July at the lake trying desperately to catch up on sleep.

We're now back in Rome, exhausted, but just in time for World Cup finals. With Italy having just beat Germany in double overtime, we're definitely back right on time for all the action! Sunday should be insane!

I Just Saw a Girl Sit on Her Own Head

Surprise!

We went to see Cirque du Soleil's Allegria tonight. Wow. If you've never seen a Cirque du Soleil, I recommend you put it at the top of your to do list.

A GIRL SITS ON HER OWN HEAD! Go! This is the most worth-the-price-of-admission thing I've ever seen.

Buon Compleanno a Will!

We're going out for Will's birthday tonight... a little surprise, that's surprisingly near our house, although not close enough to walk, so I'd better get in the shower and hit the bricks!

I would post here what the surprise is, but I have a sneaking suspicion that Mr. Happy Birthday will find it before we go. So I guess it will be a surprise for everyone...

I got an email from my friend Matt in New York tonight and apparently he's going to a Slayer concert in New Jersey. That's not the surprise, but boy, wouldn't Will be shocked to get on a plane to go see heavy metal in Jersey?!

It's Liposuction for Skinny People

This is just plain crazy.

Posso Parlare Già Italiano?! (Can I Speak Italian Already?!)

Will and I are in our last few days of class and I can't quite say I'm anywhere near fluent. I think, actually, the little Italian I've learned has brought me no closer to communicating here in Rome, but it has erased any bits of Spanish that I've managed to retain lo these many years.

I know it takes time... it took me over seven years of studying Spanish in school and a little immersion in a Spanish-speaking community (restaurant work in NYC) to be able to discuss my missing luggage at a Mexican airport. I feel comfortable cutting myself a little slack for not being able to discuss politics or shoe-shopping in Italian with the same fervor I can in English.

But... we've got a little bit of a deadline on our hands now, and it's pretty much all my fault. Will's mom arrives in a few days. I asked her myself if she, a native Italian speaker, wouldn't mind speaking to Will and I only in Italian during her stay. She basically said that to speak in Italian all the time would be difficult, but that we should do it at meal times. Will and I tried that trick. We got lazy. The furthest we've extended ourselves lately is to choose the Italian menu over the English version when offered.

I reminded Will over some really great pizza tonight that I had thrown this gauntlet down and... well, it wasn't quite a full-on "silent treatment", but I was definitely given the "well, look what you've just gone and done" treatment.

I took a little solace in "what I've gotten us into" when the American couple next to us in the restaurant completely butchered any semblence of Italian when ordering their meal. And then the lady did that thing that many people do when they're trying to communicate with someone who doesn't speak their language:

Waiter: Caffe?
Lady: Uh, yes. AMERICAN COFFEE. AMERICAN. COFFEE. AMERICAN.
Husband: I'll have a cuppa cheeno.
Lady: OH, OK. A CUPPA CHEENO FOR ME TOO.

It's like people who yell at the deaf. Why?

I will speak this language if it kills me. And it just might...

Just Another Day in the Eternal City

We went to the Coliseum yesterday. It's really big and really old. Pretty impressive.



All kinds of crazy stuff was going on, too. Guys dressed up as Gladiators (except wearing Teva Sandals, which I'm willing to bet was not part of the original Gladiator uniform), busloads of tourists and some crazy photo shoots.





This was a publicity shoot for a Martial Arts School, but look closer at the couple sitting on the rock behind them.



Yep. A bride and groom, all lovey dovey! How sweet. And what a great idea, to have some pictures of the big day shot at the Coliseum!


But wait.









Not such an original idea, apparently.

They just kept rolling up!

I have no idea what these two were doing, but they seemed to be having fun.




After walking around for a bit, listening in on random tour guides and Will doing his best Julius Caesar, we decided to hit the bricks and get some gelato.


But on the way back, there was a little action:


We saw the whole thing happen, even though immediately after we couldn't decide who was at fault. The cop car was in front, but I think they kind of swerved or something, because Mr. Moto crunched into their back right door.

As Will was handing me the camera, this nice Irish fellow strolled by and said something to the effect of "I didn't see anything" while making the my-lips-are-zipped gesture. I took a picture anyway. The guy turned out to be ok, and it looked like Mr. Policeman felt bad, so all was well in the end. We (me, Will and the opinionated Irishman) all decided, though, that if it wasn't a cop that made him fall, if it were just some random dude who couldn't pick a lane, this biker dude would have gone nuts! But since it was Mr. Nice Friendly Police Man, it was all smiles and apologies.

