The Bloganimal

A Chill in June

2009-06-05T10:48:00.004-04:00

I’m a morning person. Hopefully not the annoying kind (do those exist? Nah...) but yes: unapologetically, involuntarily, proudly a morning person. And, as a morning person would, I love it.

Usually, when I wake up, I stretch out a bit, smile at the morning sunshine, and think “ahhhh, what a beeeeeaUtiful day!” Obnoxious, perhaps, but WONDERFUL. I tend to wake up in a good mood and my heart beats quickly because I get excited to start a new day (I know, I know – you night owls have permission to punch me for that last comment).

But I admit: as great as being a morning person can be, sometimes I just want to sleep-the-FUCK-in… and I can’t. CURSES! When I wake up, I am UP. I’m pretty awful at lazing in bed past 9 in the morning… I just feel horrible, like I’m wasting the most motivating and precious moments of my day and my morning buzz will not allow it. I am extremely attune to the sun, so even when I have total darkness, I still know the sun is up and cannot – or rarely can I – sleep past 8… MAYBE 830am on a particularly relaxing morning.

As a morning person, that first hour of the day is probably my favorite: very little can go wrong – I mean, what’s so bad about a hot shower, Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee (my favorite), and a little upbeat music? That said, first-thing in the morning, there are very few things I HATE. But one thing that really PISSES me off is an ice cold shower (along with forgetting to buy milk the night before – that stinks, but at least I can only blame myself!).

Taking an ice cold shower in the morning is like ordering a steak when you’re starving, and being slapped in the face with a raw piece of meat instead. It’s like curling up for a good night’s sleep and then having the drummer who lives upstairs start banging away (this, too, has occurred during the past two weeks in my lovely new apartment). An ice cold shower is like going to get a massage and having glass rubbed on your back instead. It’s jumping into a hot tub and having all the water slowly drain out while the wind picks up. Taking an ice cold shower in the morning is like…taking an ice cold shower in the morning: it’s purely and simply AWFUL.

For the past two weeks, I have spent most of my mornings cursing the universe when, after a horrible night’s rest, I turn the hot water in the shower on full-blast – no cold water – and my hopeful palm-up hand is greeted with drops of liquid ice. Each morning, I let the shower run for several minutes, staring at the shower head with puppy-dog eyes, hoping it will have mercy on my shivering body and grant me the hot water it so selfishly withholds… but no. As I stand there, my morning-sunshine mood slips coldly down the drain with the water, and I get angry. Ice cold water = ice cold MOOD!

When there is a problem I cannot control, I try very hard to shake it off, accept it as quickly as possible, and then deal with it with as much of a smile (and maybe even with a laugh) as I can muster. I don’t like complaining (ok, ok I KNOW I do sometimes! Go ahead, put me in my place…) and I don’t like when other people complain (I’ll put you in your place too, beyotch). So, I decide to suck it up and get in the raining ice storm that has replaced my hot shower sanctuary, and do my best to just DEAL with the unfortunate circumstances. “Come on Tavel, you are better than the cold shower and you can deal with this! People deal with much worse! Don’t be a wimp.”

Well, this is basically how taking a cold shower works. I pout for a few minutes, periodically touching the water after a few prayers assuming that this will change my fate. But when it doesn’t, I decide I’m going in – like jumping into the ocean in Maine just after winter; you don’t want to do it, but you know there might be something exciting and beautiful about it – MIGHT be. Maybe it’ll be fun and refreshing?! Ha. NOPE. It sucks.

Once I’m in… I think about how much it sucks over and over again (because clearly this is productive and mature and will solve the problem). And then I get my game face on and grab the shampoo with conviction. (FUCK YOU, SHOWER.) I have figured out the most efficient way to deal with a cold shower is to step out of it, put the shampoo, conditioner, AND soap on at the same time, then systematically jump in and out of the drops of cold that tense of my entire body and make me hate my life every few seconds. I’ll have a moment – every morning – when I think… ok Rachel, this isn’t too bad… you can do this. And then I’ll realize how much soap I still have to wash off and that I was supposed to shave my legs too. As the water drips under my arms and down from my wet hair, I am reminded of how much a cold shower can KILL a perfectly good morning, and I go back to my silent cursing through chilled convulsions.

After all soap and shampoo has been rinsed off, I contemplate being bold and shaving my legs, but quickly determine that would be suicide. I shut off the water, appreciate the brief moment when the cool bathroom air actually feels warm, and wrap myself in my towel with the hate for cold showers reverberating between the tile walls. Cold water continuously drips off my hair and down my back, and I congratulate myself for making it through another bad-mood inducing ice cold shower that I pay a hearty sum for, let me tell ya…

When I walk out of the bathroom, I think – at least I have my hot coffee to wash this all away! But no. I have learned that a cold shower lingers all day like a bad kiss (luckily, I can’t remember the last time I had one of those). It spins the mornings I once loved into a knot of dread and not even a little Beyonce on the radio can warm me up.

But this morning was different. This morning, I slept until 7am for the first time in two weeks. I walked to the bathroom and turned the shower on, expecting the usual downpour of angry cold drops and I got… warmth. I stepped in, confused and distrusting, and showered in constant panic that the warm drops would be replaced by cold ones at any moment. But they did not betray me this morning. Instead, they comforted me. And I smiled in my happy, warm shower because, on this cold and rainy morning, the universe was on my side.

I got ready for the day, and felt fabulous. When I walked outside, the cold drops poured on me there instead. But I had a hot shower this morning -- they’re not so bad.

I popped open my umbrella and began walking...

A Little Lost in Old San Juan

2009-05-04T14:29:00.002-04:00

When you’re one of five kids, you often find yourself lost in the shuffle. In general, this is ok; it’s given me thick skin and taught me to be patient and independent (among other things, like how to eat quickly and how to “suck it up” because nobody cares - ha). I get it. But never did I expect my dear, loving family to actually lose me, like a sock on laundry day.

I know I jokingly complain about the woes of being part of a big family, but really, I love it and I wouldn’t want it any other way (hear that mom?!). My mom used to think that I wished I was an only child but she was way off. I just wanted to feel like an only child once in a while. It’s hard to feel special when you live with four other people that are just as special (what?! Yes, I wanted to be MORE special!). I always felt like a kid who needed a lot of love – more than my brothers and sisters needed – and I found I could get it from friends and tiny moments, like my nightly ritual of curling up next to my dad when he got home from work and talking – just me and him – while he watched his Boston teams play and went through the mail.

I remember one crisp, fall day when my brother Nate, with his perpetually runny nose, complained that he needed a tissue. My mom called me over. I, excited that my mom needed me and just me for something, came running over. She took the bottom of my pink mini-mouse t-shirt (which I loved because it actually had glitter on it!), dragged my skinny little body towards my brother, reached up to his nose with the corner of my favorite t-shirt in her hand, and told my brother to “blow!” As she pressed my favorite shirt against his crusty green nostrils, I felt completely let-down, not to mention disgusted. THIS is what I had been reduced to?! A tissue?! I wanted to be so much more to her. Siiigh (hehe). I think that moment pretty much sums up how it could feel to be from a big family.

In my parents’ defense, they did a great job. I joke about these moments, but really, they are amazing parents and did their best to make us all feel uniquely appreciated and valued. (Just had to say it before my sob story got too annoying…)

However, at no point in my upbringing did I feel as invisible as I did one beautiful day in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico. I would have been happy to be a tissue for my brother that day because at least it would have meant I was noticed!

My family decided to take our annual spring break trip to Puerto Rico, where my parents had gone for their honeymoon about fifteen years earlier. I was in fifth grade, and my brother Roberto (Robo) was less than a year old. Life was crowded and chaotic in the two hotel rooms the seven of us shared, but the sun and sand kept us happy and everyone was getting along relatively well (I say this because I like to think that I was never “intentionally” ditched…Keep reading.)

We set aside one day to get a guided tour of Old San Juan, which was – as I remember it – colorful and vibrant, and somewhere I’d love to visit again as an adult. We were walking around the streets on a tour with another family. Of course, it’s hard to keep track of all the kids so my parents trusted us and let us take care of ourselves (this was how things worked). The tour was going well; the guide spoke to us in his thick accent and I didn’t listen, I just let my imagination wander as I took in the new surroundings. Somewhere between La-La Land and my mom’s enamored expression as she relished in the scenery and rhythm of the city, everyone disappeared.

I must have been in my own dream world when the tour moved on without me. Even as a little kid, I felt intoxicated (hmm, little kid… intoxicated… I don’t this works) by the sights, sounds and smells of travel to foreign places. At some point, with all the people and all the noise, I realized I was all alone. For anyone who’s seen that anti-smoking commercial where you watch fear and panic spread across the face of a little boy who suddenly realizes he has been abandoned by his mother, that’s about what happened to me. (That commercial makes me cry every time – when I’m alone. What a pathetic sap I've become, huh?)

I looked around the historical house we were in. It was clear that I had been left behind. I quickly walked outside and found myself surrounded by strangers in a city I knew nothing about. No Tavels. I walked up the street and down the street and thought about what I had been taught – to stay in one place – but felt too overcome with panic to stay still without trying to find them first. They had to be nearby – right? RIGHT?!

I couldn’t find a recognizable face anywhere. At about this point, with my little heart racing under an oppressive sun, I did what most little girls in this situation would probably do: I started to cry. I looked around and cried some more. I was so scared! Then, on a nearby street corner, I saw a police man. I crossed the street and ran up to him, crying, and explained that I had lost my family and needed help finding them. He – with minimal English – was, luckily, a good guy. He listened to me, told me not to cry, and said we’d find them. Then, he took my hand and we began walking around the streets of Old San Juan looking for my large family in every tourist attraction in the area. I began to imagine what would become of my life if I never found them, but I trusted the police officer. (What if I had asked the WRONG person for help?) He walked me up one street, down another, and then into a big old church…

While it felt like at least 30 minutes, it couldn’t have been more than 15 minutes that had passed since I lost my family. But when we walked into that church, beyond the shadow cast by sunshine that beamed through the doorway, there they were. I could only see their backs, but those six backs filled me with relief.

At the front of the church was my entire family. I’d love to give this some sort of religious significance but I guess that’d be a stretch, huh? Heh. They were all staring up while they listened to the guide talk. I let go of the officer’s hand, ran up to my mom and hugged her, crying. I was angry and flustered. I told her she had forgotten me – my biggest fear – and I was hurt and relieved. I think my little heart broke when I realized that NOBODY had even noticed I was gone! My mom took me under her arm and comforted me. She seemed confused. I just couldn’t believe that she hadn’t even noticed I’d gone missing, and neither had any of my siblings, the people I was constantly trying to look out for! I thanked the police officer and he smiled and disappeared through the sunlit doorway without saying a word. For the rest of the afternoon, I paid close attention to staying near my family, happily becoming one of the many again, as we wandered the streets of the city that had swallowed me up.

I had never been so happy to see my family, and I realized, amidst the medieval walls of El Morro, that even though it can feel, at times, like I am no more than a tissue for my brother’s runny nose, my family really does care about me. When I shifted my perspective just a little, I realized that perhaps I was the one who had lost track of them, not the other way around.

Baby Eli

2009-04-16T23:42:00.002-04:00

As long as I’m willing to write about nothing and anything, there should always be a million things to write about. There are! St. Maarten, Miami, Austria, inner musings, questions, answers… life! But I often end up waiting for the entry to smack me in the face, giving me no choice but to sit down and type away. I have had SO much going on since I last wrote (and, really, all winter). It’s been an amazing stretch with so many rich stories kneaded nicely into it. But those will have to come out some other time, on some other day when it feels right…

For now, I am preoccupied by other thoughts as I sit at home during an unusually quiet night, with one [extremely] little guy on my mind.

My cousin Paul and his wife Stephanie started a blog in October to track the remaining seven-month journey to the birth of their first child, Eli, who was due this May. The first photos are sonograms – a fuzzy black and white preview of their un-born universe. The blog entries ooze excitement and capture the curiosity and anticipation of new parents-to-be through humor and informative updates.

They talk about Eli becoming a high-fiver like his dad, and quote him asking if he can be “so bold as to say [he is] not a fan of John Adams” (his mom is a flautist and piccolo player for the Metropolitan Opera, and apparently not a fan of the John Adams opera she was playing for at the time). Paul, an editor/journalist, eloquently captures his emotions and joy without ever referring to them directly, like his deep and intense thoughts are brushed onto the words with a feather. The blog entries are witty and cute at first, written with quirky humor and matter-of-fact observations as Eli tracked his own growth.

Each entry was written in the first-person “by” Eli, but the blog has since become the eternally hopeful and equally fearful diary of two new parents watching their first child struggle against the challenges of his under-developed body. The blog starts out in Eli’s voice, but his story took an unanticipated turn when Stephanie’s blood pressure rose to dangerous levels. When she was told she would have to have an emergency C-Section to protect her own health, she knew everything she imagined - and barely had time to imagine- was about to change. Eli’s blogging-voice would have to be temporarily silenced.

Little Eli has yet to use his vocal chords, which are irritated and raw from the breathing tubes that have become part of his daily fight to grow and develop. He was 1lb 11oz when he was born. Now his parents have taken back the reins of the blog. No They use it to track Eli’s life in the NICU - his surprise-"home" - yet the tone remains playful. Poor little guy can’t do anything for himself yet, except kick his legs around and captivate his parents with his delicate silence. But that can’t stop his personality from growing. Even though he could easily fit in the palm of his parents’ hands, his presence is big and powerful. The blog somehow holds Eli's personality like it's a cup from which we can all drink; if only Paul and Stephanie were allowed to hold him, like other parents hold their newborns…

Every few days, I tune into the blog to check on Baby Eli, as he has become known. I have been impressed by the overpowering optimism that spills out of Paul and Stephanie’s updates, despite continuous hurdles. But as I read the blog tonight, I was reminded of little Eli’s fragility. I can feel Paul and Stephanie’s hoping and wishing, and feel them cling to every piece of news wondering which direction it will blow them. Their strength is unwavering, even while small cracks form in is foundation. As Eli undergoes yet another lung collapse, another blood transfusion, and another surgery, they continue to track Eli’s life one blog entry at a time. As Paul reflects, a blog that was originally intended to share information with family and friends about his and Stephanie’s new life as parents has unexpectedly become their source of comfort and support, as people tune in and share well-wishes, trying to get closer and closer to Eli who remains untouchable.

Right now, Paul and Stephanie’s entire world fits into a tiny plastic crib in the NICU of a New York hospital, and they can only feel the warm reality of their child's body through two circular holes after intensely washing their hands and arms like a surgeon and wearing hospital gowns like they’re patients. But, as the obvious becomes clear: they love him. And he’s theirs, no matter what.

In Stephanie and Paul’s world, they began the “Meet Baby Eli” blog while a beautiful and healthy baby was still safely seven long months away. Stephanie probably expected she would re-read the blog months later, remembering the anticipation, the excitement, the calm before the beautiful storm in a world before Eli that she’d quickly forget ever happened. He’d probably be sleeping peacefully nearby. Maybe the blog would come in handy when Eli became old enough to understand that his parents had a whole life before he was born… Now one whole life has become their world.

When I found out about Eli being born prematurely, I thought of my best friend, Lisa. Eli immediately ran into obstacles, as did Lisa, who too was born three months premature. Lisa had all sorts of health problems growing up, and I met her on the first day of first grade when I was three and she was five (she was the oldest in the class, I was the youngest). Growing up with Lisa, I remember the limitations she had on what she could eat, the medications she had to take daily, the medications she couldn’t take, and the allergies – the most memorable of which was salt – with which she had to live. I remember going to her house and hating the salt-less pretzels her mom used to give us out of a giant clay hippopotamus (ha); as a kid I hated those flavorless pretzels, but as an adult, I prefer them.

I told Paul and Stephanie about Lisa, and how her first days and early years involved the most challenges. She was always small and always had little things she had to deal with as a kid that no other kids seemed to worry about, like monthly blood tests to check her red and white blood cell counts, and the beige sock she used to have to wear to control the swelling in her ankles that occurred after she accidentally ate too much salt. And I remember her calling me before the monthly blood tests, when I'd comfort her even though she didn't seem scared, and I admired her for doing something every month that I dreaded so much and rarely had to experience.

But even though Lisa, often called a “Miracle Baby,” was born with a world of challenges, she never complained, and never made her feel weak. In fact, she has become one of the most amazing and strongest people I have ever met. I have no doubt in my mind that Eli will be strong and become an incredible person, too. And I can’t wait to watch it happen.

But for now, I'll continue to read about it, one "Meet Baby Eli" blog entry at a time. You never know waht the next blog entry might say...

Six Firemen, My Apartment

2009-02-24T14:43:00.005-05:00

This weekend, I learned that there are two kinds of firemen: the kind that actually save you, and the kind that think you are a raging hypochondriac who doesn’t know how to work a carbon monoxide detector. I encountered the latter on Saturday evening – six of them.

Before Sunday, I thought firemen were pretty sexy. Especially the tall, dark and handsome over 6-foot, athletic ones (what? I’m not picky). The idea of having six firemen in my apartment was a positive one. Well, let’s just say this has changed!

For the past month or so, I have been feeling weird. Just weird, I’m not sure how else to describe it. For one thing, I have felt bizarrely light-headed and dizzy – almost constantly. I also had some other crazy symptoms but you get the idea. When my roommate started to feel the same way, and friends that hung out in our apartment complained of feeling a little dizzy, accompanied with chest pain, I started checking WebMD (I check that site all the time...and it scares the CRAP out of me! I have to force myself NOT to sometimes, despite my natural investigative inclination). I had no answers but a list of horrible options. Then, after all my years of watching medical reality shows (I LOVE Mystery Diagnosis! It’s like solving a mystery every time!), I decided to check my carbon monoxide detector – the one that had been in my apartment before I moved in. Well, sure enough, there was no battery. Simple solution!

I checked carbon monoxide exposure symptoms online and (go figure) they all matched up TOO perfectly! (Darn you internet!) Yes, I know carbon monoxide is deadly, so I hypothesized that perhaps it was some other sort of gas leak (my apartment is above 3 restaurants), or the presence of a very small amount… Either way, I promptly purchased a new battery for our carbon monoxide detector AND our smoke detector, opened all windows, scheduled my annual physical at the doctor, and prayed that my light-headedness would go away.

Well, it didn’t (and hasn’t). I did find out that I am borderline-anemic (was as a little kid too, but don’t think much about it) and still have a heart murmur and an irregular heartbeat though! And they checked me for a pulmonary blood clot which, as fun as it sounds, I was very excited to find out I do not have! Hooray! But other than that, I am all set! I was even told my cholesterol is perfection! (I’m giving way too much information out here. Hmm.) Life went on, albeit with my head feeling like it was attached only by a tiny string to the rest of my body. I had officially confused my doctors and myself… until Sunday afternoon.

My friend Naomi was over because we both had separate potluck dinners to bake for, and were using my kitchen. I was baking a homemade pound cake with strawberries and whipped cream to bring over and enjoy with some rower friends. At some point, Naomi mentioned feeling a little dizzy and sleepy. I am pretty used to it by now (which is not a GOOD thing), so I told her about my weird symptoms and how I am convinced there is some gas leaking into our apartment. I already had the super come check it out (let’s be honest – Albert the Albanian thinks we are completely insane. He even told my roommate this later when he bumped into her on the street. Ha. The man is actually pretty hilarious. He offered to sleep on our couch and see if he got dizzy, but he said maybe it was a dead mouse or something... uh, ok Albert... He also kept saying he didn’t smell any gas! I tried repeatedly to explain that many gases, like carbon monoxide, are odorless… but that was just a lost cause). Anyway, while my pound cake was baking, what happens? The freaking CARBON MONOXIDE detector goes off.

Awesome.

This was both good and bad. At first, I was excited. I could actually PROVE there was some gas in my apartment (there definitely was no smoke). But then I realized, I don't want a gas leak in my apartment -- and I DEFINITELY don't want to be inhaling carbon monoxide! We only had a functioning carbon monoxide detector for two weeks and had been keeping all our windows open (in the winter with horrible heating – not fun at all, trust me, brr). I figured maybe it took that long to accumulate enough of the gas to trigger the alarm. Maybe it’s just a minor leak, but the detector was noticing SOMETHING, right?! I was getting affirmation?

Earlier that week, we had Albert the Albanian super come to check things out, and we had called our landlord to see if we could get the air tested just to be sure, but neither was any help. So, after talking with Naomi, she convinced me to contact the FDNY just to ASK what they suggest we do in this situation. Well, the website directed me to 311 (information)… so I called.

The operator at 311 asked me what the problem was. I told her that I had been feeling weird for a few weeks (I explained my symptoms) and had been suspicious of a gas leak or carbon monoxide, and then, with a brand new battery, my carbon monoxide detector was going off. I was simply asking if there is any way we can have someone (ONE guy) come in and make sure there is no gas leak. She asked for my address… I was like errr, ok, and gave it to her. Then, she said “Ma’am, are you experiencing any symptoms, like chest pain and dizziness/lightheadedness?” I said yes, and yes… She said “please hold for one second.” After hearing her say multiple numbers and something in code mixed with static and beeping, she came back. “Ma’am, you have symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning and you’re alarm is going off, which is an emergency… I’ve contacted 911 and they’re sending the fire department over right now.”

GAHHHH…. What?!?! BAHH!!!

I got flustered. “Uh wait, you just sent the fire department over? I think I just need one guy… are they coming in a truck?” (for some reason, the truck made this all more painfully humiliating.) I felt the mortification building within and was looking at Naomi who was beating some fresh whipped cream for me while I was on the phone… “Ma’am, this is an emergency and if you have carbon monoxide, you have to get out of the apartment and into an ER immediately. The fire department will be over in 5 minutes. Is there anything else I can do for you?” HAHA. What?! NO! Why did this feel so funny to me? This is dangerous stuff! I hung up and explained to Naomi the situation. What had I done?! She assured me I did the right thing and was totally relaxed about it. I was just laughing and preparing myself for complete humiliation.

Sure enough, four minutes later, I heard my buzzer ring. Like a responsible New Yorker, I said hello and pushed listen instead of letting the people in right away. What I heard was “OPEN THE DOOR!” No friendly “hello, we’re the very large firemen you ordered, could you please let us up? Why thank you!” (I guess they’re trained to respond quickly to emergencies or something… Hehe.)

I opened my door in anticipation of the firemen and found that I had panicked everyone in my building. All my neighbors were running out of their apartments to find out what was going on, who had called 911, and was there a fire?! The Puerto Rican woman and her teenage son across the hall walked out and asked “what happened?! Did you call?” I said “YES, it was me!! But I only called 311 because my carbon monoxide detector went off and we’ve been feeling weird for weeks! I just wanted to check the air… I didn’t call 911!” To my surprise she said, “Yeah, ours has been going off too… and so have some people’s downstairs…” OK, hold up… Doesn’t ANYONE realize this is SERIOUS?!

By the time I had put this information together, there were SIX enormous firemen in my extremely small apartment, decked out in full fireman-garb with axes, oxygen tanks, and a whole lot of impatience (why WHY WHY!?!?). Naomi was still beating the cream, my pound cake was still baking, and I was officially humiliated.

The following interaction took place between 5:11pm and 5:12pm after six firemen filed into my tiny hallway. It was one fireman-filled minute.

Fireman 1: “DID YOU CALL?”
Me: “Uh, yes, but I called 311… I didn’t mean for you all to come but…uhh… so my carbon monoxide detector was going off…”
[Fireman 3 pulls my carbon monoxide detector off the wall.]
Fireman 2: “There’s no carbon monoxide in here…”
Fireman 3: “Are you baking?”
Me: “Uh yes…but, wait, how do you know there is no carbon monoxide?”
Fireman 2: “Because you see this little device? [he shows me a small device] Trust me, this would be going off if there was…”
Fireman 4: “Your carbon monoxide detector is broken.”
Me: “That little thing would go off…? Errr… What? Wait, it’s broken?”
Fireman 4: “Yeah, get a new battery.”
Fireman 2: “Yeah, there’s no carbon monoxide in here.”
Me: “But, the battery is brand new… I got it two weeks ago…”
Fireman 5: “What are you baking? Cake?”
Fireman 6: “Got any extra cake? Smells good. He he he.”
Me: "Well, it's still baking otherwise I'd give you some!"
Fireman 4: “Yeah, no carbon monoxide. Maybe it’s just from the oven being on.”
Me: “How are you so sure so quickly? It’s been 30 seconds and we have all the windows open? I’ve been having weird dizzy symptoms that get worse when I’m home… and my roommate too…and...”
Fireman 6: “We can get an ambulance here in 30 seconds, do you want an ambulance?”
Me: “What?! NO! No no…”
Fireman 4: “Yeah, well there’s no carbon monoxide being detected right now. So get a mew detector, get a second one, and call us if two go off.”

And just like that, they were OUT the door… Gone!

I stood in my doorway and looked at Naomi in shock. What the HECK just happened?! I was SO embarrassed – and that doesn’t happen easily. (Hehehehe. Oh MAN it was horrible!). She was still beating the cream, which was peaking and almost done. My pound cake was just about ready, and I was late for the 6pm potluck. My stunned neighbors watched as the firemen stomped back down my 5 flights of stairs and left as quickly as they had arrived. I had created a scene. I HATE scenes. As they left I awkwardly said to the last guy, “sorry about being on the top floor… he…he…he?” (a sorry attempt to celebrate the fact that nobody was actually dying, which I thought was supposed to be a good thing, but they seemed disappointed!). Fireman 6: “Yeah, we’re used to it…Enjoy that cake.”

To make matters worse, I learned that not only had I caused a scene in my building, but these firemen arrived in a giant fire engine with lights and alarms BLAZING on my busy street. This was not my fireman fantasy. And I thought I did everything right, everything a responsible adult should do! And they treated me like I was crazy. Well, I FELT crazy! But, I did not call 911! I really just wanted to get one guy – ONE guy – to confirm that there was no gas in our apartment and now I was left with more questions, like “if there’s no gas, why are other people’s alarms going off?” and “why do I still feel dizzy?” But those firemen came in, assessed the situation, and got the hell out of there as quickly as possible. I didn’t have a chance to get any answers. They had such quick, blunt resopnses to all my questions and seemed to care more about what I was baking than how I was feeling! But man, it was pretty hilarious. And I give them credit for responding so quickly and even bringing the oxygen and axes with them (oh GAWD... I'm still blushing). Too bad I still have to show my face in the building.

Hey, at least the pound cake didn't burn! Yummy.

Bee-zzz

2009-02-05T12:07:00.002-05:00

There is one thing and one thing ONLY that I do not welcome with the onset of warm weather: stinging insects (and an abundance of roaches, which I don’t even want to write about because they disgust me so much).

There is something about the erratic behavior and that buzzing sound of insects that fly and sting (bees, wasps, hornets, etc) that just scares me. I have been stung a couple of times that I can remember.

Once, I was playing soccer with my siblings and friends in our backyard and I slid to kick the ball, landed on my forearms, and felt a pinch in my left arm. I looked, and there it was – a giant bee sticking out my arm (GAHHH!). I vividly remember it wiggling its butt into my skin, and my grabbing it (screaming) and throwing it as far away as I could, only to find that a black and white stinger (perhaps the same one, just broken?) was still sticking out of me.

I jumped up and eylled “I got stung by a bee!” and ran in the house to figure out what the hell to do about it. I kept trying to pull the stingers out with my fingers, but I was failing. Someone grabbed a credit card and tweezers and used both to eventually get the stingers out about 15 minutes later, but by then, my arm was super swollen, and I was still out of breath from the soccer game and feeling dizzy and panicked by the situation. I apparently have a mild allergy, but I cannot tell how much of that reaction was mental.

Another time I got stung was pretty pathetic. I was sitting in the kitchen (a green-house style room, all glass) of our house upstate, innocently eating my breakfast. We often get lady bugs, flies, and wasps in the house – sometimes by the swarm. As I took a bite from my bagel, I felt a pinch and then a tickle on the back of my shoulder. It felt like a sting, but I couldn’t see the source when I tried to look at the spot that the stinging was radiating from. Then, sure enough (to my horror), a wasp slowly walked up the back of my shoulder onto the top of it, at which point I flicked it away (petrified) and ordered my dad to kill it. Hehe. (Ahhh, this story is giving me chills to write.)

Even though my stings were relatively minor incidents, I can attribute my little fear of stinging insects to a traumatic event I witnessed when I was seven or eight years old. (Not to mention the movie My Girl, which always reminded me of the real-life scene I had witnessed…)

My dad is from Boston. Dorchester (“Dah-chest-ah”), to be exact. He has two older brothers, one who lives in Estes Park, Colorado (the Abraham Lincoln look-alike – more on him another time) and the other who lives in…well, outside of…Boston.

It was a warm late-summer morning, and we were all visiting my grandma Bessie (she passed away a few years later) at her house in Wellesley, MA. I remember I was eating an egg-flavored Lender’s bagel (how delicious were THOSE?! Great, now I’m craving one…) in the kitchen, which was painted an old-fashioned 1950’s yellow-color, and had cabinetry and furniture to match. In the back of the kitchen was a doorway to the small garden, where my uncle Don was raking leaves.

Don, an ex-pilot and avid Celtics, Red sox, and Bruins fan, has a severe allergy to bees…

All of a sudden, in the calm of the morning sun, we heard Don yelling “AHH! Bees! I’ve been stung! Get help!” as he ran into the house. I, a bee-fearer, was stunned at what I saw next. My uncle ran into the kitchen and was followed by hundreds or thousands of angry BEES – an entire swarm. I had never seen this many bees, and they were clearly pissed off and in attack mode. My poor uncle was covered in them, and suddenly, the entire kitchen was FULL of bees. I remember the loud humming sound, and him screaming in pain and fear.

His wife, Carolyn, ran into the kitchen trying to help get the bees off of him and she yelled for someone to call 911. She started spraying some bee repellant all around the kitchen, and eventually – between her and my dad – they had killed enough bees to get him out of the kitchen without them following. I think she ran and grabbed an EpiPen to hold him, but with his allergy, he needed immediate emergency care as he had clearly been stung at least 50 times.

I just stood there, stunned, almost oblivious to the bees that didn’t seem to care about anyone in the room except my uncle, who they had successfully debilitated and almost made unconscious. He collapsed on the floor, and tried to crawl his way out of the kitchen, but was having trouble breathing. All we could do was wait for the ambulance to arrive as hundreds of red welts began to appear all over his body, which began to swell. We got ice and tried to stay out of the way as the bees retaliated – they had won their fight. Luckily, I believe just as he was beginning to seizure, the paramedics arrived and rescued him. He was rushed to the hospital, and returned later that day.

It was a scary experience for me, but much more so for my uncle and his wife. The poor guy was just doing some yard work, and accidentally managed to lift up a large rock, under which was a large bee hive. This signaled attack-mode for the little bees, and once they realized their target, there was no stopping them. After seeing his reaction and the viciousness of those bees (I know I know, they were just protecting their nest), I’ve seen what a few buzzing insects are capable of doing. Sure, they were just doing their job and usually tend to leave us alone… but bugs (in general) love me (for whatever reason – as one doctor put it, she thought I must have “delicious” blood). An exterminator once told me “I hate to tell you, but if they taste something they like, they’ll just forget the others and come back to you…” Great. I’m tasty?

There is nothing I love more than sitting by our pool upstate in the summer time, reading and sipping some iced tea in the surprisingly loud sounds of nature. But, unfortunately, I end up the landing pad for numerous insects, and often the occasional snack for them, which disrupts my perfect moment. Such is life, I know. But hey, what’s a blog for if it’s not to complain once in a while about things I can obviously do nothing about?!

Whenever you’re around me and there are bugs, don’t you worry – they’ll come to me and leave you alone. I'm like human insect repellant for other humans (do you follow that?). Especially after they get a taste of me; they always want more! And I mean, as much as I hate them, can I blame them? He he he… Bzzz.

The Fire at Rocky Bluff

2009-01-23T23:44:00.005-05:00

When I was little, fire drills were a part of school life. I was the kid that took mental notes every time, the one that actually listened carefully to every word when safety instructions were given, the one who read that safety booklet on a plane within the first five minutes of sitting down every time I flew (it became a superstitious ritual until about two years ago). I’ve always been someone who silently makes sure I have a plan of action in case of an emergency. And by now I have learned that, in moments of panic, I tend to get a sudden wave of calm and clarity that is very hard to describe. It’s as if my mind quickly opens the file in my brain under “fire” or “car crash” (or whatever situation I am in) and starts reading and following the steps like my entire life has been preparing me for that test. I feel a heightened sense of responsibility (I don't know where this comes from), like I want to be in charge and keep everyone else calm and safe, and for some reason, I believe I can. My earliest recollection of this type of reaction dates back to when I was about seven years old and the smoke detector in our old beach house went off...

I remember earlier that year, the fire department came to our school and we took turns sitting in the front seat of the fire engine. A fireman took my photograph while I wore his helmet. I think that’s around the time I decided (silently) that I might want to become a firewoman, despite the fact that i was by far the tiniest kid in my class. I also just really wanted a Dalmatian and thought the dogs came with the territory. The truck wasn't too shabby, either.

