The world-renowned hotel lends a hand around the block at St. Bart’s Church

Winter storm Nemo heaped more than a foot of snow onto the city last week, forcing businesses to close early, and New Yorkers to stay indoors. But at St. Bart’s Church soup kitchen on Park Avenue, things were a lot warmer with the help of Chef David Garcelon and the staff of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel.

The night of the storm, with no supplies for his soup kitchen, the Reverend Edward Sutherland, director of the community ministry, called up Chef David Garcelon, asking if he could help them out with supplies the following day. Even though at the time Garcelon was stranded at the airport in Canada, he remotely organized a gigantic dinner for the church. Next door, the kitchen staff at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel came by with only 45 minutes notice with a banquet meal for the 200 people in need.

Reverend Sutherland was amazed at the results.

“It was beautiful,” said Sutherland. “They walk in on Friday during Nemo and our tables are bare. We were thinking we’d get some soup, but they rolled up with chicken, steak, filet. It was amazing.”

But this is not the first time that St. Bart’s and the Waldorf Astoria have collaborated to feed hungry New Yorkers. Every Friday night, the staff at the hotel came by to cook dinner for the women’s shelter, which at the time houses eight women. Then, one Wednesday a month, Chef Garcelon himself brings a team of chefs to prepare breakfast for the soup kitchen.

“Its something my team is happy to do. We’re close neighbors,” said Garcelon. “My chefs feel really good about it. They take just as much pride as putting a meal together for people in the shelter [as in] preparing one for guests.”

It all began a couple of years ago with a few chefs volunteering in the church’s soup kitchen, which led to a meeting with Garcelon and eventually the weekly meals. The hotel also gives St. Bart’s their bread and leftovers, like many other restaurants in the area. They were particularly helpful during Hurricane Sandy, said Sutherland, when the chefs volunteered three days in a row to cook meals for the needy and stranded.

Sutherland said that in the future, he hopes to get some of the women in the shelter interested in learning to cook. He also wants to start a rooftop garden like the one at the Waldorf Astoria, and plans on getting gardening tips from them.

“Most people think of businesses as cold hearted and cruel, but here’s a business who isn’t,” said Sutherland. “Having homeless people eating around the block isn’t particularly helpful to hotels. The [usual] idea with the homeless is ‘we don’t want to see them.’ But they’re reaching out in this special way.”

Derrick Komorowski achieves his career goal of running a building

By John Friia

For a quarter century, Derrick Komorowski has been employed by TF Cornerstone Inc., holding numerous positions with the development and management company, including his most recent as the building manager of 2 Gold Street. Originally hailing from Poland, Komorowski moved to New York after living in Canada and Austria in 1986. He started working with TF Cornerstone on Nov. 2, 1987, as a concierge with a goal of becoming a building manager one day.

Setting that goal for himself, he knew he needed to take classes that would make him prepared for the job. While working, he enrolled in classes that would give him the needed skills, including lessons on boilers, pollution, carpentry, electricity, plumbing and many more. He needed to take these classes to become certified by the National Association of Homebuilders to be considered for the position of building manager.

He took those skills that he learned and used them hands-on at some of the buildings he worked in. “TFC definitely recognized my potential, and they gave me an opportunity to prove myself and reach my goal,” Komorowski said.

After he finally was hired as a building manager, the first location his managed was 45 Wall St. in the Financial District. After two years, he was transferred to 99 John St. and then he came to manage 2 Gold Street, the fairly new 51-story luxury building erected between Platt Street and Maiden Lane in the Financial District.

“It was very fulfilling for me to be entrusted with the responsibility of these buildings—these transfers showed me that I am being recognized for all my hard work,” Komorowski said.
As a residential building manager, Komorowski resides in the building and oversees everything to ensure that things are functioning properly, from technical issues to resident problems.

“One of things that I enjoy most about being a building manager are the many tasks that are given to me. I help with customer service, attending to residents’ needs, and to the building’s needs too,” he said.

Like many building throughout downtown, 2 Gold Street. was impacted by Hurricane Sandy and is currently uninhabitable due to severe flooding in the basement that damaged its systems; tenants have been told that they can expect to move back in March 2013. Komorowski explained that everyone is working hard to get the building safe for the residents, which includes reconstruction of all plumbing and heating systems, and to ensure that the building will function safely.

Working for TF Cornerstone for 25 years, he likes that everyone, even the executives, is easy to contact. “I can reach out to anyone at any level, and they will listen, and give me their personal attention” Komorowski noted.

“It is our pleasure to join Downtown Manhattan in honoring Derrick as an invaluable member of the community—as a helping hand and welcoming face,” said Kevin P. Singleton, executive vice president of TF Cornerstone Inc. “TF Cornerstone celebrates Derrick’s spirit and achievement.”
Since starting with the company, Komorowski said that the most exciting part is the opening of new buildings; as of today he has been a part of opening seven buildings. “I enjoy the process of converting commercial buildings into residential buildings, training the staff and meeting the new tenants,” he said.

