Underground Travels

[A piece I wrote during my short stint in Advanced Nonfiction]

Step down into this subway station, into this entrance to this submerged world trapped beneath layers of asphalt and concrete of Briarwood, Queens, into this transit hub that connects people to places, and instantly skin is warmed from the stale air entrapped below.

Walk down the first staircase that leads under this small neighborhood. Stroll through the hall lined with proudly displayed large paintings filled with swooping blues, dense greens and spattered reds from students of the local public schools (two of which I attended). Walk down the second staircase that delves deeper underground while cars speed along the massive transit artery that is Queens Boulevard above the station. Stroll through this hall where walls are decorated with water stains and unidentifiable grime.

It takes two minutes to finally arrive at the turnstile and underage (under ten years old, that is) kids slip under the shiny metal bars because the MTA is sometimes friendly. Responsible adults swipe their gold and blue MetroCards through the readers (oh the simple days when the sound of dropped tokens rang through the station). Now on the other side, walk down this final set of stairs and now they get to ride the subway.

Oh wait, step behind the thick, bumped orange line and never, ever lean over the very edge of this gum and liquid-stained platform (don't think about what kinds of liquid) because everyone believes religiously that whoever does is doomed to get hit by that rushing train.

Now at this final level of this subway station the walls are plastered with the name, VAN-WYCK. The black-tiled words are surrounded by a thick border of the same orange from the subway steats, and underneath in tiny letters, Briarwood is identified

Rest against the pale gray-blue-green beams that line the platform, stating the station name again in that sans-serif, white lettering on black background for those passengers looking to get home on the subway as it enters the station from the black, empty tunnels, each pale gray-green beam replacing the previous until the train slowly, gently rolls to a stop that always forces those passengers inside to jerk back a little, no matter how much they brace for it.

In that rushing air brought by the trains, there are vague scents of worn down rails that dingy signs warn to never touch in fears of electrocution, burning rubber, the very faint smell of intermingled people and their personal perfumes and of course, exhaust from the constant stream of trains coming and going to and from Manhattan and the deeper depths of Queens.

Linger for train as people crowd that same platform, waiting for whatever their destination may be: work, school (in New York, students wake up at ungodly hours like 6 a.m. to join the suited rush hour crowd on their way to work while they were on their way to learn) or gatherings. Waiting is always important for this subway system that is never set--sometimes the subway would immediately arrive with another right behind it, and other times, we waited minutes and minutes for that subway.

Sometimes, lean over side (oops, weren't supposed to, but it's thrilling, exciting, the feeling of being bad and dangerous all at once) and look to the left, eyes searching for headlights further down that mysterious tunnel, those yellow-white lights that meant one step closer to wherever the final destination or stop of the day was.

Shiny gray metal outside, inside three shades of orange fill the seats, divided by beige lines that match the hardly noticeable imprinted wallpaper, look out that smudged, scratched Plexiglas windows as the subway lurches forward, and Van Wyck becomes a mess of white, black, orange and pale-gray-blue-green blurs and then the sudden darkness of in-between tunnels and soon, they will arrive at another station, another stop, another world.

Berger's New York: Bunnies on 11th Street

The First Presbyterian Church on 5th Avenue and 12th Street.

While exploring Portland during a newspaper conference last year, Hannah, Peter, Brandon and I made sure to visit Powell's Bookstore, this amazing independent/used bookstore that blows Strand out of the water. As we explored the different floors and colored sections, I found myself drawn to the history section, more specifically, New York City history. There, I found Meyer Berger's New York. After flipping through it quickly, it intrigued me (and hey, the price was right, $5 for a hardcover? Hells yeah) so I bought it. Stashing it in my bag, I soon forgot about it until recently.

Meyer Berger was a New York Times reporter, with a short stint at the New Yorker under his belt. His column, About New York, explored the many stories New York has to offer, the kind of stuff I'm interested in. His column most likely gave way to blogs today like Gothamist.

So I want to share some stories from the book, which I will do as I continue to read the book.

One of the first stories I read as I went through the book was the following (if you know me, then you know why I chose this article):

***

February 26, 1954

Residents in lower Fifth Avenue who tip a companionable cup now and then have been bothered by the notion that they have been bothered by the notion that they have seen white rabbits hopping along the pavement, or down side streets.

Well it wasn't just a notion, but it's nothing to be concerned about. White rabbits do appear in Fifth Avenue and sometimes in Eleventh Street, just west of the avenue. They belong to the nursery school of the staid First Presbyterian Church in the neighborhood.

A gentleman called this newspaper the other night to report that he had caught up with a white rabbit in the avenue near the church, learned that its hutch was on the church grounds and put it back inside the church fence.

Michael Kennedy, a sturdy fellow who works around the grounds, says there's just one rabbit in the hutch right now, an all-white one that is the pet of the kindergarten class. Someone—no one's ever found out who—left him on the lawn one night two years ago and the children adopted him. He has the run of the lawn sometimes and rarely strays.

Three weeks ago another unidentified benefactor left a second white rabbit on the lawn. Mr. Kennedy, after a talk with the kindergarten teacher, put him into the hutch with the first one.

They didn't get along, it seems, so Mr. Kennedy put the newcomer out on the lawn, and he's the one who keeps hopping through the fence to sample dangerous living. A Chinese laundryman brought him back after he'd gone almost as far as the Avenue of Americas in Eleventh Street.

The other day he was gone again, but Mr. Kennedy didn't know where and didn't seem to care much. "That second one was too quarrelsome for a rabbit, if you ask me," was his comment.

***

I also like this story because it's where Eugene Lang College is (11th Street) and that's the same church where we had our divisional graduation.

And there's something special about reading older articles. I remember researching articles from the 1968 Columbia University strikes for Inprint, and a reporter used the phrase "Bogarty" to describe someone and it made me giggle.

Suspension in Midair

Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco, California

Bridges of all types are usually above bodies of water. During the act of crossing a bridge, you (usually) cannot fall into the water. You are not on solid ground, you are in transit. You are up in the air, like an airplane, except, you immediately experience your temporary suspension.

Bridges: conform to nature and necessity, are suspended through air and, most importantly, bring you from point A to point B.


Sunshine Skyway Bridge, Tampa Bay, Florida.