We learned the drill: stop, drop and roll! As we rehearsed on the floor of the music room, I remember giggling with my friends, thinking that it was all sort of fun to roll around like a puppy. We also learned to call 911. I was obsessed with the show “Rescue 9-1-1” for YEARS, which created horrible reenactments of real-life situations that always ended with the phrase “…so I called 9-1-1,” followed my a happy ending of some sort (and usually, a tearful paramedic). After a while, this became a common catch-phrase in the Tavel household. ("..so I CALLED 9111..." could be added to most sentences. Hehe.)

When you’re one of five (or four, at the time) and there is one television with one remote, the rule was simple: whoever got there first got to choose what everyone watched, and they could be as accommodating or as merciless as they wanted. But in the end, it was Sarah -- the BIG sister (apparently being #2 gave me no credit) who made the final decisions. Well, in the rare occasion that I had remote control (I think we are a family that gave true meaning to the device’s name), I would put it on any Discovery, Discovery Health, or crappy medical reality show that was on. And I must say that, in the end, I learned a lot from that "Rescue 9-1-1" show. By age 10, I felt fully capable of calling 9-1-1 and/or performing CPR or tending to someone who was gushing blood (medical training? Nah, I had seen enough re-enactments to have a good idea of things!). I always wanted to be the person who could save the day, the person who could step up and do what had to be done in a moment of panic. But mostly, I believed I just was that person, whether or not I wanted to be. I still do (and I want to be that person now).

On a wet and cool August day when I was seven or eight years old (tops), I was with my little brother and sister watching some Disney Show program while sitting on a ratty old mustard-colored couch, which my mom despised. We were enjoying a dreary afternoon at our old beach house in Greenport, Long Island while my mom took her daily siesta. At the time, my cousin Dora from Boston was staying with us for the summer (who you might remember from the post I wrote called “Crash” – she was in our car at the time of a five-car accident a couple years later). She was a great athlete (played college soccer and tennis) and would hang out with us and give us tennis lessons and organize soccer games and dance parties with our neighbors. Then there was the one time she did a striptease for me at the beach because I was in a bad mood and she was determined to snap me out of it (don't worry, I didn't really see anything), but I will leave that for another blog posting… (hehehe).

We also had an au pair at the time named Genoveva (pronounced "Hen-o-ve-va"). She was a very sexy (or so my mom described her, I was oblivious) and sweet girl from Madrid who happened to meet young men everywhere we went. Hmmm. Anyway, she was with us in our old beach house that summer, which had no heat. Believe it or not, the house could get pretty cold on damp, grey days, so my parents used to open the oven a crack and turn it on to heat the area around the kitchen. Additionally, we learned about a little Spanish tradition that day: storing used oil in the oven so it could be reused later. As you can imagine, these two little traditions did not mix well.

So there we were on the couch: me, and my two little siblings. I don’t remember where my older sister, Dora, or Genoveva were, but I knew my mom was on the second floor asleep. I have a very sensitive nose, and smelled something burning, but tried not to get nervous about it. Then the smoke detector went off. Now, this smoke detector went off a LOT. I remember we had a broom positioned nearby to slap it when it started beeping uncontrollably for no reason (I don’t think the power button worked). (Hehe, I just remembered a few incidents when we had to whack that thing until it popped off the ceiling to make it shut up, usually in the middle of the night. Ha!)

As soon as I heard the smoke detector, my heart jumped. Nobody was moving, so I decided to go look in the kitchen where I saw smoke coming out of the oven. My mind went into instant emergency-response mode. I remember my thoughts so clearly! The first thing I did was grab the cordless phone, in case I needed to call 911. Then, I went into the living room and suggested to my little brother and sister to go outside. They were confused. Then, I sprinted up the stairs, woke up my mom (who thought it was just another false alarm ruining her siesta – typical Argentine behavior, heh). But, as a mother, she would of course make sure everything was ok.

She jumped out of bed, ran down the stairs (I think she smelled the bad fumes too) and immediately headed towards the kitchen. I went back to the living room, got my brother and sister, and made them go outside in the rain with me. I remember pacing outside the house with heavy rain splashing around me, wondering if and when I should call 911 while my big white socks flopped around on the wet grass (I didn’t bother with shoes – who bothers with shoes in a textbook emergency situation!?). Then, I heard my mom scream, so I ran in the house…

There was chaos in the kitchen. Flames were coming out of the oven, and my mom, running on adrenaline, opened up the oven and saw a flaming pan of oil, which she instinctively grabbed and then DROPPED (at this point I was clinging to the telephone and desperately searching the kitchen for the fire extinguisher, which was behind the oven and unreachable). That pan dropped on the floor and burning oil splattered all around. My mom screamed again and cursed. Genoveva ran in with a cup of water and poured it on the fire. Horrible idea: it was oil. The fire spread across the floor, which luckily was some sort of tile that didn’t catch.

“BAKING SODA! BAKING SODA!” I heard my cousin Dora yelling. Apparently, baking soda is one way to put out a fire. I saw her run into the pantry, find the box, open it and DUMP it on the burning oil. Pshhhhh.... success. Smoke was pouring out of the kitchen that my mom, babysitter, and cousin were in and I stood there staring until the smoke became uncomfortable, then I ran out of the house and watched.

It all escalated very quickly, from the moment the fire alarm went off to the moment my mom walked outside onto the porch. Once safely outside with the fire out, she started pacing with one hand on her hip and one hand covering her mouth. She was staring somewhat blankly ahead, trying to regroup while I kept asking "are you ok? mom? You ok?" She was fine -- just a bit shaken up, and she burned her fingers grabbing that pan.

Genoveva was all worked up and emotional. After all, she put a pan of oil in an oven that was on (she later ended up getting my mom’s bicycle stolen outside of our apartment – I think that was strike three, and she became the only au pair the Tavels ever fired. OOOPS, that’s definitely a bad pun… You know I love those! Hehe).

As I stood there in the rain with my brother and sister, my socks soaked all the way through and a chill working its way down my spine, I felt calm, a little scared, but safe. The smoke cleared and we were able to go back inside the kitchen, where a large black ring now marked the center of the kitchen floor from where my mom had dropped the flaming pan of oil. While I thought this was my “…so I called 911” moment, I was relieved that the phone call was never necessary.

But like the memory of this close call, that ring in the floor is still there.

Our President, Barack Obama

2009-01-20T16:19:00.003-05:00

Today, along with millions of others around the world and around the city, I watched as Barack Obama took an oath to become the 44th President of the United States, the 1st African American one, and the 5th president in my lifetime (yep, had to look that up and make sure I had my numbers right – I’m such an amateur...). That sense of hope, unity, and determination for change that was felt on Election Day is in the cold air once again. Only this time it is more tangible, less idealized… more real.

For the first time at an event of such significance, Obama stumbled over his words and revealed imperfection seconds before officially being placed on the highest pedestal we can give him. It happened in the first several words of taking his oath. Then again, “stumbled” does not seem like the correct word. Stumbling implies losing one’s footing and almost falling -- he has not done this yet (and boy do I hope he never does!). It was more composed than that, like watching a video and seeing people’s mouths moving while the sound of their voices comes out just a millisecond later. That millisecond throws everything off, as if two slices of the same moment suddenly do not overlap and this misalignment causes a hiccup in time. In other words, it was as if Obama’s world, suddenly propelled by adrenaline and excitement, began moving a millisecond faster than reality, and he had to pause, reset, and settle back into the rhythm of the moment we were all a part of, which he was (luckily) able to do with a graceful grin.

But instead of taking away from the moment, his quick slip-up added a perfect and unexpected dose of reality to an otherwise surreal moment of unparalleled historical significance in his life: it was a reminder that he is human, that this event is real (as historical and built up as it might be on paper), and that there would be no magic potion to make our problems disappear (for better or for worse). Maybe he is even nervous, and can you blame the guy?! In a way, it was endearing and refreshing to see our supposedly unshakeable new leader quiver under the weight of his shiny new title. If anything, it only proved how significant this transfer of power really is to the man at the center of it all. I'd rather see a guy shake off a few nerves than watch the stoic composure of a robot-like politician.

Obama’s (once again) inspiring speech spoke right to us, not at us. It spoke up to us, not down to us. It reminded the world not just of what we want America to become, but of the America and Americans we have always been. We stand for so much good, we have incredible ideals, but we have been caught up in the wrong crowds and lost in the delivery of mixed signals. Sure, we have made a lot of mistakes (and not the kind you can sweep under a rug or forget). But we’re still the country we have always been. Now, we have our hope, we’ve gotten our change, and we’ve renewed our image. But this is only the beginning of making changes, of cleaning up our identity, of improving our (and the world’s) future. It's time to take the idealists seriously!

America needs to soul-search, to remember our past while envisioning how to attain our desired future. And we are ready to take responsibility again. We’re ready to own up to our place in the world, and give not just Americans but people from every corner of the globe something to believe in – because that’s what America has always symbolized: hope, dreams, possibility! And whether or not every bullet point on the political checklist gets checked off in the next four or eight years (highly unlikely), it is this restoration of our ideals, our principles, and our values that has pumped new blood into the heartbeat of America. Instead of shrinking to the challenges we now face, we feel ready to take them on! (Yeah, easy for me to say, I don't know the half of how to solve most of these problems... but whatever, I feel good about our leadership again! Yes we can!)

[OK ok, I'll settle down. I'm telling you, this whole "hope," "change," "yes we can" Obama thing is contagious! I've been bitten by the bug once again, and it feels kinda good!]

I don’t want to admit this, but as I sat in the conference room watching the CNN live-feed on a big screen TV, I couldn’t stop worrying that something horrible might happen. As morbid as it may sound, I kept imagining the horror of a bullet ripping through Obama’s neck followed by chaos in the crowd. Him being assassinated hadn’t crossed my mind until I was sitting there watching him on the big screen, noticing how suddenly vulnerable our embodiment of our future was about to become. His vulnerability seemed to outshine his power, and he suddenly seemed more human to me than presidential – but in a good way.

As soon as Obama’s speech was over and he was safely whisked into the background, I was able to appreciate that change had occurred, that we – the people of the United States of America – have finally given a new face, a new name, and a new dream to our future. We did it: we’ve made the change we (most of us) and the rest of the world (most of it) have been waiting for, and now we must discover exactly where it can and where it will take us.

Spinning Bottles: A New Year

2008-12-31T13:35:00.006-05:00

It’s snowing, windy and COLD on the streets of New York and tonight, over a million people plan to welcome 2009 by watching a giant crystal ball descend over a frosty Times Square (where the wind chill should make the temperature feel like 0 degrees F for those brave and eager tourists. I hope they have a good amount of booze to get them through it!).

I will be spending my New Year’s Eve at a swanky downtown loft party (as my friend Tom H. said, “oooooohh, how hip and New York of you”). Heh. OH yeah! I’ll feel especially hip when I am shivering my ass off trying to walk around the city in open-toe shoes (I can’t wear super “high” heals due to the ol’ knee, so not many options!) and a dress or skirt of some sort (yeah, I have no idea what I am wearing to this “formal” party but I will have approximately two hours to figure it out).

Going into the evening with a plan is rare on New Year’s Eve in NYC. There are always so many options, but rarely does one coordinate enough people to agree on a venue, scene, and price for the night.

I’m one of those people who try not to put too much pressure on the big New Year’s evening. I’ve found that, no matter what my game plan is, the night never seems to go as I imagine it (perhaps symbolic of an entire new year?), and the highlights tend to be the random moments shared with strangers, not the midnight toast or theoretical “kiss.” And that’s ok with me! While every year that 10-second countdown is completely different for me, the feeling I have at midnight is always the same: I feel excited, and grateful. Midnight on New Year's Eve is the only tangible no-mans land in time. And that 20 second bridge that surrounds midnight connects my past to my future. Other than at midnight, New Year's is just another night to me.

One of the best New Year’s eves I have had was during the 1999 to 2000 MILLENIUM transition while I was in high school. The evening began at my friend Anna’s cool loft apartment in the West Village. My whole 57-person grade was invited and a good amount of us showed up.

If my memory serves me right, I want to say that a round of “spin-the-bottle” was eventually played just for “fun” after midnight (I say “fun” because this game was the bane of my awkward adolescent existence). Then again I probably wouldn’t remember if the game was played because every time spinning a bottle of any sort was mentioned in any crowd, I would disappear as FAST as possible. Hehe. Ooh, I just remembered that during my senior trip in high school, when my whole grade was having an overnight sleepover (a “lock-in”) in one big room at Clearpool (upstate NY), the game was announced and my friend Jessica and I excused ourselves to go to the bathroom… Luckily, I found the only other person who was terrified of playing spin-the-bottle. We ended up sitting in a dark stairwell (that led to the bathroom) for the ENTIRE 1-2 hr duration of the game, including the moment I overheard them say “Hey, where are Jessica and Rachel?!” while Jess and I sat in the hallway sweating bullets, covering each other’s mouths to try and keep silent, and struggling to keep our cracking-up laughter muffled by our hands and pajamas (I am HORRIBLE at keeping in laughter, let’s be honest).

I don’t think it was a fear of kissing people that sent me running in the opposite direction when spin-the-bottle was announced, it was more the exhibitionism factor – the having to kiss someone in front of a whole group of people (when I had VERY little kissing experience and still thought it was an action that was “thought” about rather than DONE without thinking). I was always uncomfortable knowing I was being watched. I have no problem being watched as long as I am unaware (dancing, kissing, you name it). But once I feel like I am on display for a crowd, I get very... shy. Or, used to at least. Yes (to all you friends shaking your heads at me); this excludes a few specific and memorable incidents in my life… (hehe).

Now back to the Millenium New Year’s.

Eventually, a couple of my best friends and I left Anna’s party to head back uptown (Upper West). On the way, we enjoyed a dance party with drunk strangers from all over the world on the subway, and then decided to get out at Times Square rather than 86th street, just to see what it was like on that memorable night (the biggest, most fabulous Times Square New Year’s ever).

When we got out, we were shocked. We had anticipated thousands of people, tons of noise, and an impossible maze of police barricades to get through before being in the heart of the Square. As we ascended the steps of the subway station, we were greeted by an eerie silence.

At the top of the stairs, the streets were still – more still than I had ever seen Times Square on the least-suspecting night. By then it was about 3am, and everyone had run off to their after-parties. Police barricades were being meticulously folded and stacked, and an inch or two of confetti covered the streets like red white and blue snow.

Times Square was a ghost town. There was NOBODY, except the late-night clean-up staff that was sweeping up the confetti, one giant black garbage bag at a time. My friends and I were stunned – it was completely surreal. The temperature was unseasonably warm, and there was a magic-millennium haze in the air, which was full of lingering confetti that seemed to continuously fall from the tops of buildings and traffic lights with each subtle breeze. Every now and then, we could hear a horn or a drunken scream or laugh, and as is the case every New Year’s in NYC (I love this), every stranger you encounter yells “happy new year!” to you and revels in the surreal few hours when one entire year of lived-out moments transitions into a brand new year of question marks.

Perhaps that’s the most surreal thing about New Year’s Eve – realizing how quickly it has arrived and yet how much you were able to experience since the last one. It’s so easy to look back and so hard to look forward, to guess what’s next, to imagine one year in the future, where you'll be and with whom on New Year's Eve in 365 days...

Another year has come and gone. It’s finally safe to say that 2008 was a GREAT year, despite a minor setback (namely, my major knee injury). I am excited about 2009, which will begin with a couple travel adventures, and I am looking forward to another crazy year: one of change, of growth, of risk-taking, of adventure, and, always, another year full of hope.

Cheers to a 2009 full of surprises.

Danger: Thieves!

2008-12-23T20:34:00.003-05:00

I haven’t written for way too long, so here is some fodder for your wandering minds! (I hope it's not a copout!) Recently, a conversation came up that reminded me of a time I almost got robbed in Spain.

This is an article I wrote over two years ago that was published online by National Geographic Glimpse (www.theglimpse.com). I wrote the article about a face-to-face encounter I had with a thief in Barcelona.

Oh, and FYI: I will try to be better about blogging than I have been these past couple of months. A lot has been going on, but unfortunately, my moral filter still works (and I do try and keep SOME things private - ha). Enjoy, and HAPPY HOLIDAYS to all!

Danger: Thieves!

After living in Barcelona for four months, I was almost robbed three times. Out of the 40 Americans on my study abroad trip, only about eight of us had avoided the extreme inconvenience of losing money, credit cards and passports in another country. Somehow, I was one of them.

Week after week, I passed grown men and women sobbing on the gritty sidewalks of La Rambla, showing empty wallets and cut purse straps to unsympathetic police officers who silently nodded their heads at yet another hapless victim caught off-guard at the epicenter of Barcelona’s pickpocket scene. These people served as a reminder that I had made it another day without becoming one of them.

When I arrived in Barcelona, I was fully aware that the odds were against me if I wanted to get through the semester without being robbed. Unfortunately, the city has a reputation as a breeding ground for petty thieves—artists in their own right—whose clever ruses for robbing tourists would almost demand a certain type of respect if they didn’t evoke so much anguish from their victims.

It is hard to determine exactly why Barcelona has become so infamous for pickpockets. Some Spaniards believe the thieves—many of whom are Northern African immigrants—are attempting to recover lost riches from the English tourists after four centuries of war. With its myriad tourist attractions, Barcelona has no problem attracting a constant, year-round influx of wealthy visitors who wander La Rambla in a haze of naïveté, distracted by the many sites and sounds of the vivacious neighborhood while their bags and wallets bounce temptingly at their sides.

Constant reminders to guard my belongings were sprinkled throughout the city, as well as within the literature provided by my study abroad program. I knew to be careful and to never, under any circumstances, leave my valuables unattended. It was important to remember that the thieves could be anyone: the guy who looks like a bus-boy in your restaurant, the little old lady who asks you to help her cross the street, the friendly young tourist who can’t speak English, or even the little boy who asks you to help find his mother. Thieves in Barcelona have taken their tricks to a level that could almost qualify as performance art. They are so good at what they do that sometimes even the savviest travelers become unknowing victims, unaware they have even been robbed until they try and buy a glass of sangria and find their pant pocket has been cleanly slashed open.

My favorite warning was a simple, black, spray-painted image that appeared on the corners of stone walls in the tiny, dark, romantic streets of the Gothic district. In it, a two-dimensional silhouette of a woman throws her arms in the air while a male silhouette runs away with her bag. Underneath the drama of the cartoon-like image are two words of precaution written suggestively in English: “Danger: Thieves.” These two words served as a blatant reminder that tourists like me are easy and attractive targets for the professional Spanish pickpocket.

For several weeks, I saw these signs and found them funny. But the stories about my friends getting robbed kept trickling in until the signs began to take on a more ominous tone. I even began to imagine that I heard a quiet tick-tock sound every time I passed one by. Yet despite my fears that soon I would be the black, spray-painted woman with my hands up in the air, on my last day in Spain, I had yet to be robbed and I thought I was in the clear. It wasn’t until around 11 p.m., approximately six hours before I boarded a plane that would end my four-month Spanish adventure, that the spray-painted man came to life.

Since my flight was leaving early in the morning, I figured I could fit in one last night of partying before my entire Spain experience would be tied up and packaged with a nice little bow to be stored on one of the cluttered shelves in my memory. I met up with a friend of mine, who was visiting from her study abroad program in France. She had some other friends in town, but we decided to meet up for dinner together before joining the rest of the group.

As a temporary resident of Barcelona, I had learned by now that Plaza Catalunya, located just at the top of the most popular street in the city, was like a flytrap for robbery victims. Unfortunately, my friend Jessica had naively planned to meet her friends in the center of the circle at 11 p.m. so that we could all go out together from there. As soon as she told me this, I had the feeling that something was going to happen. My gut, my brain and everything I had read told me not to enter the Plaza, but we had to take the risk. Jessica’s friends did not have cell phones and they were in a foreign city without guidance. We had no choice but to find them in the dreaded Plaza Catalunya, and then get on with our night as safely as possible.

After a couple glasses of wine at dinner and the euphoric excitement of meeting up with a friend in a foreign country, a slightly tipsy Jessica and I made our way toward Plaza Catalunya, arms linked and my guard stiffly up. Blue-eyed, blonde-haired Jessica was all smiles, unaware of the potential danger that lay ahead. Without trying to sound too worried, I asked her if she could keep her voice down, knowing that as soon as we were identified as Americans we would be an easy target for thieves.

We approached the Plaza, which is a big circle, and I felt the presence of danger like a cat senses ghosts. As we entered the circular walled-in area, a homeless man interrupted his public urination to stare at us with a threatening smile. My instinct was to turn around and get out of there as quickly as possible, but we had to find Jessica’s friends, if only to warn them to be careful, so we kept walking toward the center.

Sure enough, Jessica’s friends were late. While Jessica talked to me about France and the wonderful places she had visited, I noticed six men sitting on a bench nearby, laughing and staring at us. I wanted to get out of that circle. I wanted to play it smart, like I had all semester, but instead I had to pretend I was in control. Just beyond the walls of the Plaza were hordes of people embarking on the earliest stage of their Saturday nights. Buses were slugging along and music was overflowing from nearby restaurants, where people casually drank beer and smoked cigarettes outside without a care in the world. I wanted to be outside of the Plaza with all of them, laughing, having a beer, safe. But I wasn’t.

“I see them!” yelled Jessica, blonder and with bluer eyes than ever.

My tension began to give way as we were finally allowed to leave the circle and shed ourselves of the giant bull’s eye that seemed to follow us inside the Plaza. As we made our way from the center to the periphery, I felt someone’s glare piercing through me, so I clutched the strap of my bag tightly and picked up the pace. Jessica, still laughing and talking, motioned for her friends to stay where they were. Then, I felt someone getting closer to me from behind my back. The walls to safety were right in front of us, but we were still in Plaza Catalunya, still vulnerable, and someone was following us. We were so close.

My left arm was linked with Jessica’s right arm and my bag was slung over my left shoulder in between us, which I also clutched tightly with my left hand. Suddenly, I felt an aggressive tug that whipped me around with unexpected force. Jessica screamed and jumped to the side. I found myself on the tiled floor of Plaza Catalunya, resting on one knee and one foot, facing a young man who must have been twice as strong as me, but I still had one hand tightly gripped around the strap of my bag. I wasn’t about to let go.

What took place after that initial shock was something I cannot fully explain. The man who had pierced my sense of safety with his eyes from a distance was now standing less than a foot away from me trying to pull my bag out of my hands. He had one hand on each strap of my bag, and I had one hand holding the center of the strap. At that moment, a surge of energy overtook every inch of my body. Much to my surprise, I was not scared at all; I was furious.

I managed to get my other hand around the strap and decided the strap would have to rip from the bag before I let go. I think that is the decision that carried me through the next few seconds. Everything else in the world just dropped out of focus; there was only me and my determination not to let this thief win. As he yanked angrily and fiercely at my bag, I yanked back just as fiercely, just as angrily, while staring him right in the eyes. His look of aggression and intimidation began to fade with each extended second of our tug-o-war until my eyes began to pierce through his confidence.

I don’t know where it came from, but in the loudest voice I could muster, fueled by adrenaline and anger, I yelled, “Get off!” at the man. He gave my bag a couple more yanks, but I yanked back harder, until … he gave up. Before I knew it, the man had let go and was sprinting back into the darkness of Plaza Catalunya, leaving me on the ground with a new hole in my jeans and a couple spots of blood soaking through the knee area. But there in my hand, I had my bag, which somehow—like me—did not break.

When I got up and looked around, I had chills. People were everywhere, buses and taxis and cars were just doing what they always did. Jessica was covering her mouth, looking at me, asking me if I was OK. I think I could have lifted up a bus with the adrenaline still surging through my body. As I walked away, chills still running down my spine, I realized that I was going to beat the odds after all.

This third time someone tried to rob me in Spain was the most aggressive encounter I experienced, but I didn’t throw my hands up in the air like the spray-painted woman who had warned me on random stone walls of the city to beware of thieves. And the thief lurking behind the walls of Plaza Catalunya hadn’t become the spray-painted man running away with my purse.

After the ordeal, I was still in Barcelona, I still had all the valuables I had arrived with, and I had only one more night to complete the experience of living there for a semester. When I looked down at my watch, it was only a few minutes after 11 p.m., but after four months of thinking I had gotten to know Barcelona, those few minutes after 11 p.m. changed everything.

Killer Shoppers

2008-11-29T18:19:00.002-05:00

It’s a crazy world. The past few days, between enjoying wine, laughter and turkey with my family and family-friends, I’ve been captivated by the horrible attacks going on in Mumbai, India. It’s difficult to comprehend the intense desire some people have to kill other human beings because of their nationality or religion. There are people who will do anything to kill someone exactly like me. This is reality. If I were in those hotels in India, I would have been as big of a target as anyone. What a thought (one I’d rather not spend too much time on). What a feeling, to be so hated by total strangers because of a world I was born into. But this subject could take up many more words than I am prepared to write at the moment. In this entry, I want to comment on a different situation that demonstrates a disregard for human life. With our safety concerns focused on suicide bombers and terrorist attacks in NYC, Mumbai, and around the world, it seems we have ignored an unlikely threat to our lives: holiday shopping?

Yesterday, a 34-year-old man was trampled and killed by a stampede of Wal-Mart shoppers in Long Island. The swarm of extreme-bargain hunters (they put the “kill” in bargain-“hunting”) also crushed a pregnant woman and injured a few others. Are these people for real? “Trampled,” “swarm,” “killed” by a “stampede”; these are people we’re talking about, right? Those are words straight out of a Discovery Channel documentary about lions, not the usual holiday shopping news roundup.

I’m trying to understand how this happened. Can people become so obsessed with a deal that they validate the need to stomp across the body of an eight-month-pregnant woman so that they can be one of the first people to enter a store on the biggest sale-day of the year? And these are supposedly “good” people, people who work and have families and pay bills… And the people who tried to help those on the ground were bulldozed by the continuous pack of dangerously determined shoppers. I mean, people would do ANYTHING to get in those glass doors of Wal-Mart as quickly and early as they could. What has become of us?! Sure, this could happen in any country, but I feel self-conscious of Americans acting this way. The scene seems pathetically barbaric and desperate to me, a shocking display of human recklessness. In a way, it feels tacky and superficial, but I do understand the importance of buying things on sale. And it’s all in the name of… giving gifts? We can blame it on the economy but, from what I’ve read, this sort of behavior happens every year. But this year, it seems absurd that one can just as easily be a victim of shopping as a victim of terrorism.

This poor man woke up early to be at Wal-Mart by 5am, where he was working part-time as a holiday temp. Surely he was prepared for a crazy day, but not his last. I get it; times are tough, a bargain is a bargain. Things like this, sadly, happen way too often. But come on, people – we have so many problems in the world! Are we not focusing on the most basic: respect for life, and each other? It’s got to start somewhere!

This story disgusts me. It seems sad in its own way, as if people have been brainwashed to buy buy buy, and not let anything or anyone get in their way. While it may not compare to the devastating attacks in Mumbai, it seems uncomfortably tragic. This man wasn’t killed by cold-blooded murders, he was killed my moms and dads shopping for their kids, nephews, nieces, grandchildren, cousins, etc. This man should have been safe. He should have been helped. And now, he’s dead, and his family has the headlines and disturbing YouTube videos to prove it.

Meanwhile, hundreds of shoppers saved a lot of money on TVs. Great.

Oh yes, and to top it off, two shoppers shot each other at a toy store after an argument, and Plaxico Burress (the Giants’ wide receiver) shot himself in his leg (he will be ok… but I can’t say the same for his dignity). America, we’ve been shooting ourselves in the foot for eight years! When is enough enough!?

Ahh. I meant to blog many times since my Obama victory blog (still glowing from that day, I think) but got caught up in way too many good things. Somehow, this subject ended up making it onto the screen. And now I’m rushing out to dinner with my family (I’m upstate, sipping hot apple cider as I type) so I have no time to make this entry more exciting or profound (sorrrry!). But at least the blogging muscles have been flexed. I can't get too out of blogging shape…

America is Ba(ra)ck

2008-11-07T11:57:00.004-05:00

NOTE: I wrote most of this entry the morning after Election Day (when I was a little hyped up on free coffee and LIFE), but I got very busy and couldn’t finish. I decided not to change it, and to leave my reaction the way it came out at the time.
--

How can I not respond to what has happened, what is happening? The streets of New York are ELECTRIC! Last night was magical (oh yeah, I said magical, and you LIKED it).

YES, WE DID IT. Can you believe that a man named Barack Hussein Obama is the next President of the UNITED STATES? And it is because of us, the little people who voted and voted and voted, and canvassed and canvassed and canvassed, and believed and believed and BELIEVED!! (Did you bring your barf-bag? Because this entry is about to get EVEN cheesier!)

Yesterday [Election Day], the excitement began when I walked outside. The air felt unseasonably warm and damp, with a cool bite to it. I could tell that there was a little tingle in the breeze, a contagious hope that seemed to bounce back-and-forth between people as I passed by each stranger on the street. I noticed a spring in everyone’s step.

The NYC polls were open from 6am to 9pm. I decided to try and beat the 9-5 rush and go around 7:30am. My walk was brisk. I played my iPod on random shuffle and had to laugh when John Mayer’s “Waiting on the World to Change” came on immediately (no joke). I think that might have been the icing on an already delicious mood. I let the song play all the way through and walked, feeling like I had woken up on a new and different planet.

I arrived at my voting station, a public school on the Upper West Side, to find a line beginning to form around the block. In my voting history, I’ve never seen anything like this in NYC. Even though I beat the rush, there was a hold up at District 86’s voting booth (that would be mine). Eventually, they fixed it, but it contributed to my 1hr 45min wait. I would have waited double that if necessary.

While we waited, the line began to wrap around the block, hooking itself around a Barnes & Noble and past a newsstand where people anticipated their vote appearing on every front page come morning. I’ve never felt so many people glowing at the same time. We were being photographed in line and everyone was absolutely beaming. I overheard people saying “as long as I can vote Obama, I’ll wait all day!” and the overall energy was positive and hopeful. There we were, a bunch of strangers (of all ages), fighting for the same cause, the same embodiment of our future. The weather seemed appropriately spring-like, which felt optimistic to me (as a hot-weather-lover) rather than the usual hint of winter or kiss of death to warmth that tinges the Election Day air.

I entered the voting booth, quickly switched all my choices to x, stood there for a second to double and triple check that I had voted for Barack Obama, and cranked a big red lever all the way to the right. It made the most satisfying clicking and locking sound, making me feel like my vote was real – I could hear it. Then, I breezed by the crowd trying to hide the grin on my face, put my iPod back on, and booked it to work.

On my way, every two blocks, I saw voting lines longer than I had ever seen. I saw Obama pins on every jacket. I heard people yelling “Obama!!” as they passed the lines. I even witnessed "The Obama Truck," a truck full of Obama supporters blasting music and screaming Obama cheers, which apparently drove around the city all day! I saw a map after the election, and learned that over 85% of Manhattan voted for Obama. No wonder. I had to keep telling myself not to get false hope from the scene I was surrounded by, knowing full-well that the rest of the country had its say as well, but I couldn’t help it: the atmosphere in Manhattan on Election Day was undeniably saturated in the anticipation of change, of success, of an Obama victory. How could he not win when all these people cared SO much? How could he not?! Still, I refused to believe it was real until I saw the front page of The New York Times the next morning.

There were several election-watching parties, most of which were in Brooklyn, but I decided to watch with my family. My parents were having a party, and this election has been a journey I shared mostly with them; it only felt right to finish the journey with my family. Plus, I wanted to see the look on my parents’ faces if/when Obama won.

The party was perfect. On his way home from another disastrous day at work - a reminder of the country's desperation - my dad picked up Chinese food from a delicious place called Shun Lee. They invited four of my brother’s best friends, along with their parents, me, my sister, and her girlfriend. Everyone – the ninth graders, the parents, and I – was excited and nervous. We had the TVs on from 530pm until midnight… We ate Chinese, drank wine (I was too superstitious to bring champagne), talked politics (yes, even the ninth graders had perfectly appropriatet things to say) ,and one parent brought three boxes of Obama-themed cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery (some chocolate, some vanilla cupcakes, each with red white or blue-tinted vanilla icing, complete with a sugar donkey on each, and confetti – MMMM!).

We sat in suspense in our living, watching each state turn red or blue, affected deeply by each projection, watching history get made one state at a time. They kept saying “this is exactly what happened in 2000… in 2004…” They kept making us feel like this intangible dream was just out of reach…again. I was starting to feel scared, as if I was living in a bubble of this country that had no relationship with the rest of it. I felt the harsh reality check I’m always forced to feel; maybe the thought of vindication was too good to be true. I’ve been smacked with the “too-good-to-be-true” card many times. Maybe this was just another let-down.

Then, we won Pennsylvania. HOLY shit. Then, we won Virginia. And Florida. And Ohio. At 11pm, when the West Coast projection came through… that is when they announced that Barack Obama was the projected winner and most likely our next President. That is when the tears started rolling across the television screen. Our first African American President was named. BAM - history.

We cheered for every state that lit up – New York, of course, and Michigan (where my brother has been working so hard), held special significance for us. At the time, I had friends on the ground in Ohio, Pennsylvania, Virginia, Florida, and New Hampshire. My friend, Hawaii Heather, texted me from Hawaii: “WE DID IT! I LOVE YOU TAVEL!” My New York City friend living in London texted me “THANK YOU AMERICA!!! You all did it! Congrats!” The texts just kept on flying. I could feel cheering from around the world. I heard screaming and honking and yelling from every corner of my neighborhood. I've never felt such an equally personal and global victory. After watching McCain’s gracious speech, I decided to get back to my apartment so I could watch Obama accept and then go to sleep (it was about 1145pm, I was a bit sick, and I had to get up at 6:30 for physical therapy).

