Wanderlust 108

Last weekend, I did something I honestly thought I'd never do - I ran a 5k. Without stopping. And then I sat in a park and meditated for 20 minutes with about 500 other people. And THEN I did some yoga. In the rain.

The yoga part was not all that personally surprising. I've spent many a happy (and sweaty) afternoon in my nearby yoga studio, and I've been known to join a friend for some impromptu yoga in a park on good-weather days. The meditation wasn't too much of a stretch for me either. Years of Catholic schooling have taught me to sit un-self-consciously with my eyes closed and think deep thoughts in the middle of a public place. And really, who doesn't want to sit quietly while listening to live cello music as a cool wind gently blows?

Photo by John Suhar

But the running? THAT was hard. For me, at least. I know a ton of people that can run three miles backwards up a hill with their eyes closed and not break a sweat, but as I've mentioned before, I am not a runner. But back in July, one interwebinal click led to another and then another and then ultimately landed me on the main website for Wanderlust, a company that specializes in and promotes yoga, meditation, and mindfulness by hosting teacher trainings, yoga classes, and multi-day festivals. It was that last one that caught my eye - beautiful pictures of beautiful yogis tree posing on mountain tops and rugged oceanic coasts were everywhere. I wanted to go to there. I knew myself well enough to realize that I'm too cheap uncoordinated busy to attend one of the three-day festivals, but when I discovered they were hosting a one-day mini festival in Brooklyn, I started to seriously consider going. I mentioned this thought to my friend Kristen, who said that another friend of hers had also expressed interest. A few frantic group texts later and we had ourselves three premium tickets, allowing us to participate in the first-ever Mindfulness Triathlon - a 5k run, seated meditation, and group yoga.

I am not ashamed to admit that I was really worried about the running part of the day. Sometimes I run a few blocks for exercise, and on a good day I can do a mile on a treadmill if I'm at a gym, but previous to this festival the farthest I had ever run was about two miles, and that was three years ago on a treadmill in Connecticut when I was having some serious boy troubles (angry running is still running). So I'm also not ashamed to admit that I trained for the 5k. Like, for reals trained. I first thought that I could just follow one of the popular Couch to 5k training programs, but quickly realized they were designed for people to work up to the full three miles over the course of a few months. I had less than a month to figure this out. So I created my own running schedule that increased my distance from 1 to 2.5 miles and then back down to 1 mile (tapering) over the course of three weeks.

And you know what? I stuck to my schedule. There were two or three days that I didn't run as intended, but by and large I kept to my program - and it absolutely one hundred per cent paid off. The actual 5k was hard - I was unfamiliar with the course, so all of my usual benchmarks weren't there to tell me how much farther I had, and the last mile was almost entirely uphill. But thanks to my Type A, competitive, determined, over-achieving Aries self, I did it. I ran the entire way, stoping only once for three deep breaths when I thought my chest was going to cave in (it didn't).

I'm not going to lie. I felt so good afterwards. Not in the physical sense (because in the physical sense, I kinda wanted to die. Or at least sit down and sleep for a very, very long time) but in the emotional sense. Or maybe even in the spiritual sense. Something to do with pride? I guess I don't often do things that are so challenging that I impress myself, but this one resonated with me. I think it's because running is very black and white - you either run, or you don't - and unlike my creative and professional lives that are almost always full of grey areas, it was easy to acknowledge my pure achievement. I set out to run an entire 5k, and I did.

The rest of the "triathalon" unfortunately kind of paled in comparison to the run. The meditation was good, but I wasn't in love with most of the keynote speakers, and it started to rain about five minutes into the yoga portion of the day. I might have been able to get behind what quickly turned into water-robics, but the instructor was a bit too preachy for my liking, and besides that, I was freezing. The three of us quietly packed up our mats and bags and slipped out during a sun (rain?) salutation, and headed toward the car. As shouts of "peace! peace! peace!" quietly faded into the background, all I could think was "hey! I did that!"

Photo by John Suhar

Brighton Beach memoirs

Like most people, I spend most of my days in a little bubble of habit and transit. I shop at the same grocery store, meet friends at the same bagel place, take the same train to the same theater, take the same long walk through the same park, lather, rinse, repeat. And for the most part, I like that I have a "usual" - it's comfortable, it's consistent, and it allows me to get to places efficiently and on time ('cause apparently I'm also 85 years old).

But last week, I'd had enough of the usual. I needed something new, something different. Something with blue skies, white sands, and possibly some sea breezes running through my hair. So I grabbed some iced coffee, took advantage of my unlimited metro card, and made the long (long) trek to the end of the Q-train.

When I got off the train at Brighton Beach, it was like I was Dorothy entering Oz - but instead of munchkins and talking lions, I was faced with fruit stands and clothing stores, the roar of trains rushing overheard, and little old Russian women haggling over the fresh fish and vegetables that would end up on their dinner tables later that very evening. I immediately headed into the nearest grocery store to find the shelves lined with brightly colored packages and aisles full of bins of individually wrapped candies, all with beautiful and unfamiliar Cyrillic lettering. I turned back into the street and down to the next little grocery, where a woman was standing in the window selling pastries. I pointed to one, learned that it was called a Khachapuri (essentially a dough with cheese), and handed over $1.25. When I finished that, I ducked into one final grocery store, where I gave fully into impulse and bought a jar of Russian spices and the most beautiful glass bottle labeled "Tkemali," or Georgian plum sauce.

