So, I became a member of Citibike, the bike-share system launched in NYC in May, fairly early on. I wasn’t one of the people with a little blue key fob the first week, but I was there by the third. And I’m here to tell you why I don’t much like it.
Some of this is probably unfair, and I’m sure many of my complaints are shared by just about every big city bike-share system in the world. But still, I can’t say I’m not disappointed. When I first heard about Citibike, I got pretty excited since I have a long walk to a subway hub, and I thought bikes could become a part of my daily commute. Or I could just use it to help me run errands after work. Alas, it’s not as easy as it sounds.
The system works roughly like this: You have an annual membership (around $100) that allows you to use a key fob to unlock any bike in the city. You then have 45 minutes to ride it to your destination, and you must park it at another bike dock before time is up, or get charged some pretty outrageous fees. For those who buy only a day or week bike pass, the time limit is reduced to 30 minutes. In NYC, this is theoretically not a difficult hurdle since the bike racks are practically everywhere. Well, except for where you need to go.
Oddly, there are very few racks on the far East and West of Manhattan, where you would think the demand would be high because of the dedicated (and therefore more safe) bike lanes that run along the edges of the island and give you fantastic river views. But nope, all the racks are at least 5 blocks from the edge, forcing you to grab a bike and ride through NYC traffic to reach these oases.
And NYC traffic is terrifying. I’ve now ridden through it several times, and I immediately get panicky and sweaty, my heart pounding hard enough to cause ripples in my shirt. Many streets are one-way, and have no bike lane, and vehicles will not hesitate to honk and narrowly swerve around you. You are constantly scanning the cars parked to your right, hoping against hope that someone isn’t about to open a door and clothesline you to DEATH. Seeing brake lights is a good indication that a door is about to open, but not always. Pedestrians also couldn’t give less of a shit about you, and will cross directly in front of your path even if you have a green light. Nobody looks. Nobody pays attention.
I have never been so aware of traffic as when I’m on a Citibike.
The bikes themselves are also insanely heavy at about 45 lbs. apiece. For someone who is 5’0″, this makes for an ungainly wobbling ride through hot, crowded streets. To unlock the bike from a dock, you have to physically lift up the bike and remove it from the magnetic lock, which is a task I struggle with mightily. I have such problems docking and undocking the damn things that often a bystander will do it for me out of pity. The small baskets on the front of the bikes have bungee cords to hold your belongings, but I find they’re still too small for my purse (though to be fair, my purse is the size of my entire torso).
But my biggest gripe with Citibike is the docking situation. There is an app for the system that is supposed to tell you how many docks are free (and therefore able to be parked in) in a given location, but in practice, the numbers are wildly inaccurate. Every time I have tried to park near my apartment, the docks are all full, no matter that the app told me that there were five parking spots. I then ride another five minutes to another dock, now not very close at all to my apartment, which is ALSO full, though the app assured me that seven delicious parking spots were ready and waiting. Upon arriving at my THIRD dock, I find not only zero parking spaces (the app said there were nine), but also two other worried-looking Citibike riders circling around, fruitlessly seeking a place to leave their bikes. One rider, fed up with the system, just left their bike by the docks and threw up his hands in disgust. Doing this will automatically charge your credit card $1000, so finding a dock, and finding it QUICKLY (before your 45 minutes are up) is imperative.
On three separate occasions, I have had to go to four different docks before finally finding a parking space, and frantically shoving your bike into a dock is a race against time. Often, another bike is racing towards the same one empty parking spot, and it is survival of the fittest. I have had to ride aimlessly around Manhattan for 30 minutes searching for spots at 1 in the morning. I then have a long walk in the dark to actually get to my apartment. It would have been faster to simply ride the subway and walk in the first place. Also, a few times, docks have been “closed for rebooting” or simply closed indefinitely, the shiny bikes glittering in the sun, but ultimately useless.