Well, my walk home was one of the highlights of that night. The first couple of blocks, the streets were dead silent – not a car, not a pedestrian, only me. Then, I hit Broadway. Two homeless women wrapped in blankets outside of my bank were listening to Obama’s speech on an old radio. I hit Amsterdam Avenue. Four Mexican guys at my local bodega were huddled under the red awning of their flower shop watching a tiny television above bunches of 2-dozen roses and lilies, discussing, in Spanish, what they liked about Obama. I continued up Amsterdam Ave, towards my apartment. Every bar was full of screaming, Obama cheers, excitement, electricity, singing, CELEBRATION. Cars were honking and people were yelling our new president’s name. Strangers high-fived me, I could hear excited people celebrating in their apartments high above the sidewalk. When I got home, I quickly got ready for bed. It was ok now, I could sleep.

Well, I couldn’t sleep. I was too happy, too relieved, too shocked. And the streets were so loud, so excited. The whole evening, the moment, it was all so surreal – and yet, finally real, not just a pipe-dream. As I was about to fall asleep, I heard about 20 people start singing “God Bless America” outside my window. I let go, I let it takeover. I admit, I cried (I'm sorry, but the cheesiness of the moment overpowered me!). And then, I drifted off to sleep.

I awoke to a new America – the one we wanted back. I was glowing, and so was everyone around me. This whole week has been so full of optimism and pride. I will always remember it.

But now comes the reality of the situation: Obama is inheriting a gigantic mess of American problems. He has to try and untie an impossible knot, and he will be given impossible standards. He has the challenge of his lifetime – of ANYONE’S lifetime - and he is the only person I believe who can step up to it and face our deepest, darkest problems. Not many people have the cajones to take on a job that is as daunting as the one he now has, but it seems fitting that the impossible candidate has become the man for the impossible job -- and yet we still believe in him.

Speaking of impossible, he couldn’t have made it without us. Because of the way his supporters came together, he was able to run three quarters of this race on his own, but it was up to us to carry him across the finish line. And we did; the race is over, and we ALL won! The world won, I like to think.

I have witnessed many forms of excitement for his victory, so far. There was the man on a bicycle who rode by while I was waiting to vote and yelled “Get the FUCKERS out of Washington and elect OBAAAMMMAAAAA!!!!!!!!” to our line of smiling/laughing voters, the two homeless women huddled outside my bank on my way home that were listening to the election on an old school radio, the four Mexican guys talking about Obama as they watched a tiny television above the colorful roses and lilies they sell every day at my corner bodega, the “God Bless America” I heard being sung by at least 20 people at the bar downstairs while I closed my eyes and tried to drift off to sleep, the emails, the Facebook messages, and the conversations I have gotten/had with people from all over the world who are proud of America’s choice and excited for not just our, but their future as well…

The extent of excitement about Obama has reminded us of what it means to be American, and what America means to the rest of the world. The American Dream is alive and well. The America that “CAN” is back. Barack. We have stepped up, forgotten our wallets, forgotten our flaws (just briefly), and remembered our DIGNITY, our identity, our ability to dream, our PRIDE.

The election of Barack Obama is a victory for much of the world – Europe, Asia, Africa (Kenya). He must bare the weight of the world and stand up to the Herculean challenges that await him, but he has the support of so many, and the hope that HE inspired in millions. Can he succeed? Can we heal this country? Yes we can, yes we did, and man, I hope we WILL.

A Moment in Barack and White

2008-10-30T16:47:00.005-04:00

This is a unique moment in time; with Election Day five days away, Americans are sitting ducks, waiting for the verdict that will give about half of us something that only a year ago seemed so far-fetched and improbable we would have never imagined we could be this close – and yet, we hoped. Now we’re here, dangling on a precipice of history, fully-aware that a gust of wind could push us backwards, in the wrong direction (my humble idea of wrong). But predicting the weather is a fickle science, and I cannot claim I know which way that gust of wind will blow. However, I do believe this election already has its winner. But will he get enough votes to “win” the election, to answer the call of Americans who are frustrated with the status quo? Will he have the opportunity to embody the ultimate American Dream? In many ways, I think he already has.

For me, everything has been different this time around. Change has already happened. Regardless of your vote on November 4th, what has been happening all over the USA is a victory for Barack Obama, and for all of us – Republicans, Democrats, and everyone in-between. People have gotten excited, passionate, desperate… The country has come alive with America at the heart of people's concerns. We have shown the world that we are just as unhappy with our leadership as they are. The thought of our stiff political environment creaking even a little with growing pains is exciting. And it has been roaring with energy in the form of every volunteer out there that is fighting for the candidate they believe in. People actually believe in a candidate again!

As someone who is completely disillusioned with and usually disinterested in (which does not necessarily mean apathetic towards) politics, I think I have read more articles about this election than any other single subject in my life. Yes, my brother is a project manager for the Obama Campaign and has been living (slaving away) in Michigan since he graduated from Bowdoin last Spring. I am so proud of him and his passion and what he is doing. Because of him, we have been exposed to (and supportive of) Obama for a couple years (although, I admit, I was skeptical at first – I am not a bandwagon-hopper, for example I have not and probably will not ever read Harry Potter – don’t hate me!). Yes, I am from NYC where most people think like I do and want what I want, which isn’t a perfect representation of the United States. Yes my family, especially my mom, is completely obsessed with Obama. But it's all for a reason. Just for fun, I’ll give you three examples:

1) We have a life-size Obama sticker on the front door to our apartment (and we spent one evening taking turns having our photo taken with him while cracking up. Ummm, yeah…)
2) My mom owns every Obama pin ever made, and she usually wears several with each [leopard print] outfit.
3) My mom has volunteered as a “Latina Mama for Obama” (as she likes to call herself) in numerous ways, such as canvassing door-to-door in low-income neighborhoods in Pennsylvania, and spending many-a-Saturday morning making phone calls from a conference room in NYC to Hispanic voters around the country.

In fact, it’s impossible to have a conversation with my mom without her expressing her anxiety about some right-wing journalist’s opinion of her Obama. Each dinner is spent with my mom asking my dad if he thinks Obama still has a chance. He has been unflinchingly certain of Obama’s chance since day one, and gives my mom great comfort. But I am not tuning into the political Olympics because politics is a sport I enjoy watching – I’m tuning in because this election will reflect my identity as an American, and that is something I really care about. I am more confused (and intrigued) than ever by who we Americans are. That said I think this election is not just about who Americans are, but about what Americans want America to become.

I am American. Yes, I understand that I have grown up in what is probably the most European U.S. city not the most American city (although, extremely “American” at the same time – I don’t think I need to explain why). Particularly during the first semester of college in Maine, I learned that my hometown was different from other people’s hometowns; my upbringing was far from the experience shared by the majority of my friends, who grew up in houses not buildings, drove to school instead of walked, and had yards that opened up to residential neighborhoods whereas I didn’t have a backyard, I had a million strangers treading through chaotic lives on pavement. Among other things, I also learned that people spend a lot of time in cars, that being Jewish is not as “normal” as it seemed (even amongst really good people, there is an amazing amount of anti-Semitism), and that really bad “bagels” abound.

At the same time, September 11th, 2001 (my second week of college) was the first day in my life that it felt like we were ALL Americans, no matter what (granted, I do think I felt like a New Yorker more than ever – I felt sort of out of place reacting in Maine, but also, it brought new friends closer and made a lot of the world’s problems suddenly more real). But just as I am an American, so are Daniel C. and Paul S. [I omitted their last names because I don’t think the FBI wants to read The Bloganimal], the two young skinheads who believe it is their duty and rite to assassinate an African-American presidential candidate, as well as random black children. [Sometimes I wonder how people like this are even human.] We are equally American and each of our votes counts just as much as the other. Sure, not all Americans represent an extreme, but extremes are woven neatly into the fiber of this country. So many differences are tolerated that the “perfect” president is impossible.

But Obama really does give me hope (oh gawd, could she be more cliche?!). I remember, while I was living in Barcelona my junior year of college (and to this day), when people abroad asked me if I was American, I was quick to say “yes…I am from New York City.” I know, New Yorkers think they’re SOOOO different. Well, we’re not, but our upbringing is and our daily atmosphere is. It’s not better or worse, just different from the average American -- and we're not the only "town" that is distinct. I never ate anything with the word “casserole” in it until college! I didn’t believe 17-year-olds actually could drive cars! You get the point. After identifying myself as an American abroad, I always felt a secret need to apologize for so many things, on America’s behalf, but mostly to show that I am one of the people who didn’t vote for our president. That yes, I am American, but I was not brought up like most Americans, and I did not vote for the guy most Americans voted for. But, at the same time, I'm proud of being American. And for the first time in years, I anticipate being proud of who is running our country. That is a feeling that I, personally, have never had.

What I am getting at is that THIS election is a defining moment for Americans - especially the "other" ones, who have not been represented by our leadership. It shows our many colors, and not necessarily in the best light. While I do understand why people would want McCain to run the country, I think the whole Sarah Palin Vice Presidency is a JOKE, an absolute embarrassment to Americans. Believe it or not, I am one of the rare people who liked Joe Biden from way back. He and Obama were actually my first two choices - so the Democratic ticket has become ideal for me. I am not a Palin-hater (though I do think her folky-sass is condescending and obnoxious). Yes, she represents a million Americans (none of which is me), as does McCain. But McCain scares me. I truly think there is something different about Obama. Something, refereshing, comforting and honest that I picked up on a LONG time ago, before the public relations ping-pong began, and I’m amazed at the millions who now see it too, and believe in him as I have. That “something different” has gotten the attention of the world. I don't think there is any doubt that Obama is, by far, the most intelligent and collected candidate out there. I believe in what he stands for, and I appreciate and respect his demeanor. He has risen above in a "sport" that drags almost everyone down. The media has slung mud at everyone, and we are just trying to wipe it all off and see what's underneath.

What will happen if Obama is not elected? I think many people will give up on us,THE U.S., and I think it will break many Americans hearts to recognize our fall from grace in the eyes of the rest of the world. If he does not win, I will be confused again about what America stands for, and if it is a place I belong. We have something new in the palm of our hands. We can't drop it now... we just can't!

In New York City, the streets are buzzing with desperation for Obama. Luckily, I know it’s not just here (amazing!). Every single European I know is pro-Obama. I have Argentine relatives and friends from Barcelona and Austria telling me “PLEASE elect Obama!” (I will do my part, I promise!) Their interest in this election is fascinating and exciting. The emails I get every day from friends and family are inspiring and shocking. This election will allow each of us to contribute ONE tiny vote, but we can contribute an unlimited amount of words to a world-wide discussion about who Americans are and what America (and the world) needs to, and wants to, become.

The discussions leading up to Election Day have given the country a much-needed slap across the face (and a kick in the balls, I might add). It has revealed we are many things we are ashamed to be (racists, chauvenists, sexists, sheep...), and most of all, not satisfied. This is our fight. This is our moment when we scream and kick and say it’s not ok to watch a great nation fall apart! This is the rare chance we have to redefine ourselves and Americans, to show that we are not trapped in time. I am fired up because my most unexpected friends have become political activists, the most unlikely candidate has risen to the top, and the most unbelievable moment in my political history might be upon us…

I never thought I'd feel this way. This is not my turf, for sure. But when I crank that lever on November 4th (yes, I get to crank a lever) and my tiny little half-Latina-25-year-old-white-unreligious-Jewish-girl-from-NYC vote is counted (hopefully), I will know that I have done what I can to give our little (big) dysfunctional country what I believe is the chance to be GREAT again.

Travels with Tavel: Buenos Aires

2008-10-11T13:44:00.005-04:00

I have arrived in Argentina and am sitting in my family's apartment in Recoleta, a couple blocks from the famous cemetery in which Evita is buried. Each morning, I have enjoyed waking up to a pile of media lunas (a smaller, more delicious, and slightly more savory version of the pastry otherwise known as le "croissant"). Dipping one of the narrow, honey-glazed media lunas de miel in a strong café con leche while sitting at a tree-lined cafe in Recoleta is like having a slice of heaven, taking a fork-full of it, and then letting it melt in your mouth with your eyes shut. After years of trips to and from Buenos Aires, this city is finally beginning to feel real, like my home away from home.

Getting here, however, is always a bit exhausting. (Hola, café con leche.) The flight to Buenos Aires is an 11-hr-long overnight flight from JFK that leaves around 10pm. With a one-hour time difference, it is a very simple trip for those who can sleep on airplanes (I, sadly, am not one of these people). As I sat on flight 955 from JFK to Buenos Aires, I felt the need to reflect on the experience. I sat in the aisle seat, my heavy eyes twitching with exhaustion, feeling jealous of every bobbing head that was floating into dreamworld without me. When I looked around, I saw drooling strangers across the aisle, my little brother curled up and sleeping on my mom's shoulder (normally it's my shoulder), my dad with his head collapsed to the left, his mouth wide-open. I, as always, was awake, left behind in the humming night to watch heads sway around me 31,000 feet in the air, somewhere between North and South America. While the plane full of people slept, I pondered how I would describe the moment in writing...

Sleeping (or not) on an overnight flight is like having a really lame one-night stand with about 200 strangers; you don't sleep very well, and when you wake up, you realize not only do you not know the guy next to you's name, but you have no idea what time it is or where you are, although you feel mysteriously hungover and...somewhat intrigued by your own suddenly cool life. (I have never actually had a night like this but I can pretend I have.) Sitting right next to you is a man you've never met, snoring, dreaming, getting cozy (he's taken off his shoes) for the long ride beside you. Most people are able to fall asleep sitting upright, which becomes an uncomfortable 11-hour dance between REM and the frustration of a chair that has the reclining capability of a brick wall. But I must sit for the entire duration of the trip tortured by that little airplane that is the size of Delaware crawling ever so slowly across the overhead screen. What a strangely intimate experience it is to share an overnight flight with a bunch of sleeping strangers... And what a shame to be awake for all of it!

Anyway… (Hard to concentrate with all the chatter around me.)

The drive from the airport to our apartment was a thrilling combination of feeling like I was both escaping my regular life and redefining it. Little by little, this foreign country is becoming a comfort zone. That slightly smaller half of me that is actually Argentinean is poking its head into the light more and more, emerging from a shadow, perking up, feeling legitimized through gained experience in the motherland...

I sat staring out the window of our taxi into the eyes of my next travel adventure. There it was: that slight tingle down my spine, the corners of my mouth turning upwards without my control, the flutter in my stomach. The thrill of travel -- of getting somewhere far away and trying to convince myself that I am really there, forcing myself to take it all in. I smiled: that feeling, that's what is going to drive me to explore the world, that's what makes me crave MORE. It's hard to find a feeling that compares, but maybe I don't need to.

It's been a few busy days since I arrived, and this city is on its hands and knees, begging me to explore it in more depth. The first day, after arriving at 10am, was spent wandering around Recoleta through a cloud of sleep-deprivation. That evening we went to dinner at a swanky wine bar/lounge in Retiro with my uncle Carlos and his pregnant fiance, Moni (and so the family-visiting begins!). Since then, we have spent time with a million other cousins, new and old. We are here, afterall, because my first-cousin Paula is getting married. Her husband (it's official now), Yuri, is an awesome Dutch man from St. Maarten. Yesterday, after watching them sign their marriage certificate, we wandered over to a restaurant in Puerto Madero called Sigue la Vaca (Follow the Cow) for a large Argentine feast, complete with an all-you-can-eat meat buffet (they wouldn't have it any other way) and about 40 excited cousins.

The lunch was a combination of Dutch, English, Spanish and German. I was so excited to be seeing some of my relatives that I hadn't seen for YEARS, and to be meeting new family, as well. We are now linked to a whole bunch of incredible young Dutch people living in the Netherlands and St. Maarten, along with some great Germans, and I look forward to partying with all of them tonight. Last night, after a gorgeous dinner in Palermo SoHO with some friends, I wound up at the most bizarre concert ever, with my six new Dutch friends/relatives, my teammate Cynthia who is also in Buenos Aires this week, and my Argentine cousin Hernan. After such a busy but fun day, I turned in at 2am (early, by Argentine standards) to save my fuego for tonight's wedding party (scheduled for 7PM to 7AM-- complete with pizza and beer that has been pre-ordered). This is a family of professional dancers, so I better get a good siesta in before the party starts...

The weather has been perfection; I left NYC, where summer had quickly converted into fall without second thought, and arrived in Buenos Aires where the first flowers of spring are blooming on trees around the city. The warm sun makes the whole travel experience more decadent, more beautiful, my impression of the city now sweetened by the golden glow.

Today, after walking through a large artisan's fair, I was distracted by the scent of sweet, fresh-squeezed orange juice which was being sold at multiples stands alongside empanadas, candy umbrellas (which I have memories of craving when I was 7 or 8), and churros. I gave in and bought a small plastic cup of the orange juice, which I watched get pressed out of the fruit in front of me. The sun beaming down, a cup of fresh OJ in my hand, the wafting smell of incense and leather, the sound of an Argentine trying to sell meat empanadas while a man nearby sat in his open car strumming a guitar and singing... This is Argentina. This rugged Bohemian Paris is my home now, too. And, I'm loving it more and more.

As I take in the sights and sounds, the smell of the traffic braided with flowers and honey roasted nuts, I can't help but wonder it this is a place in which I will someday live. It is something that I have always thought about, something that I have always felt I should -- I NEED to -- do. But logistics are a bitch, and sometimes I find myself being too practical.As much as I want to just drop everything and live abroad, the truth is, I am happy in NYC! I'm not sure when or how I will make the move, and I know I'm not getting any younger, but I can't imagine the desire to do so ever fading. It will happen. Someday.

Ahh, have to getgoing. I apologize for a COMPLETELY discombobulated entry. Maybe, if anything, it parallels the experience of being here: I keep moving between feeling like a visitor and a resident in Buenos Aires, an Argentinean and a Gringa, and despite a clear awareness of the entire experience, I am still trying to find my footing in this new "home."

Unfortunately, I won't be staying here very long this trip (darn job!). But the flutter of wanderlust is always within me and rarely still. I'll be back -- perhaps back and forth elsewhere before coming back here, but Argentina has me, even if I don't completely have Argentina... yet.

Albert the Albanian

2008-10-02T12:15:00.005-04:00

At some point in every city-dwelling adult's life, the super must be called upon for help.

I'm not talking super-hero. I'm talking my-toilet's-clogged, I-need-a-ladder, I-can't-reach-my-ceiling-light, I'm-locked-the-FUCK-out-of-my-apartment…SUPER -- the kind that lives downstairs. Everybody has one, everybody needs one. In a way, they are like superheroes, only this kind of super is there to fight more mundane disasters, and he is rarely regarded as a hero. But in moments of despair, the super is there. Mine just so happens to be named… Albert.

From my experience, superintendents (I believe that is the official term) are, more often than not, heavy-set men who are not only strong but they come equipped with the innate ability to solve any household problem. They are prepared with the skills of electricians, plumbers, construction workers, and just about anything you need them to be when you are feeling inadequate. Typically, they are foreigners. How they ended up in your building as the “handy-man” usually remains an unsolved mystery. While they are capable of fixing just about anything (where they learned these skills, nobody knows), being able to communicate in English doesn’t seem to factor into the job requirement.

Never has this been more apparent than when I moved into my new building on Amsterdam Avenue. A week or so after moving in, my roommate and I encountered our first problem: a clogged toilet. We live on the fifth floor of a building that, according to my lease, was built in 1909 (190-freakin’-9!). The pipes are OLD. The toilet is OLD. The plumbing is worn down. The water pressure is LOW. Unfortunately, the group of people who moved out the girl that previously occupied my room decided to use paper towels when they ran out of toilet paper (COME ON people!). Sure enough, this was not the “welcome to the building” I had hoped for. We plunged and plunged and poured hot water and plunged some more. I admit, my knowledge of toilet-problems is limited, as I have pretty much never had to deal with one on my own, but I know the BASICS. My roommate couldn’t fix the toilet either, which was distressing to both of us (YOU try spending a day in an apartment with no bathroom!). It quickly became apparent: a week into my lease, I would be making my first distressed phone call to the super.

Actually, my roommate made the call. I had yet to meet Albert. But after hours of phone tag and several exasperating attempts at dialogue, Meghan passed the baton to me. She seemed annoyed and confused. Meghan explained that even after a 15 minute conversation, she had no idea if or when Albert would stop by, and what he was so angry about. I overheard half of one of their conversations and realized this wasn’t going to be easy. Eventually it was my turn to try and communicate with him. I was confused because I didn’t understand what was so difficult about finding out WHEN he was coming and WHAT he was trying to tell us. How could she NOT understand him? How bad could his accent be? I got on the phone, dialed Albert’s number, and soon realized: Meghan was NOT exaggerating.

There are two main problems when communicating with Albert: 1) You can’t understand a word he is saying (no, really, not a WORD), and 2) he talks A LOT, often in an accusatory tone. The only part I picked up on was “What are you putting down there?! You have to be doing something. If it’s not you, it’s your roommate! You put bad things down the toilet!” NO! Albert, no! We didn’t! I promise! He just kept talking and yelling at me (as Meghan warned me he would do). And his accent was so foreign, I couldn’t figure it out. It sounded like he was trying to talk with a live Alaskan crab in his mouth. When I hung up, I understood what Meghan had tried to explain: communication with this guy was NEAR impossible.

The best English I heard from him came in the form of a note on the building’s front door. Seeing his words in writing made it exponentially easier to understand him, although, it was far from perfect English! It read something like, “you would hot water have not between 1 and 3 tomorrow.” (You think I’m kidding but I am NOT.) I know, I know, he’s NOT a native speaker. I’m not trying to pick on him. But that is ONE sentence. Try having a whole conversation like that, about a toilet, and then throw in an accent so thick the guy might as well have his mouth wired shut! My favorite part of the letter is how he signed it: “SUPER,” like Zorro, or a mysterious stranger in the night, leaving an ominous Z slashed on my door.

I have yet to meet Albert, but I did see him once… Before seeing him, I imagined him. In my mind, he was bald, very large (clunky and sloppy), and he ate a lot of pizza. Because of his extremely low voice, I figured he would be tall and heavyset with chubby cheeks, and constantly sweating (the kind of guy who walks around in the dead of winter with only a t-shirt on because he feels NOTHING).

I talked with Albert several more times (when we needed a power tool to install our air conditioner, when neither my roommate nor I could kill the mouse I had trapped in our garbage can, and when our toilet clogged 3 more times – I have since learned that every toilet in the building keeps clogging due to the old, weak plumbing system – NOT OUR FAULT!). My subconscious kept painting an uglier and fatter image of Albert, as if my imagination kept feeding him sausages and cupcakes.

Then, one day, as I awaited a ride outside my apartment for a summer excursion, an extremely attractive and – I admit – sexy man in yellow Crocs began talking on the phone nearby. The voice sounded so familiar, and when I heard the accent, I knew INSTANTLY that this was Albert! He was wearing a dirty white t-shirt that hung off his surprisingly pleasant shoulders, and pale off-white cargo pants that had paint and dirt splattered across them (almost too masterfully). He was staring at me, because I realized we had seen each other a couple times without talking, and I could tell he was making the connection, that I was a new tenant in his building but he didn’t know which one.

Wow, Albert! How WRONG was I?! My super is actually super…attractive. Even though I knew instantly that it was Albert, I did not want to introduce myself until I confirmed my assumption with my roommate. We had talked about him many times, but nobody ever suggested he might be attractive. So when I said to Meghan, “I think I figured out who Albert is… Is he, umm… kind of sexy?” and she responded “YES! That’s HIM! I thought the same thing!” I realized I was right. I will surely call on him to unclog my toilet and kill mice ANY time! (I like a man who can unclog a toilet and kill mice – two things I am apparently not an expert at.)

If this was an episode of Sex and the City, the camera would zoom in on me waking up next to him after a commercial break. I’d give a quick smirk as I lay with his Albanian arm around me, and then the camera would cut to me calling a friend while he showered, wearing only his tattered white t-shirt and eyeing his stained yellow Crocs…

But, as I’ve said many times, my life could inspire episodes of Sex and the City, but it doesn’t deliver the plot. I will just appreciate Albert (and his services) from afar. I think he has a wife and kids. Don't they all?!

Last night, my roommate had an interaction with Albert that was coherent enough to gather that he is Albanian (oops, I think I have already alluded to that). NOW we know the origin of his mysterious accent! And, turns out, he is really nice! After all his aggressiveness and impatience when trying to communicate, we realized that somewhere in that mess of poorly delivered words and toilet problems is a kind man who wants to teach us about Albania, tell us about his family, and, if need be, fix our toilet and kill our pests.

And, much to my surprise, Albert looks good doing it. Sounds super to me.

Scar Stories Galore

2008-09-19T09:37:00.003-04:00

Hi friends!

Look who’s writing another blog entry within the week! Well, this one is going to be different…

Yesterday evening, I had a follow-up doctor’s appointment for my knee… and it didn’t go well. The first thing my doctor said after checking me out: “I’m not happy.” Long story short, I feel like I am back at square one (hundreds of dollars and almost three months later), and now my doctor wants me to get a second MRI. Siiiigh. I'm exhausted. I just want my life back. TRYING to be patient...

I know I have made some improvement, but I also know that it is not enough, and something is up. To say the least, after all my hard-work, I feel a bit discouraged. For some strange reason, I have felt so positive about 90% of the time, but every now and then, it gets tough. I feel like I'm starting to forget what life is like without having to think about my knee every second, and every step of the way: I'm SO ready to be better! But I know I have months to go...

If I have learned ANYTHING from this experience, it’s that I’m NOT the only one who has ever had to deal with a frustrating injury! So many people have come out of the woodwork to tell me about their own frustrating injuries. In fact, I am POSITIVE that the majority of people reading (don’t be shy) have some scar/injury stories of their own. And I want to hear them!

This entry is meant to be interactive. I invite you to share your experience/s (even just a sentence or two explaining what injuries you have had in the past is fine!). You can get into detail, or you can simply list them. The goal is to show that everyone gets hurt sometimes, but look at how many people have recovered from their injuries! Blood and gore is totally allowed. Graphic descriptions are welcome. If you cracked your head open when you were a kid, or broke your elbow when you were in high school, or tore your meniscus while you were skiing, or knocked your teeth out playing soccer… I want to know!

Being injured is a part of life; even though it can feel like a very difficult, slow-moving, lonely experience, I don't think it's as lonely as it seems... It's amazing how many people can relate!

I find comfort in knowing that my friends have had frustrating injuries, and all pulled through. Let’s take this opportunity to commiserate! PLEASE, share your scar stories and have FUN with it!

Thank you, and be careful!
The Bloganimal

The Return of Lorenzo

2008-09-17T15:51:00.004-04:00

I woke up this past Saturday, September 13th, at around 7:30am. I was excited because the day had finally arrived: it was my 25th birthday, and, in my head, I had decided that it would be the day that this mess of a summer ended and a beautiful, exciting fall began. It’s always reassuring to pretend life is that simple, isn’t it?

I did not expect my first incoming phone call of the day (at the ripe hour of 8:30am – I thought I was the only one who wakes up that early on the weekends!) to be from Detective Rodriguez (doesn’t it feel like at least 40% of all NY and LA detectives must be named Detective Rodriguez?). But then again, I haven’t expected ANYTHING that’s happened over the past few months, so I’ve decided to drop the whole “expectations” thing altogether this year - oh how it burns to carry too many! I’m inviting you all to do the same.

My most loyal Bloganimal readers [hello to both of you! If more than two loyal readers exist, I consider my blog a success] might remember when I said, in my last posting, “My life is just a walking disaster lately, isn't it? I seriously can't even imagine what might be next. I'm sort of scared..." Ha. How foreboding of me…

Turns out, being afraid was appropriate. I know that was weeks ago now, but – for the record – I wrote THREE blog entries that were never posted. I write these in single spurts of energy, and those three spurts were interrupted by a million HEADACHES (I will describe to you just a few). A lot has been going on, at work and outside of it, but somehow… I survived the summer, after all its beat-downs. Even on one good leg, I think I have stood up to a bunch of bullcrap, and I learned a LOT about life during this three-month patch of sunshine and thunderstorms. But let's beh honest, when am I NOT learning about life!?

About a week after I wrote my most recent blog entry, I thought I might be coming out of a bumpy patch. I quickly learned that the hits would keep on comin'! In an attempt to escape my many problems (being constantly over-billed by Time Warner, having my bank send me double the amount of checks I ordered, nursing a concussion, having to STILL – after 2.5 months – go up and down the five flights of stairs to my apartment one foot at a time, and other minor “adult/life” problems) I decided I would take a couple vacation days to relax by the pool upstate. It was perfection, made even better by a quintessential summer BBQ and two of my favorite people swinging by to hang out (shoutout to GM and LA!), but every vacation must come to an end.

On September 3rd, at around 3pm, I decided - on a whim - to check my bank account online and see how much money I had been saving (I knew I hadn’t used my ATM/Debit card for a week so I was feeling proud of myself – I had successfully spent less than $20 in one week!). When I opened my bank statement, I saw something that completely STUNNED me: there were 13 back-to-back withdrawals made THAT DAY from my account, adding up to over $2,000 dollars in unauthorized transactions. The withdrawals were clearly made from two different ATM machines in Brooklyn and Queens, and I was DEFINITELY in Manhattan. I seriously just sat there, staring at the numbers for about a minute, trying to make sure I was not reading anything wrong (like when you lose something and you look everywhere, only to discover you've been holding it all along). Yes, this was my account, and yes, it said “Today’s Withdrawals: $2,015.” And about $400 were taken out yesterday. Oh boy...

Once I accepted the numbers that were appearing on my screen, I checked my wallet for my ATM card: there it was. Then, I called my bank. Card, immediately cancelled. Investigation, about to be launched. Holy FUCKING shit. Someone was stealing money from my account without my ATM card. HOW THE...?!

I admit, my heart started racing, but I am not a freak-out kind of person. I kept my cool. (But, I was definitely pretty concerned… I consider myself a VERY responsible person, so how could I let this happen?!) Be warned; even the responsible are vulnerable! I had to figure this out and FAST, but I was still at work! I hobbled to an empty conference room and discussed the situation with a bank representative who assured me I should be able to get the money back. That was what I needed to hear to make all the hoops I was about to have to jump through worth it. WHY?!?!?

That evening, I had to go to the bank and sign an affidavit, swearing I did not make the 13 (total) withdrawals. This way, my bank could begin its investigation of fraudulent activity. A few days later, I was told I’d also have to go to the police department and file a police report so they could begin an investigation. Then, I was told that if it wasn’t signed and sent within ten days, the money credited back into my account would be extracted and I’d be almost $2,400 HARD-EARNED dollars poorer.

I’ve had to run around this city on a knee that is still trying to heal, just to try and make my $2,377.97 (yes, I have had to say this number many times by now) reappear in my account. Miraculously, I was able to stop them from taking more because I just so happened to check my bank account the day the withdrawals were made (normally, large, consecutive withdrawals signal an automatic fraud alert to your bank, but I caught these transactions while they were still "pending" so my bank hadn't even noticed them yet). For all you people who think I have a “sixth sense” or “psychic abilities,” how do you like DEM apples?! (That line always makes me think of Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting; “I got her numba' – how do you like DEM apples?!” Ha. He is married to an Argentinean girl, btw…

(OK, complete tangent, I know I know...)

I am a victim of identity theft and grand larceny (waaaaaah! – sound of crying). There is an investigation going on in my name, and… I admit… it’s kind of… cool…Maybe? And definitely HORRIBLE, and scary. I’ve got my bank calling me every other day, Detective Rodriguez, my buddy, calling me on my birthday, and it’s been two weeks and I’m STILL waiting for my new ATM card to arrive in the mail! If they cannot prove that this is fraud and grand larceny, the money credited to my account will be taken back out (which is around the time that I will start suing somebody's ASS – he he he, I’ve never done that!) I don't think ANYONE'S a true adult until they've sued somebody.

I crammed a lot of problems into this summer. But, it's officially OVER (I MADE IT! BARELY!) 24 went out with a bang, and I’m excited and hopeful about 25 – but I enter my 26th year cautiously, painfully reminded that I’ve got to appreciate whatever is functioning in my life (be it a leg or an ATM card) and whatever is positive (the things that are much more IMPORTANT than functioning legs and ATM cards) because there is no logic to bad luck; it hits anyone, anywhere, any time. Enjoy each moment misfortune has spared!

One last thought...

On my birthday, I was hoping to take a day off from all this, but the three phone calls from Detective Rodriguez immediately foiled that plan. The day felt like any other day, until one encounter… (And it became an INCREDIBLE birthday, so thank you everyone!)

I was picking up some things for a little gathering I was hosting before my big, hardcore grind-fest and dance party (that I had been waiting for ALL summer, thanks to my whacked out leg). Just as I was about to turn up 80th Street and head home, a man on the street caught my eye. He looked so familiar, but it wasn’t until I focused on his face that I realized who he was: it was Lorenzo (If you don't remember him, see my blog entry “Lorenzo” from December 2007).

