You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘Neighborhoods’ category.
Friends and colleagues of mine know that I’m a coffee drinker, and several of them have recommended Kaldi’s Coffee to me since I moved back to Missouri. On Friday, I gave it a shot (har, har, har…)
Kaldi’s is one of two coffee companies in St. Louis that I’m aware of that roasts its own beans (Northwest Coffee is the other). Kaldi’s also has delictable sweet treats and lots of vegetarian food options for full meals.
I ordered a black bean burrito and cozied into a table near a window, ready to upload and edit the 200+ photos I’d taken at work that morning in Shaw Park. When the barista called my name to give me my burrito, this is it said:
My Name is Not Alyssa, photo by smalltowngirl
For those of you who know me only as smalltowngirl or @milligfunk, I’ll fill you in on a secret; my name is not Alyssa.
That said, the coffee, the burrito and the cookie I got for desert (a giant one with chocolate chunks) were all good, and I really liked the no-wireless-internet, authentic-coffee-shop feel of Kaldi’s.
Kudos to local, independent businesses, even if they decorate their burritos with the wrong name.
I’ve been missing Brooklyn this weekend in a serious way.
In looking at Brooklyn blogs tonight, I found this one, talking about Brooklyn Botanic Garden, where I worked. There’s a photo and a short blurb about a 70 year old man who loves BBG and loves Facebook. It then talks about BBG’s Facebook Group, which I started. Something I did in my job at BBG created joy in the lives of this man and his wife.
Maybe I left my mark in Brooklyn, after all.
smalltowngirl at work at Brooklyn Botanic Garden, summer 2008
The Brooklynite in me wants to believe that the future of independent film is in a loft somewhere in Williamsburg where a couple of hipster dudes are hanging out, experimenting with crazy new ideas and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon.
The proud small town girl in me would love to believe that the future of independent film is, indeed, in Caledonia, Missouri, as Purely Productions, LLC claims it to be.
This building in Caledonia (pop. 158) appears to be the Williamsburg loft of Southeast Missouri:
The Future of Independent Film, photo by smalltowngirl
What kind of independent film company makes its home in a tiny Missouri town?
What kind of business has a posterboard business sign?
Maybe a smart one. The cost of living here is super low, and low overhead theoretically means more resources devoted to projects and less to paying the rent.
These guys have me curious…
Posterboard Sign, photo by smalltowngirl
The company’s website shows a small cast and crew who produced six short films in six months, but I couldn’t find any clips on YouTube. Does anyone out there know more about Purely Productions, LLC? Leave me a comment.
Sitting at Foundation Grounds in Maplewood, intending to work remotely after a morning meeting at Westport, my work servers have crashed, and I’m unable to access emails or files for work.
The coffee shop is lovely, with refreshingly happy and down to earth staff (no snobbish yuppy baristas here). There is a quirky turquoise mural of a tree with white flowers blossoming on the wall, and mismatched (but coordinated) upholstery covers high-backed chairs.
The pear and brie sandwich I had for lunch was lovely (fair warning though – it was onion heavy, though the onions were raw and easily removable). The iced mocha wasn’t bad either. Foundation Grounds gets brownie points for using biodegradable plastic cups, made from corn.
In the cold case, I found Kambucha, organic juices, Honest Tea, and Stonyfield Farm yogurt – a fairly forward-thinking collection of foods and drinks for this part of the country.
To top off my visit to Foundation Grounds, I overheard someone speaking Mandarin Chinese, and turned to find a husband and wife speaking Chinese to one another. The husband, a St. Louis-born acupuncturist and his wife had just moved back to St. Louis three days ago from years in Seattle and Asia.
His Chinese was far more fluent than my own (embarrassingly rusty) Chinese is, but it was so uplifting to meet another person who has moved back “home” to this part of the country after seeing the world in hopes of contributing something to the communities we grew up in.
Today’s coffee shop encounter is a reminder that when things happen (like servers crashing), there’s often something better in store. It’s been a rough last week for me, but with my hope and optimism restored, I’m looking forward to what the rest of this week holds.
Plants, photo by smalltowngirl
I’m a big fan of local produce and homemade foods, so I was excited when the Farmington Farmers Market opened this spring. The market has grown over the past few years, and this spring, there are 10-12 vendors who regularly come out to sell plants, eggs, jellies, soaps, and more.
Always outgoing, and a curious girl to boot, I chatted up several of the farmers at the market on Saturday, April 25th. Carl Pruetzel and his wife, Sue, were selling baked goods, jellies and jams, and a variety of plants (cabbage, etc.) from their own C&C Farms. Over the several minutes that I talked with Carl, I heard about he and Sue’s travels abroad during his career, and about their retirement and farm in Southeast Missouri.
If you stop by the market, try Sue’s strawberry jelly. It’s sweetened the whole wheat bread I’ve been buying at Olde Tyme Pantry for morning toast on most weekend mornings this May.
