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My father once told me that the most democratizing experience in the world was riding the New York City subway system. There, the guy in the $3,000 suit is sitting beside the homeless guy, the guy in the yarmulke is sitting beside the guy in the turban, and, at some point, on both sides of you, there will be two different people speaking two different languages, both of which you swear you’ve never heard before. The whole of humanity is on display, which is why I’m happy that I now finally comprehend the New York City subway system and can drink it all in for myself. This was particularly useful a few weeks ago when I took the subway for over an hour to get to my destination, reading my book and a two week old copy of the Sunday New York Times.

After wetting my appetite for some Southeast Asian food at the Queen’s Night Market, I decided to learn how to cook some for myself. That’s why I signed up for a Northern Indian Street Cooking Class in Queens two weeks later. 

I never show up late to anything unless I get lost. This is because I am extremely punctual but have no sense of direction. I ended up late to this event because I got lost and when I get lost I cry, which is how I eventually ended up late and crying but ready to make some Northern Indian street food. 

The service was being provided by a group called “Did You Khado?”, which, according to them, means, “did you eat yet?”, an expression from one of their grandmothers. The class was being taught by a husband and wife, Raina and Gautam, who run a catering company of the same name. If I feel so inclined, I can learn how to hand roll sushi, stuff pork dumplings, make dosas and chutney, and make chocolate, but on this particular day I learned how to make Puri.

I fried up these wafers until they turned into puff balls which I cracked open and filled with various sauces and pomegranates. It was very simple but tasted incredible. This required me to tear up a pomegranate and only some of the pomegranate seeds ended up on the floor.

The only thing I successfully make without fail in the kitchen is a mess. I kept it all together as best I could, in observance of the fact that I was in somebody else’s kitchen. 

I learned many things about cooking that day. 

Apparently, if you avoid cutting the bottom of the onion, it won’t make you cry. 

I did not avoid cutting the bottom of the onion. 

Between my getting lost and cutting the onion wrong, my tear ducts were getting the workout of their life.

Despite my amateur cooking skills, all of the food was delicious. Everything was sweet but also savory and had just the right amount of spiciness to it. Clearly, I had good teachers.

I now know how to make Puri and someone in the future can be brave enough to try my first attempt at making it. 

And if you do want to learn how to make any of these types of foods, be sure to check out Did You Khado? at their apartment building.

The Tragic Queen,

Raquel

Here Lies Love is the Karaoke-themed Broadway Musical about Imelda Marcos. The show has garnered praise for, among other things, being the first ever Broadway show with an all Filipino cast. The whole experience was a graduation gift from my good friend David Gerson, a regular on this blog. 

However, given the subject matter, the musical has been the subject of much controversy since its beginning, begging the question of whether or not it is appropriate to sing and dance along to a story about the strife that the Philippines faced, America’s infliction, and the legacy of Imelda Marcos. Others have cited this as the point of the story: we are dancing through the political unrest, making ourselves complicit, the way that many others were at the time. Marcos herself had a notoriously large shoe collection and spent much of her time at Studio 54, a topic that comes up throughout the story. Regardless of where you fall in the commentary, believing it to fall flat or to have hit the nail on the head, the show has been a big deal on Broadway. 

Some audience members were up on the mezzanine, but we were down at the floor seats, which, for this show, meant that we were standing and dancing the whole time. The stage had been removed and we stood on the floor amongst the cast members as they performed. The crew, standing among us, moved the stage and we were expected to walk with them as they moved it.

There was a fleeting moment when I was worried about getting run over by the stage as they moved it, since they were shuffling along, moving the stage, and we were told to keep moving, but the people in front of me weren’t moving, so I had no choice but to stand there for a brief second, nearly getting run over by the stage.

I regretted not getting my glasses out of my purse before I checked it since there were times where I couldn’t make out the actors’ faces. Other times, I was so close that Imelda Marcos’s dress nearly hit my face. On more than one occasion, the actors had to walk right past me in order to make their cues.

The actor who played Imelda Marcos’s husband, the President of the Philippines, came into the audience, looking to have women appear with him on screen, as the crew walked around with a camera, projecting everything on the walls of the theater.

First I got pushed by David. Then I got shoved by one of the crew members. I was practically passed right into the arms of the male lead and was suddenly projected all over the theater, getting serenaded by him. He sang right to me. I flirted with him right back. The crowd laughed. He raised an eyebrow at me. David told me that I’d just made my Broadway debut.

The rest of the show played on with less flirting, but still some more fabulous dancing. It was without a doubt, the most fun I’ve ever had at a Broadway show. 

Thanks, David!

The Tragic Queen,

Raquel

The best pizza in the world, aside from that made in Italy, comes from New York City, and the best pizza in New York City supposedly comes from Roberta’s in Brooklyn. That’s the boldest of claims, so Valentina and I went to check it out for ourselves on our way to “First Live.” 

First Live was the name of a music event at a bar that featured one of Valentina’s friends and since her friend was on his way to Japan for a year, this was the band’s last hurrah, at least for a while. 