This is the man that left me questioning the ways of the universe when he wrote me a mysterious and eerily appropriate letter three years ago, and then disappeared completely. This was the first time I had seen him since, and he looked run down, like he had taken a lot more hits from life in those three years than I had this summer. I didn’t know what to think when I saw him. Three years ago, he described himself, indirectly, as a guardian angel to me. Three years ago, it felt like he popped into my world for a reason, unaccidentally. But on Saturday, there he was, with dirty tattered clothes, looking homeless and lost, the way I felt when I last saw him. We were exactly one block from where we interacted three years earlier, but so many moments away. Every minute, it seemed, had been hammered onto his face, violently, painfully, but he was still familliar. However, he seemed skinnier and much more fragile, like an empty shell of the Lorenzo I wrote about.

As quickly as I noticed him, he disappeared again, like a flashing memory from a familiar smell. I walked away a little surprised that this man who had been such a positive memory for me now looked like he was struggling, maybe even dying.

In a way, he symbolized how much I've grown, and he emodied a chapter of my life that is also dying and withering away (not in a bad way, just because of time passing). While it was a little sad to see Lorenzo in this condition, there was also something beautiful about seeing him again and realizing how much has happened since I last saw him. Once again, Lorenzo left me wondering -- why not see him for so long, and then have him turn up on the day I want the bad luck to stop? Seeing him made me feel like a summer storm had finally passed, and while things could be much much worse, I had obviously been left standing -- on both feet. I am grateful for that.

When Pigeons Drop Dead from the Sky

2008-08-26T11:55:00.002-04:00

This has become one of the most bizarre summers of my life. When it began, I thought I had a perfect plan for how it would proceed; it was on its way to becoming the best summer I had had in YEARS. Then, I dislocated my knee, and everything about my summer changed. I was immediately forced to adapt: there would be no rowing, no flip-flops, no dancing, and no beach. As the summer that – for me – never began comes to an end, little things keep happening that make me wonder if the universe is laughing at me.

For starters, it wouldn't be a complete summer (a dislocated knee, strained MCL, ACL, and patellar tendon, and scraped cartilage under my kneecap just wouldn’t cut it I suppose) if I didn't top it off with a minor concussion. That’s right. Yesterday morning, I got up at 6:30am to go to physical therapy. First thing on my agenda: make my delicious Zabar's Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee so I could sip it nonchalantly while reading the New York Times online and packing my work clothes for after my PT session. When I got up, I felt great! My knee was surprisingly not uncomfortable. It’s going to be a good session, I thought. HA.

This past weekend, my roommate and I installed some shelves into our kitchen. They are directly above our little kitchen table, on top of which sits a bowl of fruit. Just as I was about to put the coffee in the coffee pot, I saw one of the nectarines I had bought at a farmers market the day before, and I WANTED IT. Without thinking, I quickly reached down to grab it and… BAM! I NAILED my forehead directly on the corner of my brand new shelf. BAM. (IDIOT!) I hit that thing SO hard (and I have a hard head – normally this sort of thing doesn’t really hurt me too much) that I just STOOD there, completely stunned. OH. MY. GAWD. OUCH!!!!!!!!!!! That hurt like a MO-FO. Let me reiterate that I hit the CORNER of this 1-inch thick rectangular plank. I mean, I couldn’t have picked a more painful spot.

I continued to stand there until I realized how lightheaded and nauseous I suddenly felt. A little trickle of blood started dripping down my face, so I grabbed a piece of paper towel and applied pressure. FUCK!! You’re ok, Rachel… You’re OK. You will NOT pass out! I told myself, unconvincingly. Sure enough, I started to feel even dizzier and had to lie down. [Um… Am I FOR REAL? Did I seriously just do this to myself? When the FUCK did I become so accident-prone?!] I had to hurry because I had a physical therapy session, so I decided to get up slowly. As I lifted my head, I felt extremely woozy. I started to see stars and decided I should probably grab an ice pack and lie down on my couch. I wanted to close my eyes but knew I shouldn’t. As I lay there, in disbelief with the room spinning, I had to laugh. I mean… did I seriously just do this??

Even though I could barely walk without wanting to pass out, I took a cab (instead of the subway) to physical therapy because I figured I was better off there than alone in my apartment. And I didn’t want to slow down my knee recovery, that’s for sure! Of course, I could barely do anything when I was there and was too distracted by my head pain to notice my knee bothering me, but I went to work right afterwards. All day, I had the WORST headache, neck-ache and dizziness that came and went. But, hey – I forgot about my knee for the first time in months!

Luckily, I feel much better today, and I have a nice t-shaped cut (and bump) on my forehead to show for my minor concussion (as it has been diagnosed). But this is only one of the many bizarre things that have happened recently.

On the opening night of the Olympics, I was walking past a Starbucks on 81st Street and Broadway when a pigeon DROPPED from the sky. It didn’t swoop down and land in front of me, it DROPPED DEAD directly in my path! I was right next to the Starbucks window where people sitting inside had also noticed the bird drop. I stopped in my tracks and, along with people all around me, looked up (naturally, it felt like the right thing to do in case more pigeons were going to drop dead). The poor pigeon landed in this awkward position, which I'd like to imitate for all of you but since you cannot see me, I'd describe as upright with the head falling to one side (I think it is what someone who dies while sitting in a wheelchair might look like). A small crowd formed around it, trying to determine if it was really dead or just hanging out. OH, it was DEAD. I walked away, bewildered.

Then, this past weekend, my friend Lisa and I were walking up Broadway after catching a Sunday afternoon movie. As we talked and laughed, a man with a large red beard caught my eye. He was walking towards us with great posture, looking straight ahead. As he got closer I realized that he had a large black and white cat sitting directly on top of his head (like it aint not thang). They shared a similar look of serenity as he walked down Broadway, like there was nothing strange about it. He passed us while Lisa was talking, so I just quietly said "that man has a cat on his head…" Lisa looked up and responded "yes, he does…" and continued to talk. Then, we both looked back at him and said, "WAIT, he has a freakin' CAT on his HEAD!!" Why were we not more shocked?! This is when we started cracking up. We both agreed that it was very New York, and shared the strange moment with a girl who, while talking on her cell phone, was relieved to see she wasn’t the only one perplexed by the fact that a cat was sitting on a man’s head as he walked down Broadway. She just laughed and said, "What am I supposed to do with that?!" Ha. Absolutely nothing. This is but one of the many strange things that walk right by you in this town.

Just when I thought things were looking up (my head feels a little better, no pigeons seem to be dropping dead), I get hit with something else. On my way to work this morning, I was in a surprisingly great mood. I was moving well and my knee felt ok, so I decided to pick up the pace to match the music on my iPod. As I passed three Mexican guys on Amsterdam Avenue, I managed to walk right by a guy on the right as he turned to SPIT on the street. YUP. You guessed it! I got SPAT ON. He felt so bad and wiped it off, with his friends laughing at him – scared I might freak out – but the funny thing is that it didn’t hit my skin! It landed exactly on my watch! HA. THAT’S what time it is, bitch! Man oh man. My life is just a walking disaster lately, isn’t it? I seriously can’t even imagine what might be next. I'm sort of scared...

Ahh, I’ve probably blabbed enough for one entry. I will say, however, that I am in a surprisingly upbeat mood lately, despite all these unfortunate events. There were so many inspiring stories from the Olympics this past summer, but I was too busy watching and getting spat on to capture some of the most special moments in writing while they were still completely fresh in my mind, like a peach picked right from the tree. I’ll spare you my awe at the chain of miracles Michael Phelps managed to string together (all of which I watched LIVE – so exciting!), and my pride for Argentina winning the gold in soccer (YES MESSI! Brazil, who?). I've got to admit: Beijing didn’t disappoint. The whole event was pretty spectacular and I've happily gotten my Olympic fix. I already am excited for the next Olympic Games in London. Who knows what will be going on in our lives then?

So here we are, the last week of August in a summer that, as I mentioned, for me, never really happened. But what a mixed bag it was! Just one more story, to tie it all together…

This past Friday night, I got home after a complicated evening to find a woman was allowing her dog to SHIT on my DOORSTEP. POOP… on MY fucking doorstep! As I got closer to her, I could see the woman getting a little nervous. After all, I had caught her, and I bet she thought she could get away with it. When I approached her, I looked her in the eyes and said “EXCUSE ME?” There was plenty of sidewalk for pooping (gotta love NYC); that dog did NOT have to walk up two steps to relieved itself! She quickly got her baggy out to pick up after her pet and said “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll pick it up!” I’ll pick YOU up. Disgusted, by her and the entire evening (and maybe the entire universe, for a moment), I decided to leave this battle behind and huff past her so I could quickly waddle up my five flights of stairs and end the night as quickly as possible. Only then did I realize how symbolic the moment was...

This entire summer has pretty much been one pile of poop on my doorstep after another. But somehow, it’s been fabulous in its own way. Although I still have a slight limp, I’ve been able to walk right over and past all the crap. The summer is not done yet, but I hope to walk into fall WITHOUT a limp.

And if that woman knows what's good for her, she won't dare allow her dog to crap on my doorstep ever again.

An Olympic Showdown

2008-08-11T12:14:00.004-04:00

Michael Phelps sat near the pool with his head down and headphones on. A grey sweatshirt covered his chiseled yet goofy face as he mouthed the words to the music streaming into each ear from his iPod. With the world watching, he sat alone, in his own world. He could have been anywhere: in his bedroom or in the middle of a long train ride to a destination he had been excited about for weeks. I was there too, watching, waiting with him, excited and suspended in anticipation of each race, thousands of miles from the swimming pool where all the verdicts would be made.

Last night, joined by my friends and old rowing teammates Dawn and Aaron, I stayed up to watch the men’s 4x100-meter relay, one of Michael Phelps’ most anticipated races in his crack at winning eight gold medals during a single Olympics – a feat nobody has ever achieved. Before the race began, I curled up on my couch with Dawn, unsure of what to expect, overwhelmed with patriotism for at least five minutes of a Sunday night. Phelps was swimming the first leg of the relay; this would be the medal he had the least control over winning. The true meaning of the word “teammate” was about to be put on display in full-force. The only way for any of these guys – Phelps, Weber-Gale, Jones and Lezak – to win would be together. [Oops, too cheesy?] If one of them was going to make a mess, another one would have to clean it up.

As soon as the race began, I felt it: the rush of excitement, the momentarily heightened sense of patriotism, the thrill of competition at the highest attainable level that comes with every Olympic season. The athletes’ bodies, sculpted so precisely to be advantageous for their sport, stand as reminders of their dedication – a dedication as intense as the competition. When the race begins, so does the fun of it all.

I’ve said it a million times and I’ll say it again: I LOVE THESE GAMES. Everyone knows that the Olympics is not just about the finish lines or the judges’ scores or the hard-bodies [oh, how I do enjoy those, though -- although I'd like to talk with someone about the new swimming uniforms...]: it’s about the world coming together on a stage that puts conflict on the sidelines while different cultures face each other eye-to-eye rather than through international and public relations representatives, or elected officials. It is the raw, regular people (not to say that we all have 6’11” wingspans like Phelps’ teammate) putting their nation’s issues aside to face-off with people who are their equals in competition that defies nationality yet encourages national pride. I am glad to admit that I am not the ONLY person who gets emotional during the games. I think that a certain beauty comes out from underneath the layers of complications. Ironically, it is competition that brings us all together.

The race was incredible. The lead switched as often as the swimmers and just when it looked like France would steal an eighth of Phelps’ dream, Lezak’s mind, not just his body, won the race. A surge of adrenaline that we are biologically designed to evoke only in moments of desperation [I watched a Discovery Health Channel show about our body’s ability to produce super-human strength in emergency situations… VERY cool!] demonstrated to the entire world not just how fast he could swim, but how DETERMINED he was to touch that wall first – for him, for his country, and for the other three guys that got him there. I guarantee he was not thinking about politics.

The New York Times didn’t disappoint me this morning with its coverage of the previous night’s victory. But after my excitement and awe at the end of this spectacular race had faded (only a little, it's still buzzing strongly), I was reminded that, while the Olympics is about that glory, that determination, that other-worldly push that comes only from the pressure of wearing a country’s flag as a uniform that was captured in this spectacular swim relay, it is also much bigger than all of this. We don’t love the Olympics because it is about sports and athletes: we love it because it’s about willpower, passion, and perhaps above all, human nature.

The Olympics shows us who we are, and what we’re made of – without the bullshit. While Russia and Georgia flirt with war, two athletes – Natalia Paderina of Russia and Nino Salukvadze of the former Soviet republic of Georgia – gave each other a kiss on the cheek and a friendly hug after winning silver and bronze, respectively, in the women’s 10-meter air pistol competition on Sunday. They are friends and competitors from two nations that are on the brink of war.

Also on Sunday, the United States men’s volleyball team won its opening Olympic match without their coach, Hugh McCutcheon, whose father-in-law was stabbed to death by a Chinese man at the Drum Tower the day before. His wife, Barbara, sustained many stab wounds and survived. Winning, for the volleyball team, is no longer about gold medals.

In gymnastics, the sport of my childhood and one of the most demanding sports out there, four bite-sized teenagers had to overcome several setbacks to achieve their goals. One gymnast, Peszek, injured her left ankle during practice. She and her teammates heard a “pop” (the dreaded “pop”) and with the weight of their country and their dreams on their tiny but strong backs, they momentarily crumbled into tears. After regrouping, the cracks showed when Liukin, a gold-medal favorite in the unevenen parallel bars (which was my favorite event, but now I can barely watch – it makes me so nervous!), fell on her dismount in a shocking moment of weakness. Her teammate, Memmel, slipped off the bar during a release move and also fell moments earlier.

While the Olympics exposes the most super-human of us all, it also manages to extract our most human qualities: disappointment, strength of character, and an ever-present need for hope (and each other). While we differ in many ways, we are all human; this simple fact crosses boarders and politics. People from every country in the world watch the Olympics because they want to see the best: in character, in athleticism, but mostly, in our potential. When the fuzz of our differences is eliminated and replaced with a level playing field, we can’t help but cheer.

During the Olympics, people from all countries get up and play after setbacks. People from all countries win gold, silver and bronze medals. People from all backgrounds fail, fall short of their targets, and fall down in pain. But, the fact is: we all want to challenge the impossible. We all want to know dreams can be achieved and limits can be broken down. On what better stage can all this be proven than at the Olympics?

Sidewalk Rules

2008-07-25T10:55:00.003-04:00

I hear it all the time. People who visit Manhattan or people who have just moved here ask me the same question: where does all the anger come from? They almost seem embarrassed or ashamed to even ask. The funny thing is that they aren’t referring to angry New Yorkers… they’re referring to themselves.

It’s strange but true: New York City converts otherwise peaceful, sweet people into angry, aggressive pedestrians. It’s inevitable, and often surprising to the innocent visitor. The intensity just settles into the bloodstream as soon as that last bridge or tunnel is crossed and one finds him/herself on the mainland. Nobody is spared, nobody expects it. They’ll just be walking down the street and, once caught behind a slow person or – worse – walking happily when somebody STOPS in the middle of the sidewalk for NO APPARENT REASON (I HATE that shit!) this anger, this fury will rise from within and they will catch themselves cursing the stranger under their breath, grunting as they walk by, or (my favorite) throwing their arms in the air (in the “what the FUCK?!” way) as they swerve around the road blockage. And yet, people want to hate on New Yorkers, like we’re mean, horrible people. Well, we’re not! We’re just trying to survive here! Don’t blame us, blame the city…

Being a gimp in NYC has, in many ways, made me more sympathetic as a pedestrian; I have a heightened awareness of other pedestrians’ injuries (suddenly I see ace bandages, canes, and limping people at every turn – and I feel bad for them, a sentiment that I am shocked to admit has replaced my anger at them for slowing me down). I have decelerated my pace considerably (and people seem to be ok with it – as long as they can see my knee brace, that is), and I’ve found sympathy and curiosity in my injury from unlikely sources. One day, a crazy old man sitting on a bench with his hairy belly exposed in the middle of Broadway shouted to me “If you go in the ocean, your knee will heal!” I didn’t know what to make of his cryptic advice. Then, the other day, a construction worker snacking on fried chicken yelled, “Hey lady, what happened to your knee?!” I looked at him, confused about whether or not to answer (did he really want to know? Weird…), and then realize I would have been extremely rude if I looked at him and DIDN’T answer, so I just yelled “torn ACL.” He made an “oooh/OUCH” face and said, “Well get better, sweetie!” MUCH to my surprise, I’ve got to say: I’m feeling the love on the streets of this hard-ass town.

The only time people are unforgiving – brace or no brace – is when I try and walk up or down the subway stairs the one-foot-at-a-time-way (which, trust me, is a lot harder to do than it looks! Please, please don't make fun of me...). I just avoid the subway at all costs. People on the bus are MUCH friendlier right now. Although, the day I took the bus from the ER back to work, I found a seat because I was in a lot of pain. Then, a little old lady walked up to me, eyeing me for the seat. JUST as she was about to curse me out (oh she WOULD), I saw her eyes drift to my brace. Instead of smoldering me with her glare, she smiled sympathetically. I almost offered to get up, but she said “sit sit!” and stood, hovering over me, suddenly empowered. Well, I’m glad I could at least give her that. But I wasn’t pleased that I needed the seat more than on old lady did.

You’d THINK that, now that I’m the slow one, I would have less pedestrian-rage…

WRONG.

I don’t. I’m still angry, maybe more at myself than at the people around me. “Don’t you see my knee, BITCH?! You think I wear this brace for fun!?” Ha. OK ok, I’m KIDDING. I would never say that, but I did catch myself thinking it for one hot second. Lines have begun to feel longer (my leg wants to buckle when I stand for 30 seconds), which is not ok when there is a slow barrista behind the Starbucks counter. Getting around takes longer, and is painful or uncomfortable. For the first time in my life, I am getting passed every time I walk somewhere. I see functioning legs all around me and it makes me even angrier! Just you wait, people; I will DESTROY you on the sidewalks later! I will BLAZE by you! Siiiigh...

To New Yorkers, injured or not, certain sidewalk behavior is just unacceptable. For one thing, on a rainy day, it is considered COMPLETELY obnoxious to want to stay dry by using one of those overly large umbrellas that businessmen tend to have. (Sorry, but it’s true. Does anyone agree?!) Also, you must always be prepared to stagger your umbrella, especially on small side streets, when walking next to a fellow pedestrian who also has an umbrella. I consistently go UP, they must stay down (this interaction is silent and unrehearsed, so you must go up with enough time for the person to realize they must stay down). Also, you can never… NEVER… stop for no apparent reason in the middle of the sidewalk. Tourists do this, but as long as they are looking up and appreciating my city’s buildings, I’m ok with it. When rounding corners, it’s a risky move to take the inside lane; you never know who is rounding the corner from the other side, and if you collide, a fist fight might occur… so just avoid that. Basically, don’t take up a lot of space (in Manhattan, this means don't even take a big breath -- the simple fact that you exist at all means you are taking up too much space), move at a quick, consistent pace, keep your extremities close to your body, and whatever you do – DON’T touch anyone (accidentally or not). You will get punched or cursed out.

Being an NYC pedestrian is no simple task. The intensity on the sidewalks is contagious. But it is that intoxicating energy that keeps the city buzzing and keeps everyone on edge that makes it special, RIGHT?! New Yorkers have to walk with purpose, confidence, and strength; the sidewalk is our catwalk, and life is a runway show.

Despite all this “pedestrian-rage” I speak of, I want to clarify that we New Yorkers are a lot happier than we seem. We just know the rules. And in this city, if you don’t play by the rules, you will become road kill. So go ahead, take a walk, become a part of the game. It seems harsh, but you'll be surprised how supportive those angry New Yorkers can be because, in the end, we’re all trying to survive in this crazy town together.

Remeniscusing

2008-07-09T14:09:00.008-04:00

I’d say having a torn meniscus is 90% full of SUCKING ASS (like you have NO idea), but it’s also 10% funny. Let’s try and focus on the funny part right now.

As if being injured wasn’t bad enough, one must endure the degrading process of being examined over and over again in ridiculous hospital “attire” by total strangers. Luckily, I’m just dealing with a knee here. But it feels like there is no shame when it comes to doctors. It is IMPOSSIBLE to look sexy in a pair of one-size-fits-all DISPOSABLE shorts, let me tell you! And yet, there is something endearing about watching complete strangers walk around the cold, sterile hallways of a hospital or doctor’s office wearing nothing but a thin robe. Maybe it’s the self-conscious, lost look in their eyes (am I projecting?), or maybe it’s the misleading mixed-feelings that the contrast of a robe (normally an article of clothing that represents comfort) evokes when juxtaposed with the harsh, unwelcoming ambience of a hospital. The robe is confusing: when wearing it, one doesn’t know whether to feel comfortable and safe or nervous and threatened. It is the garment of mixed-signals.

When I arrived in the ER of St. Luke’s Roosevelt Hospital about two weeks ago, I was wearing short shorts and a t-shirt with flip-flops. Even though my knee was FULLY-exposed, I was asked to put on the “robe” they provided for me so that I could be examined “properly” (anyone who calls it a "gown" is being incredibly deceptive). I didn’t ask questions and did as I was told, aware that the 16 year old boy shadowing my doctor would probably feel more uncomfortable about it than me (he was really timid, it was funny). I will wear it with dignity, I thought to myself; I will OWN that robe.

After having my knee poked, pulled, pressed, stretched, and examined, I was told to go wait in a hallway outside the x-ray room (without pants, but with a piece of fabric draped around me – hooray!). This hallway was a VERY busy hallway, and for some reason, I was the only fool sitting there in a little smock with my pants in my lap and my legs shyly crossed.

Once they were ready to take my x-rays, a nurse instructed me to go into the room (why does it seems like they always tell you what to do while walking in another direction so you’re barely sure of what they said?). As I entered the room, excited to get out of the busy hallway where an old woman with black splotches on her legs just found out she had tuberculosis (eavesdropping in this environment is clearly inappropriate… oops), I was shocked and slightly embarrassed (as if I wasn’t already) to find that I had walked in on some young guy getting x-rayed (without a sexy smock like mine, I’ll add). What could I say?!?! “AH! They told me to do it! I’m sorry I walked in on you lying awkwardly on a metal table!” I just yelped, “Ack! SORRY!” And shut the door as quickly as possible. Oh man – SO awkward. The nurse said “Whoops, didn’t know he was in there!” (Yeah, neither did I) and told me to have a seat for a few more minutes. Great. This got everyone in the hallway’s attention. I could no longer be the tall, skinny girl sitting inconspicuously in a “gown” by the x-ray room. My under-the-radar existence was over and I felt even more naked, like my robe suddenly covered less of me. I shuffled and limped back to my seat next to a man from Mali (who thought he broke his ankle but was extremely excited to find out he hadn’t). There I was, still waiting in my baggy, light blue smock, feeling incredibly AWESOME. Good thing I brought a book.

During my second round of x-rays (this past Monday) at a much fancier sports medicine establishment affiliated with Columbia Presbyterian, I found myself, again, lying across a cold, moving metal table wearing just an oversized robe (I can appreciate that these robes are one-size-fits-all, but as a representative for the people who wear things with an X in front of “Small” I will tell you that those smocks are not very functional! It’s the skinny girl’s curse: we will ALWAYS look ridiculous in one-size-fits-all garb). I found it odd that the table I had to lie on was directly lined up with the large doorway, outside of which sat a row of chairs which morbidly reminded me of a lethal-injection viewing. Every time my door opened, I got a straight-on glimpse of a young, attractive man – again, NOT in a smock like I was – watching me rotate every which way for the x-ray technician). The woman taking the x-rays was completely oblivious to the fact that I might not want that door hanging open. Every time she went to adjust the machine, I just sat there, a stream of light from outside the room beaming onto me, the young man’s eyes clearly staring at me in my pathetic little outfit. He was obviously thinking “Ha. THAT’S embarrassing!” And, alas, it was, but I didn’t care too much. I did find it a little funny, though.

After the x-rays, I had to walk by several people to a small closet where I could change. I replaced the sheet-like cover with my regular clothes (hoping I’d pass by all the same people who saw me in my smock so that they’d know I was normal, after all – of course, I didn’t). Then I went up the elevator to the doctor’s office where, once I had arrived, I was handed a dark blue piece of fabric resembling a pillowcase and told to put it - the “shorts” - on so the doctor could check out my knees.

Oh boy.

If you all could have seen me in those things! I had to laugh out loud when I put them on. They basically looked like a large diaper with no capacity to absorb anything. The elastic waist fit snugly, but the leg-portion of the garment ballooned out from my waist. (I briefly imagined these shorts being the "IT" shorts for the year 2050.) While I sat on the examining table waiting for the doctor, the paper cover crinkled underneath me. Left there to wait for an indefinite amount of time, I had no choice but to look at my reflection in the mirror across from me and entertain myself with how un-cool I appeared. (Hehehe.) It beat focusing on how much my knee was bothering me!

It’s been two weeks now since “the POP,” as I like to refer to it. I’ve done my share of sulking, complaining, expressing my frustration and cursing the universe (well, sort of, and I can’t promise I’m totally finished – I blame it on my sudden lack of endorphins). But then I woke up on Monday morning and decided I AM GOING TO GET BETTER SOON. I've been lifting, and stretching, and doing special exercises on my own. There is no other option. It’s GOT TO HAPPEN. And I am on that mission right now.

While sitting in the waiting room for my second round of x-rays, I was surrounded by people who, to say the least, seemed much worse off than I was. One woman, an obvious cancer patient, was sitting in her own soft robe as if she had been waiting in that room for weeks and it was as familiar to her as her living room – albeit, not as comforting. She had a bandana wrapped around her bald head and while her pale, greenish-tinted limbs seemed skinny and worn-down, her belly was bloated like a mal-nourished child’s. The look in her eyes was one of impatience and resentment – a boiling concoction of thoughts and emotions I couldn’t begin to understand. She was reading Time Magazine, with several gauze pads taped to her arms. Her soft robe fit her perfectly.

Despite the slightly undignified attire and the frustration and anger that my little injury has spurred in me, that woman sitting in the waiting room in her snug robe, bloated and bald, helped me put everything in perspective. My mom had breast cancer (that's about as much as I'm going to get into it for now). And, looking at this woman, I could see she had the "don't fuck with me" attitude required to beat it. While I reserve the right for me and anyone else to be frustrated about silly things (you're allowed!), it helped me adjust my attitude. I saw this woman as unexpectedly inspiring.

Since the injury, I have found myself wishing and hoping JUST to have everything about my life go back to normal. I’ve never wanted to run so badly (NO MORE RUNNING UP STAIRS THOUGH). I’ve never wanted to be able to wear high heals, and lift heavy things, and frolic in the park AND DANCE so much! Mostly, I just want to be able to walk comfortably and forget this bump in the road.

I’ve accepted my situation as temporary, like a pair of ugly disposable shorts I can eventually toss. I’m feeling a little more at peace (but fired up to heal, don’t get me wrong!) than I did a week ago. If nothing else, this has made me realize that “normal life” must be pretty good if it's all I want to get back. In that sense, I'm very lucky.

Currently, I am waiting for my health insurance to approve of an MRI that will determine how bad my tear is and what my plan of attack will be. The bad news is: they might not approve, and I will have to wait at least six more weeks. I think this means that, in some distant waiting room, another disposable outfit awaits me. I can only hope that it will be the sexiest one yet!

A Lesson in Humility

2008-07-02T10:52:00.004-04:00

Something has changed.

My happiness has been dealt a swift and unexpected blow. I’m feeling a bit raw right now, so I’m going to go ahead and capture the frustrations in a little jar to put on The Bloganimal shelf for all who choose to read.

One week ago, with one wrong step, I ended up here, completely humbled and frustrated. I hurt my knee, and it was so stupid. SO STUPID! So erasable, so unnecessary, so infuriatingly easy to do…And no matter how much I want to, I can’t go back and erase the mistake. Part of me is furious with myself, and the other part knows that being angry with myself is a completely useless reaction, so I’m trying to numb it.

What's funny is that I woke up that morning (last Wednesday) with a gut feeling to skip rowing, which I never get. The only time I doubt going is the night before when I am exhausted and have to set that alarm for less than six hours later, but once the alarm is set, I rarely second-guess it. This time I did. And yet I ignored the gut feeling because I thought I might be racing soon. I wanted to fucking row! I didn’t fully understand it either. Why wouldn’t I want to go row on such a beautiful morning? Why would I stay back? Silly gut feeling (why are you ALWAYS right?!).

I went.

It was a fantastic row, with power 10s, 20s, 30s, and 40s thrown into the mix. The water was beautiful and calm. Everything felt good and I felt strong and in shape. After the row, fellow rowers were acting a bit silly on the dock (typical post-good-row activity), playing with hoses while we washed down the boats, screaming things like “If YOU have a MILKSHAKE… and I have a MILKSHAKE…” (cough cough, Efrem…) and making each other crack up. I realized I was running late for work, so I decided to run up the boathouse staircase to the locker room so I could quickly change and dash to the train for work. It was about 7:15am. As I was running up the stairs, on a natural high from a great workout, endorphins racing through me and excited about the day ahead, I decided to skip steps to make my trip up faster. When I had ONE more giant step to go, I heard it – the dreaded POP in my right knee – and that was that.

When I heard the pop, I knew instantly that I had fucked up. My first thought: I LIVE ON THE FIFTH FUCKING FLOOR WITHOUT AN ELEVATOR. I have done enough sports and seen enough athletes tear ligaments in their knees to know that I had FFFFFF UUUUU CCCCC KKKKK EEEEE DDDDD UP. But, there I was… fine. Nobody else was around, so I did a couple stretches, tested it out… all seemed ok. It felt off, but not painful. I walked on it – FINE. I carried on with my morning – FINE. Whew, close call I thought. A good reminder to be careful…

As the day continued, I went about my business as usual. After the subway, I ran up some stairs to the street. Then, two blocks later, I ran up five flights of stairs to my apartment. After quickly showering, changing, and brewing some coffee, I ran back down five flights of stairs, and then walked 12 blocks to work. In the office, I have to go down (and up) a staircase anytime I need to use the restroom or get water. The workday started off good, but around lunch time, my knee started bothering me. By 4pm, I felt the warning signs of an injury, so I knew what to do: elevate it, ice it, and Advil-it. By nighttime, I knew something was wrong, and that I was making it worse every step I took back up the five flights of stairs to my new apartment.

As I feared, it felt worse on Thursday. For the first couple of days, I would describe it more as discomfort than pain. But now it’s become pain. I knew I had to call a doctor and get referred to an orthopedist. Yet, every doctor I called was booked for at least two weeks. I called more doctors – booked for 3 weeks. I finally found one who could see me on Monday, so I booked an appointment and hung up, unsettled, hurting, and perplexed (I don’t DO “injured”).

After discussing my options with coworkers (although I was discouraged by my mom who, as always said “oh just give it a few more days, it’ll be fine, you’ll see…”) I think Argentineans, a very distrusting culture (thanks to their leaders, military, and economy), fear doctors. I decided to go to the Emergency Room at St. Luke’s Roosevelt Hospital. I went alone, and didn’t tell my mom because I knew I had to do it and didn’t want to be discouraged. They saw me right away, and after being seated next to a man from Mali for about 45 minutes, I was x-rayed and examined by a doctor who had a 16 year old guy (am I old enough to call him a kid?) shadowing her. We all talked and joked around, and it was actually a nice experience! My knee was not swollen, so it was diagnosed as a sprain, but I had a follow-up appointment scheduled with an orthopedist for Monday (the exact one I set up an appointment with earlier! Crazy.) I kept my plans for that night (happily). I left the ER satisfied with my diagnosis, prepared to deal with pain and discomfort as long as it was temporary. I could handle a sprain -- those get better. I hoped that I would feel less uncomfortable (my knees feel like they're going to buckle every time I stand) in a couple of days.

That weekend, I went upstate to avoid stairs and relax my knee (also, being completely inactive is NOT my cup of tea, so I was excited to swim some laps in the pool and relax the leg in the warm bubbling water of our Jacuzzi). It only got worse, and I was feeling deeply discouraged. By Sunday, my other knee had started hurting. When I got back to NYC, my five-story climb home seemed crueler than usual.

My doctor’s appointment on Monday left me feeling gutted, hopeless, and scared. After tugging on my knee in several directions, I was told that my ligaments were fine. (Thank goodness!) Then, they straightened my knee and shifted my kneecap around – PAIN PAIN PAIN!!! That was it – I had damaged my meniscus (possibly torn it) and irritated the cartilage under my kneecaps, which takes months to rebuild. The doctor asked me “How often do you row?” I told him 2 to 3 times a week, and that I run almost every day in between (and sometimes lift weights). He looked at me, and just said “Well, find another sport.”

I think my heart broke a tiny bit.

WHAT? No. NO NO NO.

I looked at him and repeated what he said, “Find another sport? What do you mean? For a how long?” He said “Find another sport. You can’t row anymore. You can’t run either. Those activities are wearing down your cartilage. And avoid stairs. If you continue to do those things, you’re setting yourself up for early arthritis.” Then he looked at my shoes and said, “oh, and don’t where flip-flops ever again. They are the worst thing you can do to your feet and knees.” I fucking LOVE flip-flops. I wait all year to be able to free my feet. And I don’t just row for a workout – it’s a source of peace and happiness and inspiration for me. Find another sport? I’LL FIND ANOTHER FUCKING DOCTOR! Beyotch. (Ooops, there is that anger I mentioned!)