In Air

[This was an assignment I had for my Advanced Journalism class. We just read John D'Agata's "Martha Graham, Audio Description Of" where instead of scribbling out a regular dance review, he divides his essay into compartments and focuses on different perspectives and backgrounds, like Graham's background and choice of costumes. From that, we had to write our own piece inspired by this style. This essay was the starting point of my final for the class, "On Travel."]

IN AIR

Sound:
Eyes closed. Not humming, but whirring. Engines. Pushing plane through air. No one is talking—it is midnight, New York time—everyone is trying to sleep. Snore. Occasional snore.

Constant whirring.

On thought process:
Because I am confined to this one seat for twenty minutes/four hours/eight hours (pick and choose depending on trip/destination), I need to do something. Magazines and books, while interesting, cannot capture my attention. Preset words are too still for me. I fidget, with papers, pens, chapstick, water bottles...my mind fidgets too. I think about: being on the plane, homework, my hair is too frizzy I should do something about it, I wonder if he likes me, my God look at that mountain, I am going to eat gelato and pasta in Italy I hope it's delicious, I hope I get there soon.

Down below:
I don't hear much about looking through airplane windows, except for musings on clouds. (This is because clouds are up there and we're usually down here so clouds are majestical and when we fly, we are up there with those wondrous, permeable clouds and we somehow become majestical as well.)

Bird's eye view: boxy patches of nondescript land that are various shades of green and brown, winding swirly highways and thinner roads and it is impossible to see any cars, mountaints that look so tiny but you know once you step down there, they are huger than anything you could ever imagine.

I take many pictures.

Don't get me wrong—I love clouds. I love their shape and how they look when the sun hits them at just the right angle and the sky is that perfect shade of sunset-orange and their shadows darken green, green ground.

But this isn't about that.

Creative Definition of Yourself

So for Northwestern I have to write something creative about myself and it reminded me of my college application essay for Eugene Lang, where they asked you to write a creative definition of yourself. This was my response(slightly edited, of course):

Right now, I'm approximately seventeen and six months old. 6,385 days have shaped and added to the layers of my life. Every single of those days.

They say before you die, you see your entire life flash before your eyes. Can 6.385 and even more days be summed up in that last nanosecond before you're gone? I think that it's more like flashes of the clearest memories, the ones that stick in your mind and you don't know why—

Like coloring dinosaurs orange in my coloring book the day my sister was born.

Like getting lost on the first day of high school on way back home (it seemed fitting).

Like meeting people who are so different but share similar traits.

My friends and I were liked by experiences and interests. Always, there were things to talk about within the group of unlikely friends.

Now, you're reading this and you know random bits of my life, but you're thinking, "wait, but, who are you?"

This isn't an autobiography. This isn't an exact definition of 'Nadia Chaudhury.' This is just me simply writing about myself.

Who am I?

I'm a contradiction to my astrological sign. The fiery red Aries doesn't even come close to describing me. I'm not effervescent, stubborn or utterly confident. I'm more like the watery blue Pisces—imaginative, selfless and compassionate.

I want to make an impact on the world: a silent one through words, a revolution of words that move people in ways they're not quite sure of.

I get frustrated easily, I do nice things for people because I feel like it, I walk around with a book constantly, I shut myself off when I'm upset, I hop up and down when I'm excited, I like compliments but I don't take them easily, I write and I forget about everything else and I look to the future with expectation and fear.

I like freedom with just a pinch of guidelines, just so I know what I'm doing.

I'm used to writing words with a poetic form, where words are written in s t y l e s that directly affect the way you see them(&feelthem).

I could also adjust and write with more structured forms, using 'one' instead of 'you' and refraining from using 'I.' I could write introductions and conclusions with body paragraphs to elaborate the clearly stated thesis.

I can adapt.

I can learn.

That's what life is for—experiencing and learning from different situations that you go through and how you respond to them. Already, I've learned that ignoring things will not make them better. I've learned that you shouldn't try to live up to others' perceptions of you, but instead, live up to your own.

There's so much more in life for me to learn from. What's better than writing about the things you know, the things you've been through, the things you've seen? Then the readers, my readers, could get a taste of Nadia through my words, because of scattered ideas and dialgoues, of people and situations that came directly from my life.

Every moment has its own effect. Learning how to read led to reading a book a day because I couldn't get enough. Creating my own form of script when I didn't really know how to write while underneath the dining room table led to writing nonstop on the train.

All of this, all 500+ words, it's just the beginning of the answer of who I am.

[And after rereading/retyping this, I've realized how much and how little I've changed at the same time.]

Peter Godwin: From Zimbabwe to Greenwich Village, Via the Front Lines

Photo by Monica Uszerowicz

[This is an article I wrote for Inprint back in the day.]

December, 2006

From crossing the Silverstream River in former Rhodesia, strapped to his nanny’s back, to fighting on the losing side in Zimbabwe’s civil war, Eugene Lang journalism professor Peter Godwin has come a long way to New York City.

Godwin, 48, with pale blue eyes behind rimless glasses and dark hair flecked with gray, offers his student’s guidance with his intense, worldly experiences as a freelance journalist across the globe.

Godwin got his start in journalism in a different way than most others in his field. The son of British expatriates, he was born in Rhodesia (now called Zimbabwe) and spent his first 19 years there. Thanks in part to the country’s political instability, he left to study at Cambridge University in England. He soon found himself back in Africa for his post-graduate thesis research. But before leaving Britain, he contacted several publications and asked if he could submit articles about the journey.

“I didn’t know anything about journalism particularly, but it just struck me as it might be a fun thing to do,” Godwin recalled, sitting a classroom in the 12th Street building. “My friends all mocked me because I was doing it with sort of a blotchy ballpoint pen on school notepaper.”

He mailed his handwritten articles to publications to The Sunday Times, not knowing whether they would be published. After the trip, when he reached his parents’ house in Zimbabwe, he found out that The Times actually ran his pieces as a series which then led to a freelance job as a foreign correspondent for The Sunday Times. Over the next ten years, the job took him all over Africa and Eastern Europe.

Among the many stories he broke was the Matabeleland massacres in Zimbabwe in 1983, where the government-sponsored militia tortured or killed everyone they felt were rebels while also killed many innocent white farmers.

“If we could highlight it and actually blow the whistle on this thing, then there would be a good chance we could give them some pause and that it would stop,” he said. To report the story, he visited violence-plagued rural villages that were off-limits to the press. At one point, he dressed as a priest and accompanied three nuns to witness what was happening. That’s when he discovered a mine where soldiers dropped off corpses daily. He smelled “the unmistakable stink of rotting human,” he wrote in Mukiwa—A White Boy in Africa, his award-winning memoir.

