Breakfast at Saul's

This morning I grabbed my book and wandered down the street to my local Jewish Deli. I grabbed a booth as far away from the whimpering child and one table away from a man who looked a lot like a young Bill Cosby. The waiter poured me a cup of strong, hot coffee in one of those off-white ceramic mugs whose handles always seem to crowd my fingers and scorch my knuckles. I ordered the eggs and onions with a side of hash browns and an onion bagel with cream cheese.

The only difference in my routine? I did all this in Berkeley, California not Brooklyn, New York.

I've been casting about for how best to transition Flygal76 from a blog about life in New York City to one about life in the Bay Area of California... and this morning I realized that some things, like brunch at your local Jewish Deli, just transition themselves!

I mean, it's not like I'm moving to a farm in Nebraska (thank God), Berkeley's a lot like Park Slope, Brooklyn: lots of kids and parents; lots of places to eat good food; plenty of community-oriented people; and did I mention the good food?

Life in Berkeley differs from Brooklyn in some important respects though: my commute is 20 minutes walking instead of 45 minutes on the subway so no more evil subway eye (yea!); no more encounters with tragic hipsters in Union Square subway station, the people I encounter on my commute now are Cal students and those Berkeley residents who make their home on Shattuck Ave (though 7:45 AM is a bit early for both).

Overall, life is pretty good so far. I can walk to the Cheeseboard (a worker owned cooperative that sells cheese (natch) and fancy-pants pizza); the original Peet's Coffee; Love at First Bite, a cupcake shop with all the flavor and none of the celebrity of Magnolia; and three grocery stores that sell, natural, organic free-range, free-love goodies at a fraction of the price of "Gross-tedes" and "Food Extortion" in New York.

I have a garden, as the Brits would say, so I'm planting native California plants in the hopes that the hummingbirds and butterflies I've seen buzzing around others' gardens will find their way into mine and entertain me and my cat. Gone are the fire escape gardens with under watered plants turned to ashtrays.

I even have a dishwasher, washer and dryer. It's like moving into the Barbie Dream House of my Youth... I even have a Ken arriving in 5 days!

Despite my initial euphoria, I'm sure that the Bay Area with its smug environmentalism, and liberalism will get on this jaded east coaster's nerves. So if my first Pollyanna-ish post disappoints you, stay tuned, I'm sure I'll return to the snarky posts of yore.

Attention hipsters

The great thing about having a blog is that I can rant as much as I want when I want and where I want (assuming it's close to a computer). I invoke this privilege today to recount my commuting experience this morning and to issue advice to all those tragically hip New Yorkers who cross my path.

I normally don't leave the confines of the N train during the morning rush until my appointed stop, but this morning, in an effort to shop at Trader Joe's before the hoards descended upon it, I hopped off the train at Union Square just after 9:00 AM.

Union Square, where the yellow trains, green trains and grey L train converge, is a mad house at any time of day and is especially intimidating at 9:00 AM when all the people with "serious jobs" have been at work for an hour or more and those left commuting are the aimless, oblivious commuters who don't have to be at work till 9:30 or 10:00. (Apologies to those diligent commuters with flexible schedules for lumping you into the latter category.)

It was in this setting that I encountered my first tragic hipster of the day. I more wove around him than encountered him, really, seeing as how he was WANDERING AIMLESSLY ON THE SUBWAY PLATFORM! Come on! You're in the subway station, that implies intent to RIDE A SUBWAY TRAIN. You've got the express to your right, the local to the left, JUST PICK ONE AND GET OUT OF MY F***ING WAY!

Of course I said none of this, being the gentile southern lady I am (heh). I just grumbled about f***ing hipsters and went on my way. But thinking back on this guy I'm really bugged by the pervasive trait that all the tragic hipsters seem to share: those enormous f***ing aviator sunglasses. Have you noticed that irrespective of weather, temperature, and most annoyingly, location, the aviators are always donned, the hair is always shaggy and those retarded looking military hats are always on their heads (except when replaced by the equally annoying newsboy hats).

Maybe that's why this poor kid was wandering aimlessly on the Union Square platform, he couldn't see through his hip yet impractical sunglasses to determine which train he should get on. Was that it? Or was it that he had the sunglasses on to hide his bloodshot eyes from the harsh neon lights of the subway platform?

Either way, hipsters of New York, let's be practical. You don't live in Miami, LA, San Tropez or any of the other well-lit destinations that might necessitate consistent wearing of aviator sunglasses. You live in New York City where 7 million people miraculously manage to live together without doing each other serious bodily harm (at least not on a regular basis). And you, hip though you are, must do your part to maintain this ecosystem.

So while I realize that you take a great deal of pride in your appearance and have invested heavily in your plaid and corduroy wardrobe, please think for a moment about how your utter oblivion to the world around you may piss off those of us who are not quite as hip as you.

And take off your sunglasses inside for f**k's sake.

Thanks to The Fed, Columbia's subversive newspaper, for the hipster guide. It's worth looking at the full size picture here.