Red Velvet is only okay when you're talking about a cupcake!

January 25, 2011:

Amy and I are riding the elevator in silence, moving upward steadily.

Amy finally speaks, giving me a caveat for what is about to take place.

“When we walk inside, everyone will probably be chanting. I’m just warning you so you aren’t surprised, or weirded out.”

I explain to her that I am fully prepared and that I won’t feel uncomfortable at all. I have already been to one other Buddhist meeting and have read up on some of the teachings.

We get off at floor 8, and cross the hallway. Amy taps the knocker on apartment C.

I can hear voices on the other side of the wall, and It sounds a bit like someone is holding a choir practice.

As we wait to be invited i feel as though I’m on the TV show “The Price is Right”, and Drew Carey is about to reveal what is behind my mystery door .I know that I am not about to win ten grand, or a new car, but Amy once testified about the benefits of Buddhism in her own life over margaritas and queso dip. I agreed to at least entertain the idea.

I hear the latch jiggle and my heart stirs some. The door swings open.

Behind it is a short, chubby man with thinning hair and an infectious grin. I am immediately sure that the smile never leaves his face.

“Amy!” He shrieks,“It’s so good to see you! And, you have a guest! That is just so wonderful.”

We enter and I see a group of about 10 people sitting in fold out chairs, facing a scroll covered in Asian characters. The scroll sits above some sort of wooden alter, and is surrounded by candles and incense. The room smells strongly of their burn.

“NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO.” Everyone utters in unison.

They continue to say the words over and over, and the harmonious sound of it is melodic, and angelic, even.

Amy signals for me to take a seat by her in the middle of the room.

“NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO.”

A man sitting in the front row turns around, handing me a laminated card with the chant written on it phonetically. I know his actions are my invitation to join in.

I scan the room again in search of what to do by example. Next to me, a small Indian woman with closed eyes hangs her hands in prayer, her songlike voice repeating the words NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO. The man on my left has his gaze set on the scroll at the front of the living area. He is wearing a red tie and slacks, and looks as though he just came from wall street.

“NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO”.

Aside from the voices, my ears rest on another sound. Four or five people are clasping strands of beads, and moving them in their hands in a back and forth motion, in the fashion of a child wielding a snake out of clay, or an outdoorsman lighting a fire with twigs. The beads knock against each other creating small pops and crackles.

Amy leans over and whispers, “The key is to choose something to devote your chant to. It can be a person, or a goal. Maybe it can be for inner peace, or to love others more openly. It’s up to you.”

I nod and close my eyes, becoming extremely self conscious, but inwardly knowing that nobody is judging me for being here. Everyone is in the same room, but aloof, alone in their own thoughts.

 My throat is becoming hot and dry and panicky. I feel my neck start to perspire.

“NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO”, everyone continues.

I feel suffocated by the words

“NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO.”

I want to open my eyes and sprint from the room.

“NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO.”

Suddenly, I remember something that was spoken at the last meeting:

“Buddhism is about overcoming obstacles in our lives through will power, positive thinking, and self control.”

I ponder this statement, then scrunch my eyes shut even tighter. My whole face is wrinkled in effort, and I am sure I look like I am in physical pain.

“Relax, Jess”, I mutter under my breath, “Nobody can hear you but yourself”

I spotlight the corners of my mind for a focal point, something worth devotion.

Filed away in a small drawer  I find a memory, long forgotten, but still precious. It is one that involves me and my family on a road trip to the red wood forest.  In this memory we are driving through a sunlit canyon near the California coast. The air smells of wet pine from a recent rain shower, and my head is resting against the window and the air conditioning is tickling my face. My little brother is asleep on my mom’s lap in the passenger’s seat, and my dad is playing John Denver on a cassette tape. I feel carefree, and the sort of contentment that only a child can have. I run fingers through my mom’s hair, as I often do out of habit. Even at age nine, I recognize the quality of the moment. I know I am lucky.

I open my mouth now, the words “NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO” spill from my lips with easiness.

“NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO”

'Family', I think.

“NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO”

'Love.'

“NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO”

'Peace.'

January 30th, 2011:

Eamon is sitting next to me on the bed and moving my fingers into the position of b Sharp. I strum once with my right hand and an angry mix of notes reverberate off the strings.  I quickly silence my guitar, apologizing.
“Ah, sorry! That was horrible sounding.”

“It’s a tough stretch, but your  fingers will get there. It just takes time.” He says.                        

“Yeah well, Eamon, It’s true. Practice makes perfect.”

“Jesus Jess, why are you always speaking in fortune cookie? Is it all that new Buddhist crap?” He jests

“Just call me Gandhi”, I retort.

I set the guitar down and turn my palms upward, bending my fingers for examination. My nails have been clipped short. Eamon asked me to cut them last week.

“There is no way you’re going to improve with a manicure like that.” He said.

It had been hard to do. I’d always taken pride in the length of my nails and the femininity of my hands. Cutting them off was an act of dedication, and proof of my devotion to music.  Furthermore, the tips of my fingers had become calloused and rough from fretting. They were now masculine looking, like I had spent weeks laboring in a lumberyard or steel mill.

Eamon is getting up to leave now,

“See you later at the apartment, jess.”

I stay upstairs in my stuffy loft transfixed on my instrument, which has cemented a small pothole in my life that previously, I didn’t know existed. Nobody is home, and there is only the sound of my whirling floor fan and my sore fingers on the second fret.   

February 1, 2011:

I pluck the E string on my guitar, and a shrill, noteless sound fills the room. Eamon told me I need to invest in a humidifier to keep my guitar from being ruined by the weather. I’m finally convinced he might be right.

“Ashley, will you go with me to guitar center?” I need to buy something Eamon was telling me about.

“I can’t believe the amount of times I have been to this store in the last three weeks, and I don’t even play an instrument,” she replies.

I know this is not her answer, so I am silent, waiting for a response

“Sure, I’ll go.”

“Thanks Ash, you’re the best!”

Later in the evening we enter the guitar center, which is every musicians version of heaven, and probably what Led Zeppelin envisioned at the end of that stairway. The entire place is made up of two floors and ten rooms.  Odd shaped neon guitars hang on the walls with outstretched necks, and sounds of people tinkering with electric keyboards and demo drum sets fill the place.

Behind the desk I see a boy standing, fiddling with an electric guitar. His eyes are on his left hand as he moves up and down the frets with ease, playing some improvised rock solo. His face is hidden behind his long, wavy hair. He is a natural blonde, and with locks like that, most likely the envy of every girl he’s ever dated.

“Do you have any humidifiers?” I interrupt.

He stops playing and looks up at me. His eyes are blue and stormy.

“Well, not over here, but probably in the acoustic section.”

He walks out from behind the desk, and says  his name is Trevor and that he’ll lead the way. I follow him to a hidden section below the register.

Trevor is sporting a pair of fire truck red, velvet trousers. Now, normally the combination of the color red, and velvet wouldn't be acceptable unless you're talking about a cupcake, however, in his red velvet pants Trevor looks like a sexy rock star magician, or Steven Tyler at a Christmas party.  I’m not unhappy with his sense of style
.

“Is this what you’re looking for?

“Huh?” I say. I am too busy thinking about me and Trevor under the mistletoe at a Christmas party to respond.

“Guitar humidifiers. That is what you need, right?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Are these them?”

“You got it. Anything else I can help you with?”

I want to say: You can serenade me with pink Floyd then run away with me to rocker neverland. Instead, I say:
 "Nope, I think i can take it from here."

My rebellious prince charming gallantly saunters back to the heavy metal section. I am left with my daydreams, and a wall of guitar supplies I know nothing about.

“I have to give him my number.” I say to Ashley in an urgent tone.

“ You’re crazy,” she says, with raised eyebrows, shaking her head.

“No, I’m telling you, we had a connection. Did you not feel it? I have to do something!”

