A lucky asking in New York

September 19. Day 81.

With the exception of sex and the Gregorian mass at the trappist monastery of Santo Domingo de Silos (dare I imagine a combination of the two?), nothing in the world is as mystical or exhilarating as new york.

In the past minutes, I’ve seen:

A woman dressed head to toe in lime green, with lime green hair and a little frog peeking out of her lime green purse. I’m sure the frog came first.

A guy staring into his blackberry, eating French fries, with a look of unspeakable sadness in his eyes. He wasn’t typing, wasn’t scrolling. Just clutching it. What was on that screen? An email about his layoff? The latest quote of the stock he was shorting? A picture from a PI of his wife’s lover?

A giant Elmo, heading north on Seventh Avenue.

The moment above, as frozen on my cell phone camera.

It just feels like anything can happen here. Not proverbially, not wistfully. Literally. Nothing surprises me here.

I have planned an asking, but the moment isn’t ripe yet. Don’t worry – you’ll be the first to know.

UPDATE: Around 10 this evening, I left the apartment where I'm spending the weekend and went for a stroll. The plan: ask random New Yorkers on the street what their favorite spot is in the city, and then go to the best one this weekend. Or maybe leave things to chance by asking just one person and going there. An informational asking.

Things took an interesting turn about 30 seconds after I stepped outside.

I saw a man, walking alone and in a hurry. I hesitated bothering him, but I thought, what the hell? He can always brush me off. And is the opinion of someone in a hurry worth any less consideration?

"Excuse me, can I ask you a really quick question?"

He stopped and seemed attentive. A good start.

"If you had time in New York, not a day, but a long time, what's the one thing you'd want to do?"

I asked in these terms, because I wanted him to pick the best spot as a local resident, a real favorite, not something a tourist should do in 24 hours or a weekend. I've already seen the Empire State Building, thanks.

"I'd go to the boat house and have drinks. And then I'd go to Chinatown and get some really good Chinese food."

"Really? Thanks!"

He asked me where I'm from. What I was doing in town. We traded names. And then, he said he was in a hurry to get to dinner with a private investigator. Did I want to come?

Did I???

Five minutes later we were in a cab to the UES, talking about fly fishing and our siblings. We met his friend at Bar Italia. This friend, a softer version of what I imagine a modern Sicilian businessman would look like, was chatting up two young women, one in the fashion industry and the other with a chirpy laugh. "No blondes, please," he was saying at one point, and inspected their hair contentedly.

One bottle of Prosecco later, the three of us took a cab for two blocks to a Belgian bar. The kitchen had closed at the ungodly hour of 11, so we decided instead to go to Niche, a new place a few blocks away.

Over tapas and a lovely 2004 Rhone, the guys pushed one chunk of cheese back and forth on each other's plates -- "You eat it!" "No way, that's not mold, that's ash. That's like being starved in the Amazon and biting into a shoe because it's leather so you think it's food, only then you discover there was a rotting foot inside" -- and asking the waiter for extra evoo.

We talked about Zoroastrianism, Scientology, sharks, grappa, dementia, balconies, black truffles, grandparents. He told me about his various pursuits -- owning a restaurant, working as a lawyer, trading commodities, commercial fishing -- and I told him about grad school. (Not a fair trade, but he was a gracious listener.)

We ate until only cheese rind and cilantro sprigs were left on our plates, and we drank until the bar was empty.

At one point, the friend asked me: "How do you know this guy?"

"We met on the street," I said. "If he didn't invite me to come out with you, I'd be sitting in a cafe by myself right now, reading a magazine."

Gained: asked for a suggestion, and ended up with a wonderful and totally unexpected (yet somehow expected because this is New York) night. Many, many thanks.

Can I drive your pedicab?

August 22. Day 53.

Today's asking was too exhilarating for words.

After an evening of all-you-can-eat Greek food, flamenco and belly dance shows, and rai music at Zorba's, my new favorite restaurant, I headed to downtown to catch the last hour of the bar scene. Mr. A and I had drinks at Bondi and then, as we strolled back to the car, discussing the pros and cons of living in Italy (Him: the Italians, eww. Me: the Italians, yay!), I realized what would make the evening perfect.

