Sweaty Delicious

It's official. New York City in July has been pure scorching hell.

You walk around through the streets, and all you see are uncomfortable people trying their best not to move as much so as not to sweat through their clothes. It's disgusting, I know. That's how this city is during the summertime. The humidity is unbearable, especially for someone like me who's not very fond of the heat. I grew up in warm Puerto Rico but never really got used to its year-round hot climate. One of the reasons I chose to study at Syracuse University - besides its great Communications school - was the fact that I'd be able to experience an entirely different environment to that of my own upbringing.

New York summers can truly aggravate and infuriate people very easily. Within the context of a given everyday routine (going to and from work, for example), the heat can become the main instigator in ruining one's commute. You feel sticky, tired, and not very clean. You try to avoid eye contact with people so that they don't notice what a sweaty mess you are. Then, when you do get to your destination, you're in dire need of a change of shirt and feel like a grimy outcast when the air conditioning at work barely cools you off. Overall, it's just an awful situation to be in.

However, in a different environment, these same unbearable conditions can also bring about a surprisingly enjoyable time - even if you feel like your skin is melting off! This summer has already delivered record-setting hot days, yet they've been accentuated by the plethora of activities this city has to offer. Not only have the warm weekends enabled me to enjoy the boroughs in their "full splendor" (so to speak), but they have also coaxed me into indulging in excessive amounts of food...

I attended the Coney Island Mermaid Parade with my friends Evan and Eleanor about a month ago, and it made for quite a beautiful and bright afternoon. After we watched the procession of half-naked men and women in mermaid regalia, my stomach began to growl loudly, so I proceeded to slither past the crowd in front of Nathan's and bought myself two hot dogs. Given the hot weather, I downed the food with a very cold PBR (a surprisingly expensive one) in a matter of seconds. The two hot dogs definitely staved off my hunger, but minutes later when we left the boardwalk, I realized that I was still unsatisfied and the blistering sun was taking its toll on me. Thus, I followed the "dogs" from Nathan's with an ice cream cone and a few bites of a funnel cake Eleanor had ordered. By that point, the ice cream had totally revitalized me and cooled me off; I was as pleased as I could be. Still, my friends wanted to get more food, so we took the subway to Metropolitan Avenue and had a bountiful late lunch at Fette Sau, an unbelievable BBQ spot nestled in an inconspicuous driveway in Williamsburg. The place exudes a bare-bones 'Americana' spirit - wooden picnic tables and local beers served in jars - as well as a laid back and communal, family-friendly vibe. Surprisingly enough, I ate a hefty amount of food there (pulled pork with bread rolls and potato salad) despite having already eaten a lot just an hour before. The cold Coney Island lager I drank definitely complemented the delicious food, and the overall experience was doubly enhanced because the place itself was a great "find."

Weeks later, Eleanor, Evan and I made another trip to Brooklyn on another pitch-perfect-yet-humid Saturday, this time to see the Andy Warhol exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum. Before going in, though, we crossed the street to Washington Avenue and had lunch at The Islands, a cramped Jamaican food joint with the tastiest jerk chicken I've ever had. After struggling to understand the servers' thick accents - and waiting a while for our orders to be ready - we took the food and sat outside the museum, where we enjoyed the jerk chicken along with rice and beans, curried goat, and an incredibly refreshing ginger lemonade. Once we saw the Warhol works, we strolled through Prospect Park and hitched a subway ride back to Astoria, where we spent the evening at Bohemian Hall & Beer Garden, drinking Krusovice (Czech) beer and yes, eating more food - potato pancakes and dumplings.

Throughout these days spending time around the boroughs, the weather was relentless in making every inch of my body feel sluggish and grimy. The less I thought about how sweaty I was, the better...yet, in an odd way, the very act of being outside all day and trying delicious new food around the city turned the uncomfortable aspects - i.e., the blistering heat and the constant sweating - into a somewhat playful obstacle to control and endure. In a rigid schedule, the hot summer climate in NYC becomes anti-productive and affects one's sense of comfort and social interaction. An office setting where there's no air conditioning (while it's 100 degrees outside) can quickly shift from being a dynamic working environment to an awkward and alienating one where everyone turns bitter and puts off work to pout by their lonesome.

Then - when that routine is no longer in effect and we delve outside to enjoy our surroundings, the suffocating heat is not a dire impediment anymore because it falls in tandem with the "fun-ness" of the adventure itself. Sitting at an office cubicle with no A.C., I would've probably eaten the bare minimum for lunch so as not to move as much and become even messier. Outside around the boroughs, however, my atttitude was similar to that of a young kid playing in a backyard - grimy, unkempt and totally unrestrained to do (and eat!) anything.

Summertime - in this city in particular - does that to you. I mean, seriously - where else can a mild-mannered twenty-four year old binge on hot dogs, ice cream, pulled pork and potato salad while also being able to eat authentic Jamaican and Czech cuisine located a few miles apart?

Could L.A. ever pull this off? I don't think so. It's not sweaty enough.

i _____ L . A .