“Well then, go for it, but don’t expect me to be anywhere nearby when you go through with it.”

I quickly choose some inexpensive guitar humidifier off the wall, and proceed to the checkout.

“Should I just give the checkout lady my number and say to pass it on?” I ask Ashley.

“What are we in second grade?! Just walk up to him, and say ‘I think you look hot in those red pants of yours, here’s my number’ and walk off.”

I write my number on my purchase receipt, and glance around the room. 15 feet to my right stands Trevor, passionately plucking away at a fender. 15 feet on my left is the exit, accompanied by a doorman.

I am faced with one of those decisions. You know, the decisions you’re forced  to make hastily, but if you weren’t crunched for time you could weigh and measure pros and cons for hours. 

The more cowardly side of me tips the scales.

“I am just going to give my number to the doorman and tell him to pass it on.”

“It’s Your death sentence,” Ashley says.

I approach the doorman and make eye contact. Ashley is behind me, but trailing by a good distance to avoid what she has instinctively picked up on as impending doom.

“Hi, sir, how are you, could you do me a favor?”

“Umm.. sure”, he says with a puzzled look on his face, “What is it?”

“Do you see this piece of paper?”

“I sure do” he responds.

“And do you see that boy over there in the red pants?”
“Trevor ?”

“Yes, that’s him, and this is my number.  I am about to leave, but I was wondering if you could give it to that boy.”

At first the doorman doesn’t react. I wait anxiously for some type of response. Then slowly, the corners of his mouth rise into a mischievous smile. He resembles the Grinch who stole Christmas in the scene where he gets that wonderful, awful idea to terrorize whoville. I am instantly petrified.

“Why, of course I can” he grins.

The doorman picks up the telephone sitting at the desk in front of him.

“What are you doing?” I blurt.

“Attention attention, “

The man’s voice echoes loudly over the store intercom,

“Attention, Trevor in guitars:  We have a 601 on our hands. There is a blonde girl in the front of the store who wold like to give you her telephone number.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Ashley bolts like lightning out the revolving doors. I am alone in this self created awkward moment. Mortified by how this is turning out, I feel my face grow hot and flush.

There is a customer standing next to me, a middle aged man with a guitar on his back who has just witnessed it all. He is laughing audibly. I turn, shooting him a poisonous look for finding humor in my folly.

“This is funny.” He says between fits of laughter.

“Well, you can thank me for providing your entertainment quota for the day. Am I turning red?”

The customer suddenly perceives my state of panic, and silences his giggling, becoming slightly sympathetic.

“No, no you’re not. You look fine. “

Five other people who heard the announcement have now conglomerated near the exit of the shop to watch the events unfold.
Only 20 seconds have passed since I regrettably handed over my number encrusted receipt, but it feels like 20 minutes.

I am faced with another urgent decision: To wait by the door for Trevor, willingly accepting my unavoidable fate which is surely extreme embarrassment, or to escape.

“Trevor, Trevor?” the doorman repeats over the intercom.

“I think that’s my cue to leave” I tell my audience.

I push past the doorman, stammering thanks, but that I really have to go, hurriedly moving through the turnstile.  The automatic doors burst open, and I run like a soldier on the beaches of Normandy toward Ashley, who I spot a block away.

I hear a voice calling at me from behind. I glance backward while I am jogging, and see the doorman standing outside the shop.

“Run forest, run!” he yells.

I finally reach Ashley, panting some from my Olympic sprint.

“Well that really backfired on you, didn’t it”, she says.
“I don’t even want to hear it Ash.”

There is a subway sandwich store nearby and Ashley is hungry. Ashley orders something, and with no appetite I sit at a Formica table in horrified reflection of what just happened.

Ashley finally joins me with a turkey sub, and we make eye contact. We stare at each other for a second, taking in the previous scenario, then rupture into thunderous laughter.