Despite the fact that I have paid for a year’s worth of this system, I plan on walking from now on. It’s simply not worth the stress of both the streets and the docks. Of course, this could all be remedied if I just spent $200 or so on my own bike and parked it at my apartment, but then it would probably get stolen. NYC bike thieves seem to be second to none. Also, I am supremely lazy. So there.
So, SantaCon is (by this point) an international parade of Santas and drunkenness.
The NYC one is pretty huge every year, though I had never gone before. Mostly because I didn’t want to be trampled by surly Santas. But since I’m never one to turn down an opportunity to wear a costume in public, I decided to attend.
The celebration was on December 15 this year, and it was crowded, but luckily not the shit show I had been anticipating. I dressed as a reindeer and swam as a furry lump of brown in a sea of cheap red velveteen. People were drunk, and I got stepped on a few times, but most people were actually more jolly than out of control. Every bar even vaguely on the Santa route had people lining up for 30+ minutes just to get inside, so my co-worker and I popped into the largest bars we could find. Once inside, it was nearly impossible to get a drink, but with patience, we were finally able to enjoy ourselves amidst the nearly 30,000 people dressed up and hammered that day.
Also, these photos have once again reminded me that I need to lose some weight. Sigh. Below are also photos of a packed Santa bar (off the route, so at least you could breathe in there), and this one girl’s awesome homemade menorah costume. All the candles lit up!
This was many years ago, when I was working a horrific temp job at an office in West Midtown.
It’s not that the job was difficult, but it was incredibly boring. Day after day, I sat in a stark white reception area with neon-colored waiting room furniture that was hard as a rock. There were no windows, and the office manager was certifiably insane and paranoid. There were no less than three cameras in that tiny waiting room – one pointed at me, one pointed at the elevators, and one pointed right at my computer screen. That third camera was to make sure I wasn’t “getting into trouble” online. Most websites were blocked anyway, but that damn camera over my shoulder made sure that I couldn’t log on to anything remotely “fun.” The phone rang maybe five times a day, and maybe three guests arrived each week. The rest of my time was spent staring into blank white space, and waiting for my brain to leak out of my ears and end it all.
I ended up working there for four months, despite the boredom. I was the only office staff in the building that didn’t speak Spanish, and consequently everyone who worked in the mail room bitched about me endlessly in a language they thought I couldn’t understand. I mean, I don’t speak Spanish well by any means, but I know when I’m being cursed at for no particular reason. I soon started taking the mail room staff up on their offer to drink tequila shots every day at the end of work. Hell, I had nothing else to do, though I still had to endure the Spanish insults while I sucked down some Jose Cuervo.
This was before the economic downturn, so there was an office holiday party that entailed mandatory attendance. I hate being forced to have “fun” with co-workers. I always get trashed, make a fool out of myself, then usually lose some piece of important electronics. This is a pattern that has repeated itself time and time again.
The holiday party was 80s-themed for some reason, which meant a lot of fatass co-workers in spandex and leg warmers. The 80s were cruel to many; why must we bring them back? I don’t need to see the fat rolls of the girl in accounting encased in magenta leggings.
Anyway, after stuffing myself full of free food and drinking until I was about to pass out, it was time to stumble home. I headed towards the subway along the streets of the Meatpacking District, freezing to death but determined to not pay for a cab. Suddenly, a car pulls alongside me, and a man dangles out the window and starts gesturing to me. In my drunken state, I thought maybe he was lost and looking for directions.
As I plodded my way to the car window, he asks me point blank, “So, Honey, how much?” He’s looking me up and down, and I realize he thinks I’m for sale.
Aw, shit no, I must look really bad. Did I vomit on myself and not realize it? I’m wearing knee-high boots and a houndstooth coat – is this the new uniform for the world’s oldest profession? Am I now a new preppy breed of streetwalker?
I guess the look on my face must have said it all, since he hastily apologized, rolled up the window, and sped off.
I later found out I lost my cell phone that night. Drunkenness, embarrassment, and lost electronics – it happens every damn time.