Click here to read my first piece as a reporter at Fortune in the Global 500 issue (July 21, 2008). It’s a photo essay about four women (of the more than 30 who participated) from our Most Powerful Women summit who mentored women from developing countries–including India, Zimbabwe, Peru and Jordan–as part of the FORTUNE-U.S. State Department Global Women Leaders Mentoring Partnership. (Disclaimer: it takes about 15 seconds to download).
Click here to read a story I wrote about the new Siebel Varsity Golf Training Complex at Stanford University. The practice facility includes six greens, each of which incorporates the trademark style of an iconic course architect, giving Stanford players a leg up at the courses on their rota designed by these masters.
I recently read a piece in the NY Observer that essentially said it doesn’t matter if your story makes the cover of a magazine if no one talks about it.
Nothing seems to live for more than a day without commentary; the contemporary version of “if a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, did it make a sound” is “if an article gets written and no one blogs it, does anyone care?”
I was therefore somewhat relieved to stumble on this mention of my Gold Country story on the NY Post’s site.
Prior to my move to Manhattan, the subway ranked high among the “amenities” I looked forward to enjoying as an NYC resident. I had lived in three cities with sub-par public transit systems and was eagerly anticipating leaving my wheels in California along with car payments, insurance, registration, permits, tickets, parking, and the constant fear that my car would be broken into or vandalized. I love to drive, but I think anyone would agree that owning a car in a city is a challenge.
Even with its myriad headaches—snotty passengers, infrequent trains, steamy summer mornings underground—the subway has not let me down. There is a learning curve, but like the rest of Manhattan, it’s accompanied by no small sense of pride. In fact once you get it figured out, navigating the subway system with relative ease is the ultimate sign that you belong.
The subway is truly a separate world, geographically and psychologically. Ever since I started this blog I’ve wanted to create a category of posts about the fascinating and bizarre things I’ve witnessed underground.
I’ve seen couples taking engagement photos, a guy carrying a car fender and kindergartners on a field trip. There have been scenes frightening and moving–a social worker reunited with a man who had been in her care; a family struggling with a mom who had had too much to drink; a young woman who believed in love at first sight on the platform; and of course the arguments, crying, and people in pain.
On top of this are the subway “regulars”: people selling batteries, candy or counterfeit DVDs; those asking for money or preaching a message; bewildered tourists from Europe or the midwest; and the entertainers, from Sunday morning men’s gospel groups to mariachi bands to drum circles.
The subway is a slice of New York life; the pinnacle of people-watching; the place where we can truly catch a glimpse into the life of others. Every passenger has a story.
My blog is so backlogged I hardly know where to begin. Below are a few posts you can expect to see in the next week as I try to play catch up:
Pardon the non-sequitur, but I’m kicking it all off with a “recipe.”
Click here to read my cover story about golf in California Gold Country.
Click here to read a story I wrote for The Blue Doors, the alumnae magazine for the Nightingale-Bamford School, a girls’ school on the Upper East Side in NYC. The piece is about three young alumnae who climbed the Matterhorn in July, 2006.
Last weekend I went to California to visit my parents. I told my friends and coworkers in New York that I was going “home.” Later, when it was time to return to New York, I again announced that it was time to go “home.” This is the perfect allegory for a dilemma many of us twentysomethings face. Where exactly is home? Is it the place you grew up and subsequently left behind with childhood? Does it cease to exist except in our memories? Or is it the place we currently inhabit, makeshift and transitory as it may be? It’s also possible that “home” is somewhere out there in the future, when we finally decide to stick somewhere and buy expensive furniture. Maybe it’s all of these.
I recently attended a basketball game at the YMCA.
The contest featured twelve-, thirteen- and fourteen-year-old girls. Despite the fact that most of them are in the midst of the biggest transition their bodies will ever make, none seemed the least bit physically self-conscious as they dribbled, passed, and shot the ball. It reminded me why sports are so important for women. Our bodies are constantly being objectified, but when we play sports we forget all that and transform into powerful instruments of athleticism.
On a lighter note, the game also reminded me of my first job in college as an intramural referee. My sister had been an IM ref in college and it seemed like a good idea. So when I saw an advertisement in UCLA’s Daily Bruin for indoor soccer referees, I applied. I had played soccer for twelve years growing up and knew most of the rules. When I heard back from the recreation department, they said they had filled all the spots for soccer, but would I consider refereeing women’s basketball?
I do not exactly fit the demographic of an Upper West Side New Yorker. I am neither married, nor do I have children. I am not an Orthodox Jew. I do not collect Social Security. And yet I feel completely at home living just west of Central Park in this community.
It’s difficult for other New Yorkers my age–particularly “downtowners“–to hide their disdain when I tell them where I live. Some of them try, saying things like “That’s okay.” Others simply ask outright, “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get run over by a stroller?”
 | Trevor Taylor on T+L Golf May/June 2008 |
 | Pattie on About me |
 | feministgal on T+L Golf May/June 2008 |
| feministgal on T+L Golf May/June 2008 |
 | Justin on Tales from the undergroun… |