It came down to one staircase. At the bottom, I was in 100% physical condition. At the top, I ended up here. I can barely walk. Yesterday was the most painful day yet, and I could barely sleep because of the muscle spasms and pain around my knees (Advil has done nothing for my pain.) My next doctor’s appointment is with a sports medicine doctor on July 17 (I begged my way from their “earliest available time” which was late August, and I will call every few days to check for cancellations.) I am pretty sure I need some physical therapy, and all I want to do is find out what I can DO (besides sitting on my ass with my feet elevated) to overcome this horrible, annoying problem. I'll do whatever exercises they tell me to do. I will sacrifice whatever I have to in order to get better. Just let me be proactive about this!

I’m feeling incredibly humbled right now. All the independence I've been talking about in recent blog entries, all the physical activity – the rowing, the stair-climbing, the heavy-lifting – all of that has been suddenly snatched from me. I’m more physically immobilized right now than I have ever been. I do not accept my diagnosis, which expects me not to do anything and STILL not to get much better. I refuse to accept that I cannot row or run. I refuse to limp around a minute longer than is necessary.

In addition to feeling humbled, I wake up and go to bed feeling incredibly sad, angry, confused, perplexed, and scared. I’m trying to find meaning in this injury, and trying to understand how the hell I went from great condition to completely pathetic. Not to use a cliché (oh but aren’t they just so tempting?!) but this feels a bit unreal, like this isn’t really happening to me. And it is. I do not like being pathetic. I do not like being helpless. I do not like being injured. I do not like needing to ask favors. I do not like being inactive.

It’s been a week this happened, and already I am more grateful than ever for such simple things I was able to do before the POP. It’s cheesy and cliché (whoops, two in a row!) but it has been such a good reminder of what I should be grateful for on a daily basis. And I am always grateful, for so many things, but this has been a good reality check. Truth is, my life has been so good lately. When things are good, I always fear the fall from grace. I even mentioned this to someone recently, and they shushed me when I said that every time I say I am happy, something bad happens (so I fear saying it).

I have so many exciting things to work on (I even have AC in my apartment now! YAAAY!). This is my absolute favorite month of the year. I sit through the fall, winter and spring just ITCHING for flip-flop weather, for rowing season, for long sweaty walks around the city, for runs in the park, for nights out dancing until 5am, for plans every night because all I want to do is frolic and play outside… Suddenly I feel like I can’t appreciate the things I was so excited about as much. I feel trapped and stuck, but desperate not to lose those things right now (I don’t want to lose a day, a minute). I might not even be able to stay in my new apartment for the next week because I can barely get up the stairs.

One POP, and all this.

So, there you have it. That’s where I am at right now. Do I envy everyone for their simple ability to walk, run, row, jump, relax right now? Yes. But, I don’t plan to stay this way very long. I just need to figure out what I can do so that I don’t lose this amazing time or all the good things I have going for me right now. I’m trying not to feel bad for myself, and trying to rest as much as possible, but this is probably one of the toughest things I have had to deal with in a while. All I want to do is run to clear my mind, or row with my awesome new teammates, or do one of the million errands I still have to do for this apartment.

But, I’ve got to sit on the sidelines for now. Just me and Tiger Woods, alone on the bench, wondering what flowers might grow from this shit. Yet, as always, I am determined not to wallow in this state for too long...

Early Encounters

2008-06-25T11:51:00.004-04:00

Every now and then, we New Yorkers encounter suspicious characters on the subway. (Oh, the stories I could tell!) Often, it feels as if the city has been shaken so hard that all the freaks have fallen to the bottom (which is, naturally, the subway system), at which point they must take a train to get out of there. Usually, I'm on that train. It’s just part of the New York experience, like having Jewish holidays off of work, or fighting for a cab in the pouring rain, or eating pizza after a night on the town…

Unfortunately, the other day I had an encounter that made me feel a little vulnerable, a little uncomfortable, and maybe even a little unsafe. It wasn’t pleasant, but it is part of the NY package…errr… no pun intended.

At 4:45am, I woke up in my sauna of an apartment for a morning row. I’ve decided it could literally be considered a sauna since the temperature outside had been 96 degrees the day before and my apartment felt 3 to 5 degrees HOTTER than the actual air temperature. Thus, it is implied that the temperature inside my apartment had to be somewhere in the vicinity of 100 degrees – and isn’t that perfect sauna temperature? Saunas are cool if you’ve just gone ice-swimming in Finland (I remember my Finnish au pair, Yanna, once telling me stories about that and being horrified…), but nobody likes to sleep in a sauna! It was Shvitz Fest 2008 in there! But I admmit that a part of me enjoyed all the sweating, simply because it meant summer - my FAVORITE season - had arrived.

I did my usual pre-row routine: hit the alarm, double-check the time on my watch (yup, it's 4:47am - FUCK), crawl out of bed, put on the appropriate length spandex attire (how do I manage to incorporate the word “spandex” into every other blog entry?), fumble my way to the bathroom in the dark, brush my teeth, splash water on my face, grab my Nalgene of water and a Cliff or cereal bar (and usually a banana or apple), load my backpack, double-check that I have my Metrocard and socks, find my keys, slip on my flip-flops, tip-toe by my roommate’s room (trip on several things), lock the door behind me as quietly as possible, then stomp down 5 flights of stairs to release myself into the half-day/half-night world and make my way to the subway, resisting the temptation to buy a donut from the cart that sells them outside my subway station, and prepare to either just catch a train or wait 20 minutes for one in the disarmingly silent underground. This morning routine takes about 12 minutes.

On Monday, I waited about 15 minutes for the 1 train at 79th Street (they don’t come very often at 5am). Finally, the 2 arrived, so I had to transfer at 96th Street. There is always an interesting mix of people waiting for the train at 96th Street and Broadway before 6 am, but I try not to stare. Most of them are more curious why I am there, since (although I am Latina AND white, I think?) there are few "white" people at that hour heading towards the Bronx. The group is a mix of people with day jobs, people with night jobs, people who have been partying too much, and people who you don’t ever want to see at a party. I wonder what category I fall into…

The entire wooden bench was free. When nobody is sitting, I always find myself checking to see if anybody has peed on it (or worse), but it seemed clean enough (my subterranean standards are low). Even though I normally stand, I was particularly tired (from a lack of sleep, due to sauna-like sleeping conditions) so I sat myself down on the end. Little by little, people filled in the seats beside me. One man, a tall Hispanic guy that, if I had to guess, I’d peg as Puerto Rican or Dominican with a name like Enrique or Juan Carlos, started staring at me and another woman sitting nearby. I just sat there waiting for the train as his head bobbed up and down and side to side with sleepiness (drunkenness?), drifting in and out of a dreamlike state.

There are certain “street-smart” things I do subconsciously, just because I grew up learning small lessons during a 1-hour safety assembly that we had at school every year. Apparently, those lessons tend to stick with you. The guy had triggered my caution flag, making me hyper aware of his actions. When the train arrived, I waited to see which car the suspicious character got on and made sure I got on a different one. He was making me a little uncomfortable, but nothing really threatening, so I just decided to dodge any interaction with him.

About 30 seconds after getting on the train, I noticed the doors between my car and the next one (his) open, and in walked the man I was avoiding. His frizzy, dark hair was in disarray, sprouting from his scalp like a bunch of weeds. I could smell his cologne, which had been splashed on him generously, leading me to suspect he was covering something up rather than trying to smell nice. His white button down shirt was flopped open, revealing a bare chest, a couple of tattoos, and the drawstring of his beige linen pants. He looked like someone who had been plucked from the hammock of a tropical island, mid-sleep, then doused in bad cologne and placed on the 1 train heading towards the Bronx; he was out of place, and out of sorts.

It was a little unsettling when he sat down in the empty seat directly across from me (on a near-empty train), but I didn’t feel like switching cars or seats was necessarily the best option. I sat tight and tried to stare off in any direction but his, wondering if he would stare at me the entire ride (simply because I am female). As the train stopped and the doors opened and closed, I felt his relentless gaze upon me.

With each stop, I hoped he would get off (so did he, I think, only in a different way! OK not funny...), but he stayed and stared me down, half-smiling, half-dozing, his legs wide open and his arms crossed. I distracted myself with the signs above people’s heads, about abogados (lawyers) and online college degrees, and continued to wait…

Sitting there, knowing I was being stared at just because I’m female, is a strange experience. It has nothing to do with how I look or how I’m dressed and it feels threatening in a way that most males don't understand. At one point, I thought I could get away with a quick sneak peek to see if the creepy man was still watching me. That is when I noticed where is hand was, and what he was doing to where his hand was while he was looking right at me (I am being vague, yes, but not really, right?). Things were obvious through his thin linen pants (and noticing was unavoidable). This was not ok and I wished I hadn’t looked. I got a wave of disgust and was officially uncomfortable. Repulsed, I decided to get up and move to the other end of my train when the doors for the next stop opened up (to fake getting out). As I stood there, I heard the man say something to me (I couldn’t figure out what) and, about 10 seconds later, I watched him get up and go back into the car he originally entered. Relief.

It was around 5:40am at this point. When the train finally rolled up to Dyckman Street. I was happy to get out and get to practice where I knew I could be quickly distracted. I still had a 7-minute walk to the boathouse ahead of me alongside a park with benches that often have more than one person lying across them, but I was close to the river and ready for it to take away my thoughts in its current, as it always does.

On this particular morning, a couple – presumably homeless – lay spooning on a park bench that was covered in faded green paint. They slept through the heat in dirty, tattered clothes with their possessions flung all around them, looking as peaceful as if I had accidentally entered their vacation home bedroom and found them cuddling in expensive pajamas under the fluffy white sheets of a king sized bed.

This couple struck me, for they seemed so unperturbed by their lack of privacy. Although they were completely exposed to the world during their sleep – a most vulnerable state – they appeared unfazed, and even comfortable being watched (granted, they may not have had much choice), unlike me.

New York is so full of stories, each one spilling into the next one unapologetically. Our lives (and selves) are often on display more than we’d like, but we are all intrinsically linked as the stars of an addictive show that we can’t turn off. Sometimes I sit on the train and try to piece together the clues of someone else's life, convincing myself that I can have a stranger completely figured out, aware that I’ll never know if I’m right or wrong (and what does it matter?). Every time those train doors open, a new set of stories sits waiting for their stops, a fleeting glimpse into someone else's world... (Sometimes, too much of a glimpse!)

That morning, the sun rose over a beautifully still Harlem River. The dirty river can be quite stunning in the right light.

Desks and Stud-Finders

2008-06-17T20:32:00.003-04:00

The other day, I received an instant message that simply said: “Time for a new entry, methinks…” Way to keep me in check!

I apologize. June has pretty much been on steroids for me, in a good way (not that steroids are good, because they are BAD! Even for horses like Big Brown apparently. Tear…). I moved into my new apartment on June 1st and I don’t think I have had a single evening at home (without at least one planned social activity) until tonight. I have yet to spend a Friday or Saturday here, actually. It’s been fantastic and exciting and busy! But, sheesh, I need to catch my breath…

For starters (because I know you all are just DYING to know this stuff), I have a desk! (Trust me, shit like this is big news these days.) The livability of my apartment has just skyrocketed. I didn’t consider having a desk or a chair to be a priority until I went one week without either (except for the fold-up outdoor chair that you were introduced to in my last entry).

You try it. I mean, it’s not just a week without a desk or chair, it’s a week without a desk, or a chair, or a lamp, or a small pot (I only have two big ones), or a large frying pan (I only have two small ones), or a spice rack (I thought I’d cook something really simple one night, only to find out I didn’t have salt – WHAT NORMAL, FUNCTIONING ADULT DOESN’T OWN SALT?!), or a TV (I’m actually kind of enjoying the TV-less life, although I am somehow paying for cable), or… you get the idea.

After several exhausting days, never mind the heat wave (ha – air conditioning is for SALLIES - I bite my thumb at you!), I came home to an apartment with nowhere to sit and nowhere to place my laptop, Lola (oh yes, it has a name, and you can see for yourself since I thanked her in my Mexico book for being my one and only travel companion). For me, in order to write coherently, I require a flat and sturdy surface for my laptop, and an equally sturdy and upright surface for my bum. Only then can I focus and slip into THE ZONE.

Let’s go back to the desk…

Last Thursday, I had an office retreat in Bronxville, NY that let me out of work early, at around 3:30pm. I realized this provided me with the perfect opportunity to scoot down to West Elm on 18th Street and see if I could quickly scout out a desk on sale. I WAS IN LUCK. I found the perfect desk for my room, and quickly got the attention of a salesman.

I asked him several questions in order to determine whether or not I could make an impulsive purchase and bring the desk all the way home on my own. My goal: NOT to have to ask any favors!

My questions:
1) How much does the desk weigh?
2) How large is the box I would have to carry?
3) Can I, what I described as “a pretty strong skinny girl, but still a skinny girl,” carry said box up five flights of stairs alone?

His answers:
1) “Oh, it can’t be more than 50lbs…” [We’ll come back to this one, echem…]
2) “Well, big enough for me to hold, and I’m kind of wiry. You should be FINE.”
3) “Yeah, it’s not even 50lbs so, I mean, as long as you take a couple breaks you should be fine. We’ll help you put it in the cab…” [OK, great, but if I need help putting it in a FUCKING cab, how am I supposed to take it OUT of the cab and carry it up 5 FLIGHTS OF STAIRS?!”

I trusted the guy (after all, it is his job to dispel this information correctly, and I was excited about my new piece of furniture) and headed for the register while he called the storage people to bring up the desk. After I paid, I waited for the box to arrive. Sure enough, a very large, strong man brought it over… on wheels (never a good sign). I looked at it and just thought… that CAN’T be the box for my tiny little desk. Oh, but it was!!

The guy with my desk asked who was helping me. I looked up at him, a little embarrassed, and just said “Oh, I was just planning to do it on my own…” knowing instantly that this was impossible. He smiled, looked down towards me and said, “No offense, miss, but it weighs 70lbs… Are you on the first floor?” Gulp. No… not so much. I looked at him, looked at the box, humbly bent down to lift one end and get an idea of what 70lbs really feels like… and clunk. Oh, it’s heavy, but I lift boats. I like heavy lifting. I don’t want to be considered a scrawny weakling ever! (I rarely pull out the damsel-in-distress card but when I do I want to MEAN it!). The real issue was the size of the box; my arms couldn't wrap around it if I wanted them to!

I couldn’t stomach (or afford) the $120 delivery price, so I left West Elm with my head down and my tail between my legs (is that the saying? It sounds a bit off here, doesn’t it?), absorbing the reality: sometimes, I just might need a friend to help, even if I don’t want to bother anyone. Le siiiiiiigh.

After rowing yesterday, I rode the train with my friend David, a fellow rower (from Alaska!), and told him my little story -- mostly for a laugh. My plan was to pick up the desk that evening, have the tall guy put it in a cab, have my roommate meet me at the bottom of the steps and walk it up together. This is when David asked me where West Elm is located.

Turns out, he was volunteering around the corner and was willing and able to help me with the heavy-lifting! (No offense to my 5’11’’ skinnier-than-me female roommate, I was relieved!) All went according to plan, and despite the flash thunderstorm that began the minute before we left the store and ended ten minutes after we got out of the cab, we made it up the stairs a bit soggy, but unscathed. (Thank you, David!!)

After the large box was placed in the empty space that is my living room, I gave him a tour of the apartment (it took about 10 seconds, let’s be honest). While in my bedroom, pondering the shelving possibilities afforded by my high ceilings, David and I began to talk tools.

Now, I have used a lot of tools in the past couple of weeks, but I had never heard of the one David said I needed. I’m still a domestic-goddess in-progress; in the past day, not only did I build that desk immediately after David left, set-up my wireless network, AND bake brownies, but I was also now willing to discuss shelving units while watering my new plant (I’m very excited about this plant). I asked him for advice on installing shelves, which I have never done, and talked about the different buttress systems for small shelves, and how I thought some were better than others. This is when David told me that what I REALLY need is... a stud-finder. And he had one. Now, THAT’S a pal!

Don’t worry; my next entry will NOT be called: Shelving Units and Stud-Finders. Who knows what it will be about?! I just live and learn, and then blog about it (sometimes). You can't predict this shit.

Let us reflect before you all start imagining what a stud-finder actually looks like (I HAVE NOOOOO IDEA, but it sounds sexy).

What I learned from this experience is that real friends WANT to help. I need to offer friends help a LOT more! I never realized moving could be so much work. I thought I was self-sufficient, but I’m not. Maybe life isn’t about trying to do everything on my own, just in case I have to; it’s about knowing that even if I can’t lift a large, heavy box up five flights of slanted steps (only to build a desk in an apartment that doesn’t have a chair or a television), at least I have friends that are willing to help, even if I don't think I need it.

The apartment is coming together, on my own and with help. But let’s be honest: EVERY domestic goddess could use a stud-finder – or, at least a friend who owns one!

Empty Full

2008-06-02T13:09:00.002-04:00

I’m sitting in a purple fold-up chair in a room that is as full as it is empty. It’s my lunch break.

My friend Cynthia, a 30 year old doctor on my crew team, insisted I borrow the chair from her, and donated a perfectly simple Ikea table – currently the only table top in my apartment – which she carried across five blocks and up four flights of stairs for…me. (Even simple little acts of kindness, like that one from a new friend, tickle me.)

I’m in the middle of my brand new living room facing an exposed brick wall, surrounded by plastic bins (my mom is a BIG fan of The Container Store) with my iTunes playing thousands of songs on random shuffle. As I sit, I feel somewhat in a state of “random shuffle” as well. Yet, amidst the piles of stuff and empty space, with the lack of anywhere to sit but on a piece of borrowed furniture, I’m already beginning to feel at home.

Yesterday, I moved about 75% of my things up these stairs on a HOT day. I wanted to do it by myself, for some reason. Several people were so generous and offered to help me out, but I didn’t want to bother anyone with the annoying task on such a perfect day (except my parents I guess -- sorry mom and dad!). I just said to myself: You can do this on your own, you animal! And I did! (Oh, and yes, my quads and calves were pretty darn sore when I woke up this morning, but it's worn off). I think I walked up 200 flights of stairs by the end of the day – most of the time, carrying heavy objects! I was sweating like a pickle in the sun.

Before I get back on the floor – screwdriver in my left hand, hammer in my right, bags of different sized screws and wooden boards all around me – to build a small night table, I thought I should capture this moment of transition before it flutters away. I’m excited. Yesterday, after a morning at Ikea and an afternoon of moving, Cynthia met up with me to deliver her table and buy me a congratulatory margarita. As I sat there, exhausted, sipping a glistening pink margarita in the sun on Amsterdam Avenue, I realized that this is really one of those milestone experiences (that most of you have already had, but this is MY blog so I get to talk about whatever I want! BAM!). I'm growing up!! (Ha, I sound SO uncool.) Much to my surprise, Cynthia couldn’t get ENOUGH of me (wow, that Rachel thinks she’s so amazing…) and suggested we start building my new Ikea dresser (which, for some reason, I am REALLY excited about right now). A self-proclaimed “Ikea expert,” Cynthia was happy to help get me started. Not that I NEEDED help...

My roommate, Meghan, was also present. Imagine three young women scattered around my vacant bedroom with wooden planks and tools all over the place… There was something really gratifying about building that dresser. Cynthia joked that building furniture is like playing with adult Legos. God, I miss Legos. That shit was FUN (fun with like three "f"s -- FFFUN.) I have to agree. We were all having such a good time, even though we were sweating in a sunny room (without air conditioning, obviously) on a dusty floor. Eventually I told the ladies they had done PLENTY of manual labor for me and decided to finish the dresser today, on my own.

It’s done. And it looks perfect. While I was building it, my mattress was delivered. I already made my brand new bed. (Eee!) Little by little, this place is becoming mine. One piece of furniture, one unpacked bin at a time, this empty space is filling with life, getting color, giving me something back. But it won’t really BE home until I’ve shared it with friends (whoa, that sounded like I read it off one of those little old lady pillows you'd find in an overly-perfumed store outside the city).

Alright. My lunch break is over now. I have a night table to build, and a teeny tiny apartment to Tavel-ify, so if you’ll excuse me…

Muse

2008-05-27T14:34:00.005-04:00

A funny thing happened to me a couple of weekends ago that can only be described as “very New Yorky.” At the risk of sounding completely obnoxious, I will share with you my encounter…

It was one of those Saturdays when every New Yorker spills onto the sidewalks (and nearest patches of grass), desperate to absorb the precious moments of sunshine and perfect spring breezes before another workweek swallows up the daylight hours. I was in a fantastic mood, going about my mission to find a dress for an upcoming friend’s wedding while buzzing off of an iced vanilla latte. Maybe I was even glowing a little bit…? I'm still trying to find an explanation.

After my dress-hunt proved futile, I decided to dodge complete failure by picking up a few treats from the Union Square Farmers' Market (oh how I LOVE farmers’ markets). The Union Sq. Market is always an excellent spot for people-watching. During the warmer seasons, it converts into a teeming anthill of tourists, which can be a bit exasperating when I am in a hurry (which is always, because I’m a New Yorker), although I do try and zen myself out once in a while and stroll at what my Hawaiian roommate used to call “Hawaii pace.” Hawaii pace doesn’t really work for me in this environment. In Manhattan it’s either trample others, or be trampled. I’m still up and kickin’ so you figure out which one I choose...

A few organic fruits later, I was off to the subway. As I rounded the corner and took my first step down the grimy steps, I heard a man calling behind me “excuse me! Miss! Can I talk to you for a second?!” I wasn’t even sure if he was talking to me, so I turned around to figure it out, not giving the action much thought. Sure enough, a guy in his mid-thirties wearing a tight geometric t-shirt and rollerblades was looking right at me. He WAS yelling for me. I stopped in my tracks. About to get bulldozed by oncoming pedestrian traffic, I quickly decided to step to the side and see what this man was all about. He didn’t look like someone that might hit on me, and no “CREEPY” red flags were immediately going off in my brain, so I scurried to the side of the station to hear this guy out.

He introduced himself as Patrick C. (I leave out last names in my blog for your protection/integrity –hehe-, but he gave one) and said that he is a painter and owns a studio in Chelsea (ok, this sounds legit…) and has an upcoming show that he wanted me to "model" for as a "muse."

STOP.

OK… Key words: Model? Muse? Huh? What was I getting into?

He continued and explained that what he does is very abstract, “curvy cubism” (all those art history classes I took in college helped legitimize his description) and he thought I was “incredible” (AGAIN, how do you write this truthfully without sounding like a tool?) and wanted me to pose and inspire one of his pieces for his next show.

I know what you’re all thinking: this is either really creepy or kind of interesting. I mean, how often in one's lifetime do they get this sort of request? For me, it is NOT OFTEN. I was sort of perplexed, but intrigued, and didn’t say yes right away. He said I should think about it, asked for my name, and quickly scribbled his name, his email address, his cell phone number and a website for his studio so I could scope it all out and give him a call if I had any interest. I folded up the piece of paper and held on to it for the remainder of the subway ride as I headed home, pleased with my random encounter, unsure of what to do.

When I exited the subway, I had to stop at the bank on my way home. I noticed a guy on a bike swivel in front of me and didn’t think ANYTHING of it. Three blocks later, I was one block from my apartment building when I suddenly heard a guy on a bicycle slam his breaks as he pulled up to me in between two cars. (For REAL?!)

He rode up to me and immediately told me that he was aware how bizarre and crazy he was for pulling up to me like that, but he had seen me a few minutes ago and it took him circling the block three times to "gather enough courage” to come up to me and ask for my number. (!!?? It's ok if you're rolling your eyes. I am too.) We had a brief conversation after that (a lady never says whether or not she gave her number...hehehe). I will say, however, that he told me his name is Sam, he started his own dog-walking company (ha… the details reek of Manhattan), and he’s “just a regular, good, outdoorsy guy” who wanted to take me for a drink some day and “get to know me a little,” as he explained. What to do?!

By the time I got home, I was a bit confused. I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. My entire day seemed a bit ridiculous. I even looked in the mirror, assuming there’d be this really hot, sexy version of me standing there, seductively… but it was just the same me as always, looking a little goofy with a hint of maturity. Maybe I was OOZING pheromones or something. I mean, who knows?! I felt like a strip of fly tape – in a GOOD way! But again, I hesitated to blog about this incident because I just can't seem to find a way to write about getting hit on without sounding a bit conceited or self-involved – when really, I’m as shocked as all of you, I’m sure! Also, I have the feeling I am going to be judged, which is ok. I know the "smart" thing to do is go about my life and pretend neither of these interactions ever happened, but I can't help but feel some temptation to take on a new experience, if only to make life just a LITTLE more interesting...Or as fodder for my dear, struggling blog!

This kind of thing – meeting strangers on the streets of Manhattan who ask to see you again for varying reasons – is so typical of NYC, and yet it is so atypical of every day life here. Movies and tv shows make us believe it should be happening all the time, but when it doesn’t, you shrug and say “eh, it’s just in the movies or on tv” AND THEN… it does happen! Now, I have a moral dilemma. It's kind of like what I told someone the other day in a completely different context: sometimes I go out and say I am not going to drink, but when someone puts a cup of fun in my hand, it's hard not to take a sip!

The first question people (ok fine, the two I've told this story to) ask me is: “What were you wearing?!” It seems like a logical question, until they hear the answer: jeans, flip-flops, and a t-shirt. Yup… no mini skirt, no low cut top, no flashing red sign that says I’M AVAILABLE! HIT ON ME! Just a good ol’ fashioned striped black and grey t-shirt and jeans – which makes sense, given that I feel sexiest when I’m comfortable (or, yes, in spandex, sweating). A tight little black dress and stilettos works once in a while too...

Several emails and one phone call later, I decided I might do this whole muse thing. It'd be a good story! On Thursday evening, I’m supposed to pose for Patrick (FULLY CLOTHED – OK?!) at his studio in Chelsea for a painting that he’s going to create for a June 5th exhibit. I’ve Googled him and his studio, and he is legit. Is this kind of creepy? Perhaps. Am I being naïve? No. Are there red flags? Barely. But you know what? Life is a whole lot more interesting when you do stuff like this. I’m curious, and I’m being very street smart. I haven’t 100% committed yet but why not, right? Maybe, because my mom is a painter/sculptor (although she barely does it these days) and I grew up with her painting nude models (not at home or anything – I promise!), it doesn’t seem that bizarre to me. All he needs is an hour and a half of me standing there, and boom – a work of art. Sounds kind of cool, no? Well, if nothing else, I should AT LEAST get a good blog entry out of the experience. And these days, that's all I ask!

Moving Up

2008-05-14T16:01:00.015-04:00

In just over two weeks, I will be moving out. (HEY, I heard that collective “finally!”) Well, I’m right there with ya.

I will be leaving the apartment I grew up in (and have been living in since I graduated) to commence my life as a fabulous, struggling 20-something-year-old young woman trying to make it as some sort of writer (while secretly wishing I was a trauma surgeon) in one of the greatest (most expensive, most competitive) cities on the planet! Sounds fun, doesn’t it?!

Well, it’s going to be tough. And I’m going to very poor. But I embrace it, and I'm kind of EXCITED...

Please immediately dispel all pre-conceived expectations based on Carrie Bradshaw’s life from Sex and the City. As much as I would love to suggest that my life, at times, mimics or resembles hers, it sure is a lot more…well, REAL (I prefer calling it “a lot more real” over “a lot less sexy”). Sure, we both wear spandex every once in a while – but I actually SWEAT in mine. And yes, I have a silly blog, but getting paid to write a "Travels with Tavel" column is still a fantasy. Nevertheless, the comparisons are inevitable. In all honesty, I enjoy them. So I will try not to ruin the fantasy for anyone… especially myself.

As excited as I am to move out, the process and experience is far from glamorous. I am moving into a 4th-floor walk-up that sits smack in between two very Upper West Side Italian restaurants (this could turn out to be molto conveniente!). Part of me has always dreamed of living right above a restaurant or bar; there’s something very charming and inviting about the thought. For years, I have watched longingly as people walk up to their conveniently-situated apartments hoping someday I’d be one of them, and that at least one of those mysterious doors would become the entrance to my future home…

The bodega downstairs would immediately become my go-to grocery store for quick-fixes…

The guy who walks his dog at 7am every morning would become my friend…

The bus that screeches to a stop outside my doorstep every night would become my boisterous lullaby…

Looks like I'll finally have my street-side door! In this case, it will be followed by a staircase. The staircase is funny. It’s steep, but wide enough for two groups of people to pass each other when moving in opposite directions without awkward physical contact. However, each step is slightly slanted in alternating directions (some down on the right side, some down on the left side). It’s a bit odd, and maybe I’m the only one who’s noticed because it’s very subtle, but I couldn’t ignore that each time I walked up the steps I felt as if I was either drunk and trying to pretend I was sober (come on, we’ve ALL been there! ie: why is walking so difficult?! Why is this bar built on a slant?! Why does this pizza not fit in my mouth? HA!), or as if it was actually BUILT by drunk people. We’ll see how slanted that staircase is when I stumble home tipsy for the first time…

But this is what being young is all about, right? Those stairs, lopsided as they may be, will become MY stairs and part of MY daily life. In time, I will know which steps slant in which directions, and I'll eventually tell people to "watch out for that third step!" as they hike up to my apartment. Or I'll fall down the steps(pretty much a guarantee at some point) - but they'll still signify that I am HOME.

The search for my first REAL apartment in New York City was incredibly humbling. I didn’t realize that getting an apartment in Manhattan would become a process of crossing off one wish-list item after another, after another… This isn’t Martha Stewart Living, it’s the real world (reality show pun intended, I think). But owning something, calling some place home…THAT is when it becomes worth it. Independence is liberating, often in a masochistic way. There has to be some equivalent to beer goggles that all New York renters wear in order to convince ourselves that the apartments we live in are AWESOME. If they exist, I think I’m wearing them… To all you non-New Yorkers: don't you DARE tell me how much you pay for your spacious homes unless I ask.

I was ready to leave New York City behind and run in some other direction, any direction that would allow me to become a bigger fish in a smaller pond (and a warmer/sunnier pond, if possible). But I learned quickly that having the world at my doorstep (be it a 4th-floor walk-up or that of my parent’s home) is too open-ended. Too many options can be blinding. Maybe limitations are a good thing. Or at least, they make one opportunity more tangible. It’s one thing to have direction, but it’s another thing to have a little momentum to push you towards it. I’ve got direction, but no push, which leaves me standing still… and that’s no way to make positive changes.

As the editor of a magazine that gets published in late summer, I wasn’t planning to run away until the fall. I was seriously considering Philly, DC, and Buenos Aires. However, when the housing options open up like a buffet this time of year, it’s hard to pass up the meal. Last year, I passed on all the options, staying loyal to the girl with whom I intended to live, and much to my surprise: she fucked me over (do you sense the residual bitterness lingering like sediment at the bottom of a wine bottle?). That said, I was determined to catch the housing train this time around, and made moving out – not where, with whom, or for what job– my highest priority.

No matter how much one grows and matures after college, living at home is like wearing one of those ankle bracelets that monitor blood alcohol level; there’s only so much you can get away with, and you never feel 100% free (even if you are). It's impossible to accomplish all the things I want to achieve at the same time, so I had to prioritize, and sacrifice a couple of them (for now). I'm young, right?!

Like most New Yorkers, I am about to start paying much more than I can afford for a space that is much smaller than I would like, but it's about to become my own. The apartment is what I like to consider “good enough,” all for the priceless satisfaction of independence (and really, it’s cute! I’ve got an exposed brick wall! Hooray). Yes, I have thoroughly enjoyed living at home and all the benefits that have come along with it (great food, the lack of responsibility when something stops working, amazing views, getting to hang out with my 13-year-old brother every day, asking my dad to kill bugs, the ability to plan trips without guilt, and the imaginary “rent money” fund I started that allowed me to buy anything I wanted and simply pretend it went towards an imaginary rent bill I didn’t have to pay. Oh boy… am I going to miss that one!).

Despite the loss of so many perks (goodbye dishwasher! Hello Laundromat down the street!), there is a side of me that is just aching to make it all work. Suddenly I want things I’ve never wanted before (my own cherry tomato plant?! a fancy food processor?! fun towels and colorful cups?!). I’m almost embarrassed by these desires. But alas, they are real.

Nowhere is it MORE discouraging to feel domestic. Not only does NYC have the highest prices (my rent alone makes me wonder if I really need a sofa…or a TV… or toilet paper? Ah fuck it, I DO!). You are given a space to call your own that is so small, not only can you barely afford furniture, but you barely have anywhere to put it! It’s like the real estate gods are constantly laughing at us, watching as we struggle to build a life while encountering obstacle after obstacle.

I plan to switch more things up this coming year. But for now, when someone asks me "what’s next?", I’ll just tell them that I am moving out. It's a big change, and one I need. The rest of the “what’s next?” question remains slightly daunting, but I know I'll figure it out. It’s kind of like being in a lecture class in college, when just as you were checking out how nicely the worn-in grey t-shirt clings to the shoulders and back of that senior soccer player sitting two rows ahead of you, the professor starts searching the room for a lost soul to answer a question you didn’t even hear him ask. When he corners you and calls your name in front of the entire class, SOMEHOW, you always come up with the right answer.

[Sigh of relief.]

Well, I’m answering questions about life one step at a time. Often, I do feel like I’m walking in Carrie Bradshaw’s shoes down the gritty streets of Manhattan in a world that seems to have it all figured out. Or at least I am channeling her through my much less stylish and promiscuous version of her fabulous life. But the truth is, I could never get up four flights of stairs in her Manolo Blahniks. My Havaiiana flip-flops will be much more suitable.