A resident of downtown Manhattan for nearly 15 years, Komorowski has witnessed the transformation of the neighborhood firsthand. First living in the Financial District and currently living in the Gold Street building, Komorowski, a self-described “foodie,” noted that there has been an emergence of great restaurants and shopping in the area. He and his wife enjoy walking throughout the South Street Seaport and the many historical sites and flavors of downtown.
When he is not working at 2 Gold Street, Komorowski enjoys the outdoors while staying at his weekend house in the Catskill Mountains. “I love nature,” he said. While upstate he enjoys the tranquility and peacefulness that might be hard to find in Manhattan, and “recharges his batteries.”

“It is [far from] a boring job and I am very happy—right now I would not change a thing,” he said.

Having grown up in France, I have always been skeptical of social movements. It must be said that, in my home country, demonstrating is as much a means to express political grievances as it is a folkloric tradition. Almost every year, outraged citizens pour into the streets of Paris to protest the government’s latest plan to scam everyone out of their hard-earned social privileges and break a few things. And every year, things are pretty much the same.

First, the protest gains momentum. As students and workers join hands and media coverage expands, the movement often takes the shape of a seemingly unstoppable mass, a bulldozer cruising at full speed towards the wall it intends to tear down.

Then, the government sends in the police, and things start to get ugly. When you spend the whole day surrounded by cops in rioting gear, you usually end up feeling like you are supposed to riot. Like they are waiting for you to riot. I mean, come on, do you know how long it takes for a police officer to prep up for a demonstration? That’s a lot of pressure.

This is where it gets interesting. As clashes between protesters and the police intensify, most social movements end up turning into full-blown riots. While having hooded young men throw bricks and molotov cocktails at police cars makes for great publicity, the message has a tendency to get lost in all this violence. Media coverage increases, but all that people seem concerned about now is police brutality and overthrowing the system.

It usually ends one of two ways. Feeling the growing pressure and social discontent, the government decides to give in to the protesters’ demands (yeah right.) Either that, or the movement dies out. People start growing tired of getting beaten up and pepper sprayed on a daily basis. All this rioting has demolished their credibility anyways. So they go home. And when the blood stops flowing, the media lose interest. Finally, crushed by the weight of the omnipotent French pragmatism, the remaining activists give up, and their struggle fades away.

This violent, passionate and ultimately useless type of protest is of course not the intellectual property of the French. In the past few years, we have seen that the British and the Greek are equally adept (if not more talented) at rioting, while achieving very little politically. However, I must say that I was surprised when, last year, a protest erupted on the other side of the Atlantic ocean. I am of course referring to the birth of the Occupy movement.

At first, I found it hard to overlook my French cynicism. There was this tiny voice in my head that kept whispering “You’ll see, they’re pissed off now, then they’ll get even more pissed off, but soon they’ll get tired, go home and watch some TV.” I was giving OWS a couple of weeks, maybe a month, before it collapsed. You can imagine my astonishment as the movement unfolded before my eyes, spreading to the rest of the world in a matter of weeks. They had no coherence, very little organization, no real demands, no over-arching ideology, just the common belief that wealth could and should be better distributed by the powers in place. And yet, “they” were slowly becoming one of the biggest social movements in history.

I was impressed, but I was still skeptical. I knew that it was almost time. Time for the police to step in, time for the rioters to start burning things. Time for YouTube to pass those images around, time for more widespread indignation and outrage. And finally, time for lassitude, time for “we’ll get ‘em next time”, time for “it’s raining bro, screw this, lets go see Avengers.”

I have to say, Occupy lasted longer than I expected. Much, much longer. And, although on the decline, it isn’t dead yet. But there is one of my predictions that came true. A prediction based on years of seeing social movements try and fail, years of observing social activists in their natural habitat. My prediction was this: During protests, media coverage and general interest always peaks when skulls get cracked.

OWS was no exception. The movement reached the height of its popularity in October and November 2011, as images of peaceful protesters being dragged and sprayed by unwarrantably aggressive cops were buzzing all over the internet. However, since the forced evacuation of Zuccotti Park in mid-November, media coverage has been dwindling, and public interest is on the decline. Occupy Wall Street? That is so 2011.

Recent student movements in Canada to protest an increase in university tuition have experienced similar patterns. Like Paris, Montreal has a tradition of protesting stuff. It is as if, as the first flowers of Spring start blooming, Canadian students get together and sing songs and find something to be mad about. In fact, you have to admire the resolve of UQAM (Universite du Quebec a Montreal) students for having such short summer breaks, seeing as they often need to catch up on their fall semester, which was spent demonstrating.