“Bet you didn’t see that one coming,” I tell her

“With you Jess, I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

We decide I should write a new add for mastercard:

Metro Card to guitar center: $2.50

Guitar humidifier: $13.00

Life lesson on how NOT to pick up on a man, especially one in red velvet pants: Priceless

I'll never be, your beast of burden

            December 28^th:

I am finally aboard Delta flight 729. An east coast blizzard has terrorized manhattan, and I’ve been in Utah for four extra days eating leftover Christmas cookies and anxiously checking the New York Times for weather updates.

I didn’t mean to cry when the ticket agent called yesterday, telling me my flight had been canceled for the 5^th time. The tears just sort of materialized without warning. I hadn’t even realize they existed until I felt them spilling over my cheeks, hurting dads feelings.

“I didn’t know you hated it here so much,”

“I’m sorry daddy. You know I don’t hate it here. I just really need to get home.”

Home.

This was the first time I had called it that, New York I mean.

For the last four months living in New York had felt like an extended holiday. Manhattan and I were a blossoming romance, in the premature, infatuation stages of our relationship, just getting to know one another.

We had finally moved past that.

This city is no longer my lover, but my companion.

Were facing east now, my direction of choice. Outside the window it is black, and all that is visible are hundreds of runway lights laid out geometrically on the pavement. It reminds me of the designs I used to make on my light bright as a child.

 The pilot puts the plane in gear, and gravity pushes me into the back of my seat as we pick up speed.

 After my plethora of delays and cancellations, I feel like the present is too good to be true. I am waiting for the plane to come to a screeching halt, or for an unwanted announcement from the cockpit.

Instead, I hear the landing gear retreat to its airborne home. I peer out the window once again, and the dim lights of Salt lake city flicker below me.   

***

Laguardia airport is full of holiday traffic and relieved passengers who have been stranded at their previous destinations.

I am anxious to get back to my apartment, but the taxi line stretches past four terminals, wrapping around the edge of the building.

I feel defeated by transportation. Someday, we will think ourselves from place to place, with the assistance of an advanced technological gadget, and I hope it’s in my lifetime.

I feel a tug at the back of my jacket.

“Car  ma’am. $35. You can skip the line?”

I spin around to find the source of the foreign voice. I glance downward, my eyes meeting a petite man who’s shorter than myself, with tussled black hair and oversized jeans.

“Sorry to bother ma’am, but I have a car. It leave into the city now. I give you a good deal and you have no wait.”

I immediately commence an inner dialogue between my capacity for common sense, and my desire to be at home. It goes something like this:

Desire: Sweet deal! $35!? You would pay thirty bucks for a yellow cab, and you’ll have to wait in this ridiculous line for two hours.

Common sense: It’s late. It’s dark. Where is his car? If this is legit, why isn’t everyone hitching rides with Ecuadorian midgets?

Desire: Because people are silly, and it’s your lucky day. What’s the worst that could happen?

Common sense: I can think of a few possibilities. What if he’s part of a South American drug ring, and he wants to kidnap you and ship you to El Salvador to work on some sort of farm?

Desire: That dude? He’s bite size! Even if that were the case, I’m sure you could take him!

Common sense: He could have a posse.

Desire: Quit being lame, and get your ass in that car.

(Why is it that desire always wins?)

“Alright sir, where’s your car?”

“ I go get it now. You wait here. Don’t go anywhere.”

I watch as he hobbles off with a not-so-subtle limp.

Desire chimes in again: Yep, you could definitely take him.

Five minutes later he returns, followed by an attractive boy, about my age or a little older with a guitar on his back. He is unkept, in a cool 90’s grunge sort of way, and is sporting a leather jacket.

“Alright desire,” I say to myself, “Now you’re just showing off.”

Together, grunge and I follow the little man around the building, behind the terminal, and across the parking lot. I am becoming distressed as I trek through piles of snow left by plows large enough to be ski slopes, but my fellow hipster passenger seems blasé about the journey. I decide I’d better play it cool.  

We reach our destination and load our guitars into the back of the suburban, climbing into the back seat.

Neither of us speak for six awkward minutes. I finally say:

“So.. You’re a musician?”

