The following story is one that is sharp in my memory from my childhood. It is a story that I could use to define the way I was raised, and the way my father raised me, in particular.
When I was 9 years old, my dad and I went to a sporting event and had our car towed.........
Dad and I broke into the car lot, and took it back.
Now, before you typecast my father as a villain, or call the police, let me explain:
Upon discovering our missing vehicle we contacted the car-towing company, where a wayward employee told my father to meet him after hours to exchange the car for a very large cash sum. My father, being business savvy and nothing close to naive, knew he was being swindled. It was late, and we had no way back to our Salt Lake Suburb, which was 30 miles away.
Either Dad assisted the unruly man in making some extra change through the back door, or he could claim the car himself...you already know the outcome.
Dad and I made our way to the lot in the middle of the night where we climbed the fence, hotwired the car, unchained the gate, and drove off.
Well, Daddy did all that, but I was still there.
Days later the towing company called saying they had our car and we could pick it up for a small fee. According to them, the car had been taken from a close location, and the payment to reclaim it was minor.
Dad responded into the telephone calmly:
"That's impossible. You can't have my car. It's sitting in my driveway."
"Oh, right. That's strange. Very sorry sir. There must have been some mistake."
Daddy hung up the phone and it was never addressed again.
This is an event in my life I have only learned to really appreciate with age.
I mean, here I am, nine years old, assisting my father in grand theft auto.
I didn't grasp the magnitude of the situation at the time, and the recap you're about to read is from that childlike perspective. I'm sure if my Dad retold it, it would be a much different version. A version filled with a little more anger, a little more fear, and maybe even a little remorse. At nine years old, I simply thought it was fun.
Now that I am older, I realize that car theft isn't something normal people do as a pastime. I also understand that not every instance of bullying requires such drastic action, and, unlawful action at that. But, as my father's daughter I can testify of my Dad's honest, trustworthy nature, and this one time scenario simply embodies the concepts he was always trying to teach me, just usually in a more diluted way.
The morals of this story are parallel to everything I've ever learned from him:
Family first
If you're going to do it, do it right
Stand up for yourself
and, Sometimes it's okay to bend the rules
Thanks Dad, for being the kind of parent that not only teaches me lessons, but lets me live them.
This one's for you:
I am sitting in the passenger's seat of our 1999 ford ranger. I am small enough that my feet dangle from the bench seat without touching the floor. A Billy Joel hit is playing on the radio.
Daddy is concentrating as he drives down the interstate, eyes fixated on the lane in front of him while his lips move in unison with the chorus.
"Every bodies talkin' bout the new sound funny bit its still rock n roll to me..," we sing.
It is another winter's night where the cold creeps up on the sides of the windows. Frosty patterns warn of the below freezing temperature. Daddy and I are on our way to the Utah Jazz Basketball game.
The game is my Christmas present to him, which I think is quite clever. I enjoy the team as much as he, and I gave him two tickets with the intuition he'd have me as his guest.
***
Were approaching the arena now.
Dad says,"Dunno if were gonna find parking sis."
Rows of cars line the streets and men in orange vests patrol the nearby lots, holding cardboard signs that read '$10 to enter'.
A sandwich shop sits kiddy corner to the venue. Lit in yellow fluorescent lights, the familiar chain is hard to miss.
We pull into the shop's parking lot and make our home in a stall near the entrance.
"All non-patrons will be toed," screams a large white sign facing our windshield.
"That's exactly why were going to have a sandwich," Dad says while smiling and cutting the engine.
***
We enter the basketball arena clutching two plastic bags that contain our ham and cheese dinner. Our seats are near the back, but nothing to worry.
"We'll move closer to the action," Dad tells me between plays, "We can go at the end of the quarter. It should be fine,"
***
I am now sitting next to daddy in row 7. I am closer than I have ever been to the court, and Karl Malone seems more like an actual sports heroine, than an actor who plays a basketball player on channel 13. Daddy and I cheer loudly, and laugh at the mascot during halftime while eating snow cones and cotton candy.
***
The jazz win the game, which I have credited to the luck of our presence. Were exiting with the rest of the excited crowd. I have my dad's arm in hand and half of a salty pretzel.
My elation is doused as we walk across the street to our car, which is no longer parked in its stall.
"What do we do now, dad?", I ask. This is more than an inquiry than a vocalization of worry. I know dad will take care of it.
***
At the hotel next door dad asks the man behind the counter to use the telephone.
"You mean to say you have my car....you towed it?!" dad growls, agitated.
"...and you want how much money, and to meet you when??" He yells
then puts down the phone.
His voice reminds me of the time I tricked my little brother into giving me his $6 allowance... Daddy found out.
***
"C'mon Sis", Daddy says holding my hand as we walk down an unpaved road, neither of us dressed for adventure. Cotton clouds float from our mouths as we breathe out the frigid air.
I see an overpass ahead, where a homeless man warms his fingers over a lit up trash bin. I feel dads grip on my hand tighten.
***
25 minutes have passed and my fingers feel like otter pops. We finally come to a tall chain-link fence. Its presence seems foreboding, and I know it's not the same kind of fence used to keep dogs in the yards at our subdivision, well, not golden retrievers, or beagles, anyway.
Daddy's face is pressed up against the cold metal as he inspects what's inside.
"Looks clear, I'm going to lift you over sis"
***
I am now standing on top of what I think was Henry Fords first vehicle. The once sky blue exterior is mostly red from rain and oxidation. The place is a landfull, riddled with car after car which are mostly broken down, and corroded with rust and missing tires. The parts and tin somehow all fit together, in a puzzle like fashion, leaving little room for the pavement below. Dad jumps on the roof of one vehicle to the next, a little bit like the chimney sweep in 'Mary Poppins', searching for our little white truck.
***
Finally Daddy is waving his arms in victory. He has spotted our needle in the haystack. And, there's bonus, the old toe truck by the Mercedes has a fully stocked tool it.
I feel like tom sawyer or someone from a made for TV movie. Dad is a superhero! Yeah, that's right! Daddy is invincible and I am his sidekick! He is john wayne and I am Walter brennan. he is Indiana and i am Short Round... he is batman and I am robin...he is.. well, you get the picture.
***
I'm a whiny sidekick now, so consequentially I am sitting inside the little truck, and watching as daddy uses pliers to twist the chain-link free from its grip on a metal pole. The car has been hot wired and the heat is turned to a temperature that would thaw any Eskimo.
Daddy taps his fingers on the window and I roll it down. The chill creeps in and dad's nose is red from the cold.
"alright sis, open the door and scoot over. were gonna drive 'er through."
Dad puts the car in gear and although the chain link is off, the bare bones of the fence still remain. The truck is too wide.
"DagNabbit",
I'm old enough to know he might prefer another word besides dagnabbit, but his sidekick has small ears.
Daddy reverses, opens the car door and steps out, pushing the rear-view mirrors flat against the cars sides.
He gets back in and shifts into first gear. We pull through, with only centimeters to spare.
We park just outside the front gate, and I wait a little longer while daddy stretches the chain link back over the fence, and fastens the wires. "2:00am" glows the dashboard clock. My eyes feel heavy from the use of adrenaline and the time.
***
Dad finally gets back in the truck and lets me forgo my lap-belt and lay across the seat with my head on his knees. The corners of my mouth are upturned into a smile while I close my eyes. My imagination is running wild with thoughts of a crime-fighting, father-daughter dynamic duo.
As I drift off I keep entertaining one thought: "Next year, I am buying Dad season tickets."
Monday, December 27, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Lazy but Lovely
December 12th:
It's 2am and I am riding the M train toward herald square. There is a lone man sitting across from me. His head rests against the map of New York City, and he has a ten gallon hat tipped over one eye while the other is closed.
Brown boots laden with rusty spurs meet the floor below him. He is reminiscent of an old western cinema, only, removed from the shades of black and white and placed amidst the speeding color of the city.
He probably looks unusual walking down 7th avenue or Broadway. Passerby's might assume he has a lead role in Oklahoma, but, I can see from his dirty nap sack that fame and fortune have only eluded him.
There is something poetic about his presence in the car.
He's a New York City cowboy, holding onto a slower way of life in a place with the quickest draw.
The subway acts as his trusty steed as he wanders from Brooklyn to Queens.
December 16th 2010:
Its my Christmas gift exchange among friends. Danielle, Jewlie, Ashley and I are meeting at Olive Garden at 7pm. Sometimes in New York city you willingly dine at places like Olive Garden and Apple Bees instead of the posch french restaurant around the corner. None of us are from this city, so chain restaurants remind us of the simplicity of our former suburban lives.
That,...and olive garden's bread-sticks might be an edible gift from the gods.
I still haven't bought a single present and it is four o clock. Two unfinished paintings sit on the kitchen table, my procrastination allowing just a few brush strokes on what could have been something thoughtful. I know Michelangelo took four years to paint the ceiling of the sistine chapel, but I'm moving at a much slower rate on a 12x12 canvas. I opt for a gift card and high tail to max brenners to pick one up last minute.
At the restaurant our waiter offers us a free sample of wine.
"No thanks," says Danielle.
"You know what, Andrew, Fill me Up," I say like he's an old friend. His silver name tag caught my eye.
Before long we are all enjoying full glasses and discussing relationships, dieting, and lingerie, and how they all have one thing in common...they generally malfunction.
My roommates gifts are nice and make me laugh. Jewlie has given me a pretty matchbox to help enable my bad habit and a travel diary. Ashley gave me a novel entitled, "What french women know about love sex and life"
"It was just sitting there on the shelf screaming your name," She says while I lift it from the bag,
"Merci beaucoup, Ash."
We walk home through Madison square park, admiring the sparkling christmas tree and twinkle lights. We stop and ask someone to take our picture, then giggle because we feel like tourists.
I'm looking at the four of us, so different, yet seemingly meant for each other. Each of us with our own perspective that balances the others with compliment, like a personified color wheel.
I'm reminded of a scene from the movie, 'Barefoot in the Park', where Robert Redford is wandering around Madison Square drunk and without shoes because he has just gotten in a spat with his wife, Jane Fonda.
In the film, He's a stuffy, logical lawyer and she's an eccentric, carefree lover of life. Their differences are the root of a few quarrels, but in the end they discover they need each other for balance.
The following scene takes place just after Jane has found Robert incoherent in the park with a trash bin on his head, nearly catching pneumonia:
Jane: I want the old paul back
Robert: That Fuddy-Duddy
Jane: he's not a fuddy duddy. He's strong and dependable. He takes care of me, and protects me from people like you.
Janes husband has just climbed on the roof of their building. He is intoxicated and off his head, an act which is very out of character for him.
Jane: Paul? Paul! Aah. You're going to kill yourself. Come down!
Robert: No, Not until you've sai it again, loud and clear.
Jane: Anything, Paul, Anything.
Robert: My husband, paul bratter, rising young attorney, is a lousy, stinking, drunk.
Jane: My husband, paul bratter, is a lousy, stinking drunk, and I love him.
Thank you Jane Fonda, and Robert Redford for reminding me that good relationships, whether they be friendships or romantic, are not about changing the other person, nor are they about compromise. They are about acceptance and loving every part of someone as they are, making you a more whole individual.
Today I:
December 20th:
I am lying on the floor wrapped in my fuzziest blanket drinking champagne, eating skittles, and watching 'The Brothers Bloom" with jewlie.. Both of us have refused to get dressed today, and feel content with the decision.
Sometimes the big occasions leave a mark on our memory, other times, its the quiet moments like this one that stick with us.
It's 2am and I am riding the M train toward herald square. There is a lone man sitting across from me. His head rests against the map of New York City, and he has a ten gallon hat tipped over one eye while the other is closed.
Brown boots laden with rusty spurs meet the floor below him. He is reminiscent of an old western cinema, only, removed from the shades of black and white and placed amidst the speeding color of the city.
He probably looks unusual walking down 7th avenue or Broadway. Passerby's might assume he has a lead role in Oklahoma, but, I can see from his dirty nap sack that fame and fortune have only eluded him.
There is something poetic about his presence in the car.
He's a New York City cowboy, holding onto a slower way of life in a place with the quickest draw.
The subway acts as his trusty steed as he wanders from Brooklyn to Queens.
December 16th 2010:
Its my Christmas gift exchange among friends. Danielle, Jewlie, Ashley and I are meeting at Olive Garden at 7pm. Sometimes in New York city you willingly dine at places like Olive Garden and Apple Bees instead of the posch french restaurant around the corner. None of us are from this city, so chain restaurants remind us of the simplicity of our former suburban lives.
That,...and olive garden's bread-sticks might be an edible gift from the gods.
I still haven't bought a single present and it is four o clock. Two unfinished paintings sit on the kitchen table, my procrastination allowing just a few brush strokes on what could have been something thoughtful. I know Michelangelo took four years to paint the ceiling of the sistine chapel, but I'm moving at a much slower rate on a 12x12 canvas. I opt for a gift card and high tail to max brenners to pick one up last minute.
At the restaurant our waiter offers us a free sample of wine.
"No thanks," says Danielle.
"You know what, Andrew, Fill me Up," I say like he's an old friend. His silver name tag caught my eye.
Before long we are all enjoying full glasses and discussing relationships, dieting, and lingerie, and how they all have one thing in common...they generally malfunction.
My roommates gifts are nice and make me laugh. Jewlie has given me a pretty matchbox to help enable my bad habit and a travel diary. Ashley gave me a novel entitled, "What french women know about love sex and life"
"It was just sitting there on the shelf screaming your name," She says while I lift it from the bag,
"Merci beaucoup, Ash."
We walk home through Madison square park, admiring the sparkling christmas tree and twinkle lights. We stop and ask someone to take our picture, then giggle because we feel like tourists.
I'm looking at the four of us, so different, yet seemingly meant for each other. Each of us with our own perspective that balances the others with compliment, like a personified color wheel.
I'm reminded of a scene from the movie, 'Barefoot in the Park', where Robert Redford is wandering around Madison Square drunk and without shoes because he has just gotten in a spat with his wife, Jane Fonda.
In the film, He's a stuffy, logical lawyer and she's an eccentric, carefree lover of life. Their differences are the root of a few quarrels, but in the end they discover they need each other for balance.
The following scene takes place just after Jane has found Robert incoherent in the park with a trash bin on his head, nearly catching pneumonia:
Jane: I want the old paul back
Robert: That Fuddy-Duddy
Jane: he's not a fuddy duddy. He's strong and dependable. He takes care of me, and protects me from people like you.
Janes husband has just climbed on the roof of their building. He is intoxicated and off his head, an act which is very out of character for him.
Jane: Paul? Paul! Aah. You're going to kill yourself. Come down!
Robert: No, Not until you've sai it again, loud and clear.
Jane: Anything, Paul, Anything.
Robert: My husband, paul bratter, rising young attorney, is a lousy, stinking, drunk.
Jane: My husband, paul bratter, is a lousy, stinking drunk, and I love him.
Thank you Jane Fonda, and Robert Redford for reminding me that good relationships, whether they be friendships or romantic, are not about changing the other person, nor are they about compromise. They are about acceptance and loving every part of someone as they are, making you a more whole individual.
