When I arrived at the Haunted House at the Vortex Theater on 164 11th Ave. I was horrified. I was expecting blood and gore. Basically the undead. Instead I got an extreme psychological experience.

For three weeks I debated whether or not I should go. Other haunted houses were nothing; fun you can experience with a group of friends. You never realized how fear works until you experience it alone, which is precisely the point at this haunted house.

With other people around you can laugh your way out of anything, make jokes and scream as you hold on to each other for comfort. When I was deprived of that, I found myself stripped of the bravery I used to be so proud of.

I waited in line for a while, making conversation with woman in front of me. She was quite the haunted house enthusiast having visited many houses last year and one already this year. I jumped and twitched, constantly moving around anxiously waiting for my turn as we talked. But her, nothing. Calmly, she spoke in detail of past haunted house experiences and about the ones in town this year.

Finally, a man all dressed in black appeared from behind the curtain and took her away. After about ten minutes he came back for me. I stepped into a black room with curtains for doors, illuminated only by the strobe light high up on the wall. "Step on the white X please and don't move," he said leaving me and walking over to the woman I had been talking to 10 minutes ago. She was standing on a white X facing the strobe light, a white surgical mask covering her mouth and nose.

"Did you buy a shot of whiskey?" he asked when he returned.

"What?" I asked confused, then saw the bottle on the table next to me. "Oh, uh, no."

"Ok, put this on."

He handed me a mask. I did as told and continued to stand completely still. The woman soon disappeared behind the curtains leaving me alone with my surgical mask and the man in black. He led me to the other X where the woman had been standing and secured two zip ties around each of my wrists.

"Are you prepared to crawl?" he asked."

"Yes."

"Are you prepared to follow instructions?"

"Yes"

"Do you know the safety word?"

"Safety?"

"You got it," he said then pulled out a tiny flashlight that was really more like a dying penlight.

"Follow the white line at all times, it's your friend, stick to it no matter what," he said handing me the flashlight.

Then from somewhere in the darkness I was about to voluntarily wonder into we head "SAFETY!" "I'll be right back," the man in black said before sprinting off. He returned with the woman I had been talking to earlier. She had only been gone a few minutes. I stared wide-eyed as she took her mask off and gave her flashlight back. "Good luck," she said before walking out into the light of the lobby.

"Now you know how safety works," the man in black said flashing a smile.

"Anyway, this is your light, gray button turns it on." All the illumination it provided was a fading blue light.

"I can't see anything with this," I said frantically as he pushed me to the start of the white line.

"Bend down," he said with a smile then disappeared behind the curtain. On my own in the darkness, I took a deep breath, bent down and started to follow the line. The anticipation was getting to me. Any minute I knew something was going to jump out and grab me. My breathing was growing heavier with each step I took. I couldn't see anything except the line in front of me which I immediately lost when two faceless hands grabbed me by the shoulders and screamed, "Don't move!"

I froze.

"Step up!" I did so. "Step up!" Yet again I did so. "Step down and don't move!"

A bag was then placed over my head and violently secured with what I imagine was an elastic band. "Hands behind your back!" another voice screamed. Before I could even move my arms, they were pulled back and chained together.

I was left standing in the dark. Silence. "Do you want to play with me?" a doll's dry mechanical voice said into my ear. I moved away from the voice only to be met by the maniacal giggling of a clown. Shaking slightly I stood in place, trying to remind myself it wasn't real. Right as I was beginning to muster up some courage, a hand slowly slid under the bag on my head and pulled the elastic band back.

Another hand pushed my head to side and held it there leaving my neck exposed. Something cold traveled along the contours of my neck, then something hot, followed by slow breathing first on my collarbone then in my ear. I whimpered involuntarily, trying to block out the mysterious breathing with my own heaving breaths. The bag was making it hard to breath. A sudden touch to the shoulder made my head turn. "Hey!" a voice screamed.

I froze.