Carl & Sue Pruetzel of C&C Farms, photo by smalltowngirl
Mickey & Betty Caughron, who farm in Valles Mines, Missouri make home made soaps for sale at the market. Mickey & Betty and I found common ground over their daughter’s experiences living and working in Asia.
Mickey & Betty Caughron, photo by smalltowngirl
Another vendor was selling fresh eggs. I’m a huge fan of the brown eggs at Olde Tyme Pantry, so while I haven’t bought any at the Farmers Market, I’m tempted to pick up a dozen duck eggs sometime. The woman sellling the eggs claims that duck eggs are superior to chicken eggs for baking. As often as I bake, I’ll have to do a blind taste test sometime using duck eggs.
Duck Eggs, photo by smalltowngirl
The Farmington Farmers Market is open on Saturdays from 7-11 a.m. and Wednesdays from 2-5 p.m and is located on Karsh Boulevard in the parking lot of the Farmington VFW Hall.
Farmington Farmers Market, photo by smalltowngirl
I spent most of my day yesterday in Soulard, a neighborhood just east of I-55 and south of downtown, St. Louis. The area reminds me of a mix between Brooklyn and New Orleans, with red brick, two- and three-story rowhouses along red brick sidewalks.
Black rod-iron railings line the second and third floor balconies of buildings, and gardens and courtyards hide quietly between houses. Soulard is one of the only neighborhoods in St. Louis where you can truly park your car and hop between restaurants, galleries, venues and bars.
Lunch was at McGurk’s.
Before I go any further, I need to say how much I wish I hadn’t chickened out on taking my camera out with me yesterday. Pictures would really help in capturing the feel of Soulard.
We sat on the back patio at McGurck’s. The Patio was large, with a fountain in the center that’s turned to a fire ring when the weather is cooler. This photo belongs to Metromix St. Louis, and is actually taken the table we sat at during lunch.
Photo Credit Metromix St. Louis
After lunch, we headed to Washington Street for an emerging musicians street festival, but the music wasn’t playing and the crowd wasn’t hoppin’ when we arrived. On a whim, we headed to City Museum instead, and had what was probably the most fun I’ve had in years. Stay tuned for a full blog about that.
After the museum, we found ourselves back in Soulard at a street festival/block party that seemed to be sponsored by The Riverfont Times. $20 at the door bought live music until midnight and all the cajun food and Budweiser Select you could eat/drink.
Soulard had an energy and a self-pride that made me think of neighborhoods I’ve lived in in other cities. It felt great to get out of small town, MO for the day and hang out in urbanland. For another nice blog on Soulard, go here.
I’m not sure why my Title is showing up in a foreign language. (Hindi, apparently.)
The funky title can’t rain on my parade though. I just had an exciting hour-and-a-half phone meeting with our web designer, who is bright and knowledgeable, and living in the St. Louis neighborhood I didn’t know existed (but that I’m head-over-heels in love with).
There is a bit of Brooklyn in St. Louis. Check it out:
Old North St. Louis
This neighborhood is essentially a renovation district, and while it’s still in its building phase, I can’t express to you how excited I am to see a real community in St. Louis proper.
From what our web designer told me, most of the buildings here had become very, very run down. The homeowners’ restorations are labors of love. Check out this blog about the restoration of a home that was missing an entire wall.
Another website, seemingly dedicated to property sales in the area, has some great photos of the commercial district (under renovation) in the neighborhood.
And on my “Must-See, Must-Eat, STL” list? Crown Candy Kitchen, an ice cream shop and restaurant founded in St. Louis in 1913.
My car accident brought on a lot of “I miss New York” sentiments for me, and honestly, I spent my weekend pretty down in the dumps. Having my eyes opened to this St. Louis neighborhood has, thankfully, lifted my spirits.
Yay, St. Louis!
MO and NY = TIED.
Almondine
DUMBO, Brooklyn
Photo by smalltowngirl
Photo by smalltowngirl
Among Brooklyn’s most well-known eateries is Almondine, a patisserie in DUMBO known for it’s baguettes and pastries.
Empty coffee cups at Almondine
Photo by smalltowngirl
When the ex-boy called to see if I wanted to get together one last time before my move, it seemed like a good opportunity to check out Almondine.
(@andrearosen gets a mini-credit for unintentionally inspiring this trip with a tweet this morning about Almondine’s stuffed pretzels.)
The food was tasty. I had tomato and spinach soup, a grilled vegetable sandwich, and some sort of blue cheese that tasted great broken up into my mixed greens salad.
For desert, Jeff and I split a coffee and a fruit eclair that vaguely resembled a footlong sub, only in miniature and with fruit, not deli meat. As good as the real food was, the eclair kind of made me wish we’d just skipped lunch and gone straight for sharing deserts.
I can now cross Almondine off my NYC to-do, to-see, to-eat list. While I don’t think that St. Louis is without good bakeries, I would guess that this one is a notch above, so the final score on Almondine:
NY = 1; MO = 0.