For as long as I can remember, I've always been a fervent East Coaster. My mom was born here in New York City, and my dad met her while she was studying at Manhattanville College. While I lived in Puerto Rico during my childhood and adolescence, I still frequented New York a great deal - at a minimum, five times a year. Even in those moments, when I was still in school, I knew that New York would eventually be my next home. Then as my college graduation unfolded and most of my friends made the brave trek to the West Coast, I stubbornly remained loyal to the Big Apple and moved here right after I finished school. Months passed, and as I enjoyed what the city consistently had to offer me, I still kept in contact with my friends in Los Angeles - always trying to get as much of a feeling for what their "West Coast experience" was like. However, at no point was I even entertaining the idea of moving there. I merely wanted to get a sense of the L.A. mindset without enduring the aches and pains of experiencing it myself.

About two months ago, some L.A. friends called me up one weekend as I was leaving my evening job (so, around 2:30am) and, in an oddly endearing sort of way, their drunken ramblings convinced me to finally travel to the West Coast and, yes - experience it for myself. I booked round-trip tickets for a five day trip, and about two weeks ago, I finally made it over there.

I arrived at LAX on a rather breezy Thursday afternoon. As I walked out of the airport and looked at my surroundings, I felt like I was back in Puerto Rico - except that it wasn't a stuffy ninety degrees outside. With my friend Matt's address jotted down, I relayed it to the cab driver and off we went. I reached Matt's apartment and realized that all of my friends were at work, and I didn't have any keys to his place. Deeming it the perfect opportunity (and time of day) to go out and explore, I asked the cabbie to give me a sense of how best to reach Venice Beach. He told me to walk west, and so I did...

With a bag in each hand, I strolled through Venice Boulevard, past Venice High School (the one Danny and Sandy went to in Grease), tattoo parlors and Mexican eateries. At one point, after having been walking for over fifteen minutes, I decided to check again to see if I was still heading the right way. I spotted a very thin middle-aged woman leaving her house and I approached her for directions, asking what the best way to reach Venice Beach was. The woman - holding a jar of iced coffee and slurping it through a straw - nonchalantly pointed in the direction I was heading towards and walked away. I hastily continued on my path and tried to quicken my pace, unsure of how many miles I had left. Then, about five minutes later, I heard a voice calling me.

"HEY! Do you want a lift?"

I was bewildered. What random Los Angeleno was offering to pick me up in the middle of the day? When I turned around, I realized that the stranger was, in fact, the coffee-slurping lady - now driving a beat-up pickup truck. She informed me that she was, after all, going the same direction as me; in turn, I reluctantly accepted her offer and got into her car. At that moment, my "East Coaster conscience" yelled inside my head, outraged that I'd ride with a random person, but I simply ignored it and took the situation for what it was - an L.A. experience.

The woman - a West Coaster for over 30 years, she told me - dropped me off at the main boulevard to the beach and I profusely thanked her for the ride, but she merely chuckled to herself and said that it had been no bother. The woman's airy disposition and generosity surprised me, especially because I've lived for over two years in a city that follows a starkly opposite pace. I spent the afternoon laying on the beach - soaking in the sun rays - and walking along the boardwalk, witnessing the various grungy dudes and girls that clamored for spare change as well as the well-put-together men and women that offered prescription slips for medical marihuana. To me, the people in and around Venice Beach make the hipsters in Williamsburg look like Mormons. Hipsters are all about putting forth a specific image of themselves (regardless of whether it's genuine or not), whereas the young people in this beachside area truly seemed like the real deal. Be they exchanging drugs on the sly or "turning tricks," they were definitely not trying to be covert, yet in doing so, they gave the area its eccentric flair.

The following night, I took part in a Scavenger Hunt throughout all of Los Angeles. To the group of friends I tagged along with, it was just something fun to do, but to me, it was the perfect way to discover and engage with the West Coast scenery. From midnight to seven in the morning, the empty highways and neighborhoods paved the way for easy access from one end of L.A. to another, as we relentlessly followed clues and zany instructions to earn as many points as possible. It was a manic and exciting seven hours, and, although we didn't come close to winning (almost dead-last is more apt), we had an excellent time traversing the nightly landscape together.

Throughout the five days that I was in L.A., my friends made the case for me to make the move there. They showed me other aspects to Los Angeles that I never took into account and also shed light on its particular allure. Despite everything that I was witness to during my trip, what encapsulated the city the most for me was the Good Samaritan who gave me a lift to Venice Beach. If that same situation had happened in, let's say, the Midwest, it would have been a different scenario. The woman would've probably been overwhelmingly selfless and would've even gabbed on about her family life. However, in Los Angeles I noticed that everyday people follow the beat of a different drum - they're accommodating without being totally straightforward about things. Unlike New Yorkers, they carry a very lackadaisical attitude about their daily routines - be it leisurely or professional. Whereas people in NYC are upfront about their feelings and will not mince words with you, Californians seem to retain any judgments they might have and, instead, exude a nonchalant approach that is more receptive...

...which brings me to this post's title. The laid-back attitude in Los Angeles - although surely refreshing to many people that live there - is nevertheless one that carries a deceptive aura. The town is bright and sunny year-round, with attractive people galore trying to make business deals while working on their tan - and there's never a palpable sense of urgency or importance in whatever people undertake. In L.A., work ethic is interconnected with leisure (and vice versa), while NYC falls more in tandem with a Darwinistic mentality: work hard by your own merits in order to survive, and then enjoy a leisurely life. Thus, like the "coffee-slurping lady," Los Angeles is easygoing and approachable but refrains from showing more character and emotion than it needs to.

By this parameter alone, I don't love or like L.A., nor do I hate or despise it. It is, to put it simply, a uniquely frustrating yet oddly tempting place to be.