By then, Godwin was a wanted man by the government, and soldiers were on the look-out. He managed to drive away from the site. Later, he picked up an unassuming hitchhiking solider. The sergeant at the next roadblock told the soldier they were looking for a journalist dressed as a priest, and because the soldier said Godwin was his good friend, he managed to escape.

“I was younger and it was one of those things where afterwards, in the cold light of day, you kind of think ‘What was I thinking?’” he recalled. “Yeah, I got out okay and it was then a whole different species of problems. Once I had written the piece, it got very, very hot for me, and there was a serious death threat to my life and I had to get out of Zimbabwe.”

Later in his career, Godwin didn’t stick to the written word—he produced documentary films for the BBC, covering a wide-range of topics, like Pakistani politics, Filipino pirates and the Thai sex industry. He won several awards for his work.

Now, he is focused on teaching. “If you’re writing books, you become very misanthropic and completely de-socialized,” he said. “Teaching is a very good antidote to that.”

“There’s no substitute for real curiosity and I think a lot of good journalism starts from that basis,” he said, about journalistic ambitions. “And that includes approaching subjects that you don’t know anything about.”

Students in Godwin’s course, Foreign Correspondence: Windows on the World, typically research a specific area of the world, like China or Indonesia, to find the beginnings of a story. One student arrived at an opium field in Afghanistan while another went on a heavy metal festival circuit in Sweden.

After teaching at Princeton and Sarah Lawrence, Godwin found that, “Lang students, to me, seem to be more cosmopolitan. They’re slightly edgier and don’t feel like the world owes them anything. I like the fact that it’s not a campus university. The kids go out the front door here and they’re in New York City.”

Currently, Godwin is working on a screenplay of Mukiwa, to be filmed next year in South Africa. His next memoir, When a Crocodile Eats the Sun, is centered on the “disintegration of [my] family set against the collapse of the country,” of Zimbabwe.

After being exiled, Godwin was, to his great relief, allowed back in. This suited him: he can’t seem to escape the country and the continent.

“I miss Africa tremendously. It’s not just a nostalgic thing. If I’m not there after a while, I start to ache for it,” he said.

After spending one more semester at Eugene Lang, Godwin now teaches at Columbia University's School of International and Public Affairs. You can read a more current interview done by my friend and former-Godwin-student John.

Birth Rights: India's Intercaste Marriages

[This was my first assignment for Peter Godwin's International Journalism class at Lang.]

October, 2006

Imagine marrying someone whose shadow, according to tradition, couldn't touch your skin, all because of the fear of contamination. Imagine a Brahmin marrying a dalit, the highest-ranking member of society marrying an untouchable, someone whose status requires them to perform unseemly duties such as cleaning up excrement. A betrothed upper-caste member to a lower-caste member would bring nothing but shame and scandal to both families.

This seems like a dated practice, but the current Indian caste system maintains just that.

Now, in an effort to break down that system, the Indian government plans to increase financial incentives to Rs 50,000 ($1,000) in order to promote intercaste marriages. The proposal is pushed by Social Justice Meria Kumar, a dalit herself, and is backed by the political party United Progressive Alliance. Earlier this month, Kumar called for a plan that sets aside more seats in engineering and medical colleges for lower-caste members.

The origins of the caste system have been widely disputed, but the first reliable account was written by British anthropologist Herbert Risely, The Tribes and Castes of Bengal, in 1892. During British rule, the caste system was used as a ranking of who was superior to whom. The main four groups are the Brahman (usually priests), kshatriya (landowners), waishya (merchants) and shudra (agriculturalists). The fifth group, the paryjanya, were never mentioned because they were the untouchables; they weren't considered part of the population. The lower-caste made up 24.4% of India's population in 2001. It is impossible to determine what caste someone belongs to based on looks; it is only determined by last name. Many people change their last names in order to disguise their caste, but this is difficult in rural areas because everyone knows each other. Adhering to caste distinctions is common, but it doesn't mean that different caste members don't interact. In fact, they exist together—live in the same villages and cities, work in the same areas, attend the same universities and walk down the same streets.

However, it is the move towards India's version of affirmative action that shook the caste system—lower-caste members are given advantages that back in the 1900s, they wouldn't have. Officially, the caste system was eliminated in 1950 by the Indian Constitution. In order to promote mobility in society, the government created the reservation system. Seats are set aisde in colleges and government offices just for lower-caste members. In universities in New Delhi, the percentage of lower-caste members rose from 22.5% to 49.5% according to a caste census and the Washington Times.

Being a dalit himself, Kumar's father, Jagjivan Ram benefited from the reservation system. He was a powerful figure in Indian parliament for over forty years and served as Deputy Prime Minister for three years in 1977. The late former President KR Narayanan was the first dalit elected to such a high position in 1997.

However, both of Kumar's proposals face resistance from upper-caste members in the State Governments.

As more lower-caste members take university and government seats, the number of spots for upper-caste members is dwindling. Because of this, many upper-caste members are reduced to accepting lower-caste positions, such as driving rickshaws and various sanitation jobs. In efforts to thwart the system and obtain higher jobs, it is possible to purchase false lower-caste birth certificates, as the Indian Express exposed.

University students against the reservation system formed "Youth for Equality," asserting that the system promoted discrimination. During one protest on May 13, 2006 in Mumbai, medical student protesters were beaten by the police. In response, the students went on strike and were joined by other students and doctors throughout India.

Despite the push for reforms, lower-caste members still face discrimination. When Balit Singh's daughter, a dalit, was raped by three upper-caste members in Jhabbar, a village in Mansa in 2000, Sing refused to let it slide. After spending two years in court, the three men were convicted and sentenced to life in prison. Sign became politically involved with Leftist groups soon afterwards, fighting for dalits' rights. When he suspended another upper-caste leader, Sign was attacked on January 5, 2006 by several men with axes and rods. Singh then developed gangrene and had both his arms and left leg amputated. Singh's story depicts just one of the many injustices done to lower-caste members.

Upper- and lower-caste members already find it difficult to work and live together, how could they marry? India is mired in the past, where religion dictates law and tradition reigns within families. Arranged marriages are still prevalent and most who immigrate to Western cultures, like England or America plan to uphold that tradition. This even extends to online Indian dating sites such as imilap.com and eknazar.com, where you can search for potential spouses within specific castes.