“Yep,” he replies, looking at me like I just asked John Wayne if he was a cowboy.

“Awesome.” I say, feeling a little embarrassed and lost for words, a phenomenon which doesn’t happen all too often.

Five more minutes pass.

He breaks the second span of silence with a question.

“How long have you been delayed for?”

“ Umm.. a few days. I had 5 canceled flights, you?”

“I had four. It sucked ass. I offered to give the lady behind the ticket counter a grand to get me back. She wouldn’t take it.”

“Wow, pretty desperate to be back in New York, huh?”

“Yeah, I have too much going on right now to be stuck at home.”

“I hear you,” I agree, nodding my head, “It’s nice to be with family, but any longer and I would have snow shoed, or hired sled dogs to get me here.”

“Yikes, that bad at home? Where are you from?”

Utah, I respond.

He laughs and says that explains a lot

The next 10 minutes are a standard get to know you session, where I determine the following:

My hunky, new friend is Ron Pope. He is a professional musician and New Yorker who just finished a tour, and a contract with universal records. He has a large fan base, especially in the city, and just started a new band and produced a hit single.

I have heard of him and his music before, but pretend I havent.
He asks what I do and I become nervous, the word professional, or even profession, isn’t in my autobiography. I consider lying for a split second, then opt for the truth,

“ I just finished school this year, and moved out here simply because I wanted to. Right now I am in transit, trying to figure things out. I am hoping to save, and travel, and write. We’ll see what happens.”

Ron is an artist, and he can sense my apprehension.
I wait for the guidance I know he’s about to give me, like some great kung fu master, or yoda

“You don’t have to be nervous about that you know. Doing what you love is all that matters in this life. It’s cliché, but you can’t buy happiness. When I was your age, I was playing music on the subway every day. My parents used to chastise me, and be like, “Ron, what the hell are you doing? You’re a fuckin’ street bum.” But, I just knew that music was my life, and I had to do that, you know? Then one day, somebody appreciated what I did, and things changed. But, even if that hadn’t happened it wouldn’t have mattered. This is my life, and I want to live it passionately.”

I don’t respond. I just smile. We both know that he is right, and that life is an experience, not a mountain we climb. We cannot conquer it, we can only live it to our satisfaction.

The driver pulls up to my apartment too soon, and I tell Ron thanks for the advice and promise I’ll come see a show sometime. As I walk up the steps I am happy to be back, and revived from my encounter, which reinforced every reason why I love this place.
It feels good to be home.

***
January 7th, 2011

I am already in Manhattan with no plane to catch, so I am embracing the incoming storm and bone numbing chill as it stings my face and creeps through my jacket.
Ashley and I enter the cornerstone tavern for some relief from the weather.
The bartender is Irish, and I can tell by his accent that he is from Dublin.
I begin chatting to him about the place I miss so much, and we reminisce about our favorite pubs and Irish sausage.
The band on stage is playing covers of 90’s rock songs and asking for requests.
“Third Eye Blind” I yell audibly.
“I think we can do that”, says the lead guitarist, “but, only on one condition. You have to let me wear your awesome vest while I play.”

My vest, which was a gift from my mother, is loud fashion at best. Lengthy faux fur envelops the entirety of it. It’s apparent that no animal could have produced such a thing, except for, according to my younger brother, The abominable snowman.

I absolutely adore it.

I tell him that it’s not a problem, and climb on stage assisting him with one sleeve while he stretches his arm into the other.

“Thank you dear.”

They begin strumming the three chords which make up one of Third Eye Blinds yesteryear hits. Ashley and I dance and since loudly while onlookers mock. We really don’t care. We never do.
“I’ll never let you go, I’ll never let you go…………”

***

Outside, the city is blanketed in a fresh coat of fluff, and we stop to admire the pristine, cleanliness of it. As we glance around us at the white lampposts and mailboxes, we realize that the streets are empty, except for us. All is silent in sound and in sight.
“This looks so strange, doesn’t it?” I say
“It really does,” replies ash.
Quiet and solitude are things you never experience in a place that always exhibits life. By 7am, Fifth Avenue will be bursting with men in suits, public busses, delivery guys, and flashing lights.

