Flattering Criticisms, New Silly Neighborhoods

Something I had forgotten but rediscovered today is that New York breeds a certain kind of restlessness in me. I've been sick for three weeks straight and really should have spent this holiday in bed, surfing the internet and reading Atmospheric Disturbances by Rivka Galchen. My favorite part so far is when the narrator, Leo, discusses an argument he has with his "authentic" wife, Rema:

But I did tell Rema that her response was ludicrously out of proportion. She must actually be worried about something else, I said. She had an endogenous mesallaiance, I concluded. She said she didn't know what a mesallaince as, or what endogenous was, and that I was arrogant, awful, a few other things as well. I liked those accusations and found them flattering and thought she was right.

What if all everyone liked the accusations you threw at them? What if they were grateful for the criticisms and harsh words? Maybe, just like Leo, we should find it flattering when people point out our flaws. It shows a kind of caring - an negative sign of affection. I don't think anyone outside of a book would really ever feel that way. And as an overly direct yet ridiculously sensitive person, I certainly don't, even though I'm always relieved to hear the absolute, complete truth. Well, I'm relieved after I cry a little.

That was sort of a tangent. What I really set out to talk about was my restlessness today, and how I worsened a slight cold by wandering in the freezing cold in one of the silliest neighborhoods known to man. I won't name it because I'll probably end up moving there (I'm awaiting landlord approval as I type), but you should know that it's in Brooklyn and it even has a really ridiculous name. It also happens to be the neighborhood my grandmother literally landed in when she migrated from Puerto Rico. She remembers the boat docking and then walking to a cousin's house near the water. They stayed for a little while and then moved to the neighborhood where I'm currently subletting, Williamsburg. Apparently, there were more (possibly better) cousins to hang out with over here. It's sort of a big decision to not live in Fort Greene, which I loved and still has a lot going for it. Unfortunately, the few times I've hung out there over the last three months I felt myself slipping into the same funk of last August, and, well, that's just not going to work this time around. Banish the funk!

Anyway, I wandered all over the new neighborhood and checked out the synagogue, perused the menus of a Japanese restaurant that makes a decent tuna avocado roll, purchased Dayquil and Nyquil at a gigantic RiteAid (one of three within like ten blocks; I told you the neighborhood is ridiculous), and bought a cup of coffee at a tiny cafe with a talkative proprietor with tons of opinions on art (thumbs up to Van Gogh and Basquiat; thumbs down to Jackson Pollock!) and who tipped me off to a Berber-speaking waitress at one of my favorite restaurants (which is run by his brother). I really hope she speaks the same dialect I do, and that I can actually remember some! And that she doesn't think I'm totally crazy for wanting to order falafel plates in Tashlheit. Maybe she'll be flattered, actually.