Looking outside your caste, however, can be dangerous, whether it is for love or friendship. This was seen in 2001 in the village of Alinagar in Uttar Pradash. Vishal and Sonu, 15 and 16 years old, were friends and outwardly nothing more than that. The only problem with their friendship was their castes—Vishal was a Brahmin and Sonu a dalit. A village saw the pair talking and told their parents.

Alinagar was strict with customs and Vishal and Sonu weren't allowed to be near each other, let alone talk to one another. The children's punishment for this unthinkable act? Death. Sonu's parents first strangled and hung her with the help of neighbors behind their home. Because Vishal's parents didn't want to commit the act themselves, they allowed Sonu's parents to do so. Then, the villagers dragged their bodies away and cremated their bodies in a cow manure bonfire.

When intercaste marriages, or love marriages as some call it, happen, the couples face disapproval and opposition. On August 23, 2006, Uma Aggarwal's family took her husband, Santosh Kumar, a lower-caste member, to court with the accusation of kidnap. The family wanted Aggarwal to leave her marriage. Kumar was granted bail but the case still remained in court. Kidnapping allegations are common, especially from upper-caste families. The Indian Supreme Court urged police to deny those who file kidnapping charges in the case of intercaste marriages.

"Intercaste marriages are necessary for the progress of the country," the Supreme Court stated.
Earlier that year, the Supreme Court also ruled that an upper-caste woman couldn't receive reservation benefits from simply marrying a lower-caste member.

What it comes down to is shame. The reason Vishal and Sonu were murdered by their own families was because of the social disgrace they brought onto their families. With such deep-seeded traditions, Indians will continue to have a hard time letting go of its habits, but if the government continues to create and uphold incentives and laws, there might be a way.

"This is not the only way to end the caste discrimination but one has to start somewhere," Kumar said, referring to the marriage financial incentive. Her hope is that casts will fade away with time.

Briarwood, New York

85th Road in Briarwood.

[I wrote this for Inprint, Issue #15, May 1st.]

No one’s ever heard of Briarwood, my quiet, small neighborhood off of Queens Boulevard, tucked in the outskirts of Jamaica and Kew Gardens. My credit card statements are addressed to Jamaica, New York, as if Briarwood doesn’t even exist to Citibank. Though, the MTA recognizes the neighborhood enough to create a subway station there: Briarwood-Van Wyck, home to the F train.

Whenever I tell people I live in Queens, they gasp and say, “Oh my god, that’s so far away! How long does it take you to get to school?” Forty-five minutes to an hour, I answer, depending on the train. Then they gasp again, “Oh my god, that’s so long!” Compared to my hour-and-a-half trek to high school in the Bronx, going to Lang is a breeze. Even getting home during the late hours (or early morning, whichever way you choose to look at it) is easy because the F train never stops; although there might be a twenty minute wait.

I live on 85th Road, on top of a hill. One side is so steep for several blocks that it rests on Hillside Avenue. The other side slants slowly, twisting and meshing into other streets, until it comes to a stop on Queens Boulevard.

Outside my apartment, there are two other similar buildings, all part of the same apartment complex. In the center is the circular pathway where I learned to ride my bike, going round and round until dark and the pathway that became a make-shift baseball field, each entrance substituting for the bases. A stout, wide bush where I saw my first robin in spring sat in the very center of it. Children walk to the elementary school just across the street, and when they’re a bit older, they walk a bit further to the junior high school right behind that elementary school. The sky’s clearer above and I can count how many stars I see with two hands.

Despite this calm and serene atmosphere (and because of it), Briarwood is not very exciting. Besides the Little League parade every spring, not much happens in this little neighborhood. I spend most of my time in Manhattan, where it’s livelier.

Going home, though, is an indulgence I get to relive every night, because it’s a break from the constant motion of Manhattan, walking through the quiet, hilly roads of Briarwood where I used to play manhunt through the streets and buildings of the neighborhood and watched in awe as a friend threw a ball up to the roof of a six-story apartment building. Briarwood is where I grew up, and for now, it’s nice being here.


Summer Briarwood skies.

Rowing to Alpine & Back

The lovely Quixotic rowing under the George Washington Bridge.

Under brilliant Sunday afternoon blue skies, rows and rows of white, pristine clouds, and the sun shining at just the right angles and intensity, three Whitehall Gigs sailed and rowed their way back to Pier 40 after a journey up north and a night’s rest at Alpine, New Jersey.


Rowing in The Quixotic.

Led by Rob Buchanan, on Saturday, October 13, we rowed up the Hudson to Alpine, New Jersey where we spent the night at the Alpine Picnic Area/Boat Basin (with permission, of course). For some, this trip echoed an earlier mission this past summer when we helped bring three boats from Croton Point to Pier 40 for the FISA Row Around Manhattan event. The Magnus resides in the boathouse as a result of that trip and it was one of the boats we took on our adventure, along with the Quixotic and the Alex Murphy.

Although we were set to go with fourteen people, only twelve showed up. Since we planned on taking three boats, we divvied up the crew into groups of four. Ideally, you want five people in the boat—four rowers and one coxswain, a.k.a. the leader. We lacked full power, but we went ahead anyway. Luckily, the Magnus was already equipped with a self-steering device that Rob himself put together, so that crew had it a bit easier.


Setting up the sails at Fort Washington Park.

Heading out at around 10 a.m., we stopped just before the George Washington Bridge at Fort Washington Park for bathroom beaks and rigging up the sails. Ever since I fell in love with rowing, I’ve wanted to sail in the Whitehall gigs, especially because I’ve never been sailing before. Sam, Rob and Frank put up the sails—placing the mast, setting up the halyard, affixing the sails and away we went.


First time sailing in The Quixotic under the George Washington Bridge.

This trip marked The Quixotic’s many firsts—first overnight adventure, first endeavor past New York City, first over-10-mile trip (rows around Manhattan don’t count) and its first time sailing. Anne and I, along with Rob as our teacher, built The Quixotic in the first Lang on the Hudson class and we were so proud and happy to officially break The Quixotic’s sailing cherry. Granted, it took us forever to actually get to Alpine because the tides were against us, the skies were overcast and it was difficult picking up the winds. In the end, after we reached Alpine, it didn’t bother us too much.


Around the campfire.