December 17th 2010:
Today I:
- Caught up on sleep
- Bought the tastiest eggnog cookies from trader joes
- Hunted for a hideous sweater at the salvation army
- Finished a painting
- Felt at peace when good company arrived
- Sang karaoke in Korean... a language I don't know
- Made a few new friends
- Cheered on Ian in a second avenue dance off
- Feasted like a queen at Burger King
December 20th:
I am lying on the floor wrapped in my fuzziest blanket drinking champagne, eating skittles, and watching 'The Brothers Bloom" with jewlie.. Both of us have refused to get dressed today, and feel content with the decision.
Sometimes the big occasions leave a mark on our memory, other times, its the quiet moments like this one that stick with us.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Manifest Destiny
What is there to be said about destiny?
Is it something unexplained, like a UFO, or another phenomenon that graces the cover of The National Enquirer. Are we tied up by it, and being pulled towards a place or person with knots too strong to sever. Is destiny something spiritual, the end of our journey in this life, and our final resting place? Or, is destiny a path that changes direction with our words and actions?
Can we determine our destiny?
November 5, 2010
Midnight
It's 12am in NYC, which means absolutely nothing in this nocturnal metropolis. Cab drivers are still buzzing around like angry worker bees, and the Chinese restaurant next door is full of people ordering kung pow chicken.
I'm sitting on the floor of our makeshift living area and primping my hair, which currently looks like it went through a lightning storm. Ashley is sitting on Jewlie's bed reading Marie Claire.
"Jess, your hair is out of control," Says Ashley
She's right. The humidity, combined with my post shower blow-dry has turned me into a white Jimi Hendrix. I have a fully functioning afro.
Blessed with curly locks, me and it, hair and I, have duked it out since I was old enough to hold a hairbrush. It is a war that hair generally wins.
"What are you going to do with it?"
"Well Ash, You can't tame a lion, and you certainly can't tame this mane. It's going in a pony tail."
I am meeting a friend from Connecticut at a bar in half an hour. It's my third night out in a row, and since days, and my job, and bills still exist... sleeping is a work of fiction.
"By the way, Ashley, I just looked up tickets to Mumford and Sons. The show is sold out."
"What!?" Ashley shrieks, putting down her magazine. "You've got to be kidding?? That's awful news! I really wanted to go that concert!"
"I know," I say, licking my fingers and attempting to smooth down the flyaways in my bun.
"Huh? I'm confused. They're you're favorite! Why aren't you more disappointed?"
"Well, when i saw they were sold out I asked the universe to lend me a hand and help me get tickets. I'm pretty sure things will work themselves out."
Ashley and I are roommates and opposites in many ways. Ashley tends to be practical and responsible, while I'm more reckless and impulsive. You'd assume our differences in nature would cause quarrelling, but it's the contrary. I help her loosen up and she helps me keep it together.
"Okay Jess," Ashley says, rolling her eyes and flipping to the next page of her read.
Three months of being my roommate has left her unphased by my new-age antics.
"I'm serious,"
I stand up and walk toward the kitchen table, grabbing my keys off the counter,
"I'll say it again. I am going to Mumford and sons. It's manifest destiny. Thank you Universe."
November 14
11:55 am
I don't condone passing judgement based on appearance, but, sometimes in NY it's necessary to discriminate for safety purposes, especially when it comes to riding public transportation.
As I board the greyhound back to manhattan, I note that everyone looks like an ex-convict. I scan the bus for someone that isn't on a wanted poster, and decide I have three viable options: row 3, row 10, or row 15.
The man on row 3 is already asleep and has started to snore. At the moment, it's only a low, easy hum, but I'm giving him 15 minutes before it turns buzz saw.
Row 10 has a pet carrier on their lap. I walk closer and see a cat. Absolutely not.
I approach row 15, where a doe eyed girl with dark hair is sitting and clutching a looney tunes duffel bag. She looks about my age.
"Can I sit here?" I ask with a smile.
"Uuuh yezz, ave a zeat," she replies in a lovely french accent.
I'm delighted at this. Unlike the masses of Americans who think the french are rude, despite never having met anyone from France, I happen to love the french. Their straightforward, honest nature intrigues me.
We ride in silence through the forest of upstate new york. The leaves are a fiery orange and yellow, and the sunlight is playing peek -a boo through the trees.
I'm becoming bored with my book, but am afraid to fall asleep. The view is too beautiful and I want to be conscious through the scenery. Instead, I begin conversation with my neighbor.
"You're from Quebec?"
"No France," she responds, but I study in Montreal."
I knew it.
"France." I repeat, "I've never been. I'm dying to go, though. Are you from Paris?"
"Non, I'm from zee souse of France. Izz nex to Espagna, where I live. I don't go to Pairee much. Only 5 times in my life maybe? Where I am from izz much nicer."
"Isn't it funny," I shake my head, "whenever we go somewhere we end up in the biggest city, but that never showcases what a place is all about."
She laughs at this then replies,
"Yezz, here I am on my way to New York City. It tiz my first time in zee States."
I tell her New York doesn't count, and that it's the greatest city in the world. I turn into a proud mother, and begin describing all of new yorks finest qualities as if it's my only child.
"....and then you have the flatiron building, which is personally one of my favorite architectural structures. And don't forget central park. It may be well known, but it's not overrated."
I can tell I am talking too much by the girls unanimated expression. I always talk too much.
I restitute by asking questions.
"I didn't even ask, what's your name?"
"Cecile. And yours?"
"Jessica," I outstretch my hand in greeting.
"And what brings you to New York, Cecile?"
"My flatmate has a childhood friend playing a conzert in zee city. We are going to zee show tomorrow."
"Oh that's nice." I respond, "Where are they playing?"
She says she isn't sure, but she thinks it's a pretty big venue.
I tell cecile that I'm jealous.
"Music is my oxygen."
We make our first pit stop in Albany. Its been 4 hours on the bus and my legs feel heavy and useless.
I enter the rest area which looks like a hospital lobby. The ceiling and walls are bleach white, and the florescent light makes me squint.
Cecile approaches me with a piece of paper and points to something scribbled in blue ink.
"Zis iz where I am meeting friends, but I don know how to get zer."
I can tell she is concerned, and rightfully so. Being tossed into New York city without direction might be compared to entering a battle zone without a weapon. The intensity is overwhelming.
An address is written on the paper, and I'm certain its a midtown one.
"27th street," I read outloud, "You're very close to my house."
I think for a minute.
"You know what, We can catch a cab together and I'll make sure you get there okay."
"Are you zertain zis is okay?"
"It's really no trouble at all. You're practically right down the street."
"Ah, you are zoo nice!" She says in relief.
We get back on the bus, where Cecile and I chat about travel and French food until we grow sleepy.
We awaken as we pull into Port Authority 3 hours later.
November 14,
9:00 pm
Ceciles face is pressed up against the cold window as the taxi wheels through times square. A myriad of bright electronic billboards contrast the night, and herds of pedestrians crowd the sidewalk. She is mesmerized.
We hit a traffic jam and are sitting stagnant on 39th street.
"Welcome to Manhattan Cecile," I mutter.
5 minutes pass and we still haven't budged.
"So," I turn to her,
there is nothing like conversation to help the time pass,
"what is the name of the artist your roommate is friends with?"
Cecile puts her finger to her mouth.
"I can't remember zee name.., uh let me think. hmm... zons.. something. He has zons....? No, that's not it. Let me zink zome more..."
A few seconds go by, then suddenly I come to realization,
"Cecile, are you thinking of Mumford and Sons?!?
"Yez!! Zat tiz zee one!"
November 16
2am
The air is thick with music, and the stage lights reflect off the exposed brick in Rockwood Music Hall. I am standing two feet away from Marcus Mumford in my favorite Lower East Side lounge.
The band is playing "Rock me baby," and I hear Ashley singing in her best southern drawl. Cecile is on my right.
I turn and give her a hug,
"Oh my gosh, Cecile, this is amazing!!"
They begin the main chorus, and Ashley sings louder "Rock me baby like a wagon wheel,...!"
Cecile and I join in.
We walk to the bar and order two drinks.
While were waiting I make eye contact with Ashley and flash her an "I told you so," smile.
She smiles back.
All is right in the universe.
Is it something unexplained, like a UFO, or another phenomenon that graces the cover of The National Enquirer. Are we tied up by it, and being pulled towards a place or person with knots too strong to sever. Is destiny something spiritual, the end of our journey in this life, and our final resting place? Or, is destiny a path that changes direction with our words and actions?
Can we determine our destiny?
November 5, 2010
Midnight
It's 12am in NYC, which means absolutely nothing in this nocturnal metropolis. Cab drivers are still buzzing around like angry worker bees, and the Chinese restaurant next door is full of people ordering kung pow chicken.
I'm sitting on the floor of our makeshift living area and primping my hair, which currently looks like it went through a lightning storm. Ashley is sitting on Jewlie's bed reading Marie Claire.
"Jess, your hair is out of control," Says Ashley
She's right. The humidity, combined with my post shower blow-dry has turned me into a white Jimi Hendrix. I have a fully functioning afro.
Blessed with curly locks, me and it, hair and I, have duked it out since I was old enough to hold a hairbrush. It is a war that hair generally wins.
"What are you going to do with it?"
"Well Ash, You can't tame a lion, and you certainly can't tame this mane. It's going in a pony tail."
I am meeting a friend from Connecticut at a bar in half an hour. It's my third night out in a row, and since days, and my job, and bills still exist... sleeping is a work of fiction.
"By the way, Ashley, I just looked up tickets to Mumford and Sons. The show is sold out."
"What!?" Ashley shrieks, putting down her magazine. "You've got to be kidding?? That's awful news! I really wanted to go that concert!"
"I know," I say, licking my fingers and attempting to smooth down the flyaways in my bun.
"Huh? I'm confused. They're you're favorite! Why aren't you more disappointed?"
"Well, when i saw they were sold out I asked the universe to lend me a hand and help me get tickets. I'm pretty sure things will work themselves out."
Ashley and I are roommates and opposites in many ways. Ashley tends to be practical and responsible, while I'm more reckless and impulsive. You'd assume our differences in nature would cause quarrelling, but it's the contrary. I help her loosen up and she helps me keep it together.
"Okay Jess," Ashley says, rolling her eyes and flipping to the next page of her read.
Three months of being my roommate has left her unphased by my new-age antics.
"I'm serious,"
I stand up and walk toward the kitchen table, grabbing my keys off the counter,
"I'll say it again. I am going to Mumford and sons. It's manifest destiny. Thank you Universe."
November 14
11:55 am
I don't condone passing judgement based on appearance, but, sometimes in NY it's necessary to discriminate for safety purposes, especially when it comes to riding public transportation.
As I board the greyhound back to manhattan, I note that everyone looks like an ex-convict. I scan the bus for someone that isn't on a wanted poster, and decide I have three viable options: row 3, row 10, or row 15.
The man on row 3 is already asleep and has started to snore. At the moment, it's only a low, easy hum, but I'm giving him 15 minutes before it turns buzz saw.
Row 10 has a pet carrier on their lap. I walk closer and see a cat. Absolutely not.
I approach row 15, where a doe eyed girl with dark hair is sitting and clutching a looney tunes duffel bag. She looks about my age.
"Can I sit here?" I ask with a smile.
"Uuuh yezz, ave a zeat," she replies in a lovely french accent.
I'm delighted at this. Unlike the masses of Americans who think the french are rude, despite never having met anyone from France, I happen to love the french. Their straightforward, honest nature intrigues me.
We ride in silence through the forest of upstate new york. The leaves are a fiery orange and yellow, and the sunlight is playing peek -a boo through the trees.
I'm becoming bored with my book, but am afraid to fall asleep. The view is too beautiful and I want to be conscious through the scenery. Instead, I begin conversation with my neighbor.
"You're from Quebec?"
"No France," she responds, but I study in Montreal."
I knew it.
"France." I repeat, "I've never been. I'm dying to go, though. Are you from Paris?"
"Non, I'm from zee souse of France. Izz nex to Espagna, where I live. I don't go to Pairee much. Only 5 times in my life maybe? Where I am from izz much nicer."
"Isn't it funny," I shake my head, "whenever we go somewhere we end up in the biggest city, but that never showcases what a place is all about."
She laughs at this then replies,
"Yezz, here I am on my way to New York City. It tiz my first time in zee States."
I tell her New York doesn't count, and that it's the greatest city in the world. I turn into a proud mother, and begin describing all of new yorks finest qualities as if it's my only child.
"....and then you have the flatiron building, which is personally one of my favorite architectural structures. And don't forget central park. It may be well known, but it's not overrated."
I can tell I am talking too much by the girls unanimated expression. I always talk too much.
I restitute by asking questions.
"I didn't even ask, what's your name?"
"Cecile. And yours?"
"Jessica," I outstretch my hand in greeting.
"And what brings you to New York, Cecile?"
"My flatmate has a childhood friend playing a conzert in zee city. We are going to zee show tomorrow."
"Oh that's nice." I respond, "Where are they playing?"
She says she isn't sure, but she thinks it's a pretty big venue.
I tell cecile that I'm jealous.
"Music is my oxygen."
We make our first pit stop in Albany. Its been 4 hours on the bus and my legs feel heavy and useless.
I enter the rest area which looks like a hospital lobby. The ceiling and walls are bleach white, and the florescent light makes me squint.
Cecile approaches me with a piece of paper and points to something scribbled in blue ink.
"Zis iz where I am meeting friends, but I don know how to get zer."
I can tell she is concerned, and rightfully so. Being tossed into New York city without direction might be compared to entering a battle zone without a weapon. The intensity is overwhelming.
An address is written on the paper, and I'm certain its a midtown one.
"27th street," I read outloud, "You're very close to my house."
I think for a minute.
"You know what, We can catch a cab together and I'll make sure you get there okay."
"Are you zertain zis is okay?"
"It's really no trouble at all. You're practically right down the street."
"Ah, you are zoo nice!" She says in relief.
We get back on the bus, where Cecile and I chat about travel and French food until we grow sleepy.
We awaken as we pull into Port Authority 3 hours later.
November 14,
9:00 pm
Ceciles face is pressed up against the cold window as the taxi wheels through times square. A myriad of bright electronic billboards contrast the night, and herds of pedestrians crowd the sidewalk. She is mesmerized.
We hit a traffic jam and are sitting stagnant on 39th street.
"Welcome to Manhattan Cecile," I mutter.
5 minutes pass and we still haven't budged.
"So," I turn to her,
there is nothing like conversation to help the time pass,
"what is the name of the artist your roommate is friends with?"
Cecile puts her finger to her mouth.
"I can't remember zee name.., uh let me think. hmm... zons.. something. He has zons....? No, that's not it. Let me zink zome more..."
A few seconds go by, then suddenly I come to realization,
"Cecile, are you thinking of Mumford and Sons?!?
"Yez!! Zat tiz zee one!"
November 16
2am
The air is thick with music, and the stage lights reflect off the exposed brick in Rockwood Music Hall. I am standing two feet away from Marcus Mumford in my favorite Lower East Side lounge.
The band is playing "Rock me baby," and I hear Ashley singing in her best southern drawl. Cecile is on my right.
I turn and give her a hug,
"Oh my gosh, Cecile, this is amazing!!"
They begin the main chorus, and Ashley sings louder "Rock me baby like a wagon wheel,...!"
Cecile and I join in.
We walk to the bar and order two drinks.
While were waiting I make eye contact with Ashley and flash her an "I told you so," smile.