We celebrate having the city to ourselves by lying on the ground and making snow angels side by side on the snow covered pavement.


January13th

I remember seeing this same painting on an overhead projector in 8th grade. The whimsical darkness of Van Goghs starry night had me mesmerized, even at age 14.

I had strategically waited to view this masterpiece at the end of my tour inside the MOMA. I planned my visit of the museum a bit like I would a visit to an amusement park. The smaller, less thrilling rides first, working my way up to the bigger stuff so nothing would lose its thrill along the way.

13 Pollock’s, a dozen Picassos, and a few Monet’s later, and here it was. Imagination on canvas.
I stare into the paintings depth for at least ten minutes, without moving. It is vivid, yet surreal, and I become lost in every brush stroke. I feel like crying, or jumping up and down. I know that neither are socially acceptable here, so, instead I do what is. I update my facebook status. I key in:

“Next time I’m at the MOMA, I’d like to pitch a tent, and camp under Van Gogh’s starry night.”

I once read somewhere that Van Gogh, who produced over 2,000 works of art in his lifetime, didn’t even begin painting until his late twenties.
Here I am, worrying about my feats at a childish age of 23.
Van Gogh has left me feeling young and alive, and ready to live.

I'm left with this thought,
While most of us will probably never excel to the heights of Van Gogh, there is still much time for us to create our masterpiece.

We Fly by The Seat of Our Pants

 It’s January 9^th, the day of New York Cities No Pants Subway Ride. As I approach Foley Square I am impressed by the masses of people surrounding the large granite sculpture in the middle of the plaza. The crowd is more eclectic than I’d projected, and the seemingly conservative are intermixed with troubled youth, married couples, apparent goofballs, and other personalities. There is no obvious stereotype to describe this crowd.

Maybe New York isn’t all business. Maybe New York has a sense of humor after all.

                                 

I overhear a conversation between two men in gray suit jackets. They’re chatting about the interesting statue that landmarks the place.

“It’s called, ‘'Triumph of the Human Spirit,' Says a man in black rimmed glasses holding a briefcase,

“They built it in 2000 to symbolize human rights for minority groups in the city”

I find this fact ironic. While there is no formalized club or association for pantless persons, today , new Yorkers will celebrate their human rights by choosing to forgo their trousers. I wonder if this meeting place was chosen for its hidden symbolism.

I finally track down my friends John and Chase. The bright sky is deceiving, and the suns efforts to warm cannot combat the winter chill. The easterly winds are lashing against our faces, and I am glad I am not in my underwear, yet. 

A mans voice is thundering around me. I cannot find its source in the crowd. It’s as if it is pouring from the sky, and I’m being directed by Zeus or another Greek god.  For a minute I forget that I’m only part of something silly. The turnout makes me feel like I’m at a political rally, fighting for some noble cause, rather than participating in a large scale prank.

I pinpoint the speaker, standing on top of a staircase near the middle of the square.

“Who is our youngest pantless subway rider?” Shouts a bearded man behind a megaphone

I see a stroller being hoisted into the air, followed by muffled yells.

 “15 Months”, repeats the director. “Can anyone do any better?”

Behind me a young couple lifts up a chubby baby in corduroy trousers and a snow cap. He is unphased by the attention, and he wiggles his legs in a running motion.

“9 months!”

“Wow, nine months” echoes the loud speaker, “Sorry stroller, looks like we have a winner.”

Were sorted into groups and assigned train cars. Clusters of us start walking toward canal street to catch the NQR.  Like elementary students on a field trip, we march in line through chinatown to the subway station. We pass the NYPD and other curious onlookers. People selling knock of handbags and Rolexs heckle us to buy their goods.

“See my perfume! I make good deal for you..78.9 percent off!” Says a little Chinese man in broken English.