At the Alpine Pavilion, there was a wedding reception and our boats added that romantic touch. Sam and I spoke to the bride and groom, who, along with their wedding party, posed with the boats, and other various guests. After thoroughly enjoying ourselves with food and many, many drinks, we wandered around the area, taking pictures and talking. Eventually, the campfire/grill was set up and dinner was served. With full bellies, we sat around the fire and talked about life and all that stuff.


Climbing the Palisades.

After a cold night’s sleep (which will never happen to me again), we awoke to another golden morning. With a quick breakfast and a reminder to return by noon for shove-off, we explored Alpine.

First stop was the Kearny House, which, to our dismay, was closed. When we weren’t able to find any way into the building, we went hiking. After staying on the trail, we strayed off. Suresh and I parted with the group but eventually caught up. We met up at the ruins of what must have been a manor overlooking the Hudson and decided that our goal way to climb up the Palisades and find either a WaWa (I’ve never been to one) or store so Derek could buy cigarettes. The non-path was rocky and steep but the eight of us managed. When we reached the highway, we walked south until we saw a Citgo to our right. Derek bought his pack while we bought drinks and snacks. Since we had about thirty minutes to head back and we were having no luck with trying to hitch a ride back, we followed the actual trail down to the Hudson.


Sailing and rowing the Magnus.

Back at the beach at Alpine, we prepared and we were off. I switched to the Magnus and sailed. Because I couldn’t steer and hold the sail, Rob steered from the stroke position. Sailing was wonderful, especially when the wind picked up and I felt the powerful push. We made a stop at Englewood Basin for paninis. Then we rowed and sailed the last leg back to Pier 40 as we talked about poetry, camping, and mountaineering and enjoyed watching The Quixotic.


The gorgeous boat we built.

With the pink-and-orange-tinted skies above, we cleaned the three boats and all headed our separate ways home. Well-spent weekend. Very. Check out Rob's write-up for more.

Cleaning the boat.

Brooklyn Rail: The City From a Rowboat

[From the latest issue of the Brooklyn Rail. Check out the amazing spread at the end of the article.]

The City From a Rowboat
Exploring the Rivers
by Nadia Chaudhury


Rowing in the Hudson River during a row around Manhattan.

From a not-so-quite distance, New York City looks peaceful, tiny, and conquerable. Instead of riding around in the leisurely and loud Circle Line ships that frequent the waterways of New York, I am grunting with my fellow rowers, pushing and pulling our way through the messy tides of the Hudson. We are literally right on the river in a Whitehall Gig, a 25-foot-long rowing vessel. With three fellow rowers and our reliable, all-knowing coxswain at the stern I am experiencing New York from a different angle—from the waters.

Rowing in New York City sounds impossible. In this city where grids of sidewalks, streets and subways guide us through our everyday lives, it’s easy to overlook the fact that New York is, in fact, surrounded by water. At most points the city’s residents are literally blocked from the water by fences or by harsh, jagged rocks.

There are four rowers to a boat: the stroke, two engine rowers and the bow rower. The stroke rower dictates the speed and length of the oar stroke and the rest follow. Then there is the coxswain who, in addition to steering the boat, leads the boat by telling the rowers when and what pace to row.

Rowing under the Brooklyn Bridge during the FISA Row Around Manhattan tour.

Whitehall Gigs were rowboats used to taxi people back and forth between boroughs and to larger ships. It is thought that they received their name because they were sent out from Whitehall Street, which used to rest on Manhattan’s coast before the city extended the island with landfills.

Groups like Floating the Apple and East River CREW (Community Recreation and Education on the Water), promote greater access to our city’s waterways. The two non-profit organizations show anyone who happens to wander by their respective boathouses the ins and outs of rowing in the Hudson, the East, the Harlem and the Bronx Rivers. All for free.

Philip Yee is a familiar face to those who frequent Floating the Apple’s boathouse at Pier 40. As a volunteer, he sees himself as the activities and Pier 40 operations coordinator.

“I kind of expanded with the program,” Yee says. “When I first came down here, it was originally Wednesday rowing and it basically consisted of about seven people.”

Launching from East 96th Street for the 5 Borough Ramble.

On the other side of Manhattan along the East River, Mary Nell Hawk acts as the ad-hoc program director of the East River CREW. Hawk is also the vice president of the organization’s board of directors and helps with the curriculum for the group’s educational activities.

Moving uptown, she felt she needed to do something. She was already in touch with Yee at Pier 40 and she could see the East River from her apartment window. “It didn’t occur to me to even think about getting on the water.” It wasn’t even a thought for her until she read an article about groups like Floating the Apple and East River CREW who, working with City Council member Gifford Miller, were searching for increased waterfront access for smaller boats.

With St. David’s, their boat, East River CREW looked for a boat house location on the east side. After some searching, the Parks Department gave them a strip of land at 96^th Street where they soon installed a davit, a mechanical arm used to put boats onto the water, and obtained a storage container for the boat and other supplies.

“Rowing the East River versus rowing the Hudson became a big deal for us,” Hawk says. “We felt that the East River is what joins four of the five boroughs and even Staten Island if you want to, but everybody touches on the East River. This year we’ve made it our focus to row to other boroughs as much as we can because we have the access.”

Landing at the Italian Gardens, near the New York-New Jersey border.

The first East River CREW row this season was the Cinco de Mayo row. “We rowed to the Bronx River where the Bronx River Alliance was doing what they called a ‘flotilla’ of 75 canoes down the Bronx River. We joined them at the newly opened Hunts Point Riverside Park,” said Hawk.

Floating the Apple is affiliated with schools and programs throughout the city with rowing and boatbuilding programs. Among those in the past were the Graphic Arts and Communications High School through their ROTC program, Stuyvesant High School and Harbor School. With the City As School, students actually received gym credits for rowing.

“The youth program legitimized us in the sense that otherwise it would be just a bunch of old folks sitting here in our own club,” Yee says. “Getting youth involved is very invigorating and it gives us a sense of community.”

Schools programs, including Eugene Lang College at the New School University’s Lang on the Hudson and BMCC’s Now, take advantage of Floating the Apple’s facilities. In Lang on the Hudson, students build a boat to add to the program’s collection and learn about the New York Harbor. With BMCC’s program, students combine science and language arts with rowing. This past summer they studied Homer’s Odyssey on the water.

