SOLO DRIVEN ADVENTURE HUNGRY –
EASTERN AMERICAN ANALOG ADVENTURE CULTURE TOUR
New York 2.1
Brooklyn, New York
A girl, her LandRover and their adventures © Monaya MaGaurn 2021
The next day I promised him we would go to Brooklyn if we could find a place to put Sarge. The situation we came up with – leave Sarge’s spare tires at Brooklyn Coachworks and then stuff him in an underground garage next to the Williamsburg Bridge. The keeper of this garage was a rasta named Mike, he was a chef and a handy man as well. I and Sarge felt in good company. He did look me up and comment about my hair cut. “Don’t ever cut your hair again.” he said. I smiled thinking, grow the hair, no salt, raw food. I have walked your path a few days.
Some thing about New York that completely baffles me is how they keep developers from constantly smashing everything to make new parking garage next to hotels or apartments. I am always carrying luggage at least three blocks. Its a double edge on building preservation and convenience.
The German signed in at the front desk when we got to the building. I took the keys from the doorman’s hands and was in the elevator before he finished. It reminded me of the place I lived in downtown Minneapolis but OLD. My mind began to play tricks on me, telling me if I wanted, I too could live in Brooklyn.
Upon opening the door of this place I noticed a C2B box and a bunch of other very specific items in the flat. I looked upon the hood above the Viking stove….La Gratonia Tequila, who was this person whose flat I was staying in? I pulled out my laptop, dropped the projector screen, and played Eric Clapton while I sat in an Eames Chair admiring whoever’s saxophone.
Waking up in a New York flat with remote-controlled drapes would be something most people would say, wow – I have never done this before. My mind mentioned, wow, these aren’t like the ones that the house in Nevada had…those were bulletproof or armored or something. The Williamsburg Bridge right outside the window – yes, that was special. The air fern next to my head too. Today was going to be a day in the city. I wanted to go to the doors of Le Halles because I knew there would be no eating there. And the Met, I planned to go to those two places. We checked one box and learned German men are just like the rest of the men on the planet.
After many hours of walking around time square a place I absolutely hate. I went to find a toilet and some Jameson. He started getting into alcohol consumption and I let him have it. Because, like hell, I was going to buy this nincompoop another dinner, let him take another photo of me, or even listen to his shit anymore. And sure, go right ahead thinking I’m a total bitch for calling him a nincompoop. The dude eats noodles with ketchup and milk – no. That’s a hard no for me. It was 3 in the afternoon by now, blisters yelled at me in my boots, and my mind started to punch the German in the face. I had to go to the place, first in my mind, second literally with my feet. I walked, painfully.
Standing in front of the doors of the former Le Halles, I thought to myself, this dude I’m walking around with has no idea who Anthony Bourdain is. Or why this matters to me. To this day as I write this – he still doesn’t know who he is. And it hit me square in the face – this dude like all humans is picking and choosing, forming his own version of me.
Dali was one surrealist of many.
The following day – I made breakfast and explained I would be heading to the Met, and if he would like to come, that’s fine, but I would be taking a cab. He needed to be at the airport by one and asked if I would drive him in Sarge – I replied – No and went on my way. I remember being in the cab thinking about how much this was costing me, because for some reason when you just pay for yourself as a woman, men tend to bring up money. Of course I had to hear about it. Thinking to myself – the last time I was here I didn’t even bring a bag of clothes and I had chocolate cake anytime I wanted, what the fuck was going on?
The Met exhibition I was interested in was Surrealism of the world, the genre known as Salvidor Dali. It was like hearing the entire catalog of Motown for the first time. Each and every artist with there absolutely unique expression with a bizarre twist that seemed like another dimension of the same world we all live in. The black and white film with the man who tried to eat but had the food fall through the table, the wall, and evade him for several minutes. Films always suck me in, reactions falling out of me as laughter or awe . I knew Surrealism existed as an entire movement simultaneously happening all over the world. . It was incredibly moving to see so many perspectives using the same approach to an idea. Another world basically, a view no one had ever seen of the world. An idea that most rejected. The second part that really started to cook in my noodle – Dali was just the super influencer, he’s not even the best here. He produced more and pushed more buttons with the right person. There was more humans connected to this, there were humans with stronger messages than Dali. Like a Warhol without a production staff.