She smiles back.
All is right in the universe.
Monday, November 22, 2010
It Fits Like a Glove
Traveling without a bump in the road is like leaving Las Vegas without credit card debt... it just doesn't happen. My relationship with travel has lead me to always expect the worst. Getting from point a to point b is never without lost luggage or a delayed flight.
I once had a terrible encounter with a bicycle delivery boy and a taxi on a vacation in NYC. I opened the passengers side of the yellow cab at the exact moment the 'Mo's Burrito's' man was speeding past me on 6th. The two collided, forcing the cyclist into a maneuver that resembled something off the X-games, only, without the graceful landing.
I remember helping him gather up tamales with road rash as he muttered curse words in Spanish under his breath.
Since, I've experienced all sorts of travel snafus, including missed trains in Italy and stolen wallets in Ireland.
So, as I attempt to board the #308 greyhound bus in Albany I'm less than surprised that my passport is in Utah when I am just hours away from the Canadian border.
November 11, 2010
8am: "Not to be a pain, sir, but I really need to get on this bus!"
"I'm sorry lady, but the new Canadian law requires that all persons entering Canada carry proof of citizenship. You have to have your passport."
I'm looking around at the officers decked out in maple insignia and Paul Bunyan attire. I'm annoyed with the prospect that I am a 22 year old blonde, American terrorist trying to loot Canada's maple syrup supply or blow up all the hockey rinks.
I'm more annoyed with myself for forgetting such a travel necessity.
I have two options. I can either stay in Albany and have my passport shipped over night, or, I can attempt to sneak into the cargo hold. The officers are something straight out of "Rockey and Bullwinkle", and obviously less than intelligent, but I doubt they're dumb enough to mistake me for another over sized duffel.
I opt to check into the Holiday Inn next door.
4pm: I walk down Albany's main drag, which is lined with old cathedrals and unmarked brownstones. I read somewhere that Albany was one of the oldest surviving cities from the 13 colonies. It has a sepia toned, New England feel. I pass several elderly people along the way, who all seem to be wandering, just as I am. I'm sure we both share the commonality of no agenda, but it's the perfect day for it. The sun is bright and inspiring. I'm feeling its energy.
I see a handmade sign above one of the brownstones that reads, 'Second Hand'.
"Why not?"
I wander inside and become overwhelmed by knick knacks and books that are strewn across desks and stuffed into crevices around the room. I immediately think of my grandmother.
After my grandpa passed, Gram, as we call her, spent hours combing through the treasures at pawn shops and antique stores. At first we were settled by her new thrill, in which she became lost and had little time to grieve. Things turned frustrating when we realized her definition of Antique meant anything with age.
Eventually treasure hunting turned into treasure hoarding, and family members had to step in to avoid the take over of clutter.
This whole place looked like my grandmother's version of Aladdin's cave of wonder.
All I saw was junk.
I think again about grandmas' habit and contemplate her motivation.
Was it really just an obsessive compulsive ritual, or can we find value in every object?
Something is glistening in an old wooden crate. I look inside to find a broken china set and some terracotta pots. I pick up a teacup that is missing its handle and wonder about its previous life. I also wonder, aside from gram, who would invest in such a thing? Although it's unconventionally beautiful, its intrigue can't compensate for it's dysfunctional nature.
'I know some people like this', I think out loud.
It's too bad gram's not here to rescue it from it's unavoidable fate, which is surely the garbage bin.
I run my fingers along the titles of some dust laden books. Encyclopedias, children's fables, and old diaries line the shelf. I come to the end and find a wicker basket filled with old mittens and scarves. I sift through its contents and stumble upon a pair of unworn black leather gloves.
'$3.00', reads a sticker in red ink.
I put them on and it's as if we were meant for each other. They are real leather, and usually expensive, but I know why they are here. My hands are remarkably small, in an almost freakish kind of way. These gloves are fashioned in an adult style but probably don't fit anyone else over the age of 11.
I take them to the checkout and pay with a dollar bill and two Canadian loonies. I'm close enough to the border that the cashier accepts my odd form of payment without hesitance.
I put them on and walk to the restaurant next door where I order prosecco.
"What's the occasion," asks my server.
"I'm stuck in Albany."
"That doesn't sounds like much to celebrate." She says
"Actually," I smile, "It kind of is."
Later as I'm leaving, she tells me she likes my gloves.
November 12, 2010
7am: I arise from the light that's cascading through the big bay window in my room. This is something I'm not used to in the city. The bed is a king size and the room is without sirens and incessant honking. I could lay here forever.
I finally wander down to the lobby where a group of middle school kids on some sort of church excursion hold hands and pray in a circle.
"Our dear and gracious lord....," says a boy with mousy brown hair and a southern drawl. He's no older than 13.
I cringe a little to be trapped in such an intimate situation. I feel uncomfortable, like any minute the boy might say, "And please bless our dear agnostic friend that just entered the lobby. That she might find God and be granted eternal salvation."
To my relief he doesn't. I tip toe toward the front desk and hear them utter "amen" in unison.
I check out and ask the friendly woman behind the counter what there is to do in Albany. I have 3 hours until my bus leaves to Montreal.
"Not much," she says, "if anything at all."
I know from previous experience that this is a lie. Ask anyone who lives in a place what there is to do, and they'll almost always answer, "nothing.". It's a sad flaw in the human nature not to appreciate what's in front of us.
I pry a little more until she mentions the NY state museum being within walking distance.
9am: The building, to my dismay, is larger than 'The Museum of Science and Natural History' in New York City. Unwilling to miss my bus due to exploration, I make the empire state and September 11th exhibits a priority.
I remember my first visit to ground zero in 2007. I remember being angered that not more had been done to memorialize the place that was a graveyard for so many. I remember being disappointed in the lack of emotion the pit of rubble evoked as I gazed upward at large orange cranes.
But, as I reverently enter the 9/11 portion of the museum, the impact of what September 11th actually was encompasses me.
I'm greeted by a television that is fastened to a part of a collapsed tower. On the screen a fireman is retelling his version of the hopelessness. The man makes me cry.
"And then I saw them," he chokes. His words are clouded by emotion and his face blackened with soot.
"They were just specs in the air. At first, I thought it was debris from the building, but as one by one they hit the ground I realized they were not."
The man begins to sob and can no longer continue with the interview.
I move on to a makeshift memorial that was built in Union Square that day. A long string of parchment is littered with the sentiments of NYU students in marker. Wax from half melted candles make it somewhat hard to read, but I'm able to pick out the phrases:
"Love not ideologies,"
"They died for no reason,"
"Always remember this day," and
"We will come back stronger,"
Teddy bears holding dried flowers sit in between sentences, their faces look ragged with grief.
There is a framed letter on the wall from an elementary student to the New York City Fire Department. The first few lines read:
Dear Hero,
I am an American boy in 3rd grade and I want to say thank you for putting yourself in danger. America is freedom for all people and America is happiness..
I feel overcome by patriotism and sympathy. It seems sad that we always take more action out of hate than love. I wish I could hug someone.
6pm: The time change has made what would normally be a calender-esque view of Montreal, lunar. The bright lights reflect off the water and skyscrapers get lost in a layer of smog, illuminating the night.
Sarah, my Canadian friend is waiting for me at the station and as I hug her I recognize the irrelevance of time. I haven't seen her since I left Dublin in June, but we greet each other like no months have passed.
We drive to a restaurant in old Montreal and get lost in the narrow one way streets..
I am intrigued as she asks two old men for directions in French.
"It-tiz dat vay," he points. He knows she also speaks English.
After dinner we walk through the old port and stop for coffee at a small cafe. The streets and buildings are all gray, and I feel like I am in another era or a black and white movie. Our friend Erica will be arriving from Toronto at midnight but I can barely keep my eyes open.
I ask the barman to add baileys to my coffee to up my energy level. After all, I'm amongst friends from Ireland.
"You're American," He says,
"You bet," I say proudly.
I wonder if it's the spiked coffee or my obnoxious accent that gave me away.
"I can hear your accent," says Sara
I guess that answers my question.
"Especially when you say "Mooon-tree-yall"
"Hey, I am here out of love from the united states, to see you. Quit making fun of my annoying American accent."
"Sara, Coffee is pretty good, AAYYY?"
"Hey, now you are making fun of my accent! Hypocrite!" she says.
"You bet", I laugh. "Guess were even."
November 13, 2010
12pm: Erika and I are meeting Jenna on St. Catherine's street for lunch and sight seeing. Jenna is also from Montreal, and another close friend from Ireland.
As a new found believer in the zodiac, I would describe Jenna as an overly typical Sagittarius. Jenna is optimistic and fun loving, sometimes to the point of frustration. I once asked Jenna on a very bad day, "Is there anything that upsets you?"
"Sure," She responded.
"Okay, like..........what?"
...Silence....
Jenna couldn't think of anything.
I suppose we could all be a little bit more like Jenna.
We enter a restaurant that is famous for its smoked meat sandwiches,
"A Canadian delicacy!" Jenna calls them.
The sandwiches are gigantic.
"There is a whole cow in between one of those," I remark.
I watch a petite woman try and take a bite, which fails as half of her sandwiches innards fall onto the plate.
We sit at the bar and order three, which all come with pickles, coleslaw and a heaping mound of fries.
"Dig In," says Jenna.
We do, and are already full to the point of exhaustion when our waiter presents us with a free slice of cheesecake out of flirtation.
"Great, I'm going to gain 10 pounds on this trip," I say while taking a bite.
The cheesecake is heavenly.
"Oh, but I'm going to enjoy every minute of it."
10pm: We arrive at a club called B Side at St. Laurent street. I feel like an alien. My blonde hair is a world wonder in this sea of brunettes.
The Bartender speaks no English and I'm finding it difficult to order a drink.
"Do you have any American beers?"
"Huh?"
"A-Mer-I-Can Beeeer,"
I feel like saying it slower might help translation.
"Oui!," says the bartender, seeming excited to have finally caught on,
She hands me a Heineken. I frown, then suppose I like Heineken as well as anything and give her six dollars.
"Merci."
We dance to lady gaga and old rap songs til our feet hurt, then decide it's time for Poutine, which I am immediately frightened of.
Poutine is french fries covered in cheese curds and topped with gravy. Another "Canadian Delecacy".
Fries, gravy and cheese can't hurt my ten pound goal. I take a bite. Not bad.
Were driving home and I see a man with steel cutters snip a bike chain and pedal away.
"That guy just totally stole that bike!" I exclaim
"Really? You're kidding?" Says sara
"No, I'm dead serious. See him there?!"
"Oh wow, he looks like a bike thief doesn't he?", Jenna observes, "After all it's 30 degrees and he's wearing a du-rag and a shorts."
I become infuriated with people's ability to be so selfish, and feel obligated to reprimand him,... plus I just had four American beers, AKA, Heinekens. I feel courageous.
"Roll down my window", I shout to Sara
"Sir, sir, that is not your bike! You stole that bike!" I yell at him in my most upset tone.
The man looks at me, smiles and sticks out his tongue, pedaling away at a speed unknown to Lance Armstrong.
My attempt at law enforcement has failed.
Everyone becomes hysterical and were laughing so hard tears begin to roll down my cheeks. Finally, Erika is able to articulate in between sobs of laughter,
"Jesus, Jessica, you really told him off."
November 14th, 2010
4pm:
Our minds are constantly wandering to the past or future. Generally, it's hard for human beings to exist in the present moment. But, every once in a while something comes along that awakens us and brings us to realization. It is then that were unable to be anywhere but where we actually are. We see our life and the world as it is. We become at peace.
It's dusk and I'm looking over the water into the sky. The sunset is like a Thomas Kinkade painting my parents have in their basement. The colors are too vibrant to be real, yet they are staring me in the eye.
I take picture after picture, but none capture the scene before me.
I am amongst beautiful people who keep me whole.
A Native American by heritage, my Indian tribe, Choctaw, has a word for this feeling: Aiyukpa.
It means a place of happiness.
I know that I have found this place in friendship and on this earth. I vow to never forget that it exists, and to take it with me on the bus ride home.
I once had a terrible encounter with a bicycle delivery boy and a taxi on a vacation in NYC. I opened the passengers side of the yellow cab at the exact moment the 'Mo's Burrito's' man was speeding past me on 6th. The two collided, forcing the cyclist into a maneuver that resembled something off the X-games, only, without the graceful landing.
I remember helping him gather up tamales with road rash as he muttered curse words in Spanish under his breath.
Since, I've experienced all sorts of travel snafus, including missed trains in Italy and stolen wallets in Ireland.
So, as I attempt to board the #308 greyhound bus in Albany I'm less than surprised that my passport is in Utah when I am just hours away from the Canadian border.
November 11, 2010
8am: "Not to be a pain, sir, but I really need to get on this bus!"
"I'm sorry lady, but the new Canadian law requires that all persons entering Canada carry proof of citizenship. You have to have your passport."
I'm looking around at the officers decked out in maple insignia and Paul Bunyan attire. I'm annoyed with the prospect that I am a 22 year old blonde, American terrorist trying to loot Canada's maple syrup supply or blow up all the hockey rinks.
I'm more annoyed with myself for forgetting such a travel necessity.
I have two options. I can either stay in Albany and have my passport shipped over night, or, I can attempt to sneak into the cargo hold. The officers are something straight out of "Rockey and Bullwinkle", and obviously less than intelligent, but I doubt they're dumb enough to mistake me for another over sized duffel.
I opt to check into the Holiday Inn next door.
4pm: I walk down Albany's main drag, which is lined with old cathedrals and unmarked brownstones. I read somewhere that Albany was one of the oldest surviving cities from the 13 colonies. It has a sepia toned, New England feel. I pass several elderly people along the way, who all seem to be wandering, just as I am. I'm sure we both share the commonality of no agenda, but it's the perfect day for it. The sun is bright and inspiring. I'm feeling its energy.I see a handmade sign above one of the brownstones that reads, 'Second Hand'.
"Why not?"
I wander inside and become overwhelmed by knick knacks and books that are strewn across desks and stuffed into crevices around the room. I immediately think of my grandmother.
After my grandpa passed, Gram, as we call her, spent hours combing through the treasures at pawn shops and antique stores. At first we were settled by her new thrill, in which she became lost and had little time to grieve. Things turned frustrating when we realized her definition of Antique meant anything with age.
Eventually treasure hunting turned into treasure hoarding, and family members had to step in to avoid the take over of clutter.
This whole place looked like my grandmother's version of Aladdin's cave of wonder.
All I saw was junk.
I think again about grandmas' habit and contemplate her motivation.
Was it really just an obsessive compulsive ritual, or can we find value in every object?
Something is glistening in an old wooden crate. I look inside to find a broken china set and some terracotta pots. I pick up a teacup that is missing its handle and wonder about its previous life. I also wonder, aside from gram, who would invest in such a thing? Although it's unconventionally beautiful, its intrigue can't compensate for it's dysfunctional nature.
'I know some people like this', I think out loud.
It's too bad gram's not here to rescue it from it's unavoidable fate, which is surely the garbage bin.
I run my fingers along the titles of some dust laden books. Encyclopedias, children's fables, and old diaries line the shelf. I come to the end and find a wicker basket filled with old mittens and scarves. I sift through its contents and stumble upon a pair of unworn black leather gloves.