Will and I remain happy pedestrians.

Just Can't Decide What to Wear?

Might I suggest trying your underthings as outerwear? Here on the Metro, it's never too early for evening wear!

And by evening wear, I mean something you might wear to bed. If going to bed is like, um, your job.

Brought to You by the Letter G

The girl whose name starts with a G is Giovanna. And she is 100% a low talker. Still no word on Maria, the Chinese clarinetist and pianist.

Off to class!

Food Coma

I just had the best panna cotta ever.

The little restaurant on our street, conveniently named "The Kitchen", is wonderful. The menu is simple: you get five price-fix options from which to choose. You can take a simple trip to the contorni bar (a buffet of side dishes, mostly cooked vegetables with a little rice, potato and cous cous thrown in, just in case you need a little starch to accompany your pasta) to a three-course meal, including dessert, water (they don't really do tap water here) and caffe.

Will and I both confessed to still being a little skittish in restaurants here. We're both ok in a more traditional place where you're greeted by a host, you ask for un tavolo per due then the waiter comes and takes your order.

But The Kitchen was a little different, in that we both thought that the contorni table meant that the whole restaurant was buffet style and then weren't sure whether to just go serve ourselves from there or to wait for a waiter to greet us. Today, though, Will was one step ahead of me. The deal is that you basically choose how much you want to eat: the melange of sides, a primi piatti (usually pasta) or primi e secondo (generally fish or meat).

The options were written on a chalkboard on the first floor. Will was alert enough to give it a glance on the way downstairs to our table, while I was a little startled at having run into Claudio, the brother of the woman from whom we're subletting the apartment. I missed the choices entirely and decided that it was just easier to "have what he's having". It was also easier to just nod and say due (two) than to try to stumble through asking the waitress what today's offerings were.

Long story short, we had lunch (penne arribiata, no secondo), it was fantastic and now I'm beat. Oh, that panna cotta. Bellissima!

Before I snooze off, though, check out Will's new sunglasses*!


Here he is after our Italian test yesterday, in the lounge area at school, waiting to see if we passed.


*the glasses may look a little on the grande side, but rest assured, these are tame for his Italian brethren.

The Graduate(s)

Well, you can breathe a sigh of releif because we managed to pass the test and we are in the Level 2 class.

You know, though, it's one thing to pass a test, it's another to have an actual conversation.

In Italian.

Without an obscene amount of gesturing and sound effects. (Will told me it sounded like I was "speaking African" to our last teacher because I kept clicking to try to explain myself)

I don't blush when ordering coffee anymore, and I can even soldier through mini-conversations. This weekend, I was able to ask a man on the train if there was another stop before Florence and understand his answer. The answer was mostly just a nod, but I felt a sense of accomplishment just the same. Then we met a 12-year-old boy and his mom on the train back to Rome and were able to chat a bit with him. I heard him tell his mother that I was doing my exercise book in Italian. Apparently he's doing similar work in English. And Spanish. Did you get the part where I said he was twelve?

Anyway, class began bright and early at 9 this morning. And wow, what a group! It is reminiscent of L'Auberge Espagnole. We met a bunch of colorful new people, including:

Pietro from Poland, who is not a priest, but whose work concerns a ministry of some sort

Zen and Nerus, a brother-sister duo from Libya

Helmut from Austria who Will and I both thought was the teacher. He works in something that sounds fascinating (or boring... I couldn't quite understand every word, but I think he did say that his wife is fluent in Italian. Or is Italian. I should study)

Marian, a Canadian girl who goes to Princeton and is studying Baroque Architecture

Lisa, a very tan college student from Albany who studies Marketing and whose parents are originally from Italy. (I think there was some talk of her father being a pig farmer. Or pig hunter. Babbo is definitely interested somehow in pork)

Cam, a Canadian from Vancouver who studies Political Science

Marcello, a brother of some ilk (perhaps a monk? No, he talks... Priest? Maybe when my Italian gets better I can find out more...) from Buenos Aires

Maria*, a Chinese girl who is studying Piano and Clarinet

Toshima, aka Sister Maria, a very giggly Japanese nun

and then another girl whose name escapes me (it starts with a G), but she is 3/4 Italian and 1/4 Pakistani, lives in Glasgow and speaks English, Spanish and decent Italian. I guess I was so taken aback by her global DNA that I missed her name. Or maybe it's that she's just a little bit of a low-talker.