The chains came off and the bag was ripped off my head. Taking hold of me once more, two hands had me step up, step up, step down, step down and continue on my way.

It took me a minute to adjust to the darkness, but I soon saw a long corridor with hanging trash bags before me. A attempted walking for a bit, but quickly grew tired of the plastic smacking me in the face. Dropping to my knees, I crawled on. I reached the end of the corridor and turned a corner. Clear of the trash bags, I stood up and resumed walking.

"Hands against the wall," someone said pushing me into the black brick, holding my wrists down. "Spread your legs and don't move!" I stood still feeling like a criminal being searched as unknowing hands moved all up and down my body. A bright light was shined on the side of my face. I flinched away from the light. My flashlight was then violently taken.

"Go on!" I was once again alone. "But I can't see the line," I whispered more to myself then the unknown assailant who was surely gone by then. I fumbled down the following hall, trying my best to keep to the line I could not make out. I reached a door with a sign that read "Open the door." As much as I didn't want to know what was behind the door, I took hold of the knob and pushed.

A flood of white light blinded me as I stumbled into the room. Plastic hung from the roof and a slow, twangy, country song played in the background. A person with long black hair swung back and forth on a chair, singing along. I hurried past him/her toward the door marked "Exit," not wanting to see what horrific face might lie beneath the curtain of dark hair. I reached the door and thought I was home free until I tugged on the door and heard a loud clank. I looked down and saw a heavy lock was impeded my escape, leaving me unsure of what to do for the white line led directly to the door.

I turned to find the person in the chair, who turned out to be a man, starring at me.

"The lock baby," he said in an unusually high voice.

I tugged at the lock once more to no avail.

"You want the key baby?" he asked lifting his wrist, revealing the key. "Come and get it baby," he said motioning me toward him with a single feminine finger.

The moment I began to inch toward him, he ran at me and yelled, "You want the damn key?!"

He had me pinned to the door now, but quickly pulled back.

"Sorry 'bout that baby," he said regaining his "composure." The only thing he was wearing was an open robe and strange make-up all over his face.

"What are you willing to do for the key?" he continued, dangling it in front of me. I said nothing, shrinking where I stood, attempting to hide behind my own shoulder.

"Come on baby," he said running a finger down my cheek and removing my mask. I pulled away, scrunching my face. "Go on, take the key," he said holding it up. I made a grab for it, but he caught my hand midair.

"Such soft hands...you must moisturize," he said rubbing and caressing my hand. I ripped my hand out of his and quickly grabbed the key.

"Oh well go on and take it." I wrestled the key from his wrist and turned to the door. "I'll hold the lock, you just stick it in the hole baby," he whispered into my ear causing every hair on my neck and arms to stand on end. "Just stick it in the hole!" he yelled.

I fumbled with the lock until I got it open. I shoved the key and lock into his extended hand and made to leave the room.

"Put your mask back on baby...You're going to need it!" he screamed pushing me out off the room.

A small tunnel lay ahead of me with a sign that read, "Crawl." My heart was pounding. I sucked it up, dropped down and began crawling.

Shredded newspaper covered the ground and flaps of plastic whipped my face as I crawled on. I heard what sounded like someone heading in my direction, then saw a bright green mask charging right at me. I stopped, paralyzed. When it reached me, it pushed me out of its way and crawled past me. Up against the wall, I caught my breath and resumed crawling.

I heard more charging, this time coming from behind. Not wanting to be shoved aside again, I picked up speed and hurried to the end of the tunnel. I reached concrete and stood up before the green mask could reach me. Letting out a sigh of relief I walked on and saw the man in black; at that moment all the tension in my body gushed out.

"You made it," he said with a smile.

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A Taste of Home

When you come from far away, homesickness will constantly eat at you. One way I found I can defeat it is by doing just that: eating. Being of Spanish decent, it is my cuisine of choice that always manages to put my nostalgic mind at ease.