Adrift on the Harlem

2008-05-06T15:19:00.002-04:00

It’s been days (dare I say weeks?!) since I last posted. I fear I have let my loyal Bloganimal readers down, and I am sorry. Where was I when you needed to kill time? Where was I at 4pm on Friday when productivity was running its final lap of the week? Nowhere! And yet, I lie. I have been here all along, living out little moments worth blogging about, selfishly keeping them all to myself. But that is going to change.

I started this blog because I think life is funny. I wanted an outlet that would allow me to reflect on the humor and wonder that arises from every day interactions (both mundane and eccentric) and experiences (particularly the ones that mark change/growth, or just the straight up crazy ones!). The fact that people tune in voluntarily is still secretly exciting to me. So, am I going to give this thing up? NOPE. I’m back. And I will attempt to be more consistent, and reliable.

I have to begin with ROWING. [Why do I already sense that half of you are cringing with boredom? Then again, if you weren't already bored, you probably wouldn't be reading my nonsense...]

Yup, it’s that time of year again! With rowing comes pre-5am wake-ups followed by long train rides to the northern tip of Manhattan in half-empty cars full of very sleepy people, and an awkward shift in lifestyle (which I've finally gotten used to). The morning-heavy days create a surreal existence that is shared by the few people who utilize the secret pre-sunrise hours. But we must go about the rest of the day pretending we're just like everyone else (only a tiny bit sleepier).

Early morning interactions are different from “normal” interactions; they are uniquely optimistic, surprisingly un-awkward (given that we all look like we just rolled out of bed together and are prancing around wearing mostly skin-tight spandex, holding long – often wet – heavy objects shaped like… well, I guess they’re just long), and strangely uplifting. But, people are generally a little more confused (ie: why are all these people awake, too?!). All of this makes things more fun, in my book.

Every time I tell people that I wake up at 4:50am to row on the Harlem three times a week before work, they look at me like a pigeon just shat on my head. It’s a combination of pity and disgust, but also: wonder. I feel the need to explain myself. Yes, you are all correct – it’s a bit ridiculous. But love cannot be explained – right? And rowing is the kind of sport that quickly weeds out those who “like it” from those who “adore it and will wake up at the butt-crack of dawn to do it.” I guess you just have to trust that there is something special – I hesitate to use the word “magical” – about rowing on water that resembles glass while the world carries on without you. Ahh… but I’ve said it all before.

Sometimes rowing bliss is replaced by a little drama on the dock. Most of the time, I find things funnier in spandex. In fact, the other day, while you were all drooling in your sleep, I almost became driftwood on the Harlem River.

During the past year of rowing on the Harlem, I have witnessed several disgusting things floating in the water. I have no intention of becoming one of them (unless I have an oar or two in my hands and am in a boat, although I like to think that I’m not disgusting). Objects have included: shoes (presumably worn), beer bottles/cans/boxes (presumably enjoyed at one point, unfortunately not by yours truly), condoms (YUP, presumably used), and a dead dog (presumably not the only carcass to reside in the river’s depths).

Go ahead. Throw up in your mouth. [Hehe, I’m gross…]

Seven rowers showed up at the boathouse itching to row despite the cold bite in the morning air. In this sport, seven is not a friendly number, so – to save everyone the time and trouble of diplomacy – I volunteered to ride the launch with a guy (Michael) who had just been launch-trained (having a launch with the boats at all times is a mandatory security measure).

While the rowers were setting up a quad and double (along with oars), Michael and I hopped in the launch (I was bundled in a tank top, long-sleeve shirt, sweatshirt, and fellow rower’s sweatshirt to be used as a blanket over my spandex-clad legs – oh, and wearing the required life jacket. I looked AWESOME.). We threw some gear into the back of the launch and got on board. Michael had the key to turn on the boat, so I untied it from the dock. After untying it (as I was instructed to do), Michael turned the key… No juice. He turned it again, and again: nothing. He applied some gas, tried to start the motor… Nothing. After a couple of these: “huh…that’s odd…” (hehehe) we noticed the “low oil” light flashing. Huh… Odd…

Meanwhile, since we were no longer tied to the dock (which we didn’t anticipate to be a bad thing), the launch started drifting ever-so-slowly away. Before we knew it, we were too far away from the dock to hop off the boat, and we had no motor to power us back. All our rowers were already on the water and WE were supposed to be taking care of THEM! There were a few sharp piers and docks in the shallow water nearby that would have been very damaging to crash into. Things weren’t looking very good.

Then came the moment – that moment when you think to yourself… uhhh ohhhh! What should we DO?! (Hehehe.) I tried to get the attention of some of the college rowers at the boathouse while Michael played around with the motor, but nobody noticed my flailing arms or bright orange life jacket (hmmm). Luckily, we had one extra long oar on board, so we did what any rower would think to do: we took that one oar and did our very best to row the large launch back to the dock.

It took a flustered few minutes, but eventually Michael was able to hop off the boat at an ODD angle while I tried to row it parallel to the dock (praying my new teammate wouldn’t let go of the tiny, shriveled rope that connected us). The entire situation lasted about 15-20 minutes.

Finally safe ashore, Michael ran to see if we could use another boat while I tied the launch to the dock. He asked me to grab the bullhorn, which I did, and sure enough… as if I wasn’t flustered already, I managed to grab it by the button that turns on the emergency HONKING sound!!! (Ugh, I’m an idiot.) Having never HELD or USED a bullhorn, which was screaming loudly in my hands for help we no longer needed (at 6 in the morning – my bad, people of Harlem!), I tried to figure out how to turn it off. (YOU try figuring out a new piece of equipment with a fire engine parked right behind you!) The sound was so loud and I was creating such a scene, I just rushed it over to Michael (completely frazzled), who just took it and pushed the PAINFULLY obvious “off” switch. Ooops.

The funny part is what COULD have happened, and the fact that none of you were even awake throughout this entire ordeal! I mean, if we drifted off onto the Harlem, who would have saved us?! Who would have even noticed?!

By the time I got to work, I was buzzing from the chaotic whirlwind of a morning that left me without a workout, and almost shipwrecked – urban style. What I should have done is blog about it immediately, but instead, I let myself drift towards other, more effortless distractions.

That will change. I’m ready to put in the work again. While I worry that most blog-readers don’t care to read about my rowing excitement, I have to be honest: there will probably be more tales from the Harlem before the summer ends. This, bullhorns and all, is my life. THIS is the funny stuff I feel compelled to write about. And if you are a true fan of The Bloganimal, you will laugh with me (and not at me).

[Something is better than nothing, right?!]

Wait

2008-04-18T16:01:00.003-04:00

Last night, I received a small envelope from one of the two universities I applied to for graduate school. The small envelope was a quick indication that the next two years of my life were not going to be spent trudging through writing assignments in graduate school. (TOTALLY ok – as one graduate of the program told me today: “I think you dodged a bullet.” Something in my gut tells me he is right…). Ever since I dropped off my application at the post office in early January, I anticipated only two possible results: acceptance or rejection. Upon receiving the small envelope, my destiny now pointed in only one direction. But as I opened it, I realized there was one option I never even considered for a MOMENT: being wait-listed. Oh, CRAP.

What was I supposed to feel?! My gut reaction: relief. But… bah! The wait-list! I didn’t get rejected… hooray! I didn’t get in… Hmph. Or maybe, I sort of did? (Must channel inner optimist…) The letter read something like this: “On behalf of the admissions committee, I’m happy to inform you that you have been added to the wait list…” I think they even congratulated me, too. They might as well have bought me a bottle of champagne and told me – For you to enjoy looking at – just DON’T open it!

Of course, now I’m a little thirsty for some champagne. It’s hard to see it just SITTING there…

The wait-list sort of means I am good enough, but there were too many people who were good enough, right? RIGHT?! It’s kind of like being in a race that results in a tie. Nobody HOPES to tie, but if you expect to lose, a tie is a relief. On the other hand, if you expect to win, a tie is disappointing. I expected to lose – to be rejected. Therefore, to me, getting wait-listed is like being told “Listen…You know I like you. If I could accept triple the amount of people I have space for, I’d want you! But, I sort of CAN’T do that… So, in case my math was way off, I want to know if you’re willing to beg to get in. But otherwise, that bottle of champagne would make a great paper-weight!” Hey – considering I’m not even positive I want to go to grad school right now, I’ll take the non-rejection!

The one problem with being wait-listed is that I am not cured of limbo status. It’s like being stuck in an airport: you’re not here, you’re not there… you’re just sort of in the middle. It’s almost as if I never even applied! Nothing has been resolved. And, that doesn’t really help me get where I want to go, so I might have to just start walking in another direction now… Maybe what I really want is just to be allowed to walk.

This morning, I realized that being in one’s mid-twenties is like being wait-listed for adulthood. We’re all in varying stages of limbo (well, most of us at least) and it’s pretty interesting to watch us all bump around against the walls we’re building around our lives. I kind of like that the walls are still low enough to see over, but I worry that they’re going up a little quicker than I’d like them to.

I’m still learning what an odd time in life this is. Fun, interesting, inspiring, exciting… but sometimes a little scary! I don’t think I’m alone when I say that it is full of stopping and going and getting jerked around a little bit by changes (and maybe, in some cases, jerks). I’m sort of perplexed by it all. Every time I finally get to stop and smell the roses, it seems like I get tired of the roses and want to find new roses to stop and smell. Maybe even lilacs or lilies instead. There is both pressure to find stability and pressure not to settle for less than what we are capable of – but all I’m trying to figure out right now is what I AM capable of, and how the heck to get to what might be my highest potential. (And, of course, finding a few other little things along the way…like LOVE and HAPPINESS, Simple, right?)

Eh…

It’s ok. I embrace this confusing yet hopeful rollercoaster decade of waiting and not waiting, wondering and risk-taking… I’m currently faced with the luxury (and burden?) of having to make many decisions about my life (dare I say I might be ready to leave NYC?!). For now, while I may feel stuck at my desk at work on a perfect Friday afternoon, I’m happy to be sitting still while only my mind wanders.

I embrace my mid-twenties, as I hope you all do too, with a bottle of champagne nearby that is just waiting for the right moment to be popped open. Hope is a fickle friend, but one I do not plan on losing…

A Sip of Portugal

2008-04-04T15:57:00.006-04:00

I have to admit that my impression of Portugal feels somewhat unfinished and raw, like paint that’s slowly drying in a distant room. I am not 100% sure what to make of it because I feel as if I have only been able to skim the surface of its true identity. Like paint setting, the color has been chosen and the work has been done; all I can do now is sit and wait for the paint to set before I decide if I love the color (which of course, I chose), or only like it. What I’m saying is that I think I needed more time to wander the misleadingly muted streets of Lisbon before I could confidently declare that I loved it, but at least I can say that I DEFINITELY liked it a lot.

Maybe my trip to Portugal was a milestone in my world travels; maybe I have hit the point at which I can no longer see a country through virgin eyes [joke opportunity – go for it]. Now, everywhere I visit can be broken down by comparing the elements that make it both similar and different from other countries I have visited. Yet, defining each unique culture in terms of another unique culture seems unfair, like a copout. Especially for a country like Portugal, which may appear small compared to its closest neighbors, but it was from the beaches of this slither of a country that some of the world’s most famous navigators took on the enigma (I’m not saying “peacefully”) of the rest of the world (or at least that's the romantic version of the story).

As I walked from the hotel towards the commercial center of Lisbon in a sleep-deprived daze with my family, I had trouble seeing the city as its own entity. The closer we got to the water, the more I was reminded of Spain. I had to keep telling myself I was in LISBON (sometimes I prefer when it is rubbed in my face). The city seemed like an unraveling display (almost like a virtually-realistic slideshow) of other places I’d been. As I walked, I noticed fragments of Brussels in the way the trees obscured buildings behind them, Barcelona in each sea breeze and the ironwork of each balcony, and Buenos Aires when we came across open plazas (I believe those three cities would be the exact ingredients if I had to start from scratch and cook up Portugal). The city felt like a giant jigsaw puzzle of different European cities, and I wanted it to feel only like Portugal (which I had yet to identify). But it was only the first day, so I gave Lisbon some slack.

Only after my first-impressions had been vaguely set was I able to begin seeing Portugal’s true spirit. Little by little, I am allowing it to occupy its own original patch of an intricate and cohesive European quilt.

One of the definite highlights of this trip was the food. We were never disappointed, and sometimes over-satisfied (unbuttoning-of-the-pants became routine at dinner!). Holy MOLY! [Wait...STOP – who says that? Does anybody say that anymore? Am I going to get made fun of for this one? OK...Go.]. Immediately upon sitting down at a table, waiters would float around us like we were on stage for the freakin’ Nutcracker ballet, placing dishes of sautéed mushrooms and cheese (served in its own bowl-shaped shell) beside baskets of homemade bread and dishes of olives and herbs. A circular top was always cut out of the cheese and placed on top, slightly open like a jack-o-lantern. Once-lifted, it would reveal a smooth, creamy, off-white hot bath of sheep’s milk cheese whose warm aroma came in varying degrees of sharpness. Bread basket after bread basket, we’d fill up on the heavenly cheese like we were Hansel and Gretal, unaware that it was a trap! The restaurants were trying to kill us with deliciousness by serving us course after course, the quantity unbeknownst to us, of savory delicacies, from seafood and pasta to duck and pork. Much to my vegetarian younger sister’s dismay, octopus – suction cups and all – was often in the mix (which we bravely tasted enough to say we enjoyed it, but I think it was only a “when in Portugal…” situation).

Another highlight of the trip was the architectural details of the palaces and monasteries we encountered both in and outside of the city. Yup, I'm a Jewish gal who LOVES a good church or cathedral! Hit me with a monastary on a trip and I'm GOLDEN! But it has nothing to do with religion, for me. Some of the most memorable places we saw (Queluz Palace) leaned towards the traditional Versaille and Topkapi elegance, while others (Palacio de Pena) seemed playful and funky, like Gaudi more than anyone else.

For me, there is something exhilarating about standing in a 17th or 18th century palace, whether it is the dining room or the garden, looking up and around at the rich displays of opulence that once adorned the lives of royalty. I get a thrill just by pausing and acknowledging the skill involved in creating every detail (and wondering what would happen if one of those insane chandeliers came crashing down when I walk by). (Oh how the world has changed…) The high ceilings, the classical sculptures – it all just transports me, perhaps to exactly where I am standing more than anywhere else. Sometimes just being there isn’t enough to feel it all (that Feist song is now officially stuck in my head for the rest of the afternoon); sometimes you need that extra outside stimulus to smack you in the face and say “HEY, LADY! Don’t you realize where you are?” That’s what a good sea breeze or palace can do to you. I guess, in the end, it’s those experiences that smack me in the face – whether it’s a foreign-tasting treat (HELLO pasteis de belem… mmmm), a sip of port with dessert (obrigada!), or a simple uplifting sight/sound/sensation – that make the experience of traveling so inspiring -- and a little more real.

What can I say? Portugal was beautiful. However, it seemed to have many personalities, and I couldn’t figure out which one dominated. I felt like I was in Europe, but only at times was I 100% there rather than in my head somewhere. Traveling with the family is completely different from traveling alone or with friends (yeah yeah, I know that’s how it is for everyone – but there were a LOT of Tavels in that city, and it’s never a PERFECTLY smooth ride, but we do our best!).

But I won't feel satisfied with this entry if I don't acknowledge what I thought made Portugal special. When I think about the country now, a few things make it stand out from the rest of Europe (that I have seen). Aesthetically, I truly enjoyed the colorful tiles (mostly blue, green and white) that adorned the exteriors of numerous buildings. I found the Portuguese people more friendly and open than the average European I have encountered in other countries. I loved their pride – their constant assertion that THEY are the country from which the rest of the world was “discovered” and explored, that THEY were the ones who first began the tradition of afternoon tea (which was claimed by the British), that THEIR language is as important and significant as any other (and evident in many of the words we use today, even in America). But THEY have only didactic intentions; the Portuguese people want to share their culture with others, not impose it on you or blow off some steam.

Maybe Portugal has a tiny chip on its shoulder. It reminds of Cataluña, how they feel they must assert and maintain their language and culture despite the pressure from the rest of the world to make everyone’s life simpler by diluting it with Spanish, French, German or English. I loved that I could hold an entire conversation with someone by speaking Spanish while they spoke Portuguese. I couldn’t speak Portuguese at all but, even though you KNOW they can speak a little Spanish, they didn't even make an effort. Yet we could understand each other all the same, without the Portuguese having to compromise. And it worked out because I always feel slightly guilty when I can't speak someone else's language and they, of course, can speak mine. Ah, the blessing and the curse of being an American traveler.

Lisbon seemed a little rougher around the edges than some of the more gleaming, proud European cities (like Paris, Rome and London -- possibly the three most obvious ones). Those cities would be the jocks and gifted artists of Europe while Lisbon felt more like the smart kid who’s been bullied around a little by a tangled history. Comparing Lisbon to South American cities is easy for me, as Portugal felt (surprisingly) just as similar to Argentina as it was to Spain (from what I could tell). But I liked that the culture wasn’t oppressively on display, that you weren’t FORCED to remember you were in Portugal every second, that it was a little bit grittier than I expected. Because when you turn around a nondescript corner and peek down another gorgeous, narrow cobble-stoned street, lanterns shimmer against old stone walls of homes that don’t try too hard to look pretty, and old, colorful doors make you wonder what’s behind them...

Portugal's got all the elements of a beautiful European country that it needs to be special, except its left the bragging rights out. And just like the delicious, burgundy-colored port wine that melts you into your heavy wooden chair every evening, I found the place to be quite wonderful, and obscurely refreshing.

The Dime

2008-03-19T11:41:00.002-04:00

Last Friday, my coworkers and I went out to lunch at a nearby Italian restaurant called Nonna. Following the meal, my Greek coworker (Fani), my squirrel-obsessed coworker (Casey – see the entry THE OFFICE for more details on her…hehe), and I decided to swing by a deli to grab some candy/gum/Vitamin Water (respectively) before heading back into the office.

When we walked in, I was surprised to find a familiar man buying a lighter at the counter. This man had been a recognizable face since I was in sixth grade. He lives in the same neighborhood I work and went to school in, and for years, he has maintained the exact same habits on the exact same street corner. I have always seen him around, and never had any desire to get too close to him; he's got one of those silent personalities that stand out from the millions of people who wander the sidewalks, but not necessarily in a good way. Most notably, I always felt a little perplexed by and curious about how constantly stressed out he appears. The way he swigs each cigarette, one after the other, inhaling deeply while he paces around the same pay phone every day has always been a bit unsettling. But until last Friday, I was able to endure over ten years of seeing him without ever having to interact.

As far as I can tell, he has spent 50% of the last 15 years chain-smoking outside a nondescript deli on the Upper West Side (in fact, I have never seen him beyond a one-block radius). He’s about 5’11”, with pale skin (despite the amount of time he spends outside smoking, he looks as if he hasn’t seen sunlight in years), and he only wears dark, drab, ragged looking clothing. No matter what he does, he exudes anxiety. I wonder what his apartment looks like... Often, I see him talking to himself or scratching his black, greasy hair, which falls across his tormented face like wet angel hair pasta. The man needs a job, a shower, and maybe even a nice foot massage (once he’s all cleaned up).

Now, after years of avoiding this guy, I found myself directly behind him at the deli. Of course, he was buying a lighter – of all things – and I was excited to see how he interacted with someone for the first time. He actually seemed pretty nice, which was surprising, but reassuring. After he had paid for his lighter, I quickly paid for my Vitamin Water. As I was putting my change into my wallet, I accidentally dropped a shiny little dime on the floor. Just as I was about to lean down and pick it up, the greasy-haired chain-smoker dropped down and picked it up. Thinking he was about to hand it over to me (because OBVIOUSLY I had just dropped it, not him) I let the fragments of the word “thank” come out of my mouth.

“Oh…Thhha…”

But BEFORE the N and the K of THANK you came out, I realized a sudden turn of events was about to occur. The man did NOT give me my dime. He snatched it, and headed right for the exit! HA!!!! I’m such a SILLY New Yorker for thinking this man would actually jump down to pick up my dime and hand it over to me. But come on, is chivalry (even amongst the crazy people) so dead in this city?!

Now, the mystery has been slightly cracked. Every time I see this dude, I will not wonder about him and what he’s thinking about, or why he feels the need to smoke so many cigarettes. Maybe he has an apartment full of furniture made out of the dimes he's collected from clumsy, rushed New Yorkers. And maybe he's always stressed out because he never knows who will drop their change next?!

I don't know. But I do know that every time I see him from now on, I will remember my dime dropping to the dirty floor, and having my faith in mankind shaken when, after an instinctual assumption that he would be kind and hand it over to me, he simply grabbed it and ran out the door. Did I need it back? Nah. In all honesty, I can't think of a more perfect way to have finally interacted with this guy. It's worth the ten cents.

Hawaii

2008-03-11T10:39:00.008-04:00

It occurred to me (and, yes, some of you pointed it out) that I didn’t really say much about my actual impression of Hawaii, so I am going to do that now (for those of you that are curious). I only really visited one island – The Big Island, Hawaii (unless you want to include my flustered two hours in Maui!) – so my understanding is limited. Of course, if you read my last posting, you’ll understand that getting to Hawaii can be quite a journey. Maybe this entry will help you determine if the extensive journey is worth it for you.

Before my trip, thoughts of Hawaii conjured up images of tropical beaches with white and black sand spilling into transparent blue water. I could imagine the constant ocean breeze sweetly scented by white, yellow and magenta flowers, the varying fragrances bursting from lush, green scenery like fireworks. I anticipated an island full of tan men in loin cloths and women with long dark hair in straw skirts hula dancing all day with coconut tops on. Ha. JUST KIDDING. (Geez!) But, scenery aside, I wasn’t really sure what to expect. Would I find Hawaii as stunning as its reputation suggests? Or, would I be disappointed by the constant reminders that I was still in the United States?

I guess it was a little bit of both. Hawaii seems to lead a double-life, both on the island (with the contrasting lifestyles of locals and tourists) and in the travel books/magazines; some praise it as a heavenly archipelago, demonstrative of nature’s ability to make us swoon whenever we’re given a perfect sunset, while others bash the state for pimping out its natural beauty to greedy tourists who care more about their tans than the Hawaiian culture – a culture whose history is not really covered in US History classes in high school. As is often the case, my expectations weren’t all wrong… But they weren’t all right either.

Hawaii is an interesting place with contrasting qualities. Its identity as part of the United States is the first indication that there is something confusing going on. For me, this question arose: If you stay in the country, even if it’s not on the mainland, how much of an escape are you really getting? Some things cannot be left behind. By nature, Hawaii is as detached from the mainland as it is connected to it. Perhaps united in spirit, the islands of Hawaii have evolved from a blending of cultures that is entirely separate from the rest of the US. At first glance, it does appear to be paradisiacal (who would not be taken aback by the sight of volcanoes bursting out of a landscape, or jet-black lava spilled all across the island, jagged and hard from time and erosion, speckled with white and pink coral resting under the calmly swaying palm trees?), but the ugly aspects of American living have bled into the pristine island scenery, staining it with fast food restaurants and (fine, I’ll say it!) the occasional Starbucks. Luckily, these patches of shops and restaurants are found in clusters, generally a good distance from the beaches and hotels. This is nice for the tourists, but not so nice for the permanent residents (why should the prettiest parts of their island be reserved for the visitors?).

Throughout the islands, locals keep mostly to themselves, slightly resentful (or so it seems) of their island that is constantly awash with visitors who have very little understanding of what it is like to actually live there. Life is expensive (for example, combine the high gas prices with the need to drive everywhere), and jobs aren’t very lucrative, making local life seem more humble than one might expect of the so-called “paradise.” However, the most popular jobs revolve around tourism (ie: hotel, resort, restaurant/bar, and beach jobs), which is more reminiscent of less-wealthy countries, like Jamaica, where the #1 export is Red Stripe beer and the #1 source of income is tourism. But we’re still talking about the US, here. This makes for a strange dynamic in the relationship between American tourists and locals. I guess it’s safe to say that, while we may be from the same country, there’s definitely more separating us than an ocean. But I guess that’s the way America works.

Initially, I was a bit unsure where I had ended up. I went to Hawaii expecting it to feel as exotic as other tropical places I’ve been, like Barbados, Mexico, Costa Rica, and Nevis. But, I found myself feeling less far away than a map might indicate. Don’t get me wrong – it was GORGEOUS (we don’t have lava rock beaches and brackish ponds surrounded by palm trees in Manhattan!) but there was a depth to the culture that I felt was always slightly out-of-reach for tourists. The most common and apparent display of culture is a lei, which to many, offers a plethora of pun-related jokes, rather than insight into the Hawaiian culture. I felt like I had crossed the tracks into someone else’s gorgeous backyard, and I wasn’t totally welcome there. But at the same time, it was sort of my land, too, I think. In the end, I didn’t feel as far away from home as the hours it took to get there might suggest.

But let’s talk fruit for a second. This is one area where I was a little disappointed. I had been looking forward to sinking my teeth into some delicious fresh fruit, especially fruit I don't normally eat. When I was in the fourth grade and my family was visiting a Club Med in Ixtapa, Mexico, I remember sitting by the pool on a hot, hot day in the shade of mango trees that stood all around me. At the time, I had never had a mango before. But after a couple had dropped right by my chair, my mom picked one of the green and red fruits off the ground, peeled it in her plastic white pool chair, and handed it over for me to try. Hesitantly, I took a little nibble out of the mysterious, glowing yellow meat. It was absolutely INCREDIBLE. I sat there in my bathing suit by the turquoise swimming pool, devouring that mango like it was my job. I remember thinking that nothing had ever tasted as PERFECT as that fruit in my hands. It was so delicious I wanted to eat it forever! My face was covered in juice, which dripped down both my arms. I think I ate three mangos in a row that afternoon, and I didn’t want to ever stop. Mangos have been my favorite fruit (or at least in the top 3) ever since. The sun, the pool, the sweet mango tree raining ripe fruit on me and my siblings… That right there was THE PERFECT MANGO, and I don’t think I will ever find one that compares. (But that doesn't stop me from searching...)

Then there was the time I was on a volunteer trip in Costa Rica. We rented a van and drove five hours from the mountains of Cartago to a beach town called Manuel Antonio – one of the most perfect and fun beaches I have discovered, to date. We arrived early at around 10am, anxious for a day in the sun. After sitting in the sand for 30-minutes, I said to my friend and roommate at the time, Lesley, “you know what would be absolutely perfect right now? A chilled coconut. Doesn’t that just sound amazing!” I didn’t even know if they sold coconuts nearby. Lesley agreed and we sat there for another five minutes before, low and behold, a local tico (with a machete) came over to us with a cooler full of coconuts asking if we wanted to buy an ice-cold coconut for $1. WHAT?! ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME? Our answer: YES!! He pulled out his machete, hacked off the top of two coconuts, stuck a straw in them and, that was that – the perfect, most delicious, most cool and refreshing coconut I have ever had. After sipping all the coconut milk, I slammed the coconuts against each other to crack them open and we practically inhaled the meat in delight. We agreed that, at that moment, there was absolutely nothing in the world that could make life better.

If there is another perfect mango or coconut, or maybe even a perfect banana, or star fruit, or watermelon out there, then I would hope it can be found somewhere like Hawaii. Au contraire! (Ha, is that how you say it? I don’t even know.) The fruit I experienced in Hawaii was… sad…lifeless, even. It lacked all the magic of that mango in Mexico and that coconut in Costa Rica, and reminded me of unripe fruit I buy at the Broadway Farm (my local gourmet bodega – the NYC alternative to “supermarket”) in the dead of winter. Not so impressive for an island that wears the mask of paradise. Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe it was the timing. All I know is that it will be a very long time before Hawaii gets a second chance…

Wait… I worry that I’ve been too negative in my evaluation of Hawaii. Let me quickly reiterate that it is gorgeous and refreshingly simple. The photos speak for themselves. I had an incredible stay there and had nothing to complain about while I was there (but, boy did I WORK to get there). Life on the islands moves like one would when walking down a sandy shoreline. There is no honking. People smile and are friendly to you. The radio is mostly Hawaiian cover bands singing main-stream music and reggae, which just makes me close my eyes and smile as the wind blows through my hair. There are few restaurants to choose from (but all that I sampled were pretty good) and, on the Big Island, there is very little nightlife. The temperature never goes above 85 degrees and can be as low as 20 degrees on the top of Mauna Kea volcano. The beach is spectacular and clean, and humpback whales swim in the distance while sea turtles sunbathe on the shore.

In many ways, Hawaii is like any other beach destination: it provides an escape from the hustle and bustle of daily life by surrounding you with serenity and natural beauty, which can be enjoyed from your plastic beach chair while sand dries around your sun-kissed toes. But, in my case, I never had an unforgettable mango or a perfectly-timed coconut. The most memorable aspects of my trip were catching a glimpse of a whale during a hike across lava rock with my friends, and encountering a shamelessly naked hiker wearing nothing but a backpack. Oooh, and I can't deny that feeling of excitement and happiness and FREEDOM I felt when I approached the beach for the first time - the water glittering, the sunlight streaming down, the waves crashing loudly with not a seagull nearby...

Now I'm remembering the beautiful yellow and red birds that kept fluttering around us, and the highway where white coral formations spelled words against the lava, functioning as natural graffiti. The air felt so clean. The water, so transparent and crisp. Roads wrapped around foggy green hills filled with cattle and chickens. Coffee plantations (cheers to Kona coffee!) filled in open spaces. The land seemed quiet, lush, and still. I can't ignore that I felt wonderfully satisfied and, like my surroundings, still and at ease.

I crave the exotic and look for places that offer me something different from anywhere I have ever been, and while I didn’t necessarily feel that when I was on the Big Island of Hawaii, I found beauty almost everywhere I turned. Almost everywhere.

In the end, I’d say Hawaii’s reputation is accurate; while it might be as gorgeous as one might expect of “paradise,” it is sort of anticlimactic. Hawaii isn’t all surfers and tiki torches and leis. It isn’t all hula dancing, straw skirts, and coconut tops (sorry to disappoint). But it sure is beautiful. I guarantee that when you’re sitting on the beach watching boogie boarders and surfers tackle the waves, and when you notice the flowers around you, or the palms and volcanoes behind you, you’re not worried about ranking it, and you're not thinking about where else you’d rather be; you don’t want to be anywhere else.

Hawaii didn’t rock my world; it simply let me escape from it. And maybe that’s all I ever asked it to do...

In Pursuit of Aloha

2008-02-25T11:58:00.005-05:00

I knew that going to Hawaii seemed too good to be true – even to me. I was randomly invited to stay for free at a college friend’s family condo in Kona, and within 12 hours of being invited I had purchased my tickets. Unlike my usual busy-busy see-and-eat-as-much-as-possible-on-no-sleep vacations, this one was intended to be a "real" vacation (as I like to call it). My goal: to hit pause on life, to feel every grain of sand between my toes, smell every ocean breeze and flower, and feel every ray of sunshine in a state of mental bliss (and see one of my BEST friends of all time – Hawaii Heather – as much as possible). Every time I said the words "I am going to Hawaii," I could see envy build up behind people's eyes – envy I didn't believe I deserved because it didn't FEEL like I was really going. Hawaii seems more like a synonym for paradise than a place on a map, but now I can say that I’ve been there. But getting to that tiny dot on a map… Well, that resulted from an odd series of both tragic and miraculous events.

When it's only been three hours into your vacation and you've already started taking notes so that you remember all the details to include in the blog entry you must write about the experience, that's when you know it's going to be a long trip (and, as you have probably already realized, a long blog entry). What was already expected to be a lengthy and arduous trip (two six hour flights with a 1 hour layover in Los Angeles) was about to get even longer. My travel experience made me feel like I was on some disgusting hybrid show that combined 24 with The Amazing Race. Unfortunately, it took more than 24 hours to complete the journey and there was no $1 million prize at stake. But, in the end, just having a vacation felt better than a million bucks.

I will start from the beginning.

Everything was off to a great start. I was picked up by the JB Express (shout out!) who had gotten me a tall chai latte for the ride, which also seemed like too perfect a way to start things off (I couldn't even finish it because my stomach was in knots in anticipation of pending obstacles. You might not believe me, but I KNEW things weren't going to go well… I have a sixth sense for this shit!). The ride was pleasant, and I got to the airport with plenty of time to sit and stare at people (hehe, WHAT? It’s true) before boarding the plane.

After boarding my 2:30pm American Airlines flight to LAX, I was seated next to a guy with rough, sunburned skin who was about 5'5'', approximately 40 years old, and had the crazy blonde hair of an aged surfer boy. He was very talkative, which – at the time – I didn't really mind, so we sat on the plane chatting about our jobs as we taxied across the tarmac to position ourselves for takeoff.

In the main cabin, a couple of rows ahead of me in the middle aisle, everyone started noticing a BEEP… BEEP… BEEP sound, much like the clock sound that is played at commercial breaks for the show 24. Eventually, the flight attendants decided they needed to find the source of the beeping. After all, we were on an oversold flight from JFK to LAX on the Friday evening of a holiday weekend – a perfect target, some might say, although nobody wanted to express this out loud. The beeping was impossible to ignore. It sounded like the one thing that NOBODY would say (there is an unspoken rule that you cannot say “bomb” on an airplane). I started thinking of ways I would dodge an explosion, if need be (I kid you not – go ahead, make fun of me) – just in case. When the flight attendants started getting nervous and phoning the pilot, the guy sitting directly UNDER the beeping sound started to get nervous, too. But most people just wanted to get to LA as soon as possible.

