Cassandra - Times Online - WBLG

London vs. New York

Yesterday I was asked to comment for an article about London being superior to New York and to give some reasons as to why it’s better in London. I had a lot to say. Here are some of the things that didn’t make it into the piece:

People in New York don’t actually see each other in person. It takes weeks of scheduling and planning to meet for a coffee which at the last minute, will most likely be canceled. I have a friend who lives in my building – one floor above – and we e mail when we are both at home. Every so often we’ll talk on the phone. But I haven’t seen him in months.

Everyone says how exciting it is that New York is a 24 hour city but I’ve never understood the appeal. Do you really need to have a gym open at 3 AM? I like that in London, things shut down at 11pm. When I wake up in the middle of the night I never wonder what everyone else is doing. I know what they’re doing: sleeping.

Complaining is how most New Yorkers communicate. Myself included. The only people in NY not complaining are the Brits but that’s just because they haven’t been there long enough. After a few years in New York, the neurosis kicks in and they start going to doctors, discussing ailments, hating themselves – then they get back to London and the anxiety lifts.

Also, Londoners don't go to doctors as often as New Yorkers do so as a result, there is much less talk in general about sickness.

In London, you'd need to know someone for years before they would mention (which would take place in person) a medical procedure they've had. Whereas in New York, you can ask a stranger on the elevator how they're doing and they'll tell you they've just had a biopsy.

Actually, I kind of like that about New York...

A Clean Well Lighted Place

A few weeks ago in New York I was a leaving a restaurant when the manager asked how the meal was. So, I told him I thought the appetizer salad was overpriced for what it was. Four pieces of romaine lettuce for $15? “There should at least be a slice of tomato.” I smiled. He didn’t.

“On the other hand, “ I added, “The lighting in the ladies room was perfect.”

He had no idea what a huge compliment that was. But that's because most restaurant people don’t understand what a difference it makes. When I go to the loo to wash my hands, if I can’t see myself in the mirror or, even worse, if I can see too much of myself – it sets my mood for the rest of the meal.

The whole point of going to the ladies room is to look in the mirror while washing germs off our hands. If it was just about peeing, we’d wait until we got home.

When someone is hired to design the lighting for a ladies loo the first question they should ask is: would I be able to tweeze my eyebrows in here?

This problem only exists in fancy restaurants because in the cheap places, there’s a light switch. The trendy places have lighting that can’t be adjusted and it’s frustrating to get in there and not be able to see. Quite often, I'll be carrying a contact lens in my hand that needs to be re-inserted. It doesn’t need to be lit like a hospital, but there should be some visibility.

In London, the lighting in Luciano’s loo is ideal. So is the lighting in the loo at Le Caprice. It’s dark enough so that you don’t see what you really look like but light enough so that you can apply eyeliner without scratching your cornea.

My New Hobby

First, a google alert update: every alert I’ve gotten so far is for something that's appeared on the timesonline site. I already know my name will appear there. And, why am I being alerted to something that’s been on the web for ages? That’s it. Time to move on.

This past week I bought a paper shredder. Since the bank fraud incident, I’ve become even more paranoid. I didn’t think that was possible. But it is.

I’ve been shredding everything. It started with bank statements, phone bills, etc and when those were gone, I moved to junk mail and catalogues. The sound of the metal slicing the paper was so satisfying. Hearing something instantly destroyed. I couldn’t stop.

I was shredding a credit card statement when the phone rang. "Can't talk. Shredding."

I had to shred all the time. But sadly, mail only comes once a day. So I was shredding anything I could find. Thai food delivery menus? Shredded. Old photographs of ex boyfriends? Shredded. I nearly shredded my birth certificate which I thought would be kind of symbolic.

I predict in the future there will be someone on Oprah hyping Shred Therapy. People will write down their fears and unpleasant memories on flash cards, shred them, and heal.

Yesterday I was handed a flyer on the street and I held on to it and brought it home just to shred. That can't be good.