'$3.00', reads a sticker in red ink.
I put them on and it's as if we were meant for each other. They are real leather, and usually expensive, but I know why they are here. My hands are remarkably small, in an almost freakish kind of way. These gloves are fashioned in an adult style but probably don't fit anyone else over the age of 11.
I take them to the checkout and pay with a dollar bill and two Canadian loonies. I'm close enough to the border that the cashier accepts my odd form of payment without hesitance.
I put them on and walk to the restaurant next door where I order prosecco.
"What's the occasion," asks my server.
"I'm stuck in Albany."
"That doesn't sounds like much to celebrate." She says
"Actually," I smile, "It kind of is."
Later as I'm leaving, she tells me she likes my gloves.
November 12, 2010
7am: I arise from the light that's cascading through the big bay window in my room. This is something I'm not used to in the city. The bed is a king size and the room is without sirens and incessant honking. I could lay here forever.
I finally wander down to the lobby where a group of middle school kids on some sort of church excursion hold hands and pray in a circle.
"Our dear and gracious lord....," says a boy with mousy brown hair and a southern drawl. He's no older than 13.
I cringe a little to be trapped in such an intimate situation. I feel uncomfortable, like any minute the boy might say, "And please bless our dear agnostic friend that just entered the lobby. That she might find God and be granted eternal salvation."
To my relief he doesn't. I tip toe toward the front desk and hear them utter "amen" in unison.
I check out and ask the friendly woman behind the counter what there is to do in Albany. I have 3 hours until my bus leaves to Montreal.
"Not much," she says, "if anything at all."
I know from previous experience that this is a lie. Ask anyone who lives in a place what there is to do, and they'll almost always answer, "nothing.". It's a sad flaw in the human nature not to appreciate what's in front of us.
I pry a little more until she mentions the NY state museum being within walking distance.
9am: The building, to my dismay, is larger than 'The Museum of Science and Natural History' in New York City. Unwilling to miss my bus due to exploration, I make the empire state and September 11th exhibits a priority.
I remember my first visit to ground zero in 2007. I remember being angered that not more had been done to memorialize the place that was a graveyard for so many. I remember being disappointed in the lack of emotion the pit of rubble evoked as I gazed upward at large orange cranes.
But, as I reverently enter the 9/11 portion of the museum, the impact of what September 11th actually was encompasses me.
I'm greeted by a television that is fastened to a part of a collapsed tower. On the screen a fireman is retelling his version of the hopelessness. The man makes me cry.
"And then I saw them," he chokes. His words are clouded by emotion and his face blackened with soot.
"They were just specs in the air. At first, I thought it was debris from the building, but as one by one they hit the ground I realized they were not."
The man begins to sob and can no longer continue with the interview.
I move on to a makeshift memorial that was built in Union Square that day. A long string of parchment is littered with the sentiments of NYU students in marker. Wax from half melted candles make it somewhat hard to read, but I'm able to pick out the phrases:
"Love not ideologies,"
"They died for no reason,"
"Always remember this day," and
"We will come back stronger,"
Teddy bears holding dried flowers sit in between sentences, their faces look ragged with grief.
There is a framed letter on the wall from an elementary student to the New York City Fire Department. The first few lines read:
Dear Hero,
I am an American boy in 3rd grade and I want to say thank you for putting yourself in danger. America is freedom for all people and America is happiness..
I feel overcome by patriotism and sympathy. It seems sad that we always take more action out of hate than love. I wish I could hug someone.
6pm: The time change has made what would normally be a calender-esque view of Montreal, lunar. The bright lights reflect off the water and skyscrapers get lost in a layer of smog, illuminating the night.
Sarah, my Canadian friend is waiting for me at the station and as I hug her I recognize the irrelevance of time. I haven't seen her since I left Dublin in June, but we greet each other like no months have passed.
We drive to a restaurant in old Montreal and get lost in the narrow one way streets..
I am intrigued as she asks two old men for directions in French.
"It-tiz dat vay," he points. He knows she also speaks English.
After dinner we walk through the old port and stop for coffee at a small cafe. The streets and buildings are all gray, and I feel like I am in another era or a black and white movie. Our friend Erica will be arriving from Toronto at midnight but I can barely keep my eyes open.I ask the barman to add baileys to my coffee to up my energy level. After all, I'm amongst friends from Ireland.
"You're American," He says,
"You bet," I say proudly.
I wonder if it's the spiked coffee or my obnoxious accent that gave me away.
"I can hear your accent," says Sara
I guess that answers my question.
"Especially when you say "Mooon-tree-yall"
"Hey, I am here out of love from the united states, to see you. Quit making fun of my annoying American accent."
"Sara, Coffee is pretty good, AAYYY?"
"Hey, now you are making fun of my accent! Hypocrite!" she says.
"You bet", I laugh. "Guess were even."
November 13, 2010
As a new found believer in the zodiac, I would describe Jenna as an overly typical Sagittarius. Jenna is optimistic and fun loving, sometimes to the point of frustration. I once asked Jenna on a very bad day, "Is there anything that upsets you?"
"Sure," She responded.
 |
| The Beautiful Jenna |
...Silence....
Jenna couldn't think of anything.
I suppose we could all be a little bit more like Jenna.
We enter a restaurant that is famous for its smoked meat sandwiches,
"A Canadian delicacy!" Jenna calls them.
The sandwiches are gigantic.
"There is a whole cow in between one of those," I remark.
I watch a petite woman try and take a bite, which fails as half of her sandwiches innards fall onto the plate.
We sit at the bar and order three, which all come with pickles, coleslaw and a heaping mound of fries.
"Dig In," says Jenna.
We do, and are already full to the point of exhaustion when our waiter presents us with a free slice of cheesecake out of flirtation.
"Great, I'm going to gain 10 pounds on this trip," I say while taking a bite.
The cheesecake is heavenly.
"Oh, but I'm going to enjoy every minute of it."
 |
| Sara and I, B Side |
The Bartender speaks no English and I'm finding it difficult to order a drink.
"Do you have any American beers?"
"Huh?"
"A-Mer-I-Can Beeeer,"
I feel like saying it slower might help translation.
"Oui!," says the bartender, seeming excited to have finally caught on,
She hands me a Heineken. I frown, then suppose I like Heineken as well as anything and give her six dollars.
"Merci."
 |
| Me Enjoying Poutine |
Poutine is french fries covered in cheese curds and topped with gravy. Another "Canadian Delecacy".
Fries, gravy and cheese can't hurt my ten pound goal. I take a bite. Not bad.
Were driving home and I see a man with steel cutters snip a bike chain and pedal away.
"That guy just totally stole that bike!" I exclaim
"Really? You're kidding?" Says sara
"No, I'm dead serious. See him there?!"
"Oh wow, he looks like a bike thief doesn't he?", Jenna observes, "After all it's 30 degrees and he's wearing a du-rag and a shorts."
I become infuriated with people's ability to be so selfish, and feel obligated to reprimand him,... plus I just had four American beers, AKA, Heinekens. I feel courageous.
"Roll down my window", I shout to Sara
"Sir, sir, that is not your bike! You stole that bike!" I yell at him in my most upset tone.
The man looks at me, smiles and sticks out his tongue, pedaling away at a speed unknown to Lance Armstrong.
My attempt at law enforcement has failed.
 |
| Erika and I |
"Jesus, Jessica, you really told him off."
November 14th, 2010
4pm:
Our minds are constantly wandering to the past or future. Generally, it's hard for human beings to exist in the present moment. But, every once in a while something comes along that awakens us and brings us to realization. It is then that were unable to be anywhere but where we actually are. We see our life and the world as it is. We become at peace.
It's dusk and I'm looking over the water into the sky. The sunset is like a Thomas Kinkade painting my parents have in their basement. The colors are too vibrant to be real, yet they are staring me in the eye.I take picture after picture, but none capture the scene before me.
I am amongst beautiful people who keep me whole.
A Native American by heritage, my Indian tribe, Choctaw, has a word for this feeling: Aiyukpa.
It means a place of happiness.
I know that I have found this place in friendship and on this earth. I vow to never forget that it exists, and to take it with me on the bus ride home.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Karaoke. Goldish. Lottery.
Friday November 6th, 2012
Light is vital for life. I never appreciated its influence until living in this apartment. There are no windows in my loft and the only thing to decipher day from night is the clock on my dresser. My thoughts keep redirecting to a science experiment I did in fourth grade where we observed two growing plants. We kept one near the window and the other in the art supply closet. The one in the window blossomed into a lovely bean plant almost overnight, while the one in the closet, cramped next to the poster paint and scissors, became only half the size and and turned a sickly yellow color. Photosynthesis is just as relevant to humans. I'm sleep deprived, but I'm getting out of this apartment and finding sunshine. I feel crippled by the darkness.
I climb out of bed and text Ashley, "lunch?". Ashley is a fellow waitress at the Coffee shop bar and an aspiring film producer. All of us at work are aspiring somethings; Artists, actors, writers, producers, models....etc. This isn't coincidence, this is just New York City. The arts move us all.
We mull over our failing relationships and complain about our horrible job while we munch on taco salad. Ashley's opinions always frighten me because they're full of truth rather than the usual, comfortable lies.
"Why do I still like him?" I ask her, "We both know he's a big fat jerk!"
Ashley's a-typical response: "It's hormones. You're drawn to each other. Imagine it this way: it's like having little magnets all over your body pulling you to him. You just can't help it."
I think about this for a minute. I was expecting her to say something like, "Yeah well, most men are jerks. When you find the one that treats you nice you'll know you've found the right one."
Instead I'm left pondering ideas of magnets and hormones.
"Maybe you're right. Let's go."
A stop for coffee in Korea town and a transfer on the L train puts us at her place in Brooklyn. Ashley points out a plywood sign hammered into a grassy patch by the sidewalk. "Trees not Trash!" it reads in thick black lettering. The grassy area is a makeshift landfill, littered with old Starbucks cups, plastic sacks and other garbage. I wonder if the abnormal amount of litter is a product of the sign being there, or if it's the other way around.
Ashley's bedroom is as big as my apartment, and I begin to question why I live in Manhattan. She has some old costume hats acquired through a former job hanging on a hat rack. She tries on a straw flat top with a chin strap and I wear a feather bonnet with a face net.
"How do I look?" I ask, pursing my lips.
"You're such a hat person!" She says, but I'm not convinced. I look ridiculous.
I mention that I'm feeling lucky, and would like to buy a lotto ticket. Most often gambling is associated with the negative. It's either someones last resort or just a dirty rotten habit. But today is a good day, and since nothing else has gone wrong I want to see what will go right. As the saying goes, you can't win the lottery with out buying a ticket. With that in mind we walk to the bodega next door and ask the clerk,
"Do you have any lotto scratchers?" The man behind the counter is wearing a wife beater and is unshaven. He looks rough and tumble, but this first impression is swept away when he grins largely revealing a few missing teeth. This makes him seem elderly rather than dangerous.
"No, just sold out ladies," he says with a slight lisp, "Try the neighborhood market down the street. Good luck."
We try the market down the street, which is an exact replica of the first store. Spanish fiesta music blares from the dusty black radio sitting on the counter. The whole Mercado smells like pine sol.
We say two words, "Lotto Scratchers?"
"Nope, sorry. Maybe next door. Good luck!"
So we do...same story, ..."good luck" Says the third clerk as we exit.
"Isn't it kind of funny that everyone keeps telling us good luck?" Ashley says.
"You know you're not going to get lucky in the lotto, when you can't even get lucky enough to buy a ticket," I respond
Finally we have success. Jose's liquor store also sponsors the new york lotto. I point to two tickets behind the 7 inch thick bullet proof glass.
We wait until were home to reveal our destiny. Ashley uses a file and neatly scratches off the numbers to bingo mania in perfect squares. I'm hasty and use a dime, impatient towards what lies under the metallic wax.
'$500,' it reads.
"I won 500 dollars!," I shout.
"No way..."
"Yes, way! Look, see that little dollar sign, and see the number 500!?!? Heeeellll Yes!"
Ashley's roommate Miranda becomes interested and investigates my festivity fun scratch card.
"I think you're right! You just won 500 bucks! You don't have to work for like.....a week!" (Only in New York will 500 dollars only last "like......a week")
My elation is doused after Miranda's boyfriend arrives and points out some unrecognized clause in the instructions.
"The numbers have to match in order for you to win. Scratch off the others."
I do, and he's right.
I'm so bummed out, but it was still fun thinking I had won the lottery for ten minutes. In fact, we all have a residual high from my false victory. Everyone is happy and smiling.
Before I leave Ashley and I share a cigarette on the back patio. Her upstairs neighbor hung laundry out on the line, and the pastel colored towels flutter in the breeze. She comments on how there's something picturesque about the scene.
Everyday in this city I'm reminded that not everything beautiful comes from nature.
On my walk back to the subway I become lost. I'm supposed to walk down star fleet, but I don't know how far. I look around at clusters of intimidating men in baggy jeans, who all seems to be staring at me. I see a girl hustling down the sidewalk wearing tori birch. I immediately know from her shoes that we'd be great friends. "Hey!" I yell to her across the street, "Do you know where the subway is?"
"You're close, it's just a few more blocks."
"Do you mind if I.."
"Of course not," she interrupts, flashing me a warm smile.
We stroll in silence, but it doesn't feel awkward. Were both with the understanding that our encounter is brief and that something resembling first date conversation is unnecessary. She points to the subway and I say thanks. She raises her hand in farewell staying above ground to finish her cigarette. Again, I marvel at the simple kindness of humanity and a little bit of my cynicism dissipates.
I sit on the L train and watch a beautiful couple kiss on the bench across from me. They are clearly tourists visiting new york, probably on some romantic vacation together enjoying Broadway plays and fancy restaurants.
I had decided earlier that I was missing something to transfer my love onto. Since men aren't healthy objects of affection, and I have no yard for a dog, I'll have to settle for a goldfish.
There's an aquarium store on 38Th and second. I get off at grand central and walk in immediately saying to the clerk:
"I'm looking for a fish,"
"What kind?" he responds, "We have school fish, saltwater fish, exotic fish, coral fish....
"Um sir," I say, "I actually just want something I can keep in a small bowl at my apartment. You know, low maintenance. I was thinking like, a goldfish?"
"Sure, right this way."
He guides me down the isles of tanks filled with creatures snatched from the sea. The light reflects through the glass and blue ripples dance on the floor and ceiling. I think about how the world is our tank and were all different schools of fish. I stop mid thought and ask myself why I'm always thinking in metaphor. God I'm a weirdo.
I'm interrupted when he stops and points to a large, forgotten tank in the back of the store.
It looks forgotten because green moss crowds the sides, making its contents unclear.
I look deeper inside and blurt "What are these, goldfish on steroids"?
Over the last decade everything has gotten smaller. TVs, Cell Phones, and NY apartments, but, apparently, the only thing increasing in size are goldfish. And these ones were as big as my fist.
"You're sure these are goldfish? They are really big!"
"Yeah, we sold all of our smaller ones. This is what we have left."
I looked down again at the abnormally large school of goldfish. Their eyes are big and bulging, making them seem absentminded. Their bellies were round and looked too big for their fins, and consequently they just sort of floated there in an anti gravity kind of fashion.