This year, Canadian students definitely had something to be mad about, as the government announced it would raise academic tuition fee by 75% over the next five years. But what turned a relatively unnoticed social movement into a full-blown “Maple Spring” was, again, the police. As a measure to contain the protests, the Canadian government enacted an emergency law (“Bill 78”) that heavily restricts individual rights to protest, leading to hundred of arrests and heavy fines. As you can imagine, this only led to more protests. It is now the outrage directed at this deemed unconstitutional law that seems to drive the movement forward and generate an increasing global sympathy.

Once again, it seems that the original message is getting lost and taken over by a more general and angry anti-establishment sentiment. I can’t say that I frown upon the cause, since police brutality and restrictions on freedom of speech are issues that directly threaten the democratic process, and that should therefore be taken very seriously. But there is something not quite right with this picture.

What bothers me here is not that the police scare people out of demonstrating (even though they do.) What bothers me is to see that almost any government can silence its citizens. To see that police brutality has the ability to effectively divert the media, and hence the public’s attention, from almost any issue. What worries me is the government’s willingness to use force in order to avoid dialogue, as if negotiating with its citizens was a sign of weakness.

It is hard to say whether the Global Occupy movement will die out completely, but it is certainly showing signs that it is on the decline. In the meantime, we might want to keep a close eye on what happens in Canada, and make sure that the protesters’ outrage does not once again turn into lassitude.

I flew to Los Angeles with a big backpack filled with trail mix, granola bars, chocolate, cheese and a tent. My father met me there and drove me down to Campo at the Tijuana-California border. He left me at the fence, dust puffing from his tires like drab clouds.

There was a border monument marking the southern terminus of the 2,650-mile Pacific Crest Trail—a trail that fades in the mist and lush of northern Washington then ends in Canada. I would walk the length of the country.

I walked north from the Mexican border fence; the trail was well marked with rusty signs and scattered with lazy rattlesnakes baking in the sun’s warmth. I was eating a green apple, I remember, when I nearly stepped on the first one. I shrieked and ran south a hundred yards. I bit my apple, breathed, ate that apple—my last piece of fresh food; everything else was processed or salted or junk. I was fine. I walked back north, stepped over the snake, kept walking, stepped over another and another.

Within a few hours, I had met a dozen hikers, all attempting the same trans-country journey on foot. They seemed kind—young men, retired couples, a 30-year-old woman with big curly hair and good teeth; the curly lady smiled at me. I was curt. On my second day on the trail, I met a 20-year-old man—a former professional mountain bike racer from Switzerland. We hiked together for 700 miles and five weeks and then let the miles between us grow. He hiked faster than I did. I didn’t love him.

I made friends—a twentysomething girl with a ukulele and an angelic voice and face and a photographer with a master’s in psychology he had never used and didn’t want to. And packs of fit, hungry hikers, happy to hear my stories. Happy to know me.

In Bend, Ore., 1,970 miles north of that border monument dull with Campo dust and 1,500 miles from spiny pastel plants and rattlesnake teeth and venom and sadness, I met Justin. We were in town—the verdant, river-cut trail town of Bend—and we knew a handful of the same hikers. A big group of us went to dinner at the Deshutes Brewery. Justin sat next to me, close. He smiled a lot. I smiled—tried not to but couldn’t help it. Under the table, his knee brushed mine.

I lifted my hot hand, moved it slowly through the space between us like a teenaged boy would when trying to float unnoticed to second base; I pressed my trembling palm against Justin’s sweating beer, squeezed the glass. Lifted and carried it through the air to my mouth. Took a sip. I was 19.

Justin knew.

He was amused, contorted his face like he disapproved—but I knew he didn’t.

I was pulsing, invigorated. So fit from the miles and miles, unarmed and no longer unhappy.

I felt an illogical desire for Justin—my body, high on attraction and quivering, betrayed my mind.

We walked, together, 600 miles into Canada.

I remember our first day hiking together. Rain had poured down in sheets, smacking the soil, tearing up the trail. Earth washed away; roots loosened, left soaked and exposed. Lubricated with water, everything shone in the gray light.

Justin and I shouted over the downpour, shared childhood stories and our ambitions as we walked. We were saturated with rain to the bone, both of us, but I was giddy and on the verge of laughter.

My walk with Justin ended in the mist-dense Cascade Mountains on a garden stage at the end of a lily-lined aisle. Storm clouds, gray, navy and low, illuminated the flowers, the fine clothing, the glassware in soft, important light. The mist was backlit by sunlight, bathing the Cascade foothills in silver.

Justin and I read our vows and grinned and cried on a stone stage over the Cascade Mountain garden, lightning flashing like a camera. Camera flashes would have been invisible under that sky. My parents were there in the garden, happy and warm and not too nervous.