Empty coffee cups at AlmondinePhoto by smalltowngirl
***
On the bright side, my ex doesn’t live in Missouri, so I won’t have to make decisions about whether to see him once I’m gone. Every time I see him it gets a little easier, but it’s still awfully hard. On the ex-boy front, the score is:
NY = 0; MO = 1
***
As an addendum to the “I like your boots” story, I owe MO an apology for under-estimating its supply of cobblers.
My mother kindly informed me that my hometown has a large shoe repair and boot shop now. I no longer feel pressured to have my boots fixed before I leave town.
Thanks, Mom!
NY = 1; MO = 1
***
And, finally, I’ve been assuming that MO would get the cow credit over NYC. How wrong I was.
This photo, taken on our walk back from DUMBO today, is evidence that this midwest ain’t the only cow country ’round these parts. Where cows, go, I’m sure rural MO will have more real ones, but I have to give NYC a point for trying…
NY = 1; MO = 1
smalltowngirl with cow
Brooklyn, NY
Photo by the ex-boy
smalltowngirl with cowBrooklyn, NY
Photo by the ex-boy
I sat with Jeff on a park bench in Chinatown watching teenagers in t-shirts toss a football to one another. It was nearly fifty degrees today after weeks of temperatures that hovered around zero, so warm sunshine and the lunar new year brought a sense of lightness to the park around us.
My hope when he invited me to come with him to Chinatown today was that we’d find our shared space again – the space where “he” and “I” are “us”.
We talked quietly about what lead us to break up; how I wouldn’t have applied for a job out of state if I’d known he saw a
future with me, and how me applying for a job out of state was the beginning of him falling out of love with me.
In seven months, he’d never spoken the words, “I love you” to me. Today he spoke them twice, and while it was good to hear him verbalize his feelings for me, it wasn’t romantic or special the way it should be when those words are spoken to someone for the first time.
I watched a lanky Asian boy gracefully catch the football his friend threw.
Instead of sharing the words, “I love you” with a sense of excitement or aniticpation, I heard them from Jeff for the first time with a football landing in a teenager’s hands, and a vacuum-like sense of emptiness in the pit of my stomach.
The words, “I love you” weren’t followed by a kiss or a hug. They were followed with a request that we be “friends.”
“I don’t want you to be my ex-anything,” he said to me. “I don’t think of you as my ex-girlfriend. I think of you as my friend.”
Kids laughed and an old man shuffled by in clunky black tennis shoes.
A hawk flew down from the sky and clutched a mouse from the sidewalk between its talons. As quickly as it landed, it flew away again. I’d never seen anything quite like that – such a breathtakingly graceful gesture, but one that ended in the death of a living thing.
I’d never felt anything quite like what I was feeling then, in the park, when Jeff finally admitted that he loved me, but followed it with a request that we be friends, either.
Some things just aren’t built into our natural, biological, or intuitive sense of understanding. Hearing “I love you” followed by “I want to be friends” is one of them.
“I want to be your friend, but I’m not even sure how to do that,” I told him.
I’d have my opportunity to learn how to do that a short time later as we entered a party thrown by his coworker, Ed, who promply introduced me to someone else as Jeff’s girlfriend.
I was proud of myself for smiling, not crying, and making small talk with the people there. I was proud of myself for doing everything in my power to be Jeff’s “friend” when so deep inside my heart, I feel pulled to be the girl he loves and holds and takes care of - not the girl he’s friends with.
“This is my friend, Melissa,” he would say to people as he introduced me.
I am his friend, Melissa. I would think to myself, rehearsing this new role that I’ve been forced into.
We went to the roof of the building, and I looked out onto the streets of Chinatown. Colorful scraps of paper littered the streets from the parade earlier in the day.
Nearly two weeks after accepting my new job in Missouri, a sense of the scale of that decision hit me firmly in the chest as I stood looking out on Chinatown from that rooftop.
I’m leaving New York, and in deciding to leave, I’m also turning my back on one of the best things that’s happened to me in a very long time; my relationship with Jeff.
The tears started then, as this sense of perspective hit me, and Jeff and I said a quick goodbye. He squeezed me in his arms, but it wasn’t the same as it used to be.
I wiped away a few tears there on the roof, but tried to hold my composure until I reached the street outside of Ed’s building, at which point tender sobs grew out of my hurt.
I walked crying through Chinatown, to the base of the Brooklyn Bridge, and I cried as I walked across it into downtown Brooklyn.
Through Brooklyn Heights and into Fort Greene I cried.
I cried as I walked through Fort Greene Park, down Dekalb Avenue, and onto South Oxford Street, where I sat for a few minutes on the stoop of our brownstone, taking it all in, and letting a few more tears stream down.
That was hours ago, but tears are sliding down my cheeks again now as I write this, in my pajamas, in my little bedroom in my shared apartment in Brooklyn – a place I can’t call home much longer.
I’m not his girlfriend anymore, and soon I won’t be a New Yorker anymore either. I pray that this decision I’ve made is the right one.