We got dinner at Roberta’s first, discovered that it more than lived up to the hype, and then arrived at the bar. Other bands, including Valentine’s Day, a band for angry girl music (said affectionately), performed first. It was a while before we got to see our band perform.

I was faced with a question: to socialize or not to socialize?

I hate to force conversation so I went with not to socialize. Not socializing was great, as I did not end up getting hit on, unlike Valentina. 

When it came time to listen to the friend perform, we were given ear plugs to protect ourselves from the music and Valentina had to encourage me to dance around more. I’d been standing there, swaying a bit, but not smiling, as I often do not, and according to Valentina “I was bringing down the vibe.” I therefore had to do less of a Wednesday Addams impression in order to stop bringing down the mood, and, apparently, also the band. 

Being in the front row might not be for me. The music was great. Everything was very high energy (except for me apparently) with the singer moving through the crowd and me getting to stand directly in front of the guitarist. Since there was no stage and a modest audience, the singer moved through the crowd and we could stand up beside the band, which was how my underwhelmed expression didn’t go unnoticed.

Once the music was done, we called it a night. It was a tale of not being the life of the party, but we listened to some good music and had some really great pizza, as part of a classic college student night.

The Tragic Queen,

Raquel

If I could do only one outing every summer in New York City, I would go to the Queen’s Night Market, an event that takes place every Saturday during the summer, where you can eat food from what seems like every culture on earth. 

For an average of six dollars cash per meal, a person can get a sizable amount of food from just about anywhere.

I had Burmese, Fujianese, Venezuelan, Senegalese, and Egyptian food, none of which I’d ever tried before. 

So who took me to this event? Valentina, of course, along with her friends David and Sebastian. 

Hosted where the World’s Fair had been eons ago, the event takes place at a large, open field with music, so you can spread out with your friends on the grass, like we did. We bounced from one food stall to the next, eating whatever looked good.

And a lot of food looked good. 

Nothing was without flavor. I had noodles with spicy sauce from Senegal, corn-based arepas from Venezuela, and many other well-sauced finger foods that were tucked into doughy, little pouches.

Fujianese mochi with purple yam sauce was the perfect dessert. 

If the Queen’s Night Market sounds fun to you, be sure to check the times and get plenty of cash from the bank for this cash-only event. It puts a fun spin on going out to dinner with your friends. 

After watching the sun go down on the Queen’s Night Market, we all went out to a nightclub in Brooklyn, a sentence that I never thought I would be casually saying back when I lived in South Georgia. Basement, not The Basement, sounds like the name of a nightclub from any TV show. Living up to its name, Basement is a pitch-black underground nightclub made entirely of concrete. Dancing your way into a cinder block pillar is pretty much a given seeing as how you almost can’t see your hand in front of your face. This is nothing compared to the fact that you can barely hear the person beside you either, with the music poised to destroy your eardrums. 

Photos and videos are strictly-prohibited so they cover up the camera of your phone with a sticker when you enter. It was like I finally had the nightclub experience I’d been told about my whole life: waiting in a line for 45 minutes in the middle of the night while others who were on the list got let in by the bouncers. Then, when you get inside, you can enjoy a $15 drink until you’re ready to call it a night. I called it a night shortly thereafter, satisfied that I’d gotten my fill and that my rideshare Uber was worth it. 

It was a good night of food, drink, friends, and music; a good night’s sleep could happen another time. And I will be returning to the Queen’s Night Market next summer, hungry for more.

The Tragic Queen,

Raquel

I have come to the realization that having every Friday off is only worth something if I spend every Friday doing something worthwhile.

I start by sleeping in. Then, once I roll out of bed, I decide on a fun little outing for myself, preferably one that won’t cost me anything. In the past this has come in the form of trips to Central Park and The Met.

This week in particular, I decided to check out one of the many Indie bookstores that I’d been dying to try. Named after an enlightenment, intellectual women’s group from 18th century England, Bluestockings Cooperative is New York City’s first, and only, queer, trans, and sex worker-run bookstore. It’s located near the Williamsburg Bridge on the Lower East Side, right beside a gym entitled “Pilates Coven,” which, according to the sign on the door, allows you to do magic and pilates at the same time. You probably can just dabble in the magic, but they seem strict about the pilates, stating that you’re not allowed to show up late. 

Bluestockings Cooperative has an extensive collection of all of the most politically-savvy and topically-relevant works in the world right now. Any and all books on queer theory are at your fingertips. 

The first time I visited, I didn’t purchase a book; I just perused the stacks and enjoyed a London Fog from their cafe. I finished enjoying this London Fog on the Williamsburg Bridge, after I decided to take a nice leisurely stroll across it. I found that once you get high enough on the Williamsburg Bridge, there’s a nice breeze to cool you down, while you watch the ships moving through the harbor.