"I think you're mistaken, these are trout pretending to be goldfish." I laugh, "They may have you fooled but, I'm not so sure."
"These are a large breed of goldfish. They're all I've got."
"Weeeellll, okay. Hmmm.... can I keep one in a bowl?"
"Yeah but it will have to hold 8 gallons, and you'll need a filter."
I realize that I'm not interested in any relationship that requires more than a water change once a week, and leave the store empty handed. No wonder I'm single.
My friend Ian's boyfriend and his roommate are at an Irish karaoke bar near grand central. I meet them for a pint. The place is awful and the crowd middle aged, but the beers are 3 dollars so I don't complain. There's 6 foot broad shouldered man singing "Come What May" in a business suit. In between versus he drunkenly mumbles "My wife's a fuc**** lunatic" into the mic. I laugh at the obvious cliche of his life. I assume he's another 40 year old finance banker, who is married with 3 kids and a golden retriever in Connecticut. It's the perfect recipe for a midlife Crisis.
Later a Mexican woman who is a little under 5 foot apprehends the mic. The words: "Ozzy Osbourne: let me hear you scream", pan across the Karaoke screen.
My friend Eamon looks at me with skepticism, "How is this going to work out?" he inquires.
Were befuddled when the midget woman climbs on top of the bar and begins screeching and hollering with a vibrato that sounds like an angry cello. She's surprisingly on key. We look at each other in awe. My conclusion: Ozzy died last week and came back as a 43 year old Latina.
Eamon asks me to get up and sing a song. That's my cue to leave.
Later I meet Chase at a music hall in the lower east side. We drink red wine and stomp our feet on rhythm to the folk band, "Hey Mama,". The main singer has a sultry, strong voice and plays the washboard. We both enjoy the band so much that we sign up for their mailing list, and I tell myself I'll track them down next time they play in new york.
I've decided that the cliche should be rewritten, "Music is next to godliness,". Being clean is boring anyway.
Light is vital for life. I never appreciated its influence until living in this apartment. There are no windows in my loft and the only thing to decipher day from night is the clock on my dresser. My thoughts keep redirecting to a science experiment I did in fourth grade where we observed two growing plants. We kept one near the window and the other in the art supply closet. The one in the window blossomed into a lovely bean plant almost overnight, while the one in the closet, cramped next to the poster paint and scissors, became only half the size and and turned a sickly yellow color. Photosynthesis is just as relevant to humans. I'm sleep deprived, but I'm getting out of this apartment and finding sunshine. I feel crippled by the darkness.
I climb out of bed and text Ashley, "lunch?". Ashley is a fellow waitress at the Coffee shop bar and an aspiring film producer. All of us at work are aspiring somethings; Artists, actors, writers, producers, models....etc. This isn't coincidence, this is just New York City. The arts move us all.
We mull over our failing relationships and complain about our horrible job while we munch on taco salad. Ashley's opinions always frighten me because they're full of truth rather than the usual, comfortable lies.
"Why do I still like him?" I ask her, "We both know he's a big fat jerk!"
Ashley's a-typical response: "It's hormones. You're drawn to each other. Imagine it this way: it's like having little magnets all over your body pulling you to him. You just can't help it."
I think about this for a minute. I was expecting her to say something like, "Yeah well, most men are jerks. When you find the one that treats you nice you'll know you've found the right one."
Instead I'm left pondering ideas of magnets and hormones.
"Maybe you're right. Let's go."
A stop for coffee in Korea town and a transfer on the L train puts us at her place in Brooklyn. Ashley points out a plywood sign hammered into a grassy patch by the sidewalk. "Trees not Trash!" it reads in thick black lettering. The grassy area is a makeshift landfill, littered with old Starbucks cups, plastic sacks and other garbage. I wonder if the abnormal amount of litter is a product of the sign being there, or if it's the other way around.
Ashley's bedroom is as big as my apartment, and I begin to question why I live in Manhattan. She has some old costume hats acquired through a former job hanging on a hat rack. She tries on a straw flat top with a chin strap and I wear a feather bonnet with a face net.
"How do I look?" I ask, pursing my lips.
"You're such a hat person!" She says, but I'm not convinced. I look ridiculous.
I mention that I'm feeling lucky, and would like to buy a lotto ticket. Most often gambling is associated with the negative. It's either someones last resort or just a dirty rotten habit. But today is a good day, and since nothing else has gone wrong I want to see what will go right. As the saying goes, you can't win the lottery with out buying a ticket. With that in mind we walk to the bodega next door and ask the clerk,
"Do you have any lotto scratchers?" The man behind the counter is wearing a wife beater and is unshaven. He looks rough and tumble, but this first impression is swept away when he grins largely revealing a few missing teeth. This makes him seem elderly rather than dangerous.
"No, just sold out ladies," he says with a slight lisp, "Try the neighborhood market down the street. Good luck."
We try the market down the street, which is an exact replica of the first store. Spanish fiesta music blares from the dusty black radio sitting on the counter. The whole Mercado smells like pine sol.
We say two words, "Lotto Scratchers?"
"Nope, sorry. Maybe next door. Good luck!"
So we do...same story, ..."good luck" Says the third clerk as we exit.
"Isn't it kind of funny that everyone keeps telling us good luck?" Ashley says.
"You know you're not going to get lucky in the lotto, when you can't even get lucky enough to buy a ticket," I respond
Finally we have success. Jose's liquor store also sponsors the new york lotto. I point to two tickets behind the 7 inch thick bullet proof glass.
We wait until were home to reveal our destiny. Ashley uses a file and neatly scratches off the numbers to bingo mania in perfect squares. I'm hasty and use a dime, impatient towards what lies under the metallic wax.
'$500,' it reads.
"I won 500 dollars!," I shout.
"No way..."
"Yes, way! Look, see that little dollar sign, and see the number 500!?!? Heeeellll Yes!"
Ashley's roommate Miranda becomes interested and investigates my festivity fun scratch card.
"I think you're right! You just won 500 bucks! You don't have to work for like.....a week!" (Only in New York will 500 dollars only last "like......a week")
My elation is doused after Miranda's boyfriend arrives and points out some unrecognized clause in the instructions.
"The numbers have to match in order for you to win. Scratch off the others."
I do, and he's right.
I'm so bummed out, but it was still fun thinking I had won the lottery for ten minutes. In fact, we all have a residual high from my false victory. Everyone is happy and smiling.
Before I leave Ashley and I share a cigarette on the back patio. Her upstairs neighbor hung laundry out on the line, and the pastel colored towels flutter in the breeze. She comments on how there's something picturesque about the scene.
Everyday in this city I'm reminded that not everything beautiful comes from nature.
On my walk back to the subway I become lost. I'm supposed to walk down star fleet, but I don't know how far. I look around at clusters of intimidating men in baggy jeans, who all seems to be staring at me. I see a girl hustling down the sidewalk wearing tori birch. I immediately know from her shoes that we'd be great friends. "Hey!" I yell to her across the street, "Do you know where the subway is?"
"You're close, it's just a few more blocks."
"Do you mind if I.."
"Of course not," she interrupts, flashing me a warm smile.
We stroll in silence, but it doesn't feel awkward. Were both with the understanding that our encounter is brief and that something resembling first date conversation is unnecessary. She points to the subway and I say thanks. She raises her hand in farewell staying above ground to finish her cigarette. Again, I marvel at the simple kindness of humanity and a little bit of my cynicism dissipates.
I sit on the L train and watch a beautiful couple kiss on the bench across from me. They are clearly tourists visiting new york, probably on some romantic vacation together enjoying Broadway plays and fancy restaurants.
I had decided earlier that I was missing something to transfer my love onto. Since men aren't healthy objects of affection, and I have no yard for a dog, I'll have to settle for a goldfish.
There's an aquarium store on 38Th and second. I get off at grand central and walk in immediately saying to the clerk:
"I'm looking for a fish,"
"What kind?" he responds, "We have school fish, saltwater fish, exotic fish, coral fish....
"Um sir," I say, "I actually just want something I can keep in a small bowl at my apartment. You know, low maintenance. I was thinking like, a goldfish?"
"Sure, right this way."
He guides me down the isles of tanks filled with creatures snatched from the sea. The light reflects through the glass and blue ripples dance on the floor and ceiling. I think about how the world is our tank and were all different schools of fish. I stop mid thought and ask myself why I'm always thinking in metaphor. God I'm a weirdo.
I'm interrupted when he stops and points to a large, forgotten tank in the back of the store.
It looks forgotten because green moss crowds the sides, making its contents unclear.
I look deeper inside and blurt "What are these, goldfish on steroids"?
Over the last decade everything has gotten smaller. TVs, Cell Phones, and NY apartments, but, apparently, the only thing increasing in size are goldfish. And these ones were as big as my fist.
"You're sure these are goldfish? They are really big!"
"Yeah, we sold all of our smaller ones. This is what we have left."
I looked down again at the abnormally large school of goldfish. Their eyes are big and bulging, making them seem absentminded. Their bellies were round and looked too big for their fins, and consequently they just sort of floated there in an anti gravity kind of fashion.
"I think you're mistaken, these are trout pretending to be goldfish." I laugh, "They may have you fooled but, I'm not so sure."
"These are a large breed of goldfish. They're all I've got."
"Weeeellll, okay. Hmmm.... can I keep one in a bowl?"
"Yeah but it will have to hold 8 gallons, and you'll need a filter."
I realize that I'm not interested in any relationship that requires more than a water change once a week, and leave the store empty handed. No wonder I'm single.
My friend Ian's boyfriend and his roommate are at an Irish karaoke bar near grand central. I meet them for a pint. The place is awful and the crowd middle aged, but the beers are 3 dollars so I don't complain. There's 6 foot broad shouldered man singing "Come What May" in a business suit. In between versus he drunkenly mumbles "My wife's a fuc**** lunatic" into the mic. I laugh at the obvious cliche of his life. I assume he's another 40 year old finance banker, who is married with 3 kids and a golden retriever in Connecticut. It's the perfect recipe for a midlife Crisis.
Later a Mexican woman who is a little under 5 foot apprehends the mic. The words: "Ozzy Osbourne: let me hear you scream", pan across the Karaoke screen.
My friend Eamon looks at me with skepticism, "How is this going to work out?" he inquires.
Were befuddled when the midget woman climbs on top of the bar and begins screeching and hollering with a vibrato that sounds like an angry cello. She's surprisingly on key. We look at each other in awe. My conclusion: Ozzy died last week and came back as a 43 year old Latina.
Eamon asks me to get up and sing a song. That's my cue to leave.
Later I meet Chase at a music hall in the lower east side. We drink red wine and stomp our feet on rhythm to the folk band, "Hey Mama,". The main singer has a sultry, strong voice and plays the washboard. We both enjoy the band so much that we sign up for their mailing list, and I tell myself I'll track them down next time they play in new york.
I've decided that the cliche should be rewritten, "Music is next to godliness,". Being clean is boring anyway.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Death By Taxi Cab
My life expectancy has been lowered since moving to this city. Reason being: I'm yet to master the art of crossing the street. It might be the death of me. Most people prance across Lexington as if they own the avenues. Taxis and UTA buses seem to step aside at their command. Its a modern comparison to moses parting the red sea. Apparently I don't demand the respect of those on wheels. Imitating the behavior of my fellow new yorkers usually leads to a loud honk and a quick dash back to the sidewalk, followed by a harsh vocal warning from a complete stranger. I've tried to improve my street crossing edicut by obeying the traffic lights, but this usually just makes me look like an even bigger idiot. First of all, waiting for that little white man to give the okay is a concept unknown to any other person but me. People pass me by in heards while I stand there on the sidewalk in hesitation, expecting his appearance.I feel behind.
So, do I risk my life and follow the masses, or remain a little cautious, knowing that as soon as I take a chance, a ghost cab will appear from nowhere and end my life? I'm unsure at this point. (This might apply to more than this scenario)
I guess this is where I say thanks to all of the people who have literally saved my life by stopping me from crossing the road at the inappropriate time. There are quite a few of you.
It's obvious that I love to travel. Half of my blog is dedicated to the topic. For some people staying in one place means security, consistency, and peace of mind. For me it is boring and bland. My longest affair with anywhere in the last 4 years was Dublin, which lasted a whopping 5 months. It's surprising how quickly the anxiousness to uproot myself and start over sets in. I say this because I've been mulling over future possibilities lately, an absolutely ridiculous thought because I just got back in NY. However, there is a LARGE downside to moving around and it has to do with relationships. Being liquid means that you're constantly building these relationships and then saying goodbye. It can be pretty heartbreaking. Some of my best friends are thousands of miles away, in other countries and continents, or always moving around themselves. I really miss them at times. While I don't crave the stability of my surroundings, I would appreciate the stability in connections and the comfort of having more people I care about closer.
Rarely do I approach the topic of dating on my blog, usually to avoid humiliation, but I will admit that my nomadic behavior has been a huge factor in my single status. This isn't to say that there aren't other reasons. I know I'm bossy and sometimes talk too much, but looking back there's a pattern of me getting close to a person and then being forced to say see ya later. It's emotionally draining and even getting a little old. The worst part about it is that it never ends badly, leaving me with a hypothetical romance I can only explore in my mind.
A break up is a clear cut decision that forces you to move on with your life. Saying goodbye due to distance means always wondering what could have been had it been more convenient. I guess the trick is not to dwell and to occupy your time with people and things you love, but lately I'm feeling a lot like Carrie Bradshaw from sex in the city, only, without the designer labels and hot career...just very, very single. It could be self induced, after all I Love to rant about freedom and the exhilaration of it. The phrase, 'be careful what you wish for' comes to mind.
Thank you universe for helping me fulfill this self prophecy. Can I take it back?
I am bludgeoned and bruised on every limb of my body and missing a big toenail thanks to warrior dash, a race I competed in this sunday. My good friend Julie talked me into running, and Had I known the extremity of it I may have thought twice. This 5k involved 2 miles up a steep hill, fire jumping, mud with barbed wire, and other forms of torture. Luckily I was able to channel my nervousness into adrenaline and finished the thing feeling pretty darn proud of myself. I really love the satisfaction in getting through something challenging, whether it be a race or a rough patch in life. I'm still feeling a little high from it all.
I need to keep this in mind for future reference. As bad as things get, they will work out. They always, ALWAYS do. Sometimes I wish I was religious. People who are religious have such an intense focus to revolve themselves around. I suppose I am religious in my own way. There are things I believe in and live by. Isn't that what religion is? Guidelines, unwritten and scribed that we use to direct us through our lives. I'm uncertain about a lot things when it comes to spirituality, but my theories about happiness keep me in check. Some of them are (Warning, this next section is full of cheesy, self constructed cliches.)
Be kind to others, especially strangers. Share. Share EVERYTHING. Don't be afraid of mistakes, but be afraid of not recognizing them. Music is a higher power. Be honest with yourself. Be honest with others. The truth hurts, lies hurt worse. Try to listen more than talk. Find the balance in challenging yourself and pacing yourself. Everything in moderation, except chocolate. Family is all things beautiful. Humanity is family. Go for it...Seriously. Develop an eye for sincerity and cling to those who are sincere. Eat the last piece. Children know more than we do. Try everything once, and since life's short, try it twice. Laugh. Laugh a lot. Laugh at yourself. Apologize. Never stop believing in Santa Clause. Know your flaws and make them your strengths. Tell someone everyday that they're amazing and mean it. Value loyalty and be loyal. Eat your vegetables. Be in the moment & only glance toward the future. Be cautious, not cynical. See the best in others. Wear a smile and you'll feel 92% better. Tell those you love how you feel. Move. Action is the difference between dreams and success. Write it down. Learn something new as often as possible. Don't feel bad for being human. Realize your vices and take control. Look people in the eye. Say please and thank you. Love yourself and consequently you'll love others.