We had to talk about what we eat for breakfast and what our homes are like. Everyone has coffee and a little bread or pastry (except the other American girl who said she eats bacon and eggs every morning). And everyone lives in a small apartment except for me and Will (we think everyplace here is big after cramming into an apartment in NYC) and the folks doing religious work. Each of them used either the word "Villa" or "Palazzo" and mentioned either a fountain or garden. Guess that's what you get when you're in good with God.

It seems that everyone has come to Rome to study Italian with an end goal of reading some really old documents on art or religion. Then there's me and Will. The American couple. On extended vacation. When asked why I was studying Italian, all I could think to say was "um, so I can speak for the next six months."

Va bene.


*not her real name.

There Goes the Neighborhood

Every afternoon around 4pm or so, we get a very special private audio show from our living room window. I guess our neighbors are opera singers, and that's rehearsal time. I like to think of them as a husband and wife duo, sort of the Lunts of Rome...

On Tuesday, Will and I had what has become my favorite conversation ever:


me: Sounds like it's time for the opera again.

Will: Come on, you have to admit...

me: What?

Will: It's better than the crackheads that would scream in front of the apartment in New York...

me: Good point.



Now, dear friends, family and anyone else startled by the word crackhead, fret not. The crackheads didn't actually live in the neighborhood, they just walked through on their way to, well, probably buy more crack. And yes, they spoke at high volumes. But they weren't the noise problem. That came from the people screaming in Spanish on the payphone on the corner and the crazy guys in wheelchairs that played dominoes in front of the deli across the street.

I'll take the opera any day, for sure.

We're off to Florence for the weekend. There's some big holiday here tomorrow. It's probably something religious... that seems to be the way it goes here. Will's aunt is involved in a "dragon boat race" on the Arno. I'll take some pictures and get back to you on that one.

Memorial Day: An Inadvertant Celebration

After a harrowing week of Italian lessons, Will and I hit the road and headed to the beach.


The train goes to a town called Fondi, just about 90 minutes from Rome. From Fondi, you can take a quick bus to the beach at Sperlonga. We arrived in Fondi around 11am, and the next bus wasn't until just after noon, so we took this taxi.

The little man in orange walked by us saying "taxi" so we said "si, alla spiagga?" He nodded and we followed. We followed him right into his little Fiat, or whatever the car is here that is just as regular as a car can be. I remember calling for a car service from a party at the infamous Sackett Street house once and nearly missing the damned thing because as I stood looking for a Lincoln Towncar, the Subaru that had come to get me was about to leave. But that was Brooklyn. This is Rome. Anyway...

You'll notice, in the above photo, that there is another dude in the front seat. My overactive imagination sauntered back in to remind me of a silly cab ride I took from Manhattan to Brooklyn one evening with Carrie Haugh and Pammy Bloom. Apparently it was "bring your friend to work" night for cab drivers, because the front seat of this cab was full, driverside and shotgun. We could hardly stop laughing as we kept asking "why are there two people in the front seat?" It wasn't actually funny, it was mildly disconcerting, but as it so often is with the best of times, we still look back and laugh. You really had to be there.

Will and I were both a little curious (read: nervous) as to why our "taxi" driver had a friend, especially after having spooked ourselves by watching the last few episodes of Lost. We were convinced that we were headed nowhere fast. (the "friend" was actually just another passenger-- we spotted him selling sunglasses on the beach later that day)

We, and our overactive imaginations, were actually headed to the lovely Sperlonga, a gorgeous little beach town.
We didn't really make a plan for the trip, other than that we would find a place to stay when we arrived. We went to a few places and when we found no vacancies, one kind hotellier made a call for us to the Virgilio Grand Hotel.

The man at the front desk offered us either an executive suite or a standard room in the attic. Figuring we'd be there only one night, we crossed our fingers, took the attic and almost immediately began to worry. Would we be stuck with cobwebs and cleaning supplies? No, our fears were alleviated when we got off the elevator on the third floor and saw our little penthouse sweet.

The attic turned out to suit our needs perfectly. Sure, I bashed my head into the slanted wall. Upon checking for damages, I saw that many before me had also fallen prey to the slope. In the end, it was a small price to pay for the lovely surroundings. Perhaps the most excellent and decadent part of this housing option was la loro piscina.


After quickly dropping off our things and admiring the tiles in the loo, we headed for the beach. We walked a while and found a nice little place to have lunch. We sat outside, the Mediterranean mere meters away, and discovered a peculiar problem that seems to pester Italian restaurants, especially those dal mare... I GATTI!

