Hot Hot Heat And A Fireworks Show

Summer is here in full effect, seeping its way into the city and settling over it like a sopping sweat rag. I remember all the summers growing up in Cerritos, when the temperature would occasionally spike into the 80s throughout June or July before climbing steadily into the 90s or even 100s for a few weeks in August. My friends and I always sought refuge in the air conditioned confines of our homes or cars. "Central air" was a foreign term simply because it was so ubiquitous as to be taken as a universal truth, and the dry desert heat of California was greeted with shorts, sunglasses, and trips to the beach.

New York summers are a different beast. The kind that descends upon those spending a virginal summer in the East, stupidly thinking themselves steeled to face the ravaging to come. The first signs of Spring, with its moderate temperatures and frolicking breezes, give them hope coming out of Winter's grasp, until the intermittent thunderstorms cut in with showers of hot rain and an endless will-it-or-won't-it game of anxiety. Still, they soldier on, these bright-eyed and dry-faced New York neophytes, learning to check the weather report every day and adjusting to carrying an umbrella everywhere instead of just having one conveniently buried in the car somewhere. They reason, with a stubborn childish insistence, that they're owed at least a couple more weeks of Spring, so surely it will come. But by the time the thunderstorms fade from intermittent to merely intermittently intermittent, an alarming heat has started to rise in the streets. Daily walks to and from the subway station are concluded with an increasingly damp brow. And it's not until the heat has permeated every pore of the city that they realize Spring is gone. The thunderstorms were not an interruption, a flighty tangent of pleasant Spring, but the dogs of Summer, snarling and barking their master's arrival.

The dry heat of my childhood does not exist here. I remember a summer spent in Taiwan and Japan where this thing--nay, this myth--of humidity actually existed. I remember a vague sense of misery. But I also remember getting used to it. So I thought hey, I made it through Winter, I can handle a little humidity with my Summer.

God, it's miserable now.

I've learned at least four new places on my body that can sweat. Cold showers used to mean leaving the water set to lukewarm; now, they're actually COLD showers (and they still don't feel all that cold). I started to look forward to waking up at 5:30 AM for early call times because it would be cooler walking to work. Then I realized it hits the mid-80s by 7:00 AM. When I go out to dinner with friends, the reviews on Yelp or word-of-mouth recommendations become secondary to how good the place's A/C is. Central air, that luxury of my youth, is a fucking unicorn in the city. Naturally, my roommates and I all purchased individual A/C units for our rooms, but walking into the hallway is like walking into a sauna. You can imagine what walking into a subway station feels like.

So yeah, I guess it's pretty hot here. Humidity sucks. But you know what? I'm getting used to it. Okay, that's a lie, but I'm learning to get used to it. Hot is hot wherever you are. Back in L.A., that meant 105 degrees and those first five minutes that it takes for the A/C to warm up after you climb into your black car with black leather seats that's been baking in the sun all day. Out here, it means learning to fear every single percentage point of humidity and walking close to store fronts so you can catch even the slightest burst of cool air that leaks out from the ones bold (or gracious) enough to leave their doors propped open. You learn to adjust.

And now, since that's all I have to say on that matter, picture time! The roomies and I went to Coney Island for July 4th, then caught Macy's Fireworks Show along the Hudson River at the end of the night.

You have no idea how happy I was to spot another visitor holding a plate of funnel cake. Needless to say, we tracked down our own plate. And promptly inhaled it.

On the way home, we came across this piano in Tompkins Square Park, part of Sing For Hope's "Play Me, I'm Yours" public art project. 60 pianos scattered throughout the city on corners and in parks for any passerby to play; 60 spots for impromptu music festivals to spring up at any time of day. It culminated on July 5th with a free concert in the Lincoln Center. Pretty awesome, and yet another reason to love New York.

Roy fancies himself, if only briefly, a pianist.

As evening settled, we headed over to the west side, where Sarah and her roomies had heroically camped out for hours to ensure a good spot to watch the fireworks show. Caught the sunset over the Hudson.

Waiting for the show to start...

...and waiting...
and...