Five People I Met in New York

NEW YORK — Like many of my classmates, this is my first summer as an intern in New York City. And in the three and a half weeks I've been here, I've come across a few interesting characters. Here are a handful.

The Upper East Side "Gentleman"

Meet P.D., wearer of sunglasses indoors and purveyor of such inscrutable bits of wisdom as "you can't shit a shitter." P.D. was one of the first interns I met. I arrived a week late to the program, and in the meantime, P.D. had elected himself the de facto social chair our intern class, organizing happy hours at local bars several nights a week. P.D. lives on the Upper East Side, which he says is one of the only four neighborhoods that exist in Manhattan. (The others are the Upper West Side, Midtown, and the Village.) Most days, P.D. dresses like he is going sailing. Pastel shirts, pastel pants, and sailboat-laden belts are the staples of his wardrobe. He went to prep school, he explained, apparently surprised that others didn't automatically understand. Everyone dressed like that at prep school.

The Young (Southern) Professional

After growing up in Texas, L.S. spent four years of college in my home state of Tennessee. Though she has been in New York since she graduated three years ago (making her an exception among her college and high school friends, who often remain in the South), she retains the smiling, friendly demeanor so characteristic of her native region. As our barely older intern coordinator, she dances the line between protective and authoritative—still unable to resist updates on the inevitable intern gossip and drama. Like many of us, she does not hesitate to tell P.D. exactly when he's being ridiculous. Though at times this causes her to slip from her place of authority, I frankly prefer it and am glad she hasn't lost her youthful enthusiasm and sense of humor. If I lose mine three years out of school, please remind me how old I am.

The Big Shot

One of the higher-ups on the floor is N.W. Unlike the majority of her office-dwelling peers, N.W.'s phone calls are audible, and she stands outside her door to chat loudly with coworkers. After giving the first presentation of the summer to our intern class, she loudly gabbed to a friend about the eager (read: brown-nosing and naïve) young interns, realizing only moments later that I was sitting 10 feet away. When N.W. noticed me, she smiled disarmingly, introduced herself, shook my hand, and moved right on. She can be cloying when she wants but appears to have no problem being snippy. It is unclear how well-liked she is by those around her, but it seems that N.W. gets the job done, and that is what matters more.

The Requisite Rando

One thing I have come to love about New York is the incredible diversity you can witness in a relatively small space. Take, for example Bryant Park, the site of my lunch break last Friday. I was sitting at a green metal table with two of my fellow interns, Rachel and Danny. All of a sudden, we hear the aching melody of Savage Garden's "Truly Madly Deeply." We turn slightly and see a man—probably in his late 60s, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses—round the coffee stand. He is dressed in a gray t-shirt beneath a navy-blue basketball jersey, both of which are tucked into his Adidas sweatpants. In one hand, he carries the Savage Garden-blasting boombox, and in the other, he totes a pink bag emblazoned with the faces of every classic Disney princess. We try, unsuccessfully, to stifle our giggles, at which he smiles toothlessly and moves on. But in moments, he is back, offering Danny a $100 American Express gift card. Danny asks if it costs $100, to which the man replies, no, it's $10. Danny says he'll take it for free, and the man agrees, asking instead for a small coffee. Danny obliges. Upon returning to our table, Danny reports that the man's name is Jet (like a plane, Jet had explained).

The Sometimes-Not-So Grown-Up

I should be a rising freshman. I turn 19 this November, at which time I'll be well into the first semester of my junior year. Most people tell me I'm mature for my age and that they would never have guessed how old I was. Usually, I believe them. But after my first day living alone in a three-bedroom apartment (the other two rooms in my sublet are empty for the summer), all I wanted to do was call my mommy. Yet while I'm not always immediately grown-up, I tend to learn and adapt fast, perhaps a benefit of being so young. I'm learning to buy my own groceries, navigate the subways, and avoid making eye contact with strangers. Three and a half weeks into my summer, I'm back to feeling like I'm 20 or 21. Except for the groceries part. I sort of fail at cooking.

"I will not philosophize" was once The Crimson's motto. And yet, in these settings, that is precisely what is expected of the writer-- to draw some larger conclusion about events that, on most days, wouldn't have warranted a second look. While I have learned a good deal in the short amount of time I have spend in the city, any sweeping generalization about life that I could draw at present would almost certainly be a stretch.

So instead, I'll sit back and appreciate P.D.'s sartorial splendor, L.S.'s enthusiasm, N.W.'s bite, and Jet's ability to pull off a princess bag.

—Aditi Balakrishna '10, a Crimson news editor, is an economics concentrator in Adams House.