His proposition for such an odd discount has us laughing.

“Do you only get the discount if you can calculate the math correctly?” Chase jokes.

Two stops on the train, and I am standing in the car wearing my winter coat, scarf, leather boots, and underwear.  Half of my fellow passengers are in participation. An older man with heart patterned  boxers is reading the New York Times on the bench, and a young women in boy shorts is standing while gripping the overhead pole, bobbing her head to the beat of her ipod. Chase, John and I battle to keep a straight face, as two women enter and raise their eyebrows in confusion.

We’ve been instructed to not break the fourth wall, and “Ride the train as we would any other day,”

I really lose it when the boy next to me wearing boxer briefs is questioned by another fully clothed passenger.

“Can I ask you why you are in your underwear?”

“Oh, I just didn’t feel like wearing pants today.” He says nonchalantly.

An elderly couple with shar pei  like wrinkles and gray hair are holding hands. They are wearing smiles of contentment, knit sweaters, and not much else.

I decide to play Tetris on my phone in order to distract myself from the hilarious circumstance.

We get off at 14^th street, Union Square, and scale the platform where were greeted by the gusty January air and thousands of people without pants.

Surrounded by bare legs adorned in whitie tighties, polka dotted boxer shorts, and silky bottoms , it feels like I’m in an episode of the twilight zone, or a member of some free spirited colony from the 60’s.

A bystander is handing out yellow pamphlets entitled, “The history of pants”

Chase opens one and reads us the first paragraph:

“In early times peoples used ferns  and leaves to uphold modesty. They later switched to cloth and hide due to outbreaks of poison oak and Ivy.”

“Thank goodness for that!” Chuckles John.

My favorite pub, ‘Lilies’ is only a block away from Union Square. We walk to 17^th street and dress on the sidewalk.
Inside we sit at a candlelit table drinking imported beer. Our goose bumps finally dissipate after bowls of soup and finished pints.  

I am riding the high of spontaneity and playfulness.

I will fly by the seat of my pants more often, or… no pants, if I must.

No matter how great her dress is, a girl will never never look pretty doing the robot on the dance floor...

The diner is full of its usual patrons. There is an older lady with an over sized mink coat and too much rouge in the corner booth, and two construction workers in orange vests exchanging jokes with harsh, long island consonants.

The place is my favorite of its kind. The grandmotherly pink interior and lack of tourists make it an authentic, hidden gem in the city. I am happy to share it with my friends, who are visiting from out of town. To me, the place embodies New York City.
Were are retelling stories about our adventures together in Ireland, and laughing until our cheeks hurt.
Suddenly there is a pause, and the conversation takes a turn for the serious,
"Jess, what do you want to be when you grow up," Sara asks.
I sigh a little at the question which has been pressed far too often in the last few weeks.
"Well, the answer is: I don't know. Luckily, I'm nowhere near being a grown up."
I explain to my friends Sara, Erica, and Jenna how this was the main topic of discussion during my trip home for Christmas break, which came to no conclusion. After 9 days of dad's prodding, and me insisting that I was content with life's mysteries (I didn't convince him) I'd never been more ready to get back to the city.
Everybody keeps silent, and continues eating their breakfast.
I know that no one at the table is judging my response, but with all the recent interrogation I feel self conscious anyway. Maybe everyone's right. Maybe living in the moment is to be reckless with your future?

The N train puts us at central park where we walk through snowy gardens and pass people getting their portraits drawn by sidewalk artists. I don't remember the city being this frigid when I left. My boots have been defeated by the slushy sidewalks and my feet are wet and icy.
"This is nothing compared to Montreal right now," my friends tell me.
I begin to make a mental note to never visit Montreal between December through March.