Im aware that a lot of this seems simplistic and you may have heard it before, but that's only because it true. I'm convinced that if I live according to all of these things I will feel happy and fulfilled, which is in essence everyone's goal in life.
So, do I risk my life and follow the masses, or remain a little cautious, knowing that as soon as I take a chance, a ghost cab will appear from nowhere and end my life? I'm unsure at this point. (This might apply to more than this scenario)
I guess this is where I say thanks to all of the people who have literally saved my life by stopping me from crossing the road at the inappropriate time. There are quite a few of you.
It's obvious that I love to travel. Half of my blog is dedicated to the topic. For some people staying in one place means security, consistency, and peace of mind. For me it is boring and bland. My longest affair with anywhere in the last 4 years was Dublin, which lasted a whopping 5 months. It's surprising how quickly the anxiousness to uproot myself and start over sets in. I say this because I've been mulling over future possibilities lately, an absolutely ridiculous thought because I just got back in NY. However, there is a LARGE downside to moving around and it has to do with relationships. Being liquid means that you're constantly building these relationships and then saying goodbye. It can be pretty heartbreaking. Some of my best friends are thousands of miles away, in other countries and continents, or always moving around themselves. I really miss them at times. While I don't crave the stability of my surroundings, I would appreciate the stability in connections and the comfort of having more people I care about closer.
Rarely do I approach the topic of dating on my blog, usually to avoid humiliation, but I will admit that my nomadic behavior has been a huge factor in my single status. This isn't to say that there aren't other reasons. I know I'm bossy and sometimes talk too much, but looking back there's a pattern of me getting close to a person and then being forced to say see ya later. It's emotionally draining and even getting a little old. The worst part about it is that it never ends badly, leaving me with a hypothetical romance I can only explore in my mind.
A break up is a clear cut decision that forces you to move on with your life. Saying goodbye due to distance means always wondering what could have been had it been more convenient. I guess the trick is not to dwell and to occupy your time with people and things you love, but lately I'm feeling a lot like Carrie Bradshaw from sex in the city, only, without the designer labels and hot career...just very, very single. It could be self induced, after all I Love to rant about freedom and the exhilaration of it. The phrase, 'be careful what you wish for' comes to mind.
Thank you universe for helping me fulfill this self prophecy. Can I take it back?
I am bludgeoned and bruised on every limb of my body and missing a big toenail thanks to warrior dash, a race I competed in this sunday. My good friend Julie talked me into running, and Had I known the extremity of it I may have thought twice. This 5k involved 2 miles up a steep hill, fire jumping, mud with barbed wire, and other forms of torture. Luckily I was able to channel my nervousness into adrenaline and finished the thing feeling pretty darn proud of myself. I really love the satisfaction in getting through something challenging, whether it be a race or a rough patch in life. I'm still feeling a little high from it all.
I need to keep this in mind for future reference. As bad as things get, they will work out. They always, ALWAYS do. Sometimes I wish I was religious. People who are religious have such an intense focus to revolve themselves around. I suppose I am religious in my own way. There are things I believe in and live by. Isn't that what religion is? Guidelines, unwritten and scribed that we use to direct us through our lives. I'm uncertain about a lot things when it comes to spirituality, but my theories about happiness keep me in check. Some of them are (Warning, this next section is full of cheesy, self constructed cliches.)
Be kind to others, especially strangers. Share. Share EVERYTHING. Don't be afraid of mistakes, but be afraid of not recognizing them. Music is a higher power. Be honest with yourself. Be honest with others. The truth hurts, lies hurt worse. Try to listen more than talk. Find the balance in challenging yourself and pacing yourself. Everything in moderation, except chocolate. Family is all things beautiful. Humanity is family. Go for it...Seriously. Develop an eye for sincerity and cling to those who are sincere. Eat the last piece. Children know more than we do. Try everything once, and since life's short, try it twice. Laugh. Laugh a lot. Laugh at yourself. Apologize. Never stop believing in Santa Clause. Know your flaws and make them your strengths. Tell someone everyday that they're amazing and mean it. Value loyalty and be loyal. Eat your vegetables. Be in the moment & only glance toward the future. Be cautious, not cynical. See the best in others. Wear a smile and you'll feel 92% better. Tell those you love how you feel. Move. Action is the difference between dreams and success. Write it down. Learn something new as often as possible. Don't feel bad for being human. Realize your vices and take control. Look people in the eye. Say please and thank you. Love yourself and consequently you'll love others.
Im aware that a lot of this seems simplistic and you may have heard it before, but that's only because it true. I'm convinced that if I live according to all of these things I will feel happy and fulfilled, which is in essence everyone's goal in life.
Friday, September 3, 2010
There's No Shame in Cake for Breakfast
Yellow taxis are constantly whizzing down Madison ave and tourists crowd the nearby empire state building with their oversized Nikons. I've been tossed into the daily grind of the 6 train and too many cups of coffee, and although I am physically exhausted from just trying to get by, I really do love this place. Everyday when I wake up and step onto the dirty pavement I am reminded why I'm here. This is my first taste of true independence, but its as sweet as the leftover birthday cake my roommate and I had for breakfast the other day...just because we could. And that's exactly how I want to live! I don't mean that I want to have birthday cake for every meal. Neither my hips or dentist would appreciate that feat. I simply want to do things just because I can, and being back here in NY is a start.
This isn't to say that freedom doesn't come without a price tag. There are many luxuries of a real home that I miss, but this city capitalizes on all of them. Need a home cooked meal? Big daddy's cafe and 310 other restaurants in Murray hill deliver. Miss handing over those dirty clothes to mom? Lei's laundry will pick up, wash, dry, and press your laundry for 75 cents a pound. Now, if only I could pay someone to assemble this night dresser that came with more pieces than Jennifer Aniston's heart. Come to think of it, I probably could. Manhattan, thanks for making it too easy to fake this independence thing.
I don't consider myself a conformist. My general stubbornness has prompted rebellion from time to time and it's something I've had to learn to control. Its not that I enjoy a reaction or going against the grain, but I never appreciated the roadmap drawn out for me and I sometimes get carried away in the idea of creating my own path. I started asking myself the question a long time a go: Am I doing this because I want to, or because someone else doesn't want me to? The answer has become my guideline for decision making, and after much consideration I've determined that I am here only because I want to be,. That should be reason enough. This is not easily understood by others. An exchange between two Yorkers will never fail to produce the question: What do you do in the city? My answer: Freelance bartender, bookstore clerk, fitness instructor, and general adventure seeker.
This response doesn't seem to satisy and I can usually tell by the glazed over looks and confused nods.
I'm a firm believer in just going for it! Right now I'm enjoying the possibilities that come with pursuing my dreams and the unknown. I wish everyone could accept my hazy vision of my life without hesitation, but I understand that there are certain patterns of thought that can't just be dissolved. Accepting this notion is part of being at peace.
This isn't to say that freedom doesn't come without a price tag. There are many luxuries of a real home that I miss, but this city capitalizes on all of them. Need a home cooked meal? Big daddy's cafe and 310 other restaurants in Murray hill deliver. Miss handing over those dirty clothes to mom? Lei's laundry will pick up, wash, dry, and press your laundry for 75 cents a pound. Now, if only I could pay someone to assemble this night dresser that came with more pieces than Jennifer Aniston's heart. Come to think of it, I probably could. Manhattan, thanks for making it too easy to fake this independence thing.
I don't consider myself a conformist. My general stubbornness has prompted rebellion from time to time and it's something I've had to learn to control. Its not that I enjoy a reaction or going against the grain, but I never appreciated the roadmap drawn out for me and I sometimes get carried away in the idea of creating my own path. I started asking myself the question a long time a go: Am I doing this because I want to, or because someone else doesn't want me to? The answer has become my guideline for decision making, and after much consideration I've determined that I am here only because I want to be,. That should be reason enough. This is not easily understood by others. An exchange between two Yorkers will never fail to produce the question: What do you do in the city? My answer: Freelance bartender, bookstore clerk, fitness instructor, and general adventure seeker.
This response doesn't seem to satisy and I can usually tell by the glazed over looks and confused nods.
I'm a firm believer in just going for it! Right now I'm enjoying the possibilities that come with pursuing my dreams and the unknown. I wish everyone could accept my hazy vision of my life without hesitation, but I understand that there are certain patterns of thought that can't just be dissolved. Accepting this notion is part of being at peace.
Monday, July 26, 2010
My Hilbilly Bone
Sometimes my life feels a little bit more like a country song than it should. I realized this a few weeks ago when I was scraping worm guts off my new velour tracksuit. Note to self: looking stylish while fishing is both entirely unnecessary and impractical. But seriously, It’s as if I am Gretchen Wilson or Miranda Lambert. The lyrics of Redneck Woman definitely came to mind last week while I attempted to hit the bottlecap my brother fastened to a pine tree with our rifle, or yesterday as I wrestled our loose goat, Franky, back into the coral. It may seem like a strange phenomenon, for someone to juggle both a small town American and a big city lifestyle, but frankly, I enjoy getting dirt under my nails just as much as I enjoy having them manicured. In fact, I am grateful for this balance in my life.
I only visit this topic because I am moving back to New York city permanently, and it couldn’t seem farther from where I am now, both in miles and in way of life. Aside from the fact that it actually is one of the farthest places I could choose to move from home on the continental US, the vibrant lights and hustle that encompass New York will probably both scare and thrill me. I haven’t been back in a while.
There are both good and bad things about living in a big city. A city is a great place for someone who likes diversity, culture, and to feel empowered. I found that after living in New York last summer I felt like a stronger human being, a person more capable of conquering obstacles than my former self. This is probably due to the sheer size and amount of it, which teaches you how to truly coexist, or maybe it’s just the acquired talent for avoiding lunatic cabbies and bag peddlers. One can’t be too sure.
There are also a lot of bad things about big cities. They can make you become cynical, untrustworthy, and calloused toward humanity. When there are millions of people, it’s easy to feel like just another person, and treat the next guy like exactly that, “the next guy”.
I am hoping my simple American roots will help me counteract some of the big city backwash that will surely find its way into my first New York City cocktail. In a place with more concrete than grass, people than cows, and greed than charity, the constant reflection on the uncomplicated concepts of family, kindness, generosity, and love are imperative to happiness.
As Blake Shelton said it:
Yeah I got a friend in New York City
He's never heard of Connway Twitty
Don't know nothing about grits and greens
Never been south of Queens
But he flew down here on a business trip
I took him honky tonkin' and that was it
He took to it like a pig to mud, like a cow to cud
We all got a hillbilly bone down deep inside
No matter where you from you just can't hide it
And when the band starts banging and the fiddle saws
You can't help but hollering, Yee Haw!
When you see them pretty little country queens
Man you gotta admit that's in them genes
Ain't nothing wrong, just getting on your
hillbilly bone-ba-bone-ba-bone-bone
My hillbilly bone will be right there in my suitcase, next to my favorite Marc Jacobs top. It’s all about Balance.
I only visit this topic because I am moving back to New York city permanently, and it couldn’t seem farther from where I am now, both in miles and in way of life. Aside from the fact that it actually is one of the farthest places I could choose to move from home on the continental US, the vibrant lights and hustle that encompass New York will probably both scare and thrill me. I haven’t been back in a while.
There are both good and bad things about living in a big city. A city is a great place for someone who likes diversity, culture, and to feel empowered. I found that after living in New York last summer I felt like a stronger human being, a person more capable of conquering obstacles than my former self. This is probably due to the sheer size and amount of it, which teaches you how to truly coexist, or maybe it’s just the acquired talent for avoiding lunatic cabbies and bag peddlers. One can’t be too sure.
There are also a lot of bad things about big cities. They can make you become cynical, untrustworthy, and calloused toward humanity. When there are millions of people, it’s easy to feel like just another person, and treat the next guy like exactly that, “the next guy”.
I am hoping my simple American roots will help me counteract some of the big city backwash that will surely find its way into my first New York City cocktail. In a place with more concrete than grass, people than cows, and greed than charity, the constant reflection on the uncomplicated concepts of family, kindness, generosity, and love are imperative to happiness.
As Blake Shelton said it:
Yeah I got a friend in New York City
He's never heard of Connway Twitty
Don't know nothing about grits and greens
Never been south of Queens
But he flew down here on a business trip
I took him honky tonkin' and that was it
He took to it like a pig to mud, like a cow to cud
We all got a hillbilly bone down deep inside
No matter where you from you just can't hide it
And when the band starts banging and the fiddle saws
You can't help but hollering, Yee Haw!
When you see them pretty little country queens
Man you gotta admit that's in them genes
Ain't nothing wrong, just getting on your
hillbilly bone-ba-bone-ba-bone-bone
My hillbilly bone will be right there in my suitcase, next to my favorite Marc Jacobs top. It’s all about Balance.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Moving Forward
Mom came over this month and together we skipped off to Italy for a week of sightseeing and spaghetti. Unfortunately there turned out to be more spaghetti than sightseeing, but the divinity of the food was well worth my upcoming trips to the gym. We started our trip in Rome then caught the train to Florence and Venice. It was an adventure navigating through the country without an italian narrator or a direction savvy dad, but it was a bonding experience I won't soon forget. There aren't many things better than traveling with your best friend. Here is a recap of our itinerary from our italian holiday:
Sunday: We wheel our suitcases past the crowds and accidentally stumble upon the Trevi fountain. The white marble and giant sea urchins are magnificent, and we realize were in the city that started it all. The toss of a coin is supposed to lead to new romance, so I toss in two. Who can't use a little extra help in that department?
We board a double decker bus and it stops at the massive decay that is the Coliseum. Parts of the monument were excavated centuries ago to build other architecture around the city. What it is missing in structure, is made up for by its remaining grandeur. We stand at the top and envision raging lions and iron clad men.
Monday: We wake up at dawn for a tour of the Vatican. On the way our tour guide makes jokes about its sovereignty, and how we'll need our passports to visit. St. peters cathedral makes me feel small and the mosaics and golden clad walls inside seem too castle-like to be godly. However, The Sistine Chapel doesn't disappoint me and I'm amazed at the size and height of the ceiling that was Michelangelo's canvas.
Tuesday: We wake up in the morning to catch ItaliaTren to Florence. The ride is four hours long, but were entertained by the terracotta houses and epic countryside. We check in to the Embassy Hotel and walk to the market. The smell of the fresh cut leather triggers a shopping frenzy and I find a bargain bin of 5euro purses. I buy seven of them, and mom and I struggle to haul them back to the hotel.
Wednesday: We wake up at 6am for a 12 mile bike ride through Tuscany. Upon arrival, Alberto, our guide, gives us the option of taking vespas instead. We welcome the change. Mom and I look funny in our helmets, but are true professionals behind the wheel. We drive the motorbikes down windy hilltop roads to a Chianti vineyard where we enjoy pecorino cheese and house wine. On the way home we stop for Ice cream. It's our second scoop of the day but it's justifiable. We’re on vacation.