An hour after boarding, when we were #3 to takeoff, the pilot decided the safest thing to do would be to taxi on back to the gate, keep everyone on the plane, and have a mechanic – and if necessary, security – get on the plane and investigate the "suspicious beeping sound" coming from the middle of the main cabin. Twenty minutes later, we were back at the gate, unable to get off the plane while they turned each engine off, and eventually back on, one at a time. Luckily, the mechanic was extremely efficient and confidently determined that the beeping sound was actually a squeaking sound coming from the red light on top of the plane. Every time it spun in a circle, it squeaked. I now know that squeaking is MUCH better than beeping, whatever the scenario, and was very pleased to hear that we had been cleared by security to get back on the runway.

Of course, by then it was about 5:30 pm on the Friday of a holiday weekend at one of the busiest airports in the country. After another 30 minutes of sitting on the plane, the captain came on the speakers to tell us "the good news:” that “we are now #18 for takeoff, so please sit tight." Apparently, he appreciated our patience.

By the time we were in the air, I knew I was in for a long night. I left NYC three hours late, which didn't bode well for my one-hr layover in LA. And, how wonderful, I had a five and a half hour flight to sit through, KNOWING my connecting flight was going to leave without me (and with all my friends that I was supposed to meet in LA). FANTASTIC!

I didn't bring food on the plane because I have only been on international flights over the past few years and had no idea that national flights no longer serve ANY food! Not even peanuts or pretzels! What's a girl with high metabolism (meTAVELism!) supposed to do?! Luckily, the guy sitting next to me – Rocky (I kid you not, that was his name) – INSISTED on giving me half of his buffalo chicken wrap. Thank goodness. He also bought a total of six bottles of red wine and tried to buy me some (in addition to another sandwich), but I refused the wine and bought myself the sandwich.

Finally, we arrived at LAX. I knew I had to act quickly, so I sprinted off the plane to make sure I was the first one on line at the ticket desk to figure out what the heck my options were. I've actually never had to go through the trouble of missing a connecting flight, especially not alone, so I wanted to make sure I dealt with the situation appropriately. It was becoming very clear that my travel luck had just run out – but I wasn't going to let it run out easily. Sure enough, a line slowly formed behind me of about 20 other people who missed their connections. As I waited for someone to help me, a woman was being dragged off my plane (yes, dragged, yes MY PLANE) belligerently drunk. Apparently, she had too much wine and was throwing a fit when the flight attendants decided to cut her off. She proceeded to kick the police officers who had been waiting for her at the gate, screaming "WHY DON'T YOU JUST KILL ME ALREADY?! JUST FUCKING KILL ME!!!! You're all going to HELL! DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME!" with children and parents looking on (and the entire terminal – a few hundred people, I'd estimate) in DEAD SILENCE. She kept screaming and kicking as cops got their sticks out – just in case – and pinned her on the ground to handcuff her. Now, this was all going on RIGHT next to me. Meaning, I was actually afraid this woman might squirm away and grab my leg or something… but I HAD to stay in that line and get sorted out. Eventually, after screaming and crying and cursing, the woman was dragged out of the terminal with the entire airport staring at her as she screamed "GO AHEAD, EVERYONE. WATCH THE CRAZY WOMAN LEAVE! I CAN'T FUCKING BELIEVE THIS! YOU'RE ALL GOING TO HELLLLLLL!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHH!" And then she was gone. I, on the other hand, was still in LA.

The woman at the desk told everyone in line that she would only help me because her shift ended an hour ago and she was GOING home. People got pissed, she got pissed back, and they all went to the American Airlines office to figure out their options. I thought I was the lucky one.

It was about 10pm in California (about 1am NYC time). I was told that the only way to get me to Kona, Hawaii was to spend the night in LA and take an 8am flight to Honolulu, followed by a 7 hour layover in Honolulu before the next flight to Kona. I told her she had to find something better – that that was unacceptable. I was still feeling strong and determined at this point, but she said that was all she had and that I could continue exploring the possibilities at the American Airlines office, where the others went, but she was going HOME. By the time I got to the AA (American Airlines, not Alcoholics Anonymous) office, I was the last one in line. How quickly fortune can turn into misfortune! Life just gave me a big ol' slap across the face.

There were two lines. Two families – one of 8 and one of 4 – were scrambling to get to Kona like me, but I was one traveler, which made it much easier, even though I was last. They were both whispering in their lines (very Amazing Race of them), trying to make sure they were going to get their group all on the same plane. For whatever reason (and you can't make shit like this up), a girl was playing the flute right outside the office. [What a weird fucking NIGHT!] Eventually, we all started working together, helping each other out, piecing together clues and information that we could gather from all different sources. It felt like we were all part of the same team that kept on losing, and we were going to find a way to win the next game but, like any cheesy story, it required teamwork! The family of 8 had to take the flights I refused since the next flight to Kona from LA (the next day, same time) was cancelled due to not enough flight staff. The family of 4 found their way onto a flight to Maui and then Kona – they told me to hop on it with them. I eventually go to the front of the line and, sure enough, I ended up with a new itinerary.

I thought my problems were all solved. I was to spend the night at the LAX Hilton (actually, a pretty sweet room with a king-sized bed, although – OF COURSE – a woman threw up on the shuttle ride TO the hotel! HA! WHAT A DAY!). Dinner and breakfast passes were provided for me. The next morning, I had a 10am American Airlines flight to Maui, a 2 hr layover, and then a flight to Kona. But, my bag… It was supposedly still en route to Kona. I was told it definitely wouldn't be on the baggage claim carousel but I didn't feel right leaving the airport without even trying to find it. I was told to go to the baggage claim information office, where the family of four was yelling at the woman who said she couldn't help them at all, and this eventually turned into her praying to Jesus, out loud, in front of everyone, "OH Lord Jesus Christ, I am calling on you now to rid me of this rude, rude man and his family." A New Yorker, the guy just laughed and said "Oh great, a fucking JESUS freak!" and left, wishing me good luck. After the woman at the counter told him he was ugly, I decided she wouldn't be much help. I was right.

My entire flight's luggage was supposed to arrive on carousel 4. When I got there, an hour after landing, people from my flight were still waiting for their stuff so I decided to wait a little longer. A girl from Columbia (the country) seemed flustered and confused, so I talked to her a bit in Spanish and tried to help her find her bag while I waited for mine. It wasn't showing up. Eventually, I just decided to count my blessings and say fuck the luggage – I was absolutely exhausted and I had to get to the hotel and make sure I really had a place to sleep. As I was leaving the luggage claim area, something beautiful happened: the crowds parted and… I saw a red bag with a bright yellow ribbon moving slowly in a circle. IT WAS MY BAG!!! It was floating along on carousel 1 – the ONLY bag on the belt – and it was mine. I COULD NOT BELIEVE IT. I sprinted over to it and grabbed it in disbelief. As I headed to the hotel, seated next to the woman who threw up and chatting with my new surrogate family (they had two adorable little boys that I happily distracted myself with, and the parents were sassy NYC lawyers -- YES), I reflected on the strange hand of fortune and misfortune that I had been dealt that evening. To top it off, when I finally got my room assignment and headed to the elevator, who did I bump into in the lobby? THE MOTHER FROM THE SHOW LITTLE PEOPLE, BIG WORLD. What the FUCK is going on here?!?!?

I got to the room, bought some dinner, and actually felt really good. I had my luggage, I had new flights, and I had a king-sized bed for the night. I couldn't wait to just go to sleep and GET TO KONA the next day.

All was going smoothly until I checked in for my flights the next morning. The woman at the counter who was supposed to check me through to Kona decided that she could only check me through to Maui, where I would have to –during a 2 hr layover—pick up my luggage and RE-check-in since I was transferring to Hawaiian Airlines. As soon as I got to the desk, I could tell she was having a BAD day. I was suspicious and tried to get more information, but the lady didn't want anything to do with me and didn't want to help – that was for sure! Trust me, I was absolutely kind and gracious to her – so any rudeness was completely unmerited. I just shrugged it off and continued on my way, optimistic but cautious.

As I was waiting for my flight to Maui, I decided – since I only have a little time to pick up my bags and check-in all over again in Maui – that I would talk to the woman at the desk and make sure I knew exactly where to go when I got off the plane. This is when I was told that I was not booked on the flight from Maui to Kona. I told her my whole story and that I HAD to be on that plane – she didn't give a shit and told me to call American Airlines and have a representative figure it out for me. I call… they can't help me since my flight is listed as a Hawaiian Airlines flight. Nobody can help me, but everyone knows I am not on the flight I was supposed to be on. Apparently, I was given an itinerary and the woman who checked me in fucked me over by deliberately NOT confirming my seat on the next flight, which now had 20 people on standby.

I went over to the family of 4 who had been rebooked for the same flights as me and told them they should double-check that they are confirmed passengers because I wasn't. Sure enough, they were all set. My flight to Maui was beginning to board. I had no flight out of Maui. I began envisioning a melt-down, but stayed strong… A woman listening to the ordeal came over to me and said she was from Maui and knows Hawaiian Airlines well and then asked if she could call them for me and figure it all out. I say yes, as graciously as possible, and after arguing with a woman for five minutes (who was telling her that I was definitely NOT on the flight) she hung up and assured me that they said they would confirm me.

When I arrived in Maui, I barely had time to realize how gorgeous it was. I booked it to baggage claim and stood there for 45 minutes until my bag came around. I'm always a little surprised (happily surprised) when my luggage makes it to my destination. With bag in hand, I sprinted in the 80 degree outdoor airport to the check-in desk for American Airlines (where I was TOLD to go). After 1 hr, I get to the front of the line. I am told that I am not on the flight and there are now 25 people on standby. There is nothing they can do, and the next flight doesn't leave for a day. All the hope and wishing I did (I needed a higher power to get me to my vacation, apparently) while I waited on that line dropped like a brick in my stomach. NO no no no... Think, think, think...What could I POSSIBLY do?! They said they could try booking me on another flight, but I should go to Hawaiian Airlines and see what they can do first. Just what I needed: a wild fucking goose chase! At this point I have an hour before my flight LEAVES. I sprint over to Hawaiian Airlines – luckily, no line. I go to the front. They say it's true, I'm not on the flight and there is not a free seat to Kona for two days.

I don't want to admit this but… I was about to breakdown. I was EXHAUSTED (the time difference was now 5 hours, so 10am NY time was 5am Hawaii time). I was HOT. I was DESPERATE. All my friends were in Hawaii and I was neither here nor there – I was nowhere. For 32 hours, I had been in a state of limbo, perpetually in transit. Airports are funny that way; no other place in the world can really make you feel like you're NOWHERE. I tell the woman at the desk, with tears of defeat starting to well up in my eyes (against my will!!), that I NEED to get on that plane and that American Airlines is responsible for getting ME on that plane or some combination of planes before nighttime. She says, "I know honey… but… there is no seat, you can't. I'm sorry. The best we can do is…" Then she paused. "Wait…" she said, "Let me go get my manager…" I tell her I will stand in a bathroom for the entire flight. I will lie in the aisle or serve coffee to people as long as I get on that flight. I don't even care if my bag comes with me. She tells me to hang on, and takes my ID and ticket and disappears. Five minutes go by – I'm starting to feel weak from hunger. My blood sugar is extremely low and my water bottle has one sip left. I eat a chocolate chip granola bar while I wait. The last thing I need is to pass out. While standing there, I look into the eyes of the woman behind the desk. She sees my desperation and kindly says… "She's getting the manager. Don't worry sweety… He is a miracle worker…" There was more truth to that statement than I would have guessed. I try to be hopeful but I'm low on hope. However, I never run on empty. I think to myself, I could use some magic, I could use a miracle. She tells me to trust him… He has tricks up his sleeves.

A man walks quickly over to the counter. He explains to me EXACTLY what is going on, the first person to actually explain why I am screwed and not stare at the next person on line hoping that I get out of the way. He tells me that whoever checked me into Kona fucked me. Possibly on purpose. All she had to do was confirm my seat when I was boarding in Kona, but she printed a boarding pass out for me for a seat that wasn't confirmed in the computer. Also, my luggage should have gone all the way to Kona, but she refused to put it through because she didn't confirm my seat. Why she did this to me, I will not know. They apologized and asked if I knew her name. Only the name Bitch came to mind. (Hehe – I curse way more when I write than when I talk.) He sees how sad I look. I plead with him to get me on a plane to Kona. I think I begged, and I don’t beg often. But I trusted him. He looked at me and gave me the kindest, most reassuring look I had gotten all day. Then said, "Give me five minutes…"

I stood there, waiting, starting to try and accept that maybe I would be homeless for another day. Maybe I should just turn around and go back to NYC. When he came back, (my knight in shining armor!), he handed me a ticket. IT WAS A BOARDING PASS. He whispers to me "A guy at Hawaiian owed me a favor – I got you on that plane. Don't ask how, just GO." I SQUEAL – literally – with joy and am overflowing with happiness and SHOCK. I didn't know what to do! I just jumped up on the scale and – right before giving him the biggest hug in the world – said "OH MY GOD!! CAN I HUG YOU!?!??!" all the women around me laughed. A huge smile spread across both our faces as I gave him the biggest damn hug I could possibly give anyone!! They all yelled "GO! RUN! GOOD LUCK!" I felt like I was in a movie. My flight was boarding in 8 minutes and I still had to go to security.

After I sprinted away… I realized that, in my excitement, I hadn't checked my damn bag! It had too many liquids to carry on, so I debated throwing them all out, then decided, instead to run and cut the ENTIRE line I had just waited on at American Airlines and go directly to the woman who initially told me I was not on the flight. She didn't ask a question, dropped what she was doing, grabbed my ticket and brought it to the nearest computer. I may have been a bit insane at the time, but I was functioning on pure adrenaline. Nobody could stop me now!!!

She entered my information in her computer and asked me "How did you get this ticket?" I tell her there was a fluke in the computer system and a guy from Hawaiian found my reservation (where I came up with that story, nobody knows). She looks doubtful and examines the fake-looking ticket. It's blue, with handwriting on it. They're supposed to be green, with printed words and numbers. The clock is ticking. She calls a manager over to look at it. They ask me where I got it. Every word that comes out is dangling on the edge of a cliff made out of hope, ready to fall into disappointment but hanging on with every second I still have left to imagine that I will get on that plane. She puts the ticket down, and talks to the manager. As soon as she wraps a tag around my bag, I see that it is going to Kona. Then I did something that still surprises me. I GRABBED my ticket and RAN!!! HAHA! Not kidding! I half-expected them to chase me down with dogs and half-expected not to make it to the plane on time. But I RAN my ass to security, and I didn't look back!

Nobody chased me. I had 15 minutes before my flight left. When I got to security, low and behold – I AM RANDOMLY SELECTED FOR A FULL SEARCH! They put me in a glass room and make me stand on two plastic footprints while they check every pocket of everything I own and await a female inspector to frisk me! I ALWAYS GET "RANDOMLY" selected at security! I no longer am convinced it is random and now wonder why exactly I am always chosen!!! (Actually, in this case, I don't blame them. I probably looked a little loopy.) My ticket is suspicious looking to everyone who examines it, but I don't fucking care. I AM GETTING ON THAT PLANE and sitting in seat 9F if it’s the last thing I do.

When I am all cleared, I sprint to Gate 19 and… THEY ARE BOARDING. I've almost made it! I just have to walk on and buckle up. The guy taking boarding passes takes mine and RIGHT when he is about to rip it, he pauses, takes a long look – my heart is beating, I'm praying in my mind that I get on that plane – and he says "that's weird…" and hands it back to me, hesitantly. He is onto me… but I grab it (trying to make it seem like I'm just "taking" it, no desperate grabbing involved) and keep going. I AM ON THE PLANE TO KONA.

I go to my seat. There's nobody there. I sit in it, waiting for someone to kick me off, listening for suspicious beeping sounds to prevent me, yet again, from getting to my final destination. NOTHING. That someone never comes. I'm sitting next to a baby who keeps climbing me. I don't care if he screams the whole flight and poops in his seat. I'm happy. Nothing can stop me. My exhaustion and extreme thirst is overwhelmed by relief.

The flight lands in Kona. My bag is there. And as I am picking it up, two girls run over and hug me yelling "RAAAACHELLLL!!!!!" I made it. My journey is over. I’m in Hawaii, and never before had I felt so deserving of a vacation in paradise.

The ride home to NYC from Hawaii was also a disaster. My 12am flight from Kona to LA didn't leave until 4am (the plane didn't ARRIVE at the airport until 3:30am). Once again, I knew I would miss my connecting flight (even with a 2.5 hour layover in LA -- I thought I was going to be in the clear!), and this came at a time when over 1,200 flights were cancelled (TO NY ALONE) due to a huge Northeastern snow storm. Every passenger on the plane had to rebook their connecting flights. It was a mess.

I, along with all the passengers on my plane, napped briefly on the cement of the cold, outdoor airport as roaches scurried by my face and fellow passengers' sleeping bodies. My skin was tickling in disgust. But I was focused on avoiding my real problem – not getting home. Since every passenger on our plane had to wait on line to re-book their flights, I called American Airlines from the line to try and get a jump start. I was told there was one open seat on an 11am flight from LA to NYC. After that, there weren't any free seats for days. Not even to surrounding airports. My flight was supposed to arrive in LA at 10:41am, giving me 19 minutes to make the connection, ASSUMING we'd be on time. I was told this was a huge risk and considered an "illegal connection" due to too little time, but it was all I had. When I landed in LA, after a really nice talk with a young, French camera man who had been in Hawaii filming Obama and outer space (as he put it), I got off the plane as soon as possible. I had even gotten my seat switched to a seat located in the row behind first class – as close to the exit as I could get – to speed up the process. When we landed, I sprinted through LAX to my gate and… I made it. Fearing another complication, I handed the stewardess my boarding pass and… miraculously, I was on the plane, and on the last leg of my exhausting journey home.

Despite my travel woes, my week in Hawaii was everything I could have asked for. Almost every morning, being the first ones up, my friend Sarah and I made pancakes for everyone (there was a total of 7 of us staying in the condo together, and I even made Mickey Mouse pancakes for a special few). We all divided cooking duties so evenly and happily, enjoying every delicious meal we made. I was even dubbed the official fruit-cutter after displaying my skills with a pineapple one morning (hehe).

Mornings were spent at the beach, boogie boarding and diving through enormous waves in perfectly clear water with a hot sun shining down and the intermittent frozen “vacation” drink. Afternoons were spent mostly in the infinity pool or Jacuzzi, basking in the shade of palm trees with the wafting scent of plumerias and sunscreen sweeping up any real thoughts. I got to laugh hysterically with my long-lost roommate, Heather, as we hiked across the jet-black lava rock and blinding white coral of her island with a backdrop of turquoise blue water. We even caught a glimpse at a humpback whale diving through the waves (and a naked hiker). The ocean, the mountains, the weather - it was all gorgeous and refreshing. While I was in Hawaii I felt relaxed, peaceful, warm (finally, after a long winter)… And, despite EVERYTHING, very, very lucky.

Barnes & Noble, Bauby & Me

2008-02-11T11:08:00.001-05:00

There is something I must confess (and we've all learned that this blog is the medium through which I do this). It couldn’t have been too wrong because it felt so right. In fact, everyone should do it at some point in their lives. On Saturday, at around 3pm, I did something I've never done before – something unjust, but something long overdue: I read an entire book at Barnes & Noble, and left without paying a penny.

HIGH FIVE!

Yes, I had my way with the big B&N this weekend (and I’m allowed to because one of the books in there has MY name in it!). While my momentary afterglow has faded, I know I’ll come back and do it again. It felt good to take advantage of the bookstore where so many of my hard-earned dollars have gone. And it was strangely gratifying (maybe I should have smoked a cigarette afterwards? Oh, right, I don’t smoke…), like getting a free Starbucks after somebody abandons their cup at the barista counter. I guess to some it might seem cheap or greedy, but after years of paying $3.79 for tall chai lattes (and much more for books!), I feel a sense of entitlement to that drink that sits sadly unclaimed like a puppy at a kennel, luring me with its sweet, frothy, vanilla latte scent even after I’ve claimed the latte I paid for. However, with coffee, I cannot drink more than one without having a caffeine-induced seizure. BUT THAT IS IRRELEVANT.

New Yorkers know that NOTHING in life is free. Therefore, when confronted with the illusion that something just might be up for grabs (ie: free coffee), we must pounce quickly and fiercely, like squirrels on nuts (what? Do you have a BETTER analogy?), or like a samurai towards his enemy; fearless, unashamed, and always without hesitation. B&N pretty much invites us to abuse all the books it has on display (I was going to say “Like knee-high boots with a mini-skirt and fishnets,” but then I remembered a line from The Vagina Monologues – “My short skirt is NOT an invitation” – and now I feel wrong for saying it at all… But when I put thoughts in parentheses, I protect myself from my own words…I think…).

It all started when I was browsing the Favorite Paperbacks table, a half-hearted display of books that most people have already read. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly caught my eye. I had been checking CNN several months ago when I came across the story about a boy who had been in an accident. When he awoke from a coma, he found himself a victim of a tragically poetic condition called Locked-In Syndrome. The article referred to this book (and the movie that had recently come out), explaining how, because of Jean-Dominique Bauby (author of the book and French ex-editor of Elle magazine), who spent the last year of his life writing about Locked-In Syndrome (as a victim of it, himself), they were able to understand what the boy's experience must be like. But what is so inspiring is how Bauby wrote the book with only the ability to move his left eye.

Jean-Dominique Bauby, a fashionable and attractive man who had been enjoying all the finer things in life, was out for a drive with his son when he suffered a stroke. Until then, he had lived a fabulous life, but the stroke put him in a coma. When he awoke, much like the boy I read about on CNN, he discovered that, for the rest of his life, he would be a prisoner in his own body. He was diagnosed with the extremely rare and mystifying condition called Locked-In Syndrome. His brain stem was badly damaged, and – much like the condition’s name suggests – his mind, completely intact, would reside in a body suddenly reduced from human to vegetable.

Imagine feeling everything – the weight of your body, a tickle on your toe, your saliva flooding your mouth – but not being able to shift, flinch, or swallow. Imagine waking up with a million questions and being surrounded by people all day, but not being able to make a sound, let alone flail your arms in frustration. Imagine a fully-functioning mind, with the ability to remember everything you ever tasted, felt, and saw, suddenly being locked into a body that cannot move, cannot express emotions, and cannot do anything but die.

A speech therapist assigned to Bauby was determined to find a way for him to communicate. Somehow (the condition is still very mysterious to doctors), the one thing Bauby COULD do was move and blink his left eye (his right eye had been sewn shut to prevent possible infection). His speech therapist designed a system of communication for him; she would recite an alphabet (with letters listed in popularity, rather than ABC order) and she would have him blink at every letter, one letter at a time. By doing this, he could create words, and sentences, and – often times – jokes (further evidence that his personality and mind remained intact). Through that one eye Bauby could still see, take in, and react to the world. And eventually, through that eye, he could share the world he now knew.

Before the accident, Bauby had signed a book contract but had yet to start writing. He decided, instead of tossing the contract altogether, to write about a memoir about his new life with Locked-In Syndrome. This is the book I picked up – a book written by a quadriplegic (and the remarkably patient speech therapist whose undying devotion to her patient gave the world its best understanding of what it means to have this incurable condition), who had to blink for every letter of every word. It is only about 100 pages long, but the determination and resilience it required to write every word is truly inspiring.

I read the first few pages, surprised by Jean-Dominique Bauby’s obvious charm and his ability to prove he was still 100% himself, despite his situation. His matter-of-fact honesty is both poignant and intriguing. It was such a quick and easy read (what a contrast to the effort it must have taken to write), that I decided to have a seat by a bookshelf in the nearby Travel Section and dive deeper into his story. When I was halfway through the book and had been accidentally kicked or tripped over at least five times, I figured I might as well keep going (kind of like Forest Gump on his run). When I had 30 pages left, I figured I might as well finish the book. And that is exactly what I did.

I walked into Barnes & Noble and read that book cover to cover. But I walked out feeling like I had traveled quite a ways in someone else’s shoes. I didn't leave with a book, but I left with a newfound appreciation of the fact that I could just walk out. I would have paid for that feeling, but luckily I didn't have to.

Cherry Blossom in Winter

2008-02-04T10:47:00.000-05:00

This isn’t a funny story, a memory of an adventure, or even a list of silly ways I keep busy. This entry is about a general sense of optimism that I am experiencing right now.

I have to take a moment and reflect on a newfound sense of excitement and hope that I have been feeling lately. Thinking back on an East Asian Art course I took in college, I remember that the popular motif of cherry blossom trees in Japanese scroll paintings represented spring time or, more explicitly, change, hope, and rebirth. In New York City, there is nothing more beautiful (to me) than walking around Central Park during that one special week in May when pink and white cherry blossom petals float through the air, covering the ground, as well as New Yorkers, with their ephemeral prettiness. When those petals fall all around you, it’s like a dreamworld. Cherry blossom trees – in Japanese art or right in Central Park – evoke in me that surreal, simple contentment that, for whatever reason, makes me happy to be alive. [Ya know, it's virtually impossible to sound optimistic without sounding a bit over-the-top, so as I always ask of my mysterious blog-readers: just go with it!]

I can't wait for those first few sunny days and soft breezes of April that always fill me with optimism after shivering through long, grey winters. I normally get hit with the winter blues, but this year has been different (for a number of reasons, including that I was determined not to get the winter blues this time around, after a couple consecutive years of frustrating and disappointing winters). Now, with snow falling and no cherry blossoms in sight, I am nevertheless feeling hopeful when I consider what the rest of the year might bring.

For starters, the Giants won the Superbowl last night (AHH!). This might contribute to a sudden sense of possibility. It just so happens that, the year I became a committed Giants fan (watching most games in their entirety), they won it all against the new England Patriots, of all teams! (And against the odds, as well…) Now that worked out quite nicely, didn’t it? But also, I am excited about politics for the first time in my life. I owe much of this enthusiasm to my brother, Nate, who has spearheaded multiple volunteer efforts as President of the Obama chapter at Bowdoin College. My parents are about as easy going, open-minded and welcoming as anyone can be. But there is one name that represents ALL that they hate in the world, and that name is: CLINTON. I cannot really describe the level of hate they feel towards both Bill and Hillary, so I will leave it at that. It’s actually a little difficult for me to understand, and while I have tried, very consciously, to form my own opinion about the Clintons, I think my parents will be happy to know that I have become a Clinton hater (more of a disliker than a hater). When I found out that Bill would be talking at my sister’s Middlebury graduation last year, I was ready to appreciate the “charisma” of his speeches. But, as I stood there listening to him undera tent in the Vermont rain, I couldn’t help but hope the speech would end soon. I waited patiently at first for that sense of inspiration I had been promised by his reputation, yet it never came. His speech was dull, uninspiring, and tired. And that is about the time my family and I started paying more attention to Barack Obama.

As is always the case with politicians, I started out unconvinced and skeptical about Obama’s credibility. Several months of exciting conversations, speeches, and articles later, I have caught the bug. Everywhere I walk on the Upper West Side, there are enthusiastic, hopeful volunteers supporting Barack Obama just because they care, because they’re desperate to get the one candidate they have believed in (in years) the chance to become President of the United States. This enthusiasm clashes quite starkly with the political apathy I have grown accustomed to. Obama is not a perfect candidate (and anyone who says that Hilary Clinton is is like a port-o-potty: FULL OF SHIT – and somewhere my parents are smiling that I said that), but there is definitely something refreshing and different about him. People can say whatever they want about his idealistic plans and his ability to execute fairytale-sized dreams, but what they cannot deny is that he has made people, like me, who are generally disenchanted with the hoopla bullshit of politics, care more than ever. So whether the other candidates like it or not, that is already a victory.

At the risk of sounding disgustingly cheesy, Obama’s catch-phrase “Yes we can!” has never felt so appropriate. Quite honestly, I am surprised at how far he has come, but, at this point, I won’t be surprised how far he CAN go now. Strangely, these sentiments match up directly with how I feel about my own life right now.

The other night, I was reading myself to sleep like I normally do on weeknights before drifting off into the next morning, when something funny happened. All of a sudden, I found myself becoming increasingly overwhelmed by contentment and twitterpated (to use a Bambi term, which is totally legitimate) with satisfaction about the state of my life. A smile was creeping out from within me as I thought to myself this is what I want to do: I want to be a writer! For the first time in my life, I felt not a single ounce of doubt when thinking about what I want to do with my life. Now, I knew this already. I’ve known that I want to write for a while, but it hasn’t been a sure career-path. For the first time, I truly felt absolutely convinced, excited, and passionate about the thought: I want to be a writer. I can’t WAIT to make it happen. I don’t really think I will get into graduate school (this time around, at least). But that’s ok. I don’t know what I’m doing (when it comes down to the technical shit). I don’t know HOW to freelance just yet (but I am absolutely determined to learn). But all that is ok, too. For some reason, it all clicked in a moment of clarity right before I went to sleep; I’m going to make this happen. I don’t know how, I don’t know exactly what I am capable of, but I am going to keep working on this. And I can’t wait to figure it all out.

I fell asleep smiling, and enjoyed a sleep full of happy dreams. Today it snowed, but on February 15th, I get to go to Hawaii. And when I come back, cherry blossoms should be only a month away.

I will wear my Obama pin today.

The Office

2008-01-16T15:03:00.000-05:00

There is an office located on the Upper West Side of Manhattan where I spend most of my time, making the billz (not many of them) and humoring the mind. Its walls are grey; the sounds consist mostly of small-talk and typing, with the occasional and somewhat soothing hum of a printer, or the charming chime of office laughter (sort of like the golf clap version of real, Saturday night laughter). Phones ring very quietly. Interactions are frequent but vaguely unsatisfying; with no walls, all sound bleeds from one cube to another, diminishing privacy. Yet buried somewhere in the quiet monotony is a whole lot of fun.

Don't get me wrong, I really enjoy my job! But, still – it’s an office job. What is so wonderful about the show The Office is that it has perfectly captured the endearing aspects of drudgery and repetitiveness. This entry will be about life in the office, my office (not Jim, Dwight and Pam’s), and the ways my coworker Casey and I entertain ourselves (and each other). We’re no Jim and Pam (ooh ooh, can I be Jim!? Or better… can I HAVE John Krasinski?!), but we have our fun.

In honor of Jim, Creed, Pam, Dwight, Toby and the rest of ‘em (I got tired of typing all of their names), I have decided to compile a list of the ways that Casey and I pass the hours. As a disclaimer, I will say that most of the fun is based on the endearing weirdness of Casey. (Hehehhe.) She is the only one in the office that is my age (well, she’s like 3 months younger and graduated a year later, but she’s engaged, so it’s not QUITE the same). She is really silly, sometimes a bit blunt, and has a strange affinity for rodents, especially squirrels (pictures of them). But she GETS me, and I get HER… and together, in our insulated bubble of office life, we laugh.

Without further ado, I give you THE LIST (please do not judge me. If anything, feel free to judge Casey. Hehehe. HI CASEY.):

• www.icanhascheezburger.com: [Haha! Oh boy… here we go…]With this website, you either get it (and find it absolutely hilarious), or…YOU DON’T (and find it creepy or – worse – you now think I’M creepy). For months, Casey would insert photos from this website into the inappropriate, rambling, silly emails we send daily. She wouldn’t tell me where she got them from, and then one day… I found the website. What can I say? It makes the day go that much faster. I especially like when we start firing them back and forth (at the speed of LIGHT!) around 4pm on some Fridays. I just sit there, laughing, at my cubicle, listening to the pages come out of the printer while people do REAL work around me. There is absolutely nothing “cool” about this website, yet its ability to entertain us is unstoppable.
• www.chucknorrisfacts.com: “There is no theory of evolution; only a list of creatures Chuck Norris has allowed to live.” Ahhh… Chuck Norris quotes. “Chuck Norris makes ONIONS cry!” Yea, I’m probably about nine years behind in appreciating this website, but seeing him behind Huckabee at every Republican demonstration has put him back on my radar. “Chuck Norris doesn’t read books; he stares them down until they give him all the information he needs.” I actually pulled up the website at dinner the other night and had my mom, dad and 13-yr-old brother laughing at every quote. Glad the rest of the Tavels can appreciate this one. “The grass is always greener on the other side, unless Chuck Norris has been there. In that case, the grass is most likely soaked in blood and tears.” Hehehehe.
• Squirrel pictures: Casey is obsessed with squirrels. You should see her desk area (and desktop). Casey will send me photos of funny-looking squirrels, and I retaliate with my own. This can go on for hours. If you have never Googled squirrel photos…. You have to try it. I tend to Google the word “squirrel” with a random adjective. It’s strangely delightful…
• Operation Stalk Kenny: Casey and I once spent an entire afternoon stalking our coworker Sabra’s husband (she’s 28). She is very private about him and was trying to hide him from us. But one day, we overheard that he was going to pick Sabra up outside in a car to head to Maine. This launched a full-fledged top secret operation, complete with walkie-talkie-like phone calls, stalker notes, spying, and worse… We were pretty much cracking up for three hours. And, of course, mission: accomplished. Then we had to introduce ourselves to Kenny after freaking Sabra out… and I don’t think he will ever stop by the office again.
• www.wikipedia.org: The possibilities are endless. Wikipedia-ing things like cauliflower, Milky Way candy bar’s chocolate spread, and guinea pigs (thank you Casey for those enlightening articles) never gets old. Plus, it’s educational!
• Google games: One example – choose a number (say, 14 or 51), then start entering any combination of words until you end up with exactly 14 or 51 results. This is a race. Whoever gets there first, wins.
• “Well, bless your heart!”: We have a coworker that is from North Carolina. She says this every day, at least once. It makes Casey’s skin crawl. For some reason, keeping a tally of how many times she says it every day is mildly entertaining
• Hot vs Cold: There is a constant battle in this office, and it revolves around the thermostat. Who will prevail?
• Inappropriate emails: Of course, this is the constant (and easiest) way to entertain oneself. And we do it. Hard. I have a fake, naughty affair with Casey’s fiancé, so sometimes I email her about it. That’s always fun. Hehehe. However, every time our boss seems upset, Casey and I get really nervous that someone has read our emails and is going to fire us… We also worry during sexual harassment meetings…
• Blog: I write them, Casey reads them. It’s a symbiotic relationship.