So naturally when I decided to dine out last Friday night, I chose La Paella Spanish tapas restaurant. La Paella restaurant has been adding a Spanish twist to the East Village by serving tapas and pouring out their sangria since May 1995 when owner Rachid first opened its doors. Today, people still flock to its rustic wooden tables and benches for a deliciously foreign dining experience, crowding it to capacity on Friday and Saturday nights.

A true gem of the East Village, La Paella is not part of a chain and is the owner’s only restaurant. La Paella as well as the block it sits on, East Ninth Street between second and third avenues, are true representatives of the diverse village they call home.

When I arrived for dinner, most of the 70 seats in both the upper and lower levels of the restaurant were filled. The only available table-for-two was a small one by the front glass window overlooking bustling Ninth Street. It was perfect for my friend Gina and me.

Almost every other table had a pitcher of La Paella’s renowned sangria or a plate of its famous paella (a typical Spanish rice dish with delicious chunks of seafood, meat or anything that tickles your taste buds). But that’s not all La Paella has to offer. The moderately priced menu boasts a variety of tapas as well as soups, salads, ceviche (citrus-marinated seafood dish) and desserts. My dish of choice, “Croquetas de Bacalao” (cod and potato croquettes), is $9.50 and enough to fill me up.

The food is not only well priced, but phenomenal and truly authentic. The familiar flavors remind me of my mother; an array of ingredients surrounding her as she stands over the stove cooking and singing the songs of my childhood.

With the ability to conjure such strong memories in Hispanics like me, it’s no wonder the restaurant has been praised and featured in publications and guides such as the New York Times, New York magazine, NYCgo and TripAdvisor.

No one rushed us out despite the increasing amount of people waiting outside. I hated to leave because once we were done I could feel the homesickness coming back and the sound of my mother’s voice fading away.

Unique to him

Pete Hamill is what my Puerto Rican family would call "un duro". Someone who is damn good at what he does. Experience, unique style and passion. He has it all. Just like his beloved city: New York.

When he walked into the classroom of 15 journalism students at the NYU Arthur Carter Institute, the 74-year-old's presence was immediately felt.

The currently distinguished writer in residence at NYU spoke for over an hour. Just like my "abuelita" when I ask her to tell me stories.

“It’s wonderful coming in contact with people who are seeing the city for the first time in a real way,” Hamill said.

A native of Brooklyn, New York City truly is embedded in his life and writing, but it is not the only spice in the intricate recipe that is Pete Hamill.

One can say Hamill is quite the international man having married twice. First to Ramona Negron, a "puertoriquena" like me. Then to Fukiko Aoki, a Japanese journalist with whom he remains.

Marrying outside your own ethnicity is a very enriching experience, Hamill said.

Youth was the culprit that dissolved his first marriage that ended in divorce in 1968. But not before blessing him with two daughters, Adrienne and Dierdre, and a love of Latin music. His young "boricua" love was 18 and he 24, both on the verge of the 60s.

"It would be unfair to get into details," Hamill said. "It was nobody's fault, it just didn't work."

Though Hamill and Negron couldn't work things out, it seems most everyone can find common ground with Hamill. Even the great Frank Sinatra could see eye to eye with him.

“We were friends, but we were New York friends,” Hamill said. “We shared similar backgrounds. We came from immigrant families, weren’t formally educated, but we found our way.”

Art, sports, war, journalism, fiction and love are just a few of the realms Hamill has delved into at some point in his life.

He has spent the longest amount of time working at the New York Post. Hamill has also worked and written for various publications such as the New York Times, The Village Voice and the New Yorker.

Hamill has also written many books and is currently working on one due to be released by late spring.

Hamill is all over the place. Destination and topic wise. But New York City is what he always returns to. Both in his travels and his writing.

Apparently Dorothy had it right when she said "There's no place like home." His city has molded not only his life, but also his writing, neither of which he is done with.

“I’ll stop writing when they carry me to Greenwood cemetery,” said Hamill. “I try to live my life without finishing.”