Concerts tend to stress me out profusely.
On a general note, the more invested – financially, physically, and emotionally – one is, the more frequently one tends to think about another being or relationship. GOT7 is on my mind every single day, which means I can’t escape massive bursts of anxiety and anticipation when fanmeets and concerts roll around.
On a general note, the more invested – financially, physically, and emotionally – one is, the more frequently one tends to think about another being or relationship. GOT7 is on my mind every single day, which means I can’t escape massive bursts of anxiety and anticipation when fanmeets and concerts roll around.
The first North American stop of the Eyes On You World Tour had been held in Toronto. Precisely one week later, the boys would be performing at Barclays Center and taking a revolutionary step as the first K-Pop group to ever headline the arena.
My day commenced early in the morning. I had an international flight to catch to New York.
Despite having visited Seattle a handful of times, I had never once been to the Big Apple. It had always been tucked at the back of an etiolated wanderlust list, but little consideration had been given to the prospect.
Despite having visited Seattle a handful of times, I had never once been to the Big Apple. It had always been tucked at the back of an etiolated wanderlust list, but little consideration had been given to the prospect.
The very reason behind my embarkment on this journey was none other than the New York stop of the Eyes On You World Tour. Courtesy of a certain potato, I had managed to obtain a very rare P1 spot – complete with Hi-Touch benefit and my preferred side of the stage! She’s a wonderful potato, and it’s truly a blessing to have met such a kind being by coincidence. (In a way, I like to assume these meetings are fated.)
International flights are despicable for several reasons: heightened security, long wait times, and customs procedures. While I despise having to remove my shoes in a public environment and lay my clean electronic equipment in grimy plastic bins, I couldn’t help but feel a bit giddy at walking through the same gate that GOT7 had departed from seven days prior.
We arrived without delays, thankfully, and gradually made our way to the Baggage Claim area. Like LA, it was situated in close proximity to the exit – undoubtedly alarming and not quite necessary in my opinion. LaGuardia featured an abundance of signage for taxis and rideshare services but failed to maintain even the smallest display for luggage belts. There had even been signage for the airport’s dysfunctional Wi-Fi network.
We arrived without delays, thankfully, and gradually made our way to the Baggage Claim area. Like LA, it was situated in close proximity to the exit – undoubtedly alarming and not quite necessary in my opinion. LaGuardia featured an abundance of signage for taxis and rideshare services but failed to maintain even the smallest display for luggage belts. There had even been signage for the airport’s dysfunctional Wi-Fi network.
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A few of us took to acquiring details from airport staff, who pointed to one of the belts ever so matter-of-fact-ly. “There’s only one for this airline.” She lazily responded, mid-gesture.
But how were travellers supposed to know that?
But how were travellers supposed to know that?
Luggage carts were no longer complimentary like back home, so we just took to rolling our luggage along the length of LGA’s exterior until finally reaching the taxi booth.
Oh the yellow taxis! It was high time I laid eyes on the real-life version after reading countless stories of the cabs in my childhood.
Our first step after settling in Brooklyn was to obtain a MetroCard.
Barclays Center was a sixteen-minute walk from our place of stay, or a two-stop subway journey totalling a maximum of twelve minutes. A trek in thirty-plus degree weather with heavy bags in tow was not an appealing idea, especially considering our degree of (un)familiarity with the neighbourhood.
Barclays Center was a sixteen-minute walk from our place of stay, or a two-stop subway journey totalling a maximum of twelve minutes. A trek in thirty-plus degree weather with heavy bags in tow was not an appealing idea, especially considering our degree of (un)familiarity with the neighbourhood.
Transit cards would, thankfully, be obtained at all subway stations, unlike LA where only designated stops made vending machines available. Kiosks with attendants only accepted cash, while machines were open to debit, credit, or cash.
The MetroCards themselves were flimsy, thin cards bearing a magnetic strip and no user ID. In terms of portability, they were more convenient to store and whip out in times of urgency. On the flip side, their utter lack of thickness increased susceptibility to misplacement during commuting. The card failed to fit snugly in my generic passholder, and even slipped out once. This issue had not been witnessed with PRESTO, Compass Card, or the LA Metro Card. I was also not very fond of turnstiles refusing entry with MetroCard swipes that were “faster” or “slower” than the anticipated swipe times, nor the inability to check card balances through an online account. Put simply, MetroCards were merely for relinquishing funds for fares without any sort of association with the user. There was no registration process required.
At the same time, it meant that there was no possible way to access a transaction log, even if one feels as if he or she has been wrongly double-charged for fares. Balance checkers make occasional appearances in subway stations, allowing riders to verify the pre-loaded amount, and top up on funds if required to do so. The system is far from sophisticated, but it is functional and accurate – a grand step from public transit in Los Angeles.
Heading to Barclays then back seemed too extravagant of a mission for a two-hour window, so we stuck to touring the nearby streets of Brooklyn in search of sustenance and something of interest – anything that didn’t fall under the category of discount clothing retailers.