Thursday: It's another early morning train ride to Venice. From the station we are escorted to a water taxi. I am amazed to learn that there are no cars in the isles and I see my first gondola floating down a canal. A couple we met in Florence told us not to bother with a map and we soon learn why. The streets are narrow and alley like, giving us the sensation of mice in a maze. We gaze over the Rialto bridge and buy cameo and turquoise rings from the suspended jewelry shops. Outside an older man looks at mom and winks, uttering the words "bella". I smile and laugh to myself as I watch her blush a little.
It's Not The End, But The Beginning
Only three days until I leave this place. The goodbyes have begun and are a sharp reminder that this whirlwind chapter of my life is closing. These last four months feel more like four weeks and it seems like just yesterday that I was walking down Grafton street for the first time. I will miss Dublin city and the people in it, but goodbye isn't definite. I know I'll be back someday. I'd like to think that everyone we come in contact with teaches us something and that were made up of more than just our own quirks and traits. We all become each other. Each person I've met here has given me something I'll take with me when I go and I'm so thankful for that.
Here are some other things I'll take with me from Ireland:
A love for Barry's tea.
Mumford and Sons.
An irish vocabulary.
Lots of blisters.
An infatuation with Bulmers.
A knack for talking about the weather.
An Irish family.
A Penney's wardrobe.
An addiction to curry.
5 pounds.
A million memories.
Heartbreaks and heart throbs.
An empty bank account.
Lasting friendships.
Here's to my next adventure :)
Sunday: We wheel our suitcases past the crowds and accidentally stumble upon the Trevi fountain. The white marble and giant sea urchins are magnificent, and we realize were in the city that started it all. The toss of a coin is supposed to lead to new romance, so I toss in two. Who can't use a little extra help in that department?
We board a double decker bus and it stops at the massive decay that is the Coliseum. Parts of the monument were excavated centuries ago to build other architecture around the city. What it is missing in structure, is made up for by its remaining grandeur. We stand at the top and envision raging lions and iron clad men.
Monday: We wake up at dawn for a tour of the Vatican. On the way our tour guide makes jokes about its sovereignty, and how we'll need our passports to visit. St. peters cathedral makes me feel small and the mosaics and golden clad walls inside seem too castle-like to be godly. However, The Sistine Chapel doesn't disappoint me and I'm amazed at the size and height of the ceiling that was Michelangelo's canvas.
Tuesday: We wake up in the morning to catch ItaliaTren to Florence. The ride is four hours long, but were entertained by the terracotta houses and epic countryside. We check in to the Embassy Hotel and walk to the market. The smell of the fresh cut leather triggers a shopping frenzy and I find a bargain bin of 5euro purses. I buy seven of them, and mom and I struggle to haul them back to the hotel.
Wednesday: We wake up at 6am for a 12 mile bike ride through Tuscany. Upon arrival, Alberto, our guide, gives us the option of taking vespas instead. We welcome the change. Mom and I look funny in our helmets, but are true professionals behind the wheel. We drive the motorbikes down windy hilltop roads to a Chianti vineyard where we enjoy pecorino cheese and house wine. On the way home we stop for Ice cream. It's our second scoop of the day but it's justifiable. We’re on vacation.
Thursday: It's another early morning train ride to Venice. From the station we are escorted to a water taxi. I am amazed to learn that there are no cars in the isles and I see my first gondola floating down a canal. A couple we met in Florence told us not to bother with a map and we soon learn why. The streets are narrow and alley like, giving us the sensation of mice in a maze. We gaze over the Rialto bridge and buy cameo and turquoise rings from the suspended jewelry shops. Outside an older man looks at mom and winks, uttering the words "bella". I smile and laugh to myself as I watch her blush a little.
It's Not The End, But The Beginning
Only three days until I leave this place. The goodbyes have begun and are a sharp reminder that this whirlwind chapter of my life is closing. These last four months feel more like four weeks and it seems like just yesterday that I was walking down Grafton street for the first time. I will miss Dublin city and the people in it, but goodbye isn't definite. I know I'll be back someday. I'd like to think that everyone we come in contact with teaches us something and that were made up of more than just our own quirks and traits. We all become each other. Each person I've met here has given me something I'll take with me when I go and I'm so thankful for that.
Here are some other things I'll take with me from Ireland:
A love for Barry's tea.
Mumford and Sons.
An irish vocabulary.
Lots of blisters.
An infatuation with Bulmers.
A knack for talking about the weather.
An Irish family.
A Penney's wardrobe.
An addiction to curry.
5 pounds.
A million memories.
Heartbreaks and heart throbs.
An empty bank account.
Lasting friendships.
Here's to my next adventure :)
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Hemingway
April 1st, 2010
Dublin
Sharon and I wait for bus number 15 at the O’Connell street stop. We are sporting matching pink Jansport backpacks, blonde hair, and loud accents. Local passerby’s look at us grudgingly. I don’t care much. After nearly four months of being away I’ve learned to embrace the American in me. The sun is shining, but it is once again deceitful. Goosebumps emerge under my cotton jacket which isn’t warm enough for the chilly April weather. Sharon comments on how New York is just starting to warm up, and images of blossoms in central park flit through my head. I think about telling her she can stay in Dublin and I’ll go back to New York instead. I decide that defamation of the place she is vacationing won’t make me a gracious host. We board the bus.
April 3rd, 2010
Dublin
Sharon is visiting til Easter and I’m enjoying the company of a friend from home. We spend the day buying souvenirs for Sharon’s family and drinking Guinness. I feel like a tourist again, but realize I’m not Irish, either. Trapped somewhere in the middle, I decide its okay to take have Sharon snap a photo of me on Grafton street.
Later on a tour bus I giggle as we tap our shots of complimentary Jameson together. Sharon says ‘cheers’. It’s a familiar word that the UK has taken out of context. Here it means thank you, but I prefer it as a toast. On the way home from the day tour we get caught in the rain. We are both cold, and the rain soaks through our jeans. We stop at Burdocks and order fish and chips. I am unaware that the “fish” part is actually a whole battered cod until the waitress places it in front of me. I glance nervously at the thing that looks too similar to itself pre-mortem . I use the cliché, ‘When in Rome!’ and bathe the thing in lemon juice. Not bad.
Were both exhausted, but it’s not a vacation in Ireland without a proper night out. We head back to the house to shower and take a nap. Later were meeting my friends at temple bar.
April 9th, 2010
London
Our tour guide squeals ‘wake up sleepy heads’ as we step off the bus. I can’t recall ever hearing such a nasally English accent. I am happy to escape her dreadful commentary and dry humour which lasted the previous two hours. We’re after visiting Windsor and Bath, and the day has been long. Wrecked, I decide that sight seeing is too much work.
Off of the bus the sun is warm. I take off my coat, basking in the weather and silently wish god didn’t create clouds or raindrops. Denise and I stroll down the paved path towards the massive rock formation and I begin taking photographs. It’s been explained to us that nobody really knows the purpose of Stonehenge, but that its age and ambiguity make it unique. I see the man-made, yet supernatural rock piles in the distance. They are larger than I’d imagined and the surrounding greenery and sunset makes them beautiful. I feel humbled. It’s nice to appreciate something without an explanation.
April 10th,2010
London
I’m sitting alone in a dimly lit Italian restaurant near Piccadilly Circus. The surrounding tables are filled with couples and families ordering from the Prix-Fixe theatre menus and I have tickets to Mamma-Mia. The waiter approaches and asks if I’d like a drink in an Italian accent. I smile and ask him how he knew, then order a Peroni. Denise and I have split up for most of the day to explore London on our own. As I wait for my beer I become self conscious about dining by myself. Everyone seems to be looking my direction. Suddenly, my thoughts of pity turn to thoughts of independence. I decide to feel grown up instead.
After finishing my meal I leave the restaurant and board the underground. The train is crowded and I wonder how claustrophobics fare in big cities. As I step off the train a sign informs me that the escalator from the platform to the street is broken. I frown at my choice of wardrobe, a short party dress and black stilettos, but sigh and begin climbing the endless concrete staircase. A group of boys whistle as I near the top. I decide I would rather have company than feel independent at the moment. I hustle to the top and head into the bustling street. The show starts in 30 minutes.
April 16th, 2010
Dublin
The sun pours through my bay window, waking me up before my alarm. I suddenly realize why the Irish only talk about the weather. You learn to appreciate a good day when there are so few of them. Since the sun is out I am headed to Howth to take pictures with Sara. Photography has become my escape, and I’m yet to see the nearby fishing village.
We take the train to the Howth stop and have lunch at a garden restaurant. We linger after our meal sipping coffee and chat about how we are both cynics. Afterward we walk along the pier taking pictures of the sailboats and old couples holding hands. The breeze is slight and the scenery is epic. The harbor is full of brightly coloured tug boats, old nets, and perfect moments to capture. We decide to set the self timer on her camera and take pictures of us jumping off a ledge. Later we look at our airborne facial expressions and laugh.
Dublin
Sharon and I wait for bus number 15 at the O’Connell street stop. We are sporting matching pink Jansport backpacks, blonde hair, and loud accents. Local passerby’s look at us grudgingly. I don’t care much. After nearly four months of being away I’ve learned to embrace the American in me. The sun is shining, but it is once again deceitful. Goosebumps emerge under my cotton jacket which isn’t warm enough for the chilly April weather. Sharon comments on how New York is just starting to warm up, and images of blossoms in central park flit through my head. I think about telling her she can stay in Dublin and I’ll go back to New York instead. I decide that defamation of the place she is vacationing won’t make me a gracious host. We board the bus.
April 3rd, 2010
Dublin
Sharon is visiting til Easter and I’m enjoying the company of a friend from home. We spend the day buying souvenirs for Sharon’s family and drinking Guinness. I feel like a tourist again, but realize I’m not Irish, either. Trapped somewhere in the middle, I decide its okay to take have Sharon snap a photo of me on Grafton street.
Later on a tour bus I giggle as we tap our shots of complimentary Jameson together. Sharon says ‘cheers’. It’s a familiar word that the UK has taken out of context. Here it means thank you, but I prefer it as a toast. On the way home from the day tour we get caught in the rain. We are both cold, and the rain soaks through our jeans. We stop at Burdocks and order fish and chips. I am unaware that the “fish” part is actually a whole battered cod until the waitress places it in front of me. I glance nervously at the thing that looks too similar to itself pre-mortem . I use the cliché, ‘When in Rome!’ and bathe the thing in lemon juice. Not bad.
Were both exhausted, but it’s not a vacation in Ireland without a proper night out. We head back to the house to shower and take a nap. Later were meeting my friends at temple bar.
April 9th, 2010
London
Our tour guide squeals ‘wake up sleepy heads’ as we step off the bus. I can’t recall ever hearing such a nasally English accent. I am happy to escape her dreadful commentary and dry humour which lasted the previous two hours. We’re after visiting Windsor and Bath, and the day has been long. Wrecked, I decide that sight seeing is too much work.
Off of the bus the sun is warm. I take off my coat, basking in the weather and silently wish god didn’t create clouds or raindrops. Denise and I stroll down the paved path towards the massive rock formation and I begin taking photographs. It’s been explained to us that nobody really knows the purpose of Stonehenge, but that its age and ambiguity make it unique. I see the man-made, yet supernatural rock piles in the distance. They are larger than I’d imagined and the surrounding greenery and sunset makes them beautiful. I feel humbled. It’s nice to appreciate something without an explanation.
April 10th,2010
London
I’m sitting alone in a dimly lit Italian restaurant near Piccadilly Circus. The surrounding tables are filled with couples and families ordering from the Prix-Fixe theatre menus and I have tickets to Mamma-Mia. The waiter approaches and asks if I’d like a drink in an Italian accent. I smile and ask him how he knew, then order a Peroni. Denise and I have split up for most of the day to explore London on our own. As I wait for my beer I become self conscious about dining by myself. Everyone seems to be looking my direction. Suddenly, my thoughts of pity turn to thoughts of independence. I decide to feel grown up instead.
After finishing my meal I leave the restaurant and board the underground. The train is crowded and I wonder how claustrophobics fare in big cities. As I step off the train a sign informs me that the escalator from the platform to the street is broken. I frown at my choice of wardrobe, a short party dress and black stilettos, but sigh and begin climbing the endless concrete staircase. A group of boys whistle as I near the top. I decide I would rather have company than feel independent at the moment. I hustle to the top and head into the bustling street. The show starts in 30 minutes.
April 16th, 2010
Dublin
The sun pours through my bay window, waking me up before my alarm. I suddenly realize why the Irish only talk about the weather. You learn to appreciate a good day when there are so few of them. Since the sun is out I am headed to Howth to take pictures with Sara. Photography has become my escape, and I’m yet to see the nearby fishing village.
We take the train to the Howth stop and have lunch at a garden restaurant. We linger after our meal sipping coffee and chat about how we are both cynics. Afterward we walk along the pier taking pictures of the sailboats and old couples holding hands. The breeze is slight and the scenery is epic. The harbor is full of brightly coloured tug boats, old nets, and perfect moments to capture. We decide to set the self timer on her camera and take pictures of us jumping off a ledge. Later we look at our airborne facial expressions and laugh.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
I'm A Dubliner
At last I am here to stay!...at least for a while. I'm back from Scotland and Kerry, and won't be leaving my fair city again til April. It's funny how quickly somewhere becomes home. Dublin has become that for me in so many ways. I find myself missing the familiarity of it when I'm gone I'm certain I'll long for this place when I set foot on American soil. It feels good to be back. I suppose you can call me a Dubliner, now! Anyway, time for a recap of my recent adventures:
The emerald rolling hills, mossy stone hedges and seaside makes the kingdom of Kerry the perfect place for any fairytale. On the train ride in I saw 4 dozen cottages fit for snow white, a few other castle-esque residences belonging to sleepy princesses, and plenty of gleaming sandy coastlines that merpeople surely inhabit. The landscape had me gobsmacked, and I half expected prince charming to come riding by on his white horse. While I wasn't quite that lucky, Kerry was truly breathtaking and I no longer wonder why some Irish trade in a Dublin life for a quieter country one. I went down with Bernie and Michael Jr. Friday to attend a family birthday party. It was different from any Hyde family function I've ever been to, and certainly more lively. It was held in the local pub rather than the church hall, and the refreshments were anything but a mixture of rainbow sherbet in sprite (mormon reference). It was definitely good craic (ireland reference).
Scotland was equally as enchanting, and the city of edinborgh had me at hello. A big rugby match brought the people and kilts out in the masses and the girls and I took notice of how handsome the scottish men were. It was strange how a skirt sort of enhanced this, rather than being demasculating. As for what they wear underneath them, let's just say it's not demasulating either....:p.
Along with good looking men, Edinburgh has the most amazing architecture at ever corner. Even the newest additions to the city look like they've been around for 2,000 yrs and tell a story. I spent Monday on my own exploring the cities knooks and crannys. I'm not a religious person, but I'm fascinated by cathedrals and the one on the royal mile was truly awesome. I wandered into St. Giles cathedral to escape the afternoon wind, and it was fortunate because a local church choir was practicing. The angelic music paired with the sunlit stained glass handed me a moment. Moments aren't few and far between lately. I often feel complete gratitude for my ability to discover myself through travel. There is no better way for me to figure myself out than an independent journey.