The German had no idea what to do with himself. So I made a point to let him in on the excitement. Sure, I have made it sound like I hate doing that, but in the interest of connecting with humans, this was art. As far as I am concerned – you can’t avoid being connected with art. I dragged him over to a print of circles. The artist’s information stated that the artist was a motorcycle designer by trade and that the print was of sexual positions. There was something like 12 top-down piston-looking things. Uniform circles with side indents. Each one had an abstract, blob looking shape inside. The colors where shaded mostly blues and greens, with a colored pencil look. It was a great print. The only comment he had – “I wonder which one is anal.” I am jill’s complete disappointment in men.
I was ready to cut the cord. “Let’s go get Sarge…, and I’ll drive you over to JFK!” I wasn’t taking any chances of this turd clinging onto the bowl. I drove him to the airport and got him out of the car. The entire time trying not to get upset that I let someone in on my fun and they farted in my bubble. I don’t really get upset at men, I get upset with myself and that is fucking dramatic. I watched him do weirdo-man stuff, including taking one of Nhu’s cookies and using it for a photo but not eat it. I wonder if dudes understand how cringey they are when they’re being an ass. Either way – we laugh. Ladies laugh at this. Not with you. Don’t do it.
I put Sarge away and took out my bike. I hadn’t biked the entire trip, and I thought this would be a moment I would remember my entire life. And it is. Cruising around by the Williamsburg bridge with a full-suspension mountain bike is like being in a James Bond film. You have a helmet and gloves on while dodging traffic and beautiful humans in designer clothing. I turned a corner and felt like a dog with a long nose. My entire head turned with the smell. Two hipster kids were burning a fatty. I looked at them and asked myself why I didn’t live in Brooklyn. Bam – I hit a curb, and the bike came out from under me.
Back at the flat, I nursed my feet, ate some leftovers, and looked around the kitchen. I had a sweet tooth, and there was no way I was going on a hunt after the last two days. I started to tear apart the kitchen, playing chopped. I found luxardo cherries, tortillas, sugar, and tangerines. I remembered my absolute favorite stoner go-to in-a-pinch dish – the fruity enchilada.
The first time I made a fruity enchilada was after three months and a long night at the Lexington. This creation spawned from the first bong load I had taken as an executive chef. I would take home any expired dessert components and my freezer-provided rhubarb compote. The original fruity enchilada was rhubarb banana. A fruity enchilada starts by filling a tortilla with fruit compote, rolling it up, and placing it seam-side down in a pan of hot oil. After it’s fried and holding on – take a bit of the fruit compote and smear it on the plate. Stick the tortilla here. This keeps it in place. (pro-tip, do that with any dessert that will slide on the plate). Cut some strips of tortilla up and place them in the oil, and fry. Pull them and set them aside. Let’s get tricky. Dry caramel to give the whole thing a good snap. Put the sugar in the pan and watch. As it all rolls together, pour the molten liquid on your plated enchilada. Place the tortilla strips in a fan and stick them up using the dry caramel. Quinelle any compote and place next to the enchilada. I squeezed a tangerine on it too. I was extremely satisfied with this moment and sat in the Eams chair to eat it.
It was six am before I knew it. I remember smiling at this person’s air fern, wondering if they do that every morning when they wake up too. The art was not hung on the walls here, I assume because the sun is wicked, and this human had some really lovely pieces. So I would look at the prints propped up on the floor and return to the air fern. When I did finally get up, I nearly fell over. My feet were really mad at me today. I went to take a shower and spent a long time afterward taking care of my body. I cut away the skin, glued the edges of the wounds, and covered everything with 100s of mickey mouse bandaids. If I was hurt, I was going to at least look cute.
I made myself breakfast and started getting the flat all spick and span. Knowling well that I would get to throw stuff down a trash shoot, I live for that. I put everything next to the door, started the washer, and picked up Sarge. I glanced across the street as I pulled up into the loading zone. A 90s Range Rover Country was parked on the other side of the street, all kitted and ready for the wild. I packed everything up and took a couple of laps around the block. I wasn’t ready to leave it all yet. Gazing at orthodox Jews living their best lives. It was so interesting. I pushed on knowing there would be no end to interesting stuff over at Santa’s Workshop. Two cortados and lots of Landy talk – I had to keep going.
I loaded up Sarge’s tires, took a photo, and started an Instagram live as it became apparent I was going to drive across Manhatten in a Landrover Defender. One of the last things Dan and I talked about was Bill Cooper. I asked if I should visit as Bill had slid into the DMs. “GO, you won’t regret it.” That was all he told me.
Sarge and Me
Sarge and Me is a project years in the making with Monaya’s first Defender experience in 2010. Later teaming up with Bishop and Rook in 2018. A celebration of analog culture legacy, independence, and eccentricity, Sarge and Me is going on the road. Follow along @mynameismonaya