A Celebration of Homogeny

Today I would like to talk about a phenomenon: the idealogical metropolis that is Celebration, Florida. "A safe town you can let your children roam through without worry. The closest thing to Heaven on Earth."

Think The Truman Show, minus camera crews and a giant cloud-covered ceiling, and what you're left with is a horribly pastel, deathly homogenous, corporate-run city in beachless central Florida. Granted, I was reared in Omaha, at the Eastern edge of landlocked Nebraska, bordering the muddy Missouri river, just beside bustling Council Bluffs, Iowa. But I'm proud to report, though Omaha is sprouting large tentacles of tree-barren Midwestern sprawl, its downtown has been resurrected, boasting a hip "indie" scene replete with old factory-turned loft-like apartments, eclectic non-Starbucks cafes, and a killer record label that could easily turn the NYC music industry into thick green mush.

Owned by the Walt Disney Company, Celebration was born in 1994 as a model American town, an extension of what EPCOT Center (Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow) was supposed to be (a "planned community built from scratch.") Walt Disney's original vision for EPCOT was that of a futuristic utopian society, to eliminate homelessness (all housing to be rented, not owned), noise (electric monorails overhead, and high speed motorways underground), and pollution (downtown to be encapsulated in a climate-controlled bubble). Unfortunately, Walt never had a chance to oversee his town-in-a-bubble, as he died well before EPCOT opened to the public in 1982. For political, social, and financial reasons (and, I'm sure, many a Disney conference room argument), EPCOT remained a gated tourist attraction, white geodesic dome and all. After all, people couldn't really live in a magic kingdom, could they? With leftover EPCOT land, Celebration emerged from a theme park (and a large corporate bank account), as a futuristic "learning resort."

I visted Celebration, FL once, with my family. Don't get me wrong, we weren't in the market for a new house, nor were we itching to indulge in the cuisine of one of downtown's "five acclaimed restaurants." Oddly fascinated by the idea of a company-owned town, and growing bored after 5 hours at Disney World (it happens, trust me), we piled in the ol' rented towncar and trekked the few miles to see what all this "new urbanist" hooplah was about. Thomas More, Renaissance visionary and martyr, coined the term "utopia" which is a pun meaning both "good place" and "no place." Incidentally, his vision lives on. In theory, I suppose this town could be utopian, but really, it just scared me. If you can hear yourself think, over the generic "soft jazz" that emanates from strategically placed speakers in the impeccibly clean downtown area, you can have your choice between 6 architectural styles for a home, a handful of schools, and very little in the transportation department (a cartoon-like trolley) if you don't own a car. All of this is accessible through The Front Porch, a Celebration-wide intranet service that connects you to others in your 96.3% white-upper-middle class pie piece. Two community associations who manage the neighborhoods, restrict what you can and can't do as a home owner, with the help of a thick binder of town "covenants" that residents must sign before moving in. Slip-n-Slide party? Forget it. Ruins the lawn. Adult swingers soiree? Heavens no! Poisons the purity of the community. Though I have no doubt, Celebration has its fair share of backyard pot smoking, extramarrital affairs, and seedy corporate extortion. Ah, but its all hidden behind the eggshell finish of the autumnal orange 3.5-bed Mediterranean-style villa, with heart-shaped pool (option 2). Though Market Street downtown has been carefully outsourced to Lexin Capital, the safe Disney-style music still wafts through the manmade lakefront and token grocery store, Goodings.

Oops, just dropped my FREE WILL back there by the elegant gated entrance.

I know, I know. If I was any more bitter, I'd be inducing peptic ulcers and rupturing stomach linings. It just felt very synthetic, empty, completely un-city-like. We've already allowed corporate America to invade our daily lives, but do we have to let it dictate our Gooding's grocery purchases, front lawn height, and local volunteering options?

But we trudged on. My sisters and I tried to expose the back edge of a wall; to find the place where stenciled outer beauty met sloppy inner construction and a faded Disney copyright stamp. But alas, we were unsuccessful. The town was real. Real bricks, real streets and real food. On a cheery note, lunch was tasty, the lakefront was a lovely place to sit while digesting, and the Celebration hotel was "delightfully charming" (boasted its website).