Wandering along Dekalb, we found LIU (also known as Long Island University) and, shortly afterwards, a small eatery by the name of Chau Down. The menu appeared simple enough: build-your-own donburi bowls and “Asian” burritos.
Wandering along Dekalb, we found LIU (also known as Long Island University) and, shortly afterwards, a small eatery by the name of Chau Down. The menu appeared simple enough: build-your-own donburi bowls and “Asian” burritos.
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We waltzed inside to lay eyes on a tiny seating area, cashier, and dingy kitchen area – all encased between three red walls and street-facing glass window panes.
The restaurant enforced a 15-minute seating limit, which was odd given its availability of free Wi-Fi for customers. We placed our orders of a custom donburi and Asian burrito, then slid into the high stools by the entrance.
One can imagine our surprise at plopping ourselves down in relief, only to find our bottoms promptly constrained by the wooden frame of the chair. The cushioned fabric portion had sunken in altogether, leaving nothing but a skeleton of its original form behind.
One can imagine our surprise at plopping ourselves down in relief, only to find our bottoms promptly constrained by the wooden frame of the chair. The cushioned fabric portion had sunken in altogether, leaving nothing but a skeleton of its original form behind.
< Pictured above and below: Donburi (white rice, grilled chicken, cucumber, seaweed, and KBBQ sauce) and Asian Burrito (original wrap, brown rice, gyu beef, cabbage, cucumber, and katsu sauce) >
Names were called out at the counter when our order was ready for pickup. A white plastic bag unveiled a depressing roll of tin foil and disposable container.
Names were called out at the counter when our order was ready for pickup. A white plastic bag unveiled a depressing roll of tin foil and disposable container.
The Donburi was your average run of the mill composition: a heaping portion of carbs, protein bits careless tossed in some synthetic sauce, and a few convenient garnishes for colour and the illusion of improved texture. The chicken was dry and likely derived from pre-packaged sources; the already economic choice of seaweed salad appeared stingier with its tiny role in the bowl.
I wouldn’t consider it twice if someone had slid this to me amidst the craze of exam season, but I had entered the establishment in source of a proper meal – not an erratic mishmash of long-lasting perishables.
I wouldn’t consider it twice if someone had slid this to me amidst the craze of exam season, but I had entered the establishment in source of a proper meal – not an erratic mishmash of long-lasting perishables.
While the donburi was edible, the Asian burrito was a complete monstrosity – an outright abomination, if you will. Whoever had decided that pitas were an acceptable shell for mushy brown rice and soggy strips of beef needs to re-familiarize themselves with basic pantry components. Temporarily setting aside that my selections had not been distributed uniformly along the stretch of the burrito, that the requested katsu sauce was concentrated at the very bottom, and that the cabbage was greasy and wilted, the burrito was, conclusively speaking, very unenjoyable. Might I also add that the sickening pile of brown rice had incurred an additional charge of one dollar. Considering the overall experience, we might as well had brought food from home with an ice pack stuck alongside.
This horrendous late lunch was succeeded by a relatively aimless stroll about the area. Fitted denim bottoms were once again proved a poor outfit choice, for the heat penetrated my body in such a way that each successive limb lift gradually wore me to a pulp.
About fifteen minutes of desperate attempts to find shade, I could withstand no more of New York’s piercing UV rays and sewer smell-filled sidewalks. I turned onto a side street, spotting a cute, quaint café.
This café featured a delicate exterior, along with an accessible ramp leading up to the entrance. We peered inside the storefront, with me nodding silently at what lay before my eyes. A European couple also curiously examined the menu before heading southbound.
After confirming a temporary stopover, I pulled open the door, clashing with powerful gusts of A/C.
After confirming a temporary stopover, I pulled open the door, clashing with powerful gusts of A/C.
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The interior was simply lovely – the best ways to describe the space would be: a little rustic, sophisticated yet homey, and soothing to the mind and soul. It turned out that Maison May also acted as a venue for special events and weddings, hence their relevant products on display and at its Dekalb Avenue entrance.
Lavish tea towels and influencer-written cookbooks were stashed on one shelf. A menu with absolutely ridiculous prices was found near the counter. The standard Drip Coffee was the most budget-friendly of the offerings list at $3.20, while the priciest pick was undeniably the Matcha Latte, which rang in $7.25 before taxes and conversion rates.
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Maison May was home to the priciest beverage menu I have ever set eyes upon: the typical iced Americano was over four dollars! There was a suitable amount of ice in the cup, which served to cool bodies and relieve acidity; taste-wise, it was nothing out of the ordinary.
By this time, time was no longer on our side. In addition, it was crucial that our physical state remained sturdy for the duration of the concert. We hopped on the Dekalb Bus and returned to our play of stay for last-minute concert preparations (me).
Read Part 2 HERE !
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