Out in the Hudson, along with an experienced Floating the Apple member, beginners get a sense for the waters by rowing around the basin at Pier 40. Those up for the challenge venture north or south of the Pier 40 and the more experienced traverse the river to New Jersey, whether to Frank Sinatra Park or Maxwell House Beach (known also as the Playa de Hoboken), a small strip of sand where another boathouse is opening up.

The sight of a Whitehall in the river is still a spectacle to many. Motor-boaters gawk as they sped by; people walking along the coast take pictures; passengers on the commuter and tourist ships wave.

Using the davit at Pier 40.

Hawk describes one instance where East River CREW was asked to take one hundred high school kids, one by one, on the water. “So we had two groups out on the boats and three groups on land. I’m out on the water and all of a sudden I’m hearing all this police sound and someone had put in a 911 call. Since then we’ve been calling the Harbor Unit.”

As wonderful as being out on the water is, it seems as though there should be more legal waterfront entrance sites. The water is a public area and everyone should have access to it, but this isn’t always the case.

During a summer outing, Floating the Apple crossed over to a cove in New Jersey and rested alongside a dock in front of a restaurant. While relaxing our arms, a uniformed man came up to us. “You’re not allowed to stay here,” he said from down the dock. We said we’d only be a couple of minutes and left soon afterwards.

“They’ll just limit the access points as to where you can get out to the water,” Yee said of the Parks Department. “The only way you could have gotten out to the water was to own a boat, rent a boat, which was expensive, or you could take the Staten Island Ferry back and forth.” Yee claims that what they are doing at Floating the Apple and the Downtown Boathouse, a kayaking shop next door to the group’s pier, is “giving people the opportunity to go out on the water and enjoy the water because the water’s for everybody.”

Landing boats at the East 96th Street boathouse.

There are ways to get around it, though.

“When I first graduated from college [in 1976] I did have one friend who had a kayak and he and I would come near here,” Hawk reminisced, referring to the waterfront on West Houston Street. “There was the ruin of this elevated highway that you could walk under and over this road. Then there was one place in the railing where a piece of debris had fallen in the water like a sort of step-down. So you’d put the kayak down and crawl through.”

The moment you experience being out on the water, it’s hard to resist its call. You’re bound to venture out there time after time.

“Once you’re on the water,” Yee said, “it’s an incredible feeling that I could go somewhere and feel like I’m outside the city and not really leave the city. In the 90s the parks got crowded, so this is the last open space in New York.”

From inside the boathouse at Pier 40.

Pier 40 offers free rowing on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the afternoon until dusk. Check eastrivercrew.org for East River CREW events.

Nadia Chaudhury is Layout Editor for the Rail and, among traveling, writing and taking pictures, is a rowing and waterfront enthusiast. Check out her blog at mysticchildz.blogspot.com

My amazingly designed spread, by yours truly:

Protesting Ahmadinejad

Posters in Barnard's campus.

Reading through the New York Sun last Thursday, I found out that Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was speaking at the World Leaders Forum at Columbia University. Excited about this event, I asked my sister (Barnard '11) if she could try to get me into the event. Alas, being that he is the president of Iran, one of the most-discussed countries in international affairs and journalism today, the event was filled up long before school started.

Freedom of speech thrives at Columbia and New York City—it's the home of the infamous 1968 strikes against the expansion of Columbia University into Morningside Heights (which is still a dilemma today) and the Vietnam War, students reacting against professors imposing their anti-Zionist views in the classrooms, even Ahmadinejad himself was supposed to speak at Columbia last year, but his invitation was revoked the professor incidences.

Coming from New School University where everything is something to protest against or rally for (Bob Kerrey is a war criminal; opposing the campus master plan and new GF/signature building; etc.), I've become used to this. Hell, the New School was formed out of dissent from Columbia University.

The New York Sun, the New York Daily News and Columbia/Barnard students are completely scandalized that Columbia would even extend an invitation to Ahmadinejad. Protests are planned for throughout the campus for today. This, though, is the wrong approach. While I understand everything the paranoid and extremely religious Iranian President has done and stands for, I still want to hear what he has to say. Isn't that what diplomacy is all about? If you denied someone the right to speak just because you didn't agree with their beliefs, then the world would be pretty boring. This is one of the flaws of Eugene Lang—everyone tends to share the same viewpoints, so debates aren't very common. The New School went through similar experiences with John McCain at the 2006 graduation and Newt Gingrinch at New School's Milano School, where McCain was booed and someone pulled a fire alarm during Gingrich's speech. What's the point of causing a ruckus? It's just disrespectful and paints you as immature. Don't protest, just listen, ask questions and have an actual conversation. Most people and media outlets blame Columbia University President Lee Bollinger for inviting Ahmadinejad, but it was a smart move on Bollinger's part. Ahmadinejad is speaking at the World Leader's Forum, and he is world leader, isn't he?

Hopefully, as the Columbia Spectator reports, the protests won't be as turbulent as predicted, and hopefully, students will understand the importance of hearing all voices, despite what their views and pasts might hold.

Croton Point-Pier 40 Camping & Rowing Adventure

For myself I choose to listen to the river for a while, thinking river thoughts, before joining the night and the stars. — Edward Abbey


The first row from Mother's Beach. Photo by Rob.

Riding along the Hudson in the MetroNorth heading to Ossining on Saturday, June 26, I smiled every time the sun (appearing after a spontaneous thunderstorm and being drenched in Tompkins Square Park) gleamed on its water. Instead of taking the train back, I would be in the Hudson with nothing but panels of wood between the water and I.

Since taking/joining Lang on the Hudson and with my newfound desire for adventures, I've been wanting to go on a huge camping and rowing trip, going somewhere far from New York and rowing down waters that are not (that) familiar to myself. I was pushing for this through the class since January.

This was finally accomplished June 17th through the 19th. Led by Rob Buchanan, the great man who does everything, I, along with my friends, Lang kids, Floating the Apple-affiliated people, and a a guitar-playing, dumpster-diving, bike-riding guy named Roger who stumbled upon us in Westchester, rowed about 36 miles from Croton Point Park (in Westchester) to two stopovers in New York, then to our camping site in Alpine Picnic Area, New Jersey, and finally to Pier 40 in Manhattan over the course of two days.