Towards late afternoon, our bodies grew tired from the humid air and lack of choice; the towncar waited patiently in the carefully laid out downtown parking lot. We left our newfound futuristic utopia behind, and headed back to highway 417, feeling that we'd caught a glimpse of another country, an extension of EPCOT's rather trite "World Showcase." While on the curving and unpredictable roads back to our less-than-perfect hotel in strip-mall laden Orlando, listening to non Front Porch radio, I swear I saw a drug deal in progress, which put me at ease.

Three strikes..who's out? My new t-shirts..

I'm told the first MTA transit strike happened in 1966. And though I was alive for the second one in 1980, I was just a young impressionable sapling in Nebraska, watching the Wuzzles, and Pinwheel on TV, and managing the nightly rotation of 186 stuffed animals between my cozy bed, and the other not-so-cozy sleeping spot, my shelf. After all, I wanted fairness. (Ah, just the beginnings of my OCD which would come to haunt my future roommates.)

This past Tuesday at 3 am, the hour of infomercials, sloshy drunkenness, and the beeping of garbage trucks, marked the third transit strike in the city's history. How does that saying go...Three strikes.. you're out? If I were a frenzied conspiracy theorist, I'd have packed all my belongings (save for the contents of my Manhattan "menu" drawer, and my pigeon-poop-covered direcTV satellite) and evacuated the big apple to seek refuge in a new place, notably one without volatile public transportation (Gasp! These places exist?).

Of course, if I really DID harbor conspiracy theories, I'd be roaming dark, newspaper-strewn alleyways, mumbling about how many secret underground subway tunnels (inhabited by mole people of course) truly exist, or how the MTA could whine about tremendous debt, raise fees, suddenly celebrate a surplus, and then divvy out "tourist" discounts, all the while, operating with highly flammable control room equipment, archaic communications systems, and faulty Metrocard vending machines. But I have no outlandish theories, my belongings remain in my (small, yet charming) NYC apartment, and I only take taxis when absolutely necessary, being a strong proponent of mass transit, that is.

Gawker.com has, as expected, already featured transit strike wear: "I walked 150 blocks and all I got was this t-shirt," or "I survived 9/11, the blackout, and all I got was this lousy transit strike." But how about one that says, "I carpool with complete strangers, and gosh darnit, I like it," or "Where can you find culture in the big apple? The backseat of a carpool!" One fur-clad stranger with whom I rode to the East River, expressed sincere hope that the TLC would one day embrace "rainy day" carpooling allowances. I agreed. A 1-cab to 1-passenger ratio was absurd, I fired back. I wished my 2-minute friend a good night. It didn't matter that my hair was disheveled and that I sported disintegrating red diesel sneakers, and that she fancied mink and clutched a sturdy Pucci shopping bag. It had been a meeting of the minds, in the backseat of a yellow cab. The next passenger, a well-to-do gentleman in an impeccable business suit, flagged us down on Madison Avenue. "How is anyone going to get around you if you block traffic like this, sir," he reprimanded the driver, as he climbed into the backseat. (Why do drivers think they're exempt from street ettiquette?) Though we only traveled a short distance, we managed to discuss the fact that December makes him sleepy, that he'd never even heard of Hell's Kitchen, and that I grew up far away from New York City (in Omaha, the "dimple" of "the cheek of the land that is Nebraska," he quoted from some bizarre unknown source. An attempt at poetry.) We dropped him on Lexington, in the 60s, whereupon he wished me a wonderful holiday, and promptly paid, in advance, for my entire ride home (to the exotic, made-up land that is Hell's Kitchen). I was stunned. (I was also slightly nauseous from the driver's lack of proper braking skills.) Where is the New York of yesteryear? What happened to stealing other peoples' cabs? Aren't we all playing the survival-of-the-fittest game?

Well, it seems that New York City has shed its reputation as a seedy, crime-filled, graffiti-covered den of sin. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that one day, rainy day carpooling will prevail. Look for my tshirts soon, in stores near you. (Accessible only by public transport of course).

