This past weekend, Monkey and I took a Metro North train out to the north shore of Long Island to visit a friend. Normally, I spend part of the two-hour journey passing judgement on other passengers: loud cell phone “tawkers;” parents who let their offspring terrorize other travelers while simultaneously spreading animal cracker debris over a ten foot radius; a group of guys in their mid-twenties heading out to a friend’s wedding, each trying to outdo the other with tales of female conquests, gross out stories that involve liquor and vomiting, or debating whose boss is the bigger douche bag. Sadly, this train ride was rather dull. Monkey and I shared some apple slices, then she napped in her carrier whilst I dove into the new Veronica Mars novel on my iPad.
My friend decided to take me to Old Westbury Gardens, which is a stately old mansion sitting on a shitload of land. I wish I could tell you more about its history but, to be honest, I was not paying attention. Why, you ask? Because I was distracted by the weird mannequins they had set up in some of the rooms. This is the first historic home tour I’ve taken where they used fake people to set the scene along with the antique furniture and decorations. We giggled nervously when we first saw them because they were simultaneously wacky and spooky. We both immediately sensed that they came to life at night and threw creepy mannequin parties. See for yourself:
The grounds were lovely though and we spent a fair amount of time strolling around snapping photos of everything. And then we saw it – a small sign along a dirt path: Dog Cemetery. WHAT. Of course the first thing that came to mind was Stephen King’s Pet Cemetery, which scared the living daylights out of me when I was younger, but this pet cemetery turned out to be very sweet. There were seven or so small headstones, some with multiple dog names (not sure what that was about…a puppy flu, perhaps?).
And last, but not least, we saw a mustached monkey:
P.S. Do not eat at the Garden Cafe. Trust me.
Wait. Not literally.
In my younger days I avoided cemeteries, believing that if you walked through a graveyard you would be able to feel all the regrets and unfulfilled desires of those who passed, floating around you like gnats. Yeah, I’m weird. Nowadays I appreciate the peacefulness and serenity of cemeteries. I always wonder as I make my way between the large mausoleums and ornate headstones if the people lying in or beneath them were just wealthy and vain, or truly cherished and memorialized in grand style to reflect how much they were valued by loved ones.
My friend Jill, who also digs cemeteries, suggested we visit Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn. It is the largest and most beautiful graveyard I have ever seen. After entering through a gorgeous Gothic revival archway you are greeted by a park-like setting with rolling hills, shady trees, ponds and chapels. I actually thought for the first time that this is where I’d like to rest my cremated bones, right next to the koi pond. Jill and I ended up driving around a good portion of it (they offer maps, which you’ll need to navigate all the streets – yes, it is so large it has streets and avenues). There are many famous people buried here, like Jean-Michel Basquiat and Leonard Bernstein. If you don’t have a car and don’t feel like hoofing it, they have trolley tours on Wednesdays and Sundays. Believe it or not, on the day we visited, a wedding was taking place in one of the chapels.
A bad day on the subway:
I know you think there is not enough room for me to get on but there actually is so how about you move your lazy ass further into the train and away from the door. Hmm? Well look at that…I fit. Hey lady, how is it that you don’t know your suitcase-sized purse is digging into my ribcage? Because you are completely enthralled with reading Fifty Shades of Grey, that’s why. I know this due to the fact that you keep jamming your Kindle into my forearm every time the train lurches because you refuse to hold onto the pole. If you end up stepping on my flip-flopped-foot I will punch you in the neck. Fair warning. Hey, he’s cute. Wait. That’s a woman. Alright, which of you mutherfuckers farted? If that rotten smell came out of me I would march myself to the ER, stat. Hold your breath, hold your breath. Is the a/c even on? It feels like it’s not on. Now I have bra sweat to contend with. Oh no, teenage girls just got on. Where are my headphones? Thank heavens it’s finally my stop. Yes, you dumb cow, I will shoulder into you if you try to get on the train when all of us are trying to get off. Learn some manners. You heard me. Learn some fucking manners. And your perfume smells like dusty old lady.
A good day on the subway:
Holy mother of miracles I got a seat. And the seat is not coated with an unidentified substance. Today is going to be awesome!