Being the smart girl that I am, I wore a dress because I wanted to look cute (sometimes, my girliness just needs to show off) and I forgot we were rowing that Sunday. I rowed anyway because I wouldn't let that stop me, but I am also never wearing tube tops again. After loading up the boats, we rowed a little further south down from Mother's Beach in Croton Point and landed on a small strip of beach, complete with a nearly-broken-down picnic table and a family with a little boy playing with a dog.

Croton Point sunset.

Lugging our bags and various equipments, we climbed up a steep trail to the camping ground, where we set up our tents and grill and dined for the night. Taking a walk back to the beach, Jon and I started a campfire, ate marshmallows and Hershey Kisses and waded in the river. Later on, Josh and I wandered up the river along the coast where we sat, talked, threw rocks and sticks into the river and looked at the stars. One of my goals in life is to see so many stars in the sky that I won't know what to do with myself. That night was getting closer.

The next morning, the sun rose slowly, coating the sky with pale oranges and pinks until the deep summer skies took over. After our breakfast of bagels, breads, and not-sweet-enough coffee, we were off on the Hudson again heading towards the call of the city. This time, I got to coxswain which is always fun. After a quick stop at Hook Mountain, we continued on to Nyack for groceries for the night and a little "upstate" wandering. Even if it's 8 a.m., it's never a good idea to walk around in a bikini top.


Crossing under the Tappan Zee Bridge. Photo from Frank.

We rowed under the ever-gorgeous Tappan Zee Bridge (which, from the distance at night, is merely a flat line of lights. You’d think they’d want to play up the design features of the bridge, but it makes for less light pollution and that’s always a good thing). Because Rob wanted to wait for the tide to go out way, we stopped for four hours at the Italian Gardens south of Piermont Pier within the Palisades Trail in New York.

The heat was getting to us, so a bunch of us jumped in the water. Now, rocks along the Hudson tend to be covered in algae, making the rocks slippery. (I should know—in Nyack, I tried walking along this swamp/still water inlet, and I slipped on a rock, cutting my knee and elbow.) Walking in the Hudson with these rocks didn’t seem like a good idea, but it didn’t matter—the water felt so good. And once we got out far enough, we walked along cool and soft mud. Jon tried teaching me how to swim, and I think I could possibly save myself if I had to.


Peanut Leap Falls.

Then Jon, Peter, Eva, Cade, Frank and myself wandered up the Great Stairs next to Peanut Leap Falls (more on that later) where we followed the white blaze up and up. We were in search of the Lamont-Doherty Earth Observatory for water, but Jon and I headed back to Peanut Leap Falls. Standing under the falls, the sun was right above the top and shone down on us perfectly. Also, I saw a chipmunk (I get excited with I see non-New York City creatures). Jon and I wanted to drink out of the Peanut Leap but we decided not to. This was a smart decision because later, when Rob, Suresh and Frank were lounging under the Falls, they drank the water. When they looked up, they found a dead fawn stuck in the rocks.

After unsuccessfully trying to take a nap and read (Cervantes’ Don Quixote, it seemed fitting), Josh and I walked up towards and through Jersey by way of the Giant Stairs, or the Rock Scramble. Josh pointed out a dead hawk lying right on the rocks. Of course, Josh picked up the bird with his stick. This trail was tough because I wore flipflips, but I kept on. We ran into Rob and he told us about four kids who were lost further south. They were going to head over to our camp for water and food. Then we headed back and sprawled in the boats, chatting and eating cookies. The Lost Boys, as we dubbed them, found us and ate and drank happily. Wandering up the Palisades, they were ill-prepared and soon were lost and didn’t know how to get back. We found out they were parked at the Alpine Boat Basin/Picnic Area which was our next stop. We offered them a lift in our boats back and they gladly took it. We put them to work and made them row as well. The water was tougher and choppier because of the wind, but we managed.


Relaxing at the Alpine Picnic Area.

At the Alpine Picnic Area (we got permission to spend the night there), we set up our tents/sleeping bags/blankets and soon got to work on our delicious dinner of sausages (chicken, thank you Jon), eggplant, corn and other various veggies and all washed down with beer. Then Jon and I started and combined a new fire with the grill fire and it was spectacular. Everything was wonderfully tinted with campfire light. Roger strummed away on his guitar, Jon and I played Thunder Log (companion game to Thundernova), Rob, Josh and I took pictures, and we all munched on sweets and just talked.

Jon and I decided to get as close as we could to the George Washington Bridge past the Alpine Boat Basin. The deep orange glow of New York City was in the air, tainting the darkness of the sky. There were fewer stars out here, it was kinda sad.


Campfire at Alpine Picnic Area. Photo by Josh.

With our last 4:45 a.m. wake up call, we ate as much as we could so our boat load was lighter. Once again, we shoved off and our goal this time was to reach Pier 40 at 11 a.m. Since I’m competitive, I wanted to beat the other boats. Sometimes, I was successful, other times, I was not. Rob’s boat tended to lead the way though.

As the morning ticked by, more and more barges and water taxis floated by, creating more wakes for us to cut through. Getting hungry and in need of a break, we tried to dock our boats at some Whole Foods in Jersey across Manhattan. Because the tide wasn’t high enough, Rob and Josh were kind enough to jump out of their boat and trudge through that wonderful and aromatic New Jersey sledge and get everyone coffees and croissants. Then we were on our way again.


Taking a rowing break by the George Washington Bridge. Photo from Frank.

Rowing along the river, I realized how unattractive the Jersey coast is. Being waterfront land, it has a lot of potential for great things. Instead it is home to overdeveloped and underdeveloped properties. There was a row of houses tried really hard to look San Franciscan and many other architectural disasters.

With a quick bathroom break on Hoboken Beach or Maxwell House Beach, we crossed the river and finally arrived at Pier 40. With callused hands (including two water blisters) and bruised, injured, insect-bitten and sore bodies, we accomplished our mission. And afterwards, I got a haircut because it seemed proper.

It was just great being out there outside out New York City proper without any of its everyday distractions and conveniences. I didn’t use my cell phone at all during those two days and it felt good. I barely noticed what time it was, looking at my watch only occasionally. This trip was something I wanted badly and I think everyone should hazard at attempt. Now I need to do something else along those same lines.

Pausing at Hoboken Beach. Photo by Rob.

Links for more:
My pictures
Rob's Take
Peter's Take
Josh's Take
Josh's pictures

Rowing to Governors Island

Rowing in The Quixotic. Photo from Frank at Floating the Apple.