"I need to drive a pedicab."

Mr. A, by now used to my strange requests -- motivated recently by this project or, more generally, by my inner wierdo -- agreed to wander around until we spotted a lone pedicab driver who I could accost.

Just a block from the car, I spotted him, pulling around the corner in a tight curve, all sinew and smiles.

I waved him over and Mr. A casually slinked back, knowing it would be easier for me to ask a young bike peddler to indulge my fantasy if my boyfriend wasn't holding my hand.

"Need a ride?"

"Actually, I was wondering something. Could I try driving it?"

"You want to ride this?" he verified.

"I promise I won't steal it."

"Okay! Get in! We need to get out of the traffic." We u-turned into a quieter block as I asked him where he's from -- Turkey -- and I used my only Turkish phrase, "tesekkur ederim," which made him laugh.

Then he pulled over.

"Be careful. You don't have one of these," he said, waving the laminated permit that was hanging around his neck.

I straddled the bike seat and noticed two things. The cross bar was very high -- built for a taller male, of course. And, the pedals were incredibly easy to move.

I started pushing.

For about three years, downtown San Diego has been overtaken by swarms of these pedicabs. From day one I thought it was an ingenious idea, making the city seem a little more fun, a little more cosmopolitan. Recently I've started seeing girl bikers, whose micro-shorts and charming smiles match the guys' built arms and cheeky grins.

When I see a pedicab driver pulling a couple, drunk or tired or lazy or just in love, I just wonder how in the world he or she can. I barely pull myself up a hill. Let alone on a bike. Let alone a bike and a cart. Let alone a full cart. But the drivers make it seem so easy, zipping around like Olympians, or at least happy, energetic young folk.

I was amazed by how easy it was to push the pedals. The cart was weightless, and I flew forward.

But the handle. That was a problem. It turned sharply to the left and turned the wheel sharply, until I thought I might fall over. I braked and recentered the wheel. Then, pedaled again. And it turned to the right.

Finally, I started to get the hang of it. I kept applying the brakes and used all my arm strength to keep the wheel pointing forward, and then I pedaled away. I'm sure that's not how they do it, but it worked for me.

"Be careful!" my pedicab mentor kept yelling. "Be careful!"

Soon, too soon, I stopped. From across the street, Mr. A was smiling -- or so it seemed under the dim lamplight.

Gained: five minutes driving a pedicab, satisfying a long-term curiosity.

And, jottings from earlier today:

Last night I found myself at Rebecca's, a cafe and defacto study depot that stays open nonstop from Thursday morning to Sunday evening. Every time I'm in there, I struggle to categorize its look. It's a large, open space, with a mix of vintage and simply old (those labels referring more to cuteness rather than age) furniture, tall ceilings, a stage. Maybe it's not the aesthetic or vibe that eludes categorization, but the spectre of what the space was, before bring Rebecca's. I could imagine anything from a laundromat to a supermarket to an unemployment office. Hmm.

And as I mused about the layers of this space across time, a flash of insight came.

Requestion.

A modest word with a noble allure, not unlike parsnip or pertussive. A word that could have served in many a conversation. A word to end all words.

Or not.

In any case, sure enough, it's all over google. (Insert disappointed sigh here. And there I thought I was the first to smoosh those two words together. Silly me.) Of course, there were hundreds of instances of re-question, but I'm talking about request-ion. From the Urban Dictionary:

requestion	8 up, 2 down
	requesting something indirectly by way of a question note: this is distinguished from a regular question because the answer is usually obvious "are those peanut m&m's?" (requestion) "yes, would you like some?" "yeah"

Mr. A said it strikes him as a very newspapery word. "The Red Cross has requestioned additional supplies in Paris, where NATO troops continue to fight Baguettista forces."

I see it as something polite and tentative, but not necessarily oblique or passive-aggressive (as it seems in the Urban Dictionary). "I have a requestion. Would you mind kicking someone else's chair every time you walk by my table?"