With a heavy purse and full stomach, it was time for some serious boardwalking. I'm sure it gets pretty crowded on the weekends, but on a Tuesday morning the Brighton Beach boardwalk was practically deserted, save for the requisite little old Russian man holding court on his favorite park bench. The beach was surprisingly clean and well-kept. The sand was already blisteringly hot, and the freezing ocean felt wonderful on my feet.

I took my time walking down the boardwalk, stopping to photograph both the never-ending coastline and the ebb and flow of runners, mothers with strollers, bicyclists, and grandmothers laden with shopping bags. Eventually, the scenery changed before my eyes - the boardwalk filled up with people, restaurants offering hotdogs and cotton candy dotted the edges, and I could hear the clang of rides and carnival games - I was at Coney Island.

The walk from Brighton to Coney took about 15 minutes, but it felt like I had crossed into a different country. I'm not a huge fan of the area (it's a bit touristy and trashy for my liking), but it has been cleaned up a lot since I'd last been there in 2010 (Hurricane Sandy, though devastating, forced a lot of positive changes to the coast). I wandered though the Luna Park (it's free to enter, rides are pay-per-ride), and fondly recalled memories of trips with friends to Great America, the theme park near my childhood home.

The temperature was turning from warm to sweltering, and I was getting tired - it was time to catch a train back to Astoria. But not before one last look at the ocean. It's one of the small ironies of living in New York City that we are surrounded by so much water, but so rarely ever get the chance to appreciate it. So I walked to the end of a pier, past the families and couples and men hoping to hook the catch of the day, to the point where I could look out and see nothing but water and horizon. A land-free Atlantic spread out in front of me, filled with wonder and possibility and adventure. I took a deep breath, allowing myself a moment to soak in the salty, fishy air, and then headed back home.

Slice of the Week - Four & Twenty Blackbirds

Hi, I'd like to order four slices of pie.

Ok no problem, is that to go?

... No.

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When I first started this blog, I made a list of all the best places in the city to get pie. Pulled mainly from a "best pie NYC" Goggle search, results like this and this made a few things clear. First, that there aren't actually too many bakeries in this city devoted solely to pie. Second, that Brooklyn seems to be a hub for not just shaggy hipsters with ironic clothing choices, but for all things pie. And finally, I learned that there is a place, a mecca if you will, deep in the heart of Gowanas that is the epitome of pie. Enthusiasts from near and far whisper it's name with awe, tomes have been written about it, soccer moms name their firstborn after it.

     (Ok, that last one might be an exaggeration. But then again, it might not.)

Anyway, Four & Twenty Blackbirds immediately moved to the top of my Pie to Try list. The problem, however, was that it's located off of the 9th Street stop on the R train in Brooklyn - about an hour away from my apartment, and in an area I never have a reason to frequent. My roommate and I started to refer to the trek to Four & Twenty as our Pie Pilgrimage, and decided to make the trip a reality as soon as possible.

10 months later, she and I finally found a four-hour block of time in which we were both in the city but without work or rehearsal. Sometimes I marvel at how artists ever get ANYTHING scheduled or accomplished.

So, on a rainy Tuesday in October, Amanda and I took the subway to Brooklyn and ordered slices of four of the five available sweet pies. Was this a healthy idea? No. Did we almost go into anaphylactic shock halfway through the meal? Possibly, but I don't really know what anaphylactic shock is. Was this the most delicious pie tasting ever? Absolutely.

Salted Carmel Apple

Soft, sweet apples nestled under a buttery salted crust. At first, this pie isn't anything special, just a really good apple pie. Then comes a burst of salty goodness. It's a crazy, surprising juxtaposition of flavor.

Brown Butter Pumpkin
Everything about this pie is so light and airy that you assume it's made with angel kisses (or at the very least, that it must be fat-free). Consisting of the fluffiest pumpkin puree known to man and a flaky crust that actually melts in your mouth, this slice was Amanda's favorite.

Black Bottom Oat

This pie is the lovechild of Mr. Shaker Oat and Ms. Nestlee Tollhouse. Both decadent and comforting, it's dessert at its' best. Shortbread crust, crunchy oat topping, a thick layer of chocolate on the bottom - there is nothing this pie can't do. We named it the "break-up pie" and told our server that this pie will be replacing the requisite tub of ice cream for all our future heartbreaks. 

Bourbon Pear Crumble

With tart pear slices and brown sugared oats, I was surprised to call this pie my favorite (I'm not a huge fan of pears). It wasn't overly sweet and I appreciated the crunch of both the crust and pears.

It's safe to say that I will go back to Four and Twenty Blackbirds. Not only do they change up their pie menu on a daily basis, they also feature a selection of savory pies that we didn't even attempt to try. The slices also weren't even that expensive - about $5 each, and they were served on actual plates with real silverware (low standards? Maybe, but realize that the last pie I tried was in a cardboard box in a train station).

food coma.