On June 3rd, Floating the Apple, Lang on the Hudson kids (myself included) and random people rowed three Whitehall Gigs to Governors Island, home of Fort Jay, deteriorating former Coast Guard homes, lots of flowers, trees, and grass and, of course, gorgeous views of downtown Manhattan, Brooklyn, Staten Island, Ellis Island and Lady Liberty.

Governors, closed from September to June, opened to the public on June 3rd, but in a restricted sense. According to its website, people must go on the guided tour from Wednesday through Friday. On the weekends, people are allowed to explore the island a bit more, but only the northern half. The southern half is closed off to the public.

The ferry (only way to reach the island, besides rowing or flying in somehow or even swimming, if you're up for that) leaves lower Manhattan (next to the South Ferry) every hour from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. and leaves Governors Island every hour from 11:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. with a final boat at 5 p.m.

We left Pier 40 (where Floating the Apple is located) at around 8 a.m. The water was perfect--calm and smooth. Being early, we killed some time at Louis Valentine Park in Red Hook. After getting water or coffee and looking for the bathroom, we launched out once again and continued our row to the dock that Rob's friend built on Governor's Island.


Docking at Governors Island.

After docking all three boats (tying them up, something I haven't done before), we explored the island. On the grassy lawn near the dock, there were kayakers lounging next to their row of kayaks.

Water on Governors isn't potable according to many signs featured prominently throughout the island. This is also expressed on its website and even in forms regarding permission to film and photograph on the island. This is due to its faulty water system. However, they are attempting to correct this, amongst other problems, with the Governors Island Land Use Improvement and Civic Project. There was one food/beverage vendor we stumbled upon. He told us about the other vendor, but we didn't see him.

Walking around the island, Rob showed us Governors Island's sliver of a beach (there is one under the Brooklyn Bridge and in Hoboken as well) that, in his opinion, would make a perfect landing/launch spot, if they just threw in a ladder and a couple of things (sorry, I don't know the technical term) to tie the boats to.


Governors Island's beach.

Despite not being "allowed" to enter any buildings, we managed to find an unlocked door to the basement of the Admiral's House. We wandered through the desolate, mostly unlit rooms and found a working bathroom, a closet filled with new Christmas decorations, rooms with what appeared to be elementary school chairs, empty water bottles and various construction items. I took what I think is a door stop, at least, according to Josh. We wanted to wander upstairs but we thought someone would see us and kick us out. Next time...

The row back to Pier 40 was choppier but we still made it. The idea behind this trip is to show New York City/Parks Department/Governors Island that there is a demand and desire for more access, especially boating access, to the island (as well as other parts of New York, but that's for another time), and there is. It's just a matter of spreading the word. Every person I've talked to becomes interested in rowing and I've already taken most of my friends down to Pier 40.

After a call for proposed redevelopment plans, the Governors Island Preservation and Education Corporation settled on five plans featured in New York Magazine. Thankfully, according to the 2006 Status of Planning for Development, no permanent housing is allowed on the island. What is also interesting is the educational uses requirement. Of the plans, I suppose I'd have to pick the Mollusk, though I don't know how sensible outdoor heated baths are.


View of downtown Manhattan with a hint of Castle Williams.

One of their main concerns is trying to make the island enticing enough so people will WANT to take the ferry over. I would think this would be the least of their concerns--wouldn't people want to island hop in New York? There's already interest in the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, and I know people are intrigued by Roosevelt Island, so why not Governors? It just makes sense.

Lang on the Hudson: The Quixotic

Crossing 5th Avenue. Photo from New School photographer


So I've been meaning to write about this for a while and the night before graduation seems as good of a time as any...

So for my final semester at Lang (along with my journalism class, my senior work, and the ever-important newspaper), I built a boat, with about twenty-ish other people. And yes, I got credit for it (3 to be exact). Now I'm not much for construction--I'm more of a computer-and-write-and-talk kinda girl, but I thought I should do something different and not-typically-Nadia. And Rob (one of the greatest people ever) was overseeing/teaching the class and I have a good working-relationship with him, so why not?



Top: Power-sawing it up; Bottom: Adding epoxy for the sides. Photos from Rob

I used a power-saw, fitted wood together, played with epoxy, measured things out even though I'm horrible at math, got splinters, enjoyed the pleasure of planing wonderfully soft wood, clamped things together/down, painted till midnight at school, glued together, and it all came together in the form of a 26-foot Whitehall Gig, The Quixotic (not my choice, but eh). Despite the fact that I have a hard time remembering where the stern and bow are (bow is the front?), I still feel like it was one of the best experiences in my life. Working on the boat was a great way to ignore/forget all of the other nonsense I had to worry/work on (newspaper, senior work, class, life).

For our launch date, maintenance took out the glass windows of the GF and we pulled the boat through. Once we put the boat onto the dolly, we proceeded to walk down 14th Street, then 5th Avenue, and then 11th Street until we reached the Hudson, with the boat in tow. It was amazing and so much fun. The weather was perfect, everyone was wearing either their orange crew shirts or the nifty gray New School-Lang shirts (I cut mine up because I'm stylish like that), people stopped and looked at us, some people even joined up with us (including Inprinters, of course) and it was just so awesome.


Rowing in The Quixotic in Pier 40. Photos from New School photographer.

Once we got to Pier 40, we hooked The Quixotic up to the [hook thingie--forgot official name] and Rob made a speech and poured champagne on the boat (he didn't break it because he "knew what the boat was made of") and then off it went to the water and it floated! I got to christen the boat, along with Brian, Whitney, Toni and the ever-amazing Don. And I have to say, we were a pretty kick-ass rowing team. The boat moved so smoothly. It was great. Afterwards, everyone else got to row and I just ate and played with Rob's daughter and talked to people. I even got some work done.

The next Friday, they rowed out from Pier 40 to Red Hook. I missed this because I overslept, but I met up with them in Red Hook and we rowed back to Pier 40. I was determined to row the entire way and not switch off, even though I kinda sucked at times, but we made it, and I was so very proud of myself. I really need to go rowing again.

And there is more I can say about the proposed developments of Pier 40 and New York City (re)construction and bodies of water, but I will save that for next time.


Rowing back to Pier 40 from Red Hook.

Video of Launch
New York Magazine coverage of the Launch
New York Observer coverage of the class
Inprint Boatbuilding Photo Essay
Rob's fancy video that played in the window of the boat shop in the GF
My Flickr pictures