The Quietest Place in Manhattan

I missed last week’s entry in the whirlwind of my teacher, parents and friends visiting, so allow me to catch up.

The politics of the moment are braiding into an extraordinary narrative. I interviewed with my boss last December, the same week that Julian Assange published the largest batch of Wikileak cables, and now everywhere from the Middle East to the Midwest in engulfed in political upheaval.

My morning routine of waking up at 7 to catch Democracy Now’s news hour is an energizing motivator for the day’s work. I can imagine the thrill of someday waking with the satisfaction of knowing that I helped unfurl the day’s headlines for the sleepy-eyed, coffee-sipping nation.

This morning, a man from the NYPD security force gave our floor a twenty-minute lecture on “non-fire emergencies.” Listening to him list off evacuation policies suddenly made the tenth floor seem a lot high than I had previously perceived it. I cannot imagine what this city must have been on September 11, 2001.

The office has stopped serving as a professional environment, and has become social one where a lot of work happens to be accomplished. Something about my colleagues wearing sweatpants to work makes it difficult to maintain the icy wall of protocol. Instead, the station is a warm, although at times high-stress, workplace. There’s a level of political and social commonality that is implicit with a desire to work or volunteer at the station. The water cooler conversations range from the hidden powers of the mind to Egypt’s future concerning the Muslim Brotherhood with a curious lack of distinction in tone.

I’m quite fond of the disc jockeys, volunteers, editors, and managers. I have reason to believe the feeling is mutual, as a man at work who affectionately calls me jewel handed me a two-page poem ("U just keep on jewelling us up/pouring journalistic goodies N2 our cup"). I hope, although doubt, that the kindness and good humor at the station are reflective of the entire field of journalism.

My parents were invited up to see the office last Thursday. I was working in my boss’ office when I heard him say, “Hey, those two white people must be your folks.” It was strange to see them though the window, like Harry Potter paper dolls accidentally placed on a Lion King background. At any rate, I was very happy to see them, and we all went out to lunch with my boss who gave me the afternoon and Friday off. Bingo!

My parents and I had a power-tourist weekend of food, drink, museums, galleries, sightseeing and plays. A weekend here without financial restriction is very different from a normal weekend.

The highlight among the flurry of stimulation was visiting The Earth Room in SoHo, where my uncle’s childhood friend curates a studio filled with three feet of rich soil that covers all but an observation hall. The exhibit has existed for over thirty years, making it a rare token of stability in a neighborhood that reinvents itself every six months. I expected pretense, but found peace in the room that smelled of life. Bill, the curator, had a profound sense of well being that stemmed from living in harmony with this mass of dirt that he has maintained over the last two decades by raking and watering once a week. He said the soil’s acoustic properties make The Earth Room the quietest place in Manhattan.