A Cheap Summer Night

Here's an idea for a fun, summer evening activity:
Trek down to lower Manhattan (Take the 1/9 to South Ferry, and yes, make sure you're in the first 5 cars (the driver will enthusiastically remind you, a dozen times...though there's no way to know when you're on the train, just WHICH car you're in. Alright MTA, you go ahead and spend your "alleged" surplus money on NYPD to search New Yorker's bags (surely full of terrorist paraphernalia: iPods, newspapers, candy, and bananas) while the PA system remains merely a broken relic of the 1950s. In an emergency, I won't have a clue as to what's going on, but at least I'll feel good knowing I'm not carrying dynamite or ammonium hydroxide.) Anyway, I digress; this isn't supposed to be my MTA-rant. We'll save that for another time. Take the Staten Island Ferry (FREE) across the harbor. Not only this a cool trip, but did I mention it's free? During the breezy ride, you'll catch a glimpse of historical Ellis Island, along with its partner in crime, Ms. Liberty herself. (Note: if you travel during sunset, you'll surely capture postcard-worthy images.)

Once you dock in glorious Staten Island (insert sarcasm emoticon here), head to the Richmond County Bank Ballpark to see the Staten Island Yankees in full force. During this [minor league] fanfare, you'll surely score exceptional seats, have the chance to chug non-stadium beer such as Brooklyn and Amstel, indulge in treats like fresh muffins, cookies, and kosher hot dogs, all while viewing the nighttime cityscape of nearby NYC. If you're lucky, you may even catch a foul ball, a whiff of greasy fried goods, or the mascot's sweaty head piece. The Yanks will most likely win (it's gotta be rigged. There was clearly some questionable scoring the night I went).

The ferry ride back is even cooler than before. Nighttime boat rides are eerie, calming and almost zen-like. (Reminds me of the time I took an overnight train from Copenhagen to Amsterdam, and awoke at midnight to find our train, not chugging through the dark countryside, but mysteriously on its tracks, ON a boat, crossing the Baltic Sea to the German border at Puttgarden. Very odd experience...It was like a transportation convention with bad Danish coffee and blue-tinged flourescent lights.) Anyway, make your way to the very front of the ferry for a view of black ocean water (not to be confused with "black ice") sliding silently underneath the boat, and a slowly approaching glittering city, full of very expensive indoor activities.

A good time will surely be had by all.

Paris

Last night I dreamt I was in Paris. Or, I should say, back in Paris. I went in January, on a whim, for a mere 85 hours, to my delightful surprise, and to that of the man who is now semi-lovingly known (within a discrete social circle) simply as "Paris Boy." (Ominous foreshadowing?) During the long (and very expensive) taxi ride from Charles de Gaulle to Arrondissement 4, through industrial zones and patches of eerie fog (a phenomenon seemingly unique to European roads) I gazed, with heavy eyelids at the European glory passing by the slightly tinted glass of the plush backseat. "Ahh, gay Paree," I thought. I never want to leave. But if I'm to make it through the day, I either need a serious power nap, or a shot of tequilla with my french pastry. (The latter seemed both impossible and impractical, being that it was 7:30 am).

The magic of flying on a plane for hours, (WHY did they have to show Jerry McGuire? Are there no other movies in the cargo bay?) across a wide expanse of ocean known simply as "The Pond" by my Dutch friends, made me feel as if all my problems had been left in the diesel-coated dust on the banks of the Hudson River. . and so I dozed. After all, Paris Boy knew where to go.

Thirty euros later, the taxi neared the outskirts of the city. I awoke to the churn of a glorious morning in Paris. Cobblestone streets and fabulous shoes, funny little cars with bad paint jobs, architecture straight out of textbooks (was that just Napoleon who waved at me? Mon dieu, I'm tired), narrow roads that twist and expel traffic straight into imperial opera houses and splendid hotels, silky foie gras that melts in your mouth and luxurious bakeries that beckon even the most anti-carb dieters, tabac shops filled with real foreigners who don't speak a lick of English, the Metro with its ingenious silent rubber tires, perfect cafe au lait (au yes), and that sweet sweet smell of far away Europe; the stepping stone to problem-free life.

*Sigh* I must go back. Opportunity awaits, perhaps in the form of a fresh croissant.