We arrive at Wolman rink and rent ice skates from the vendor. My girlfriends are all Canadian and I am certain that they'll be whizzing past me like Tara Lapinski, doing double salchows and triple axels.
We step cautiously onto the ice and enter into what looks like a danger zone. The rink is packed with out-of-towners, and the scene resembles the bumper cars you find at any county fair.
Were doing our best to stick together while weaving in and out of traffic, but the amount of people is making it difficult.
I tell Erika that this is what it must feel like living in India.
"Look out!" Jenna yells as an Asian man wobbles around in front of us, his arms flailing, trying to grasp the air for balance unsuccessfully. He hits the ice and skids two feet.
We move fast and veer around him in order to avoid a 5 car pileup.
"Man down!" I shout in passing.
Were hysterical from the incident for the next two laps.

After skating we walk down 5th avenue. Erika is taking pictures of the lights and window displays. Gucci, Fendi, Tiffany's, Cartier, Chanel, Louis V, and Armani are all within eye sight.
"Alright", says Erika, (a fashion major from Toronto), "This is my favorite street in New York,"
While I'm not much of a shopper, an offense to my gender, I admit that window shopping down 5th during Christmas isn't so bad. The view is a bit commercial, but the sparkle makes it whimsical and maybe even a little breathtaking.
There are hundreds of twinkle lights and decorations. Ribbons and wreaths line the streets, and a Giant swarvoski snowflake is hanging from a highwire above 47th street.

We walk to the Rockefeller center where the large evergreen stands in the plaza, looking stirdy and festive, then wait in the que for Magnolia bakery.
"Hey guys, check this out: According to a Zagat survey, magnolia bakery has the best cupcakes in the city.", Sara reads from a plaque they have displayed on a pastel colored wall.
"I'm ready to put that to the test." I chime, my sweet tooth triggering the excited feeling I get from looking at things with frosting and sprinkles.

One vanilla cupcake and a stomache ache later and I've made my decision:
Magnolia Bakery cupcakes are not cupcakes, they're heaven in dessert form.

Since it is new years eve we have dinner reservations at a fancy restaurant in the West Village. We walk back to the house where we hurriedly get ready and call a cab. The streets are cobblestone and the winter snow from the latest blizzard still exists, making it difficult to walk in our heels.
Danielle and Ashley have joined us for dinner, and I am feeling a wave of gratitude wash over me. It's pleasant having so many people I love at the same table.
I order a glass of pinot girigio and butternut squash ravioli. It tastes divine, but I am coveting Sara's fried calamari appetizer. I know that "thou shall not covet" is one of the ten commandments, but since I'm quite agnostic, I decide this doesn't apply and ask her for a bite.

We settle the bill and taxi to Brother Jimmy's, a bar in Murray Hill. Ashley orders everyone a fishbowl, which is literally a giant glass bowl filled with some deadly booze infested concoction, 30 neon straws, and a plastic alligator. Danielle is right behind her with a round of tequila shots.
More tequila shots closely follow.
Soon Ashley and I are attempting 'the robot' on the dance floor, which probably looked more like: 'The robot with a short circuit.'
I look at the mounted TV screen where they're broadcasting the ball drop live. We talk about how strange it is that just two blocks away thousands of people stand huddled to see what should have remained in the 70's fall from the sky.

It's 11:59, one minute til midnight.
A tall boy with blue eyes and a handsome 5'oclock shadow asks if I'd like a drink. I think he's cute.
I tell him no, but that he can help me bring in the new year.
"How about both?" He replies
I agree, and I wait with him at the bar while the seconds slip from the evening,
"FIVE....FOUR...THREE...TWO....ONE:"
I kiss my stranger, which is actually kind of nice for having only met twenty seconds prior, then smile excusing myself to celebrate with my friends.

Sara asks for our attention, and raises her champagne glass in a toast,
"Here's to one person bringing so many amazing people together tonight, and to having 365 days ahead of us to make this the best year ever,"
We lift our glasses in unison and take a deep drink of chandon, laughing at the silliness in her words, but inside we know the sentiments are true. Our hearts are grateful and full of contentment from the moment, and hope for the future.

Grand Theft Auto

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Beautiful Jenna

"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."

Sara and I, B Side

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."

Me Enjoying Poutine

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.

Erika and I

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.