The view looked nice, the subway looked nice as it went by, the sweaty people biking and running looked nice. Even the graffiti looked nice. I was really selling this girl-in-a-rom-com vibe as I walked across the bridge, drinking my tea, having just gone to a bookstore. 

A few weeks later, I returned to my now beloved Bluestockings Cooperative, which still mandates masks, offers free water to anyone who comes in, and is in the business of enlightening everyone to be more socially-conscious than our politicians.

I witnessed the two workers there treat a homeless man very kindly, giving him an empty store bag when he walked into their store shirtless and asked for one. I met a fellow Raquel, wearing a t-shirt calling for “more trans bodies in art.” Bluestockings Cooperative makes a trip to a bookstore, which is already a fun time, even more of an event. 

This time, I bought Sister Outsider by Audre Lorde and Women, Race & Class by Angela Davis, two books that have been on my TBR for far too long. I took another walk along the Williamsburg Bridge, listening to only the mellowest music, before making my way back home. 

I now have even more books to read as I await my next excuse to spend money at Bluestockings Cooperative.

The Tragic Queen,

Raquel

“To live is to risk it all. Otherwise, you’re just an inert chunk of randomly assembled molecules drifting wherever the universe blows you.”

–Rick Sanchez, Rick and Morty, S3, Ep. 2 Rickmancing the Stone

I woke up one Saturday and within an hour was already bored. I had no plans for the day, no reason to get out of my pajamas, which used to excite me when I was younger, but was now giving way to feelings of numbness…and grossness as far as my pajamas were concerned. I’d had my breakfast, sipped some tea, and listened to some music, in what has become a very routine routine. 

I decided that I had to get out of the house. The next day I’d be able to read the Sunday New York Times in my pajamas all morning long but as far as Saturday morning was concerned, I decided that I’m not allowed to live in New York City and feel bored. 

So, I had lunch at Le Pain Quotidien at the Central Park Boat Club. One mint lemonade and chicken mozzarella panini later, I was ready to move further into the park and join the swaths of people splayed out on the lawn, reading their books and playing frisbee. It was a brisk 90 degrees outside and I was wearing a chic all-black ensemble that included the knee-high rain boots since the chance of rain was the only part of the forecast that I’d taken to heart. 

En route to the field, I walked past all of the people who were lined up for the Central Park Boat rowing and signing waivers on clipboards. The line would have looked miserable had it not been for the view of boats setting sail as far as the eye could see. It looked enticing, but not like the type of thing they’d let you do without a partner to keep you from capsizing. 

Instead I walked around the reservoir, watching everyone fan themselves with desperation

and listening to a man sing a rendition of a Coldplay song that should have stayed in the shower. You can do all this while watching the people row their boats, like I did while standing at a statue of a woman with her arms delicately outstretched in front of her. 

In a book I had recently read, I learned that most New York City statues (sans the Statue of Liberty) were of the same woman, who was not in fact a woman, but actually a teenage girl, who struggled with what to do with her life after being a muse to so many artists. Now she’s immortalized in bronze all over the city over a century later, appearing in the starring role of innumerable tourists’ selfies. 

It was around this statue that I ran into a woman who asked me about the boating service and I told her where it was. When she asked me if I was interested in doing it, I told her that I doubted I could do it alone, and then she invited me to do it with her and her friends. 

We waited for about an hour, sweating like hookers in mass, but only needing to pay about six dollars each for our $25 per hour boat ride. We hit the water in our four-person boat, making our way across the water. I’d pictured our boat gracefully skimming the water as we passed beneath a bridge, but as it turns out, rowing is much harder than that. 

Most of the other girls did the rowing, until I offered to do it for a second. There was nothing gentle about how I rowed my boat down the stream. I hit two other boats immediately and let someone else row within minutes of my stint as rower. I’m not a great boat rower, but I would be great at bumper cars.

All around us were people nauseatingly in love. A man took a break from rowing his girlfriend across the reservoir so that he could hold hands with her as they drifted past the willow tree, while another man only occasionally took a break from rowing so that he could get as much red lipstick down his face and neck from his girlfriend.

We were told that if it started to rain, we would have to immediately start coming back, since the boats were made of aluminum and we could be struck by lightning. They did not tell us, however, how hard it is to make a hairpin turn in a boat and haul ass back to the harbor. 

We were attempting to make record time on our way back while storm clouds rolled in and the wind started rustling the tops of all of the trees. The clouds looked like we were gearing up for an “Auntie Em let me into the storm cellar” type of storm. I briefly put my mind at ease, reminding myself that I was in rubber boots and that I couldn’t possibly be struck by lightning, until I realized that being in a metal boat in the middle of a body of water might cancel out the power of my shoes. 

Needless to say, we made it out of the boat, unscathed.

I’d gone from waking up to a day full of potential, being dismayed by the lack of things to do, forcing myself out, making new friends, and cheating death, or at least that’s how I see it. I lived so hard that I almost died.

And thank you to Saniya, Kashvi, and Naina for letting me crash your party. 

The Tragic Queen,

Raquel