Our waitresses were very sweet and smilely and extremely patient with our linguistic struggles, but they turned on a dime to angrily shoo away the menacing felines. Over our primi piatti, we were treated to an actual cat fight!

After lunch, we walked up the main street (yes, there is only one) for gelatto, then strolled up the cliff to watch the sunset which was pretty spectacular. We saw a young couple being photographed and filmed; we suspected it was a dating show for Italian television since they were dressed as if they were gearing up to stand in a velvet rope line at a Manhattan nightclub. We walked back to the main drag for an apperitivo (in Sperlonga, a glass of Prosecco is a very economical two euros. I might never come home...) then back to the hotel for dinner.

The next morning, I quickly dealt with a minor sunburn (*note to self: purchase and apply sunblock before exposing skin to sun) and we got back to the beach for a little bit before the sun got too strong.

There is one screaming difference between beaches here vs. those in the states, and I can't believe I didn't mention it sooner! Here in Italy, and as far as I know in a good chunk of Europe, there is a mysterious yet refreshing lack of self-consciousness among men as well as women. Pot-bellied fellows have no problem in a teeny Speedo, and bikinis aren't reserved solely for the physically fit ladies. Big ladies, little ladies, old ladies and young-- they all sport the two-piece like runway models. And the bulk of Italian women just don't seem interested in tanlines.

I think every American teenage girl should get to visit a town like Sperlonga. For many reasons.

Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch...

Learning Italian is tough. I like to talk, I pretty much always have something to say, and to have to struggle to find the words is a challenge. Our teacher speaks more Spanish than English, so when I get lost, I start speaking in Spanish, which is leaving me really confused. The little words, like articles and conjunctions, are not the same. I'm right now in some bizarre state of SpItalian. But I can order coffee with confidence now, which is really all I cared about in the first place.

After a three hour lesson yesterday, Will and I were burnt. We cruised around the city a little, came home for dinner and found some updates on news from the homefront.

Wow. Everyone's been busy since we left!

Enron is done for now. That makes me feel better. When I watched the Enron movie, I found it so infuriating I had to take a break in the middle. Strange, though, that these guys ripped off so many people and their own company and all the money goes to their lawyers. Is it too late to go to Law School? Talk about The Smartest Guys in the Room...

Then I came across this headline:

Project to House Homeless, Artists

BROOKLYN — A 217-unit glass tower breaking ground today on Schermerhorn Street is an affordable housing project with a creative mix: 60 percent of the apartments will go to formerly homeless individuals — or those with special needs such as AIDS patients — and the rest will be reserved for artists and actors earning below $30,000.

The article went on to say:

The $59 million project will be run by the Actors’ Fund of America with Common Ground Community and will have on-site mental health, employment assistance, addiction recovery and other supportive services. A 200-seat black box theater will be open to the groups for gallery space and dance performances.

“We want this to be a hub for the community,” said Barbara Davis, chief program officer for the Actors’ Fund. “The neighborhood is getting more expensive for residents and arts groups.”

The Actors’ Fund has worked on other housing projects and conducts housing seminars for actors. The location above the Hoyt-Schermerhorn subway station, Davis said, was a plus.

“I wish we had a dozen more like this,” Brooklyn Borough President Marty Markowitz said. “There’s no doubt that Brooklyn is getting more expensive not just for artists, but even for borough presidents and anyone earning a decent living.”

Cost effective

• Common Ground said these apartments cost roughly $14,925 per tenant per year compared to $20,000 per year for a cot in a city shelter; $60,000 for a city jail cell; or $432,500 a year for a city hospital bed.

That just leaves so much room for the imagination to run wild!

All I can think of are images from the movie Dark Days, where the homeless train tunnel squatters are given apartments in the Bronx after the city boots them from the hovels they've created underground on Amtrak's turf. As far as I remember, they all had or were in the midst of severe drug problems. Wouldn't you have to be a crackhead to sleep in the subway tunnels in NYC?! And it was all warm and fuzzy and feel-good-movie-of-the-year style when they were cleaned up and became residents in a bona fide apartment building. But never once while watching the film did I think, 'gosh, I wish I was their neighbor!'

Anyone heard what the selection criteria is for residents of this new artist/homeless housing? Please keep me posted, and I'll report back with anything I find.

On a lighter note, I came across this when I was checking out random blogs:


Kind of sweet, right? But wait. What is that the little boy is holding?


I think this kid is going to grow to resent his little brother or sister. Or his mom for handing him the stick she peed on. And definitely dad for never putting down the damned camera!