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.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
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.
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