We made it back from Scotland just in time for St Patricks day. Spending a st. patty's day in Ireland seems like it should be number 6, or 7 on my lifelong to do list. I guess I can check that one off! Needless to say, Dublin was packed with tourists and green decorations during the holiday and so were the pubs. A few friends and I had an early start with mimosas and pancakes, followed by many pints and bar hopping. The city felt very international with all the visitors, and for the day nobody was fascinated by my obvious American descent. I enjoyed the break from answering questions about my stay in Dublin.
It's unbelievable how my experience here is half over. Scary, actually. I know I'm still young, but every minute that passes is another one I can't have back. I am scared of slowing down, so I wish that time would. Anxiety about the future is important for keeping motivated, but at the same time we should embrace each moment. No regrets! (sorry about that fortune cookie soapbox. I swear I am not attempting to be Confucius)
I know I am adapting to Irish culture. The astounding amount of times the phrase 'oh jesus' escapes my mouth daily proves this.., but I am still fully American. At times I miss bad reality TV, Applebees, and just feel like singing the star spangled banner. It's clearly evident from my posts that I love Ireland and am accepting of our cultural differences, but there are still some things about this country I will never get. No offense to my Irish peers, of course! I'm sure you have your reasons... The following are merely observations I've made note of. No harm meant.
10 Things I simply don't understand about the Land of the Leprechauns
1. The unnecessary placement of the words 'like' and 'so' at the end of a sentence
2. The massive amount of driving roundabouts instead of four way stops
3. The eery infatuation Irish men have with their 'lads'
4. The steady fascination with a vegetable that is the reason half of Ireland left the country
5. The strange and baffled looks that come when asking for 'a ride'
6. The way milk and eggs are never refrigerated at the grocery store..
7. The fact that there are no power outlets in any bathroom
8. The unpopularity of happy hour specials in a country devoted to drinking
9. The elusive man, who is apparently yours
10. The labeling of every sign, stall, and road in a language that nobody really speaks
The emerald rolling hills, mossy stone hedges and seaside makes the kingdom of Kerry the perfect place for any fairytale. On the train ride in I saw 4 dozen cottages fit for snow white, a few other castle-esque residences belonging to sleepy princesses, and plenty of gleaming sandy coastlines that merpeople surely inhabit. The landscape had me gobsmacked, and I half expected prince charming to come riding by on his white horse. While I wasn't quite that lucky, Kerry was truly breathtaking and I no longer wonder why some Irish trade in a Dublin life for a quieter country one. I went down with Bernie and Michael Jr. Friday to attend a family birthday party. It was different from any Hyde family function I've ever been to, and certainly more lively. It was held in the local pub rather than the church hall, and the refreshments were anything but a mixture of rainbow sherbet in sprite (mormon reference). It was definitely good craic (ireland reference).
Scotland was equally as enchanting, and the city of edinborgh had me at hello. A big rugby match brought the people and kilts out in the masses and the girls and I took notice of how handsome the scottish men were. It was strange how a skirt sort of enhanced this, rather than being demasculating. As for what they wear underneath them, let's just say it's not demasulating either....:p.
Along with good looking men, Edinburgh has the most amazing architecture at ever corner. Even the newest additions to the city look like they've been around for 2,000 yrs and tell a story. I spent Monday on my own exploring the cities knooks and crannys. I'm not a religious person, but I'm fascinated by cathedrals and the one on the royal mile was truly awesome. I wandered into St. Giles cathedral to escape the afternoon wind, and it was fortunate because a local church choir was practicing. The angelic music paired with the sunlit stained glass handed me a moment. Moments aren't few and far between lately. I often feel complete gratitude for my ability to discover myself through travel. There is no better way for me to figure myself out than an independent journey. 
We made it back from Scotland just in time for St Patricks day. Spending a st. patty's day in Ireland seems like it should be number 6, or 7 on my lifelong to do list. I guess I can check that one off! Needless to say, Dublin was packed with tourists and green decorations during the holiday and so were the pubs. A few friends and I had an early start with mimosas and pancakes, followed by many pints and bar hopping. The city felt very international with all the visitors, and for the day nobody was fascinated by my obvious American descent. I enjoyed the break from answering questions about my stay in Dublin. 
It's unbelievable how my experience here is half over. Scary, actually. I know I'm still young, but every minute that passes is another one I can't have back. I am scared of slowing down, so I wish that time would. Anxiety about the future is important for keeping motivated, but at the same time we should embrace each moment. No regrets! (sorry about that fortune cookie soapbox. I swear I am not attempting to be Confucius)
I know I am adapting to Irish culture. The astounding amount of times the phrase 'oh jesus' escapes my mouth daily proves this.., but I am still fully American. At times I miss bad reality TV, Applebees, and just feel like singing the star spangled banner. It's clearly evident from my posts that I love Ireland and am accepting of our cultural differences, but there are still some things about this country I will never get. No offense to my Irish peers, of course! I'm sure you have your reasons... The following are merely observations I've made note of. No harm meant.
10 Things I simply don't understand about the Land of the Leprechauns
1. The unnecessary placement of the words 'like' and 'so' at the end of a sentence
2. The massive amount of driving roundabouts instead of four way stops
3. The eery infatuation Irish men have with their 'lads'
4. The steady fascination with a vegetable that is the reason half of Ireland left the country
5. The strange and baffled looks that come when asking for 'a ride'
6. The way milk and eggs are never refrigerated at the grocery store..
7. The fact that there are no power outlets in any bathroom
8. The unpopularity of happy hour specials in a country devoted to drinking
9. The elusive man, who is apparently yours
10. The labeling of every sign, stall, and road in a language that nobody really speaks
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
French Fries Aren't a Vegetable
I'm completely surrounded by music here. Whether it's the man playing for change on Grafton, the top 40 at the disco, or my walking buddy: IPod. Music is always keeping me company. I think someone’s playlist says a lot about where they are and what they are feeling. Just for kicks and giggles here’s mine to-date:
1. Daisy dares you Ft. chipmunk- Number one enemy
2. Example- Won’t go quietly
3. Trey Songz- Say Aah
4. James Taylor- Something in the way she moves
5. Telepopmusik- Don’t look back (John Tejada Mix)
6. Jay Z- On to The Next One
7. Biffy Clyro- Many of Horror
8. Kasabian- Fire
9. Timbaland Ft. Katy Perry- If We Ever meet Again
10. The Temper Trap – Soldier On
11. Rolling Stones- Beast of Burden
12. Mumm-Ra- She’s Got Your High
13. Tinie Tempah- Pass Out
14. Chiddy Bang- Opposite Of Adults
15. Lady Antebellum- American Honey
16. Ellie Goulding- Starry Eyed
17. The Temper Trap – Sweet Disposition
18. John Mellancamp- Hurt so Good
19. Jack Johnson- If I Had Eyes
20. Taylor Swift- Today Was a Fairytale
21. Sad Brad Smith- Help Yourself
22. Bed Rock- Ft. Lloyd
3 more days and I am off to Scotland with the kilts and castles! I am anticipating some new scenery, even though I haven't spent a weekend in Dublin for the past month. Last Friday I ventured to Kilkenny, a small, but lively spot. There were some beautiful parts and most importantly- happening pubs (inserted pictures prove both).
I am hoping to make it back before I leave the country. Serious skimping has been in order to save up for my trips ahead to London and Italy. This means a lot of walking, avoiding Brown Thomas at all costs, and the unhappy switch from lattes and cappuccinos to regular coffee. Bah! I've been trying to conjure up a get-rich-quick scheme to make life easier, but thus far my unoriginality has only lead me to the possibilities of a lemonade stand, or kissing booth. Since I am neither 1o yrs old, nor desire to mack complete strangers…the skimping will continue. If you’ve any suggestions for a quick buck, I’m open.
I was up late last night with my host Mom Bernie and her son Michael doing a grade school report. They needed some help with the computer, and while I'm no Bill Gates, a little teamwork got the job done. When I first moved here I was nervous about my personal freedom living with a family, but I couldn't be happier with the decision. I am thankful for the normality that comes with having to uphold some household responsibilities, and the liveliness of a family atmosphere. I enjoy independence, but I have never really liked solidarity. I am at my best self when I’m surrounded by humanity. This is probably why I miss New York City so much. Mr. Gleeson mentions daily that he hopes I am feeling at home, and there is no question about it. I will miss them dearly when I go. My only complaint thus far has nothing to do with my new adopted Irish family, but my new adopted Irish diet. I've been entirely ruined by the four C's: Chips, Coffee, Crisps, and Chocolate. All of the above have made it impossible to sustain any level of fitness. It's aggravating to me that Americans are so fat, when in Ireland they consider french fries to be a vegetable. I've decided to ditch the junk food and today I signed up for a 5k. I doubt they ever experience bikini weather here, but it will be in full gear when I get home and I'm determined to turn this mess around. I don't mean to bore you with my self-insecurities. I'm only telling you because it makes me feel more committed.
Here’s another observation. It’s unfortunate that Americans are cursed with the most unattractive accent EVER. I discovered this to be true after I asked an Irish friend to imitate us, and she did so by plugging her nose and saying, "Like, oh my god!" Since then it's become apparent that the way we talk isn't appealing. Actually, I can literally see the pain on the Irish faces when I pronounce certain words like: 'guy' 'movie' or 'house'. This is a large social disadvantage when you consider the following:
A subpar looking male walks into a bar in New York City and is barely glanced at by all the predatory, borderline desperate Manhattan females. Until.....he opens his mouth and speaks pure English tongue. Suddenly he is ransacked by every woman within ears distance. (This theory is proven by the American female population, and their intoxication with Hugh Grant and Jude Law.)
Let's reverse the scenario. I walk into a pub in Dublin and in order to retain some degree of appeal I can either, 1. Fake an Australian accent, or 2. Say absolutely nothing. Since my Australian accent always comes out more southern/Indian, and I love to talk, I generally just choose to be obnoxious. Maybe I need to move somewhere they don't speak English. I’d love to elaborate further on the man topic, but it’s probably a bad idea. Blogs are a funny thing. I sometimes have to remind myself that this isn’t my diary, and that there are thoughts I shouldn’t share with the universe. Obviously there is more to my life than weekend trips and day to day tasks. Like many other 21 yr old girls male interaction is a large part of my existence (I resent this, trust me.) But since I am not Carry Bradshaw, my dealings with the opposite sex will have to be restricted to the book in my bedside drawer. This is too bad for you, because some of these stories are class entertainment. I’ll put the boy subject to rest, after I leave you with this sentiment: All men, no matter which country they reside in, are trouble.
1. Daisy dares you Ft. chipmunk- Number one enemy
2. Example- Won’t go quietly
3. Trey Songz- Say Aah
4. James Taylor- Something in the way she moves
5. Telepopmusik- Don’t look back (John Tejada Mix)
6. Jay Z- On to The Next One
7. Biffy Clyro- Many of Horror
8. Kasabian- Fire
9. Timbaland Ft. Katy Perry- If We Ever meet Again
10. The Temper Trap – Soldier On
11. Rolling Stones- Beast of Burden
12. Mumm-Ra- She’s Got Your High
13. Tinie Tempah- Pass Out
14. Chiddy Bang- Opposite Of Adults
15. Lady Antebellum- American Honey
16. Ellie Goulding- Starry Eyed
17. The Temper Trap – Sweet Disposition
18. John Mellancamp- Hurt so Good
19. Jack Johnson- If I Had Eyes
20. Taylor Swift- Today Was a Fairytale
21. Sad Brad Smith- Help Yourself
22. Bed Rock- Ft. Lloyd
3 more days and I am off to Scotland with the kilts and castles! I am anticipating some new scenery, even though I haven't spent a weekend in Dublin for the past month. Last Friday I ventured to Kilkenny, a small, but lively spot. There were some beautiful parts and most importantly- happening pubs (inserted pictures prove both).
I am hoping to make it back before I leave the country. Serious skimping has been in order to save up for my trips ahead to London and Italy. This means a lot of walking, avoiding Brown Thomas at all costs, and the unhappy switch from lattes and cappuccinos to regular coffee. Bah! I've been trying to conjure up a get-rich-quick scheme to make life easier, but thus far my unoriginality has only lead me to the possibilities of a lemonade stand, or kissing booth. Since I am neither 1o yrs old, nor desire to mack complete strangers…the skimping will continue. If you’ve any suggestions for a quick buck, I’m open.
I was up late last night with my host Mom Bernie and her son Michael doing a grade school report. They needed some help with the computer, and while I'm no Bill Gates, a little teamwork got the job done. When I first moved here I was nervous about my personal freedom living with a family, but I couldn't be happier with the decision. I am thankful for the normality that comes with having to uphold some household responsibilities, and the liveliness of a family atmosphere. I enjoy independence, but I have never really liked solidarity. I am at my best self when I’m surrounded by humanity. This is probably why I miss New York City so much. Mr. Gleeson mentions daily that he hopes I am feeling at home, and there is no question about it. I will miss them dearly when I go. My only complaint thus far has nothing to do with my new adopted Irish family, but my new adopted Irish diet. I've been entirely ruined by the four C's: Chips, Coffee, Crisps, and Chocolate. All of the above have made it impossible to sustain any level of fitness. It's aggravating to me that Americans are so fat, when in Ireland they consider french fries to be a vegetable. I've decided to ditch the junk food and today I signed up for a 5k. I doubt they ever experience bikini weather here, but it will be in full gear when I get home and I'm determined to turn this mess around. I don't mean to bore you with my self-insecurities. I'm only telling you because it makes me feel more committed.
Here’s another observation. It’s unfortunate that Americans are cursed with the most unattractive accent EVER. I discovered this to be true after I asked an Irish friend to imitate us, and she did so by plugging her nose and saying, "Like, oh my god!" Since then it's become apparent that the way we talk isn't appealing. Actually, I can literally see the pain on the Irish faces when I pronounce certain words like: 'guy' 'movie' or 'house'. This is a large social disadvantage when you consider the following:
A subpar looking male walks into a bar in New York City and is barely glanced at by all the predatory, borderline desperate Manhattan females. Until.....he opens his mouth and speaks pure English tongue. Suddenly he is ransacked by every woman within ears distance. (This theory is proven by the American female population, and their intoxication with Hugh Grant and Jude Law.)
Let's reverse the scenario. I walk into a pub in Dublin and in order to retain some degree of appeal I can either, 1. Fake an Australian accent, or 2. Say absolutely nothing. Since my Australian accent always comes out more southern/Indian, and I love to talk, I generally just choose to be obnoxious. Maybe I need to move somewhere they don't speak English. I’d love to elaborate further on the man topic, but it’s probably a bad idea. Blogs are a funny thing. I sometimes have to remind myself that this isn’t my diary, and that there are thoughts I shouldn’t share with the universe. Obviously there is more to my life than weekend trips and day to day tasks. Like many other 21 yr old girls male interaction is a large part of my existence (I resent this, trust me.) But since I am not Carry Bradshaw, my dealings with the opposite sex will have to be restricted to the book in my bedside drawer. This is too bad for you, because some of these stories are class entertainment. I’ll put the boy subject to rest, after I leave you with this sentiment: All men, no matter which country they reside in, are trouble.
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