Now you all know our secret sources of work pleasure. Or, at least SOME of them…

[OK… that was not meant to sound sexual, but it sure does. Let’s keep it that way.]

Casey, want to add anything?? (Well, bless your heart!!)
OK, back to work...

Crash

2008-01-11T15:23:00.000-05:00

I’ve never had much luck with cars on Fourth of July weekend.

Two summers ago, I was on my way to the Jersey Shore with my friends Tom and Zach when the car ended up overheating. We spent several hours on the NJ Turnpike waiting for AAA, sweating up a storm, and trying to figure out how to fix our sweet ride. We were determined to get to the beach, but determination was not enough. After getting rescued by a tow truck, I had the opportunity to sit sandwiched in the front seat between the sweaty tow truck driver, Tom, and Zach (as I glanced suspiciously at the anti-gas pills on the dashboard in front of me). We ended up spending a couple of hours in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart waiting to be told that the car could not be fixed. Luckily, Tom’s [angry] sister so graciously picked us up (seriously, thank you to her!). Instead of the Jersey Shore, we arrived at Tom’s NJ home. Despite the unfortunate circumstances, I had a really great weekend! Only… it wasn’t at the beach; we never made it to our destination.

Now, let’s back-track a few more years to high school…

I was invited to stay on my friend Katie’s boat in the Hamptons for the holiday weekend. On our way up, her car got a flat tire. Unfortunately, I knew immediately what had happened (I’ve been in 2 cars, 2 school buses, and 1 airplane – YES, an airplane in Brazil – that have had flat tires). We were on the Long Island Expressway in HORRIBLE traffic. This time, I was with two other girls (dressed to go straight to the beach) and… let me just tell you… I have never been honked at SO many times!! GEEZ.

Eventually, after many truck drivers offered to take care of us, we got towed in a manner that I later found out was not only illegal, but completely unsafe. We were actually SITTING in the car as it got lifted onto the back of the truck, and we rode IN THE CAR, chained to the top of the tow-truck, until we arrived at the nearest gas station. SO UNSAFE! But what did we know? I wouldn’t get a driver’s license until I was 22! Most of our time was spent laughing, as high school girls do. We were slightly terrified because we had no idea what we were doing, and we didn’t know here we were; we were just happy to no longer be spectacles on the side of the road. After the car’s tire was replaced and we had been rejuvenated by a few delicious donuts, we were back on the road. Eventually, we made it to the Hamptons, but not without a few obstacles along the way.

Then, there was the time I REALLY didn’t make it to my destination.

Again, it was the Fourth of July weekend (July 1st to be exact). I was in fourth grade and my dad was driving me, my two sister’s, my one brother (the other one was born the next summer), and my cousin, Dora, to our old beach house in Greenport, Long Island where we spent all of our childhood summers. At the time, my mom was visiting her family in Argentina. I couldn’t wait for the summer to really begin. We were cruising at about 60mph up the Long Island Expressway in our sexy, light blue minivan. The highway was full of cars, but everyone was happily moving along without any major traffic, anxiously anticipating a beautiful holiday weekend.

I was sitting in my usual assigned seat (to this day, it is still “my” seat in the Tavel van) all the way in the back on the driver’s side, staring up at the sky with my head resting on the window. My parents always told me that, as a baby and a teeny tiny Tavel, I was happiest on car rides when I could just sit in the back and stare out the windows. I didn’t talk with everyone else – I’d just sit, watching the scenery go by, absorbed by thoughts and daydreams.

The breeze coming through the windows was full of summer sweetness, mixed with exhaust from the surrounding cars. I was doing something I always did on long car rides: making shapes and faces out of the clouds while my head vibrated against the glass window with every bump in the road. I even remember going from one cloud that reminded me of my grandma's face, who had just died, to a cloud shaped like an elephant… In the front of the van, a whole conversation was going on. But I paid little attention, happily enjoying my daydreams while I stared up at the sky. Then, all of a sudden… EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKK... CRASH!!!!

I had no time to think of anything. I was being thrown out of my seat by an intense force (inertia) that was countered by my seatbelt. Until that summer, we never wore seatbelts. But a friend of my mom’s had died earlier that summer in a car accident, so she quickly enforced seatbelt rules. If it weren’t for her friend’s passing, maybe we wouldn’t have been wearing our seatbelts that day… Just another one of those things that makes me wonder...

The first thing I could comprehend was the loud screeching. Then, there was a smash, and another smash, and another smash. The sound was so violently loud. From the first second, it was obvious what was happening. What i heard was clearly scraping metal and crushing bumpers. The moment happened in such a flash. It was strangely clear and easy to understand, although so quick that I had no time to bother thinking – just react. As quickly as the noise, scraping, screeching, screaming, crashing began… it all stopped.

Immediately, I heard “OH MY GOD” from my cousin in the front seat (she was about 20 at the time). She wasn’t wearing her seatbelt, but my dad’s reflex to throw his arm infront of the passenger at sudden stops (which my mom always got annoyed about) saved her from diving head-first into the windshield. My dad's reflex was to look back at all of us and ask if we were ok. He didn't care about himself. And he had a look in his eyes that I had never seen before; it was raw, pure concern and a calm form of panic and control that made us all feel safe, despite everything that just happened. He didn’t even realize that his entire seat had been thrust backwards into a reclining position, and that windows were shattered everywhere. My little sister started crying. She was scared, not hurt. My little brother, then in 2nd grade, looked stunned. My older sister might have secretly thought it was all kind of cool. But I was stuck in my seat. And my head… my head hurt so much, like a hammer had just been smashed over it. But everything happened so quickly. It was only when I started rubbing my head that I realized there was glass in my hair and in my ears and clothing. Then I turned around. The whole back window was missing. It had shattered on me and my brother in the back seat – not a shard of glass was left attached.

I saw that we were all ok, and tried to unbuckle my seatbelt when I realized we weren’t going to be moving. It was stuck and way too tight around me. I noticed that my arm was hurting and I had been cut by a small slice down my left arm, caused by the side of the car wall that had popped out and into me, pinning me into my seat by my seatbelt. I don’t think a full minute went by when I noticed there were ambulances around me, and paramedics checking if I was ok. My dad had sent them to me because I said my head hurt… REALLY hurt… My brain felt like it had collided with my skull at 100mph, and I was still just struggling to get out of my seat like everyone else had already done. Eventually, I was able to crawl out, and I was taken to the ambulance driver to make sure I was ok, since I was the only bleeding out of everyone in my car. My seat had been hit the hardest, but I was quickly checked out and told I wouldn’t need stitches for my arm, which was lightly bandaged. I could go to the hospital if I really thought I needed to but I knew I was ok... enough. I said no to the hospital, told my dad I was alright, and let the paramedics move on to the next person. That’s when I saw what had happened.

We had been in a five car crash, and we were the third car. Our minivan has been completely smushed/compressed in a car sandwich. A yellow cab stopped two cars ahead of us (to this day, we still don’t know why), then a white car in front of us stopped. We were right by La Guardia Airport, and I kept noticing planes take off and land as traffic slowly formed all around us. The white car stopped, just slightly bumping into the cab, and then we stopped before crashing into them. But behind us, two cabs didn’t stop. The one directly behind us SLAMMED into our trunk (which, because it was full of luggage, saved me and my brother from worse injuries because it cushioned the blow). Because that cab didn’t stop, the one behind it didn’t either, and crashed even harder into the cab behind us, which crushed us and folded its hood in half like a cardboard box.

The woman in the cab directly behind us, who wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, was standing next to me by the paramedic, her lip split in two and her nose broken (she basically split from her nose to her chin in half). There was a lot of blood on her face, and she looked like she was in shock. I was amazed. The drivers of the cabs and the white car in front of us – all but the driver in the first car, who had no injuries – were bleeding through white buttoned down shirts, or from their arms or knuckles. Everywhere I looked I saw crushed metal and broken glass, which I kept picking out of my clothing. I never even felt the glass hit my head – the noise overpowered everything I felt. And I wasn’t scared at all – I was strangely calm.

The screeching sounds kept echoing in my ears (for hours). My head throbbed, and my back started aching. My cousin Dora, was desperately trying to find her wallet. “It was on my lap the whole ride!” she said. But we couldn’t find it in the car. Eventually we did find her wallet; it had flown out her open window and slid underneath the white car ahead of us. If we weren’t strapped into the car, imagine what would have happened to us.

After everyone regained composure and we figured out that none of us needed immediate hospital care, a police officer offered to take care of us while my dad figured out all the insurance information. My dad decided it was best for us -- the youngest ones, with me in charge, to go home while he took care of everything else. After the paramedics okayed us, we got to experience something many kids dream of experiencing: me, my little brother and little sister (my older sister went with my cousin and dad) got to ride in the back seat of a freakin' POLICE CAR... ALL the way home! I even got to wear a cop hat during the ride, although it was really my little brother who couldn’t stop smiling. Hopefully that ride is the closest I will ever come to being arrested. Hehe. The cops even let us turn on the siren to get us home quicker. Not too shabby, I must say.

The next day, my dad arranged for a stretched limo to take us all to the house in Greenport. My family is a get-back-on-the-horse family, and the sooner we got back in the car and up to Long Island to keep enjoying the weekend, the better. We felt like movie stars in the limo and got to drink Coca-Cola while playing with all sorts of buttons and controls in the backseat. We went to the hospital the day after we arrived and were told we all had a bad case of whiplash in our backs and necks. It would be a few months before it totally went away.

In the end, everyone was in pretty good condition, all things considered. The car, on the other hand, had been totaled. My dad called my mom in Argentina to tell her what had happened, and that everyone was OK. Every now and then, I find myself staring up at the clouds, wondering if we would have been wearing our seatbelts that day if my mom's good friend hadn't passed away earlier that summer.

Ever since, I have been a seatbelt-buckler. And perhaps I should avoid car rides on America's Birthday...

Lorenzo

2007-12-31T00:34:00.000-05:00

It’s time to write this sucker down, because not many people know this happened. It’s all true, and beautifully real.

During a recent bout of nostalgia (a typical accompaniment to holiday cheer), I decided to channel my inner Buddhist and rid myself of old “stuff” (or “attachments”) to make way for a freer, clearer, more feng shui-ified room and year. While cleaning, I came across a couple of handwritten letters torn carelessly from a spiral notebook. They were folded up into sloppy, bulging rectangles with creases that indicated they had been opened and folded more than once.

At first, I wondered why I would keep something that looked so disposable. But when I opened the paper, a wave of memories rolled through my body, surging through my bloodstream and bringing me back to a very sad, but eerily hopeful moment in my life.

How could I forget? The day I received one of those letters was one of the hardest days of my life. It was July 25th, 2005. I had graduated that May, started an internship that June, and lost all my support systems – as well as my best friend and boyfriend – that summer. If it had been any other day, that letter would have been thrown out by now. But, it wasn’t.

Every now and then, something happens in life that you can’t explain. The timing seems surreal, as if calling it a coincidence or an accident would be cheating the world of its magic. On that miserable July day, I was overpowered with certainty that something or someone else was involved to make sure I got this letter. It was inexplicably perfect.

Outside, it was pouring summer rain. The air felt like jungle air – heavy and thick – but the sky was as grey and miserable as the pavement. The world seemed uglier than ever, like a dirty bathroom on a train – in daylight, when you’re completely sober. I left my apartment carrying the heaviest sadness I have ever felt. Melancholy enveloped my every breath and I was broken, destroyed, terrified. Until then, I thought I could handle anything.

I walked shamefully to the subway, fighting my urge to collapse from the sudden dejection and onslaught of new emotions I had never felt before. My hopes dropped with every tear I fought to hold in. I was ashamed and embarrassed by my new weakness. It felt like every moment I was getting sucker-punched in the gut, over and over again. I wondered if something could hurt as much as it did that day, and if my sadness could be real. It was a nightmare; I felt defeated and lost. I was a ghost of my own happy self. This couldn’t be me. The morning, once full of optimism and excitement, now felt like a burden, a test, a mountain I had to climb barefoot, with scorpions crawling all over the place – never mind that scorpions don’t live on mountains.

Every happy thought seemed to be surrounded by barbed wire, pricking me when I tried to latch onto something good. Life felt backwards, awkward, and wrong, like none of my clothing fit and I was wearing two left shoes.

For the first time, I barely noticed the world around me. I was so self-absorbed (not by choice), feeling excruciatingly human, squirming through the hurt I had to feel sting me again and again, every second. It was a Monday – the saddest, most difficult Monday. Only Monday, and I had to go to work and pretend the night before hadn’t completely shattered me and changed my understanding of myself.

Eventually, I arrived at the train station on 79th Street and Broadway, where I would take the 1 downtown to Times Square. For the past two months of my internship at American Express Publishing (doing PR for Food&Wine and Travel+Leisure magazines) I had gone to the same subway entrance in the mornings, said hi to the same man who handed me AM New York, and gone down the same stairs into the belly of Broadway where I’d have to shove myself onto an overcrowded car amidst suits and stilettos. Usually, the man handing me the newspaper, who called me Beautiful, would hand me the paper with a big grin. I always said hi back and tried to return the smile, if only to show I appreciated the tiny moment of my day that he occupied. Then, I would head down the stairs.

As I got closer to him on this particular Monday, I realized he would be the first person I had to interact with since my boyfriend of over two years broke my heart (when I needed him most) the night before (aha, heartbreak! So THIS is what everyone complained about?! I guess I was in the club now). I approached the subway, my first obstacle, sullen and morose, like a little girl trying not to cry. When he handed me the paper, I took it from his hand. But that morning, my frown weighed too much to crack a smile. As I took my first step down the stairs I heard “Hey, Beautiful, wait up!” Oh no, I thought. Not today… I can’t. But I stopped and turned around. He saw the tears I was fighting and said, “Oh no, you ok girl?” I said “Yeah… rough morning…” choking on every word, fully aware that this would be only the first morning I hurt. I wasn’t sure what he was stopping me for, and all I wanted to do was crawl into a cave somewhere to bawl my eyes, heart, and soul out and make the sad feelings go away. During my weakest moment -- the moment when I felt I was going to crumble, the moment I realized I couldn’t pretend everything would be ok -- the man handing out the newspaper quickly passed me a folded up piece of paper, as if we were two students passing notes in school when the teacher wasn’t looking. He smiled and said, “Read this… maybe it’ll cheer you up. Have a wonderful day, Beautiful…” I thanked him and walked down the stairs, curious, confused, and desperate for hope.

As I waited for the subway, I read. The paper was rough and worn, as if he has been holding it all morning. This is what it said (with his punctuation/grammar):

Hello Beautiful!

What’s up? I really mean it when I call you that. My name is Lorenzo Johnson. I watch you go to the subway every morning and I want to talk to you so much but, we can’t seem to connect. You are so pretty. I love your smile and how cool you are to always speak to me every morning. You are not stuck up, I asked you Friday what are you doing for the weekend and you said nothing. The way you said it made me wonder. You would really like me. I like to conversate, take walks, play ball, go to the movies, dance, play chess, shoot pool, etc. Give me a chance. Let’s go on A DATE, nothing elaborate, jeans, and sneakers. I’m born and raised in Harlem. Positive brown brother who is really feeling you! The only thing is the ugly legacy of racism that would block us, but I know you are not and I’m not so the only thing between us is air! I know you don’t know me and I don’t know you but we can try the only to think of was to offer you my phone number (212) 926-7944. If you call and the answering machine comes on you will hear my mom’s voice or a person. It’s ok! To leave a message and phone number and I will call you back. Keep your head up kiddo! I got love for you.

Ps I’m usually home from 11am to 2pm or any time after 9:30pm.

Love, Lorenzo!

As I read it, my heart dropped like a coin in a wishing well, sinking yet floating as it fell toward the dirty floor. My emotions felt harder to contain, and I didn’t know what I was thinking or feeling. That letter meant something, but I wasn’t sure what. It was so random, but made so much sense. I wanted to run up to Lorenzo (he now had a name) and hug him, tell him he had no idea what that letter meant to me, because it did mean something to me. For some reason, it hit a chord in me so perfectly. It touched me in a way I needed at that very moment more than it could have during any other time in my life. When I read that letter, given to me by a complete stranger, I got my first tinge of hope; maybe I was one person’s trash and another person’s treasure– maybe all was not lost. I wiped my tears and got on the subway. That letter could get me though the day.

Unfortunately, it only got harder. That Monday was a brutal battle between my emotions and my mind. I wanted to focus on work but my thoughts had been poisoned my questions, regret, and confusion. I wanted to take a million decisions and choices back, but little did I know, I’d never get a second chance. But I survived the day. When I got home, I decided to write Lorenzo a note back. A letter like his deserved some response and I could barely talk without breaking down.

I don’t remember exactly what I wrote, but it was short and to-the-point. I was glad he was there to hand me the paper, but it was a really tough time for me. I didn’t mention that I had just broken up, or anything about my life for that matter. The next day, Tuesday, I gave him my note, which he seemed ecstatic to receive (this touched me). On Wednesday, I received a second note from him. This one threw me for a loop.

NOTE #2
Hello BEAUTIFUL!

Dear Rachel,
I will never stop calling you that! Because I really mean it. Thank you for responding back to me especially promptly. I understand where you are at in your life and I been there (I hope it was not an asshole because I’ll kick his ass for you) or it may not be a failed relationship it could be a spiritual journey you’re on, or a career move or you just don’t feel like being bothered. Whatever it is you can talk to me about anything. I’ll be there for you. I come from the other side of the fence from you born and raised in Harlem, street life street violence, etc. you know the story and it was no mere coincidence I’m writing you. God puts people in our lives all the time! I was dealing one time and I had a beef with a guy and he pulled out a gun and started shooting at me. Somebody called his name and he missed. Just something to think about. Remember angels come down in disguise.

I’m far from an angel but I got the qualities it would take to make you happy. Opposites attract each other. Night-day, black-white, bad boy-good girl, (I’m not a bad boy anymore).

You are a beautiful queen! I can’t just stop because you said “not right now.” I’m not going to be a pest or pressure you or make you feel uncomfortable. Allow me to try please. When you watch a movie a guy does not stop he keeps trying. Flowers, diamond rings (flowers maybe), I’m sorry a little financially challenged right now but, don’t think I wouldn’t buy you a diamond.

Well I hope I made you feel happy like you are worth something. I’m just having fun writing to you. I haven’t done this since grade school (can’t you tell my grammar is HORRIBLE). I was playing basketball right where you are from in the Riverside Park about 10 years ago and I met a very rich very old white woman and she was complimenting me on my muscle tone and I asked her how did she live so long (104 years old) and she said she always helped people, she was kind, and she always had good friends. I am going to be moving on soon. Keep my number when you open up or feel like talking. Call me anytime, winter, rain, late night, I’ll be there for you.

Lorenzo!

p.s. I know maybe you can’t or don’t see yourself going anywhere with a black person (I’m not saying you think like that) but I understand how society influences our views. America has a ugly history as far as race is concerned. A lot of women pick guys based on the status quo, security, outward appearances, etc. or whatever. Their friend’s or family’s opinion. But Americans and Europeans have the highest failure rate as far as marriage and the like. I’m just saying if any of this is one of the multiple reasons, listen to you heart and take a risk, because all of life is risk taking anyway. I set up myself for rejection by writing you but it was well worth it. I would do it all over again.

(212) 926-7944
Leave a number and name.

KEEP YOUR HEAD UP!

When I read this second note, I was blown away. How did he know? Who was this man? Why did he even bother writing a letter? Why that week, that day? He never tried to hit on me, never made me uncomfortable, never pushed me to respond to him. Lorenzo just handed me the paper every day, and smiled. That’s the role I thought he had in my little life.

But his second letter to me hit everything I was going through on the head, He gave me comfort nobody else could give me at the time, just by seeing me, just by bothering to write those two letters. And there he was, telling me that he believes God puts people in our lives for a reason, just when I was losing faith in everything. There was Lorenzo, a man who I didn’t know at all, telling me about mysterious timing in life and guardian angels, and that everything was going to be ok.

I chose not to write a note the next day and considered using a different subway entrance to avoid an awkward encounter, but decided in the end that I wouldn’t feel right. On Thursday morning, finally a sunny day, I approached the subway station as usual, ready to take my AM New York. But Lorenzo wasn’t there. A different man handed me the paper that day, and he didn’t smile or call me Beautiful.

On Friday, I found myself hoping that Lorenzo would be there so I could at least respond to his letter, but he wasn’t. Lorenzo wasn’t there the next week either.

I never saw him again.

This whole experience is now completely in the past, brought back into my frame of vision because I was cleaning my room. But I don’t think I will ever forget that first week of heartbreak (I realize how melodramatic this sounds, but it was hard!!), or those two letters… And I’ll never get to thank Lorenzo for giving me the one thing I truly needed at the time: the reminder that life has a funny way of taking care of you. It showed me I needed to trust the world, and trust my choices that had led me there. And maybe, just maybe (even though I’m a horrible Jew who ate bacon and cheese pancakes outside of Anne Frank’s house in Amsterdam) there are angels out there watching over me (in a completely unreligious and un-cheesy way).

The months that followed were the toughest I have ever experienced. But they are in the past. As 2008 approaches, I am happy to say that that entire experience is from a completely different chapter in my life. I have come a LONG way! And I truly believe that all the hurt and all the confusion was a blessing in disguise, because I have learned SO much about myself and what I want and need, and accomplished more than I ever imagined I would or could in two years. There really is no going back now. It’s all about the future, which I finally feel completely equipped and excited to take on. But I think I’ll hold onto Lorenzo’s letters, just in case I ever need a reminder to keep my head up.

Zen Rowing

2007-12-18T16:05:00.000-05:00

[I came across this "essay" I wrote in college and thought I'd share it, in case any other rowers (or athletes) feel like sharing their own race-day chills. The assignment was to write about an experience we have had that helps us relate to or understand what Nirvana really means. Yes, it was a Buddhism class... one called "Cosmic Sexualities," so just roll with it, ok? ENJOY.]

ROWING TO BLANKNESS

It's race day. Something takes a hold of me from the inside that I cannot shake off. I'm nervous and excited at the same time, fully aware that some quantity of minutes and a high degree of the most beautiful form of pain is all that stands between me and passing the finish line. It's almost too simple that way, like I don't even need to do anything because if I just let time pass, it will have already happened. I am the stroke of my boat, leading three other girls in a rhythmic movement controlled and monitored by my coxswain, who lays tucked in the other end of the shell. During our row up to the starting line, I'm thinking like crazy; thinking about my game plan, trying to relax myself, telling myself that no matter what… keep it a good clean race. I start giving myself a pep-talk, focusing in on every aspect of the race, every aspect of my being that I can use to win this race. I tap into the mental triggers that will drag out every ounce of ambition, motivation, focus, and passion that I have in me and I prepare to expose it all shamelessly during the race. Every stroke counts, every push with the legs, every pull with the arms and back, every feather of the oar with my wrist. Don't let go. Don't lose it. Don't leave anything out there on the water. Allow yourself to feel the pain, and then forget about it – rise above it. When you get to that point when you feel like you have to stop, like you can't take it anymore… push through it, harder than before. Maintain the utmost concentration and do everything that is within your physical ability to move this boat. This is your day, this is your race. You've been working so hard for this. Make it happen. Nothing else matters right now. Let it all go. I might pause to look around, see where the other rowers are and how close we are to starting. Then I forget them all. They no longer exist. Have good slide control, use everything you've got. Pain is temporary, gold is forever. Focus on the perfection of every stroke, but only one stroke at a time. This is all you, this is all there is, this right here, this right now, this is your life…DO THIS! The conversation that I have on the row up to the starting line gets my heart pumping and my adrenaline flowing. I become as big as everything in the world and the whole world becomes as small as me in that boat. But when the race actually begins, something a little different happens.

Everything I thought about disappears.

As we sit at the starting line, swaying around in the boat with the rolling water clapping at our sides, I have my last moments of full thoughts. I try and center my focus by gathering it all up in a certain area of my mind. During the race, I'll try and send that ball of hot concentration through the rest of my body and shoot it out of me in every direction. The energy starts boiling in me and all I want to do is let it rip out of me like a wild animal. I don't even remember that there are other people in the boat. We just become one unit with a common goal, a common ambition, and a common energy. Nobody else exists right then, not even the competition. As we sit in the boat anticipating the start, our coxswain says some final words. I absorb them without thinking, adding them like wood to the fire raging silently inside of me. We have alignment with the other boats. In a second, we will take off. When the announcer gives us the signal, we dip our oars in the water and… blast off.

At first, all I hear is my coxswain screaming at us. Her energy and her enthusiasm become contagious. I hear other coxswains yelling at their boats all around me, but I bring my head back into my boat… no other boats matter. As we go up and down the slide of the boat, I hear our oars clicking and popping exactly where they're supposed to. Despite my adrenaline, I settle into an enormous calm. To be the leader of a synchronized system is an amazing feeling. I am taken to another world with another level of existence. While I sit in the stroke seat of the boat, all I have ahead of me is the pointed stern and open water. In some ways, I feel alone. But there are three girls sitting directly behind me matching my rate, matching my power, matching my focus, intoxicating me with their energy. When we sit at the starting line we are four rowers, but when we start the race we become one boat. That's the turning point – when that transition from four to one is complete. I begin to lose myself in the energy of all five of us in the boat. I feel my muscles burning and my breathing gets harder. But it is not enough. I can make it hurt more.

Eventually, the coxswain's yelling and the clicking, popping, and splashing sounds dissipate.

Blankness.

The coxswain drives my mind to the point of complete focus and I hold it there until I lose it all together. My eyes are open, but I don't know where I am looking or what I am seeing. I have no thoughts, I feel nothing. I just am.

The blankness comes and goes. Suddenly I'll tune back into the boat and regain awareness of where I am and what I am doing. I realize that we are in a perfect rhythm and that our energies have combined into the one force that will move that boat faster than anything else. Again, I hear my coxswain yelling at us. She tells us that it's time for the final sprint of the race. "Tavel, bring up the rate! I can see the finish line! This is ALL you guys! You're not going to be satisfied with yourselves if you don't give it absolutely EVERYTHING you've got RIGHT now! This is IT! DRIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE! DRIIIIIIIIIIIVE! PUUUUUUUUUSH! THIS IS ALL YOU RIGHT NOW! I WANT MOOOOOOOOOORE POWER!" she screams, overflowing with the energy of all four of us. At this point, all my muscles are telling me they need to stop soon, it is almost too much. I tell my muscles to shut up, and then I search desperately within myself for those last scraps of power and energy to bring the race home. If you look hard enough for those scraps, if you decide you can't do it without them, you always find them.

Finally, right when I'm feeling like I might have run out of everything within me, an excruciating power-ten is called. With all my mind, with all my strength, I pull those last ten strokes like I am clawing for my last breaths of life. My legs burn, I taste blood in my throat, I have to stop soon…

And then… it's over.

I hear the coxswain tell us to bring it down to the paddle and every sensation becomes normal again. The race is done, so I drop the concentration like a bag of hot coals that began to burn my hands. I have no idea how much time has passed. I become empty in a different way, drained of my focus and concentration, drained of my energetic fire and blankness, but full of satisfaction. I live for that feeling. Suddenly, the minutes that once separated me from that final moment are gone forever. Just like that, we row back to the dock to recover from the race and get back in touch with our lives. I wonder how everyone else is doing, and if anyone else visited that same blank place I just returned from. It is a place I rarely find, and once I do, it is like I was never there. Still, I’ll do anything to go back there again.

I have always felt that there is something very Zen about rowing. It is my vehicle for getting to that blank moment. That energy I race with is raw, pure, and free. It is the essence of my ambition coming out in full form with no attachments to anything. The blankness is so beautiful and so untouched. I have played other sports and experienced other things that take me away from this material world we live in, but there is something so pure and so magical about rowing. People wonder why rowers become so obsessed with the sport and everything about it. I think it might be that feeling of blankness; that uniform energy combined with the strength and naturalness of the boat in the water. In a way, I wish I could share the thrill of racing a boat with other people. But only a rower could fully understand and appreciate it.

Monday: Not a Fun Day

2007-12-10T15:45:00.000-05:00

Ahh, it’s one of those days.

For starters, it’s a Monday. Let’s just say that doesn’t help anything. I woke up at 7:23am. [Yes, I like to set alarms for off-beat times for some reason.] The first thing I do every morning after I shut my alarm off is lay there for a minute, aware of the pillows, the sheets, the comforter, and how snuggle-icious I feel [don’t make fun my SWEET new word]. Ahhh, why would I ever leave this warm, wonderful place called bed? DAMN YOU, MONDAY. Bah… alright, alright. I’ll get up.

For that dreamy minute between being asleep and awake, I figure out some basic information that will become crucial for getting on with the rest of the day. This information includes: what day of the week it is, what my name is, what my job is, where my legs and arms are, and what I am supposed to do with myself after I open my eyes. You know – important stuff. Then, I STTTRRRRREEEEEEETTTTCCCHHHH… ahhhh…. Why does that always feel so incredible? When I’m ready to open my eyes, the first thing I do every morning, without fail, is look out the window, which is located behind my head/bed. [YAAAAWWWWNNN.] Hello, world. I hate you. Ok no I don’t. But why must I wake up?! And, what is in store for me today? I always feel good knowing it’s the morning of a new day [despite that "I hate you" I threw in there].

However... Ewww. Today, I see rain, cold, and a lot of work on the agenda – work I don’t really want to do. Grrrrrreat. I find myself daydreaming about trips (Ireland, Hawaii, Macedonia, Bali… four of my fantasy destinations right now), but I must stay focused on my more immediate to-do list (uh… yeah… I don't think blogging is on there -- OOPS!). Today, I must prepare to lead a training session on “constituent research” after work, which means I won’t get home until late and I have to pretend I know what I am talking about. Then, tonight, I have to work on essays for grad school. It’s just not a very sexy Monday and I am blogging about it because, quite simply, blogging is much more entertaining that getting stuff I don’t want to do DONE.

Yeah… I’ll snap out of it.

In fact, I’m a little more motivated to take care of business now. Besides the fact that it’s a dreary, winter Monday, life has been pretty good lately. I can’t really complain. No wait – I can, but I won’t. This time of year brings up mixed emotions, but mostly good ones. Granted, the past two Christmases have sucked in different ways, I am determined not to let this one suck at all. [I can be pretty articulate when I want to get my point across. Hehe.] Deep inside, I truly adore this month; there is definitely a “cheer” in the air, and the smell… I think that’s my favorite part of all (the last few words sounded like a Christmas carol, didn’t they?). I miss Maine. But, when I walk down the street, I actually try to walk on whatever side has Christmas trees lined up, like a portable [ignoring the obvious: DEAD] forest. I feel the need to convince myself, through the pine-y smell, that it really is Chrimakwanzahakkah time [did I forget any major holiday in that conglomerate word?]. There is a lot to be grateful for, a lot to hope for, and a lot to… uh… eat. I just have to remind myself of the first two things on dreary Mondays.

Now, I’m more than halfway done with Monday anyway. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.

I leave you with this quote:
My GChat away message: "Don't hate the player, hate the GAME!"
Message received from Jeremy H: "Have you been a player lately?"
Me: "Yes. A Scrabble player."
Jeremy H: "HAHA Well done."

HAHA. What?! It's true.

The Write Stuff

2007-11-27T16:23:00.000-05:00

I have decided to apply to graduate school this year. I will be applying to Columbia's MFA program in Creative Nonfiction Writing -- the #1 school in the country for nonfiction (if I am correct) -- and... ONLY Columbia. I know I know... RISKY!

It might seem a bit sudden, but really, the idea has been brewing in my mind for just over a year. Last November, I tried to go to an information session at Columbia and… I didn’t get in (HA). Seriously, I made the waitlist for the information session. How pathetic is that? I felt like I got hit in the butt during a game of dodgeball or something. They were like “No, actually, you are not worth putting one extra chair in the room. Sorry.” Luckily, that only had to do with timing, not my writing skillz (yes, with a z). I don’t think I would have been ready to apply at that point, anyway.

If they thought I would just GIVE up on my hopes and dreams of getting into the information session (never mind the actual Ivy League SCHOOL), then they were wrong!

After the waitlist incident, I signed up to receive emails about the next information session, which ended up being a few weeks ago, and I promised myself I would get in the next time around. This year, I made the IT list and got to enjoy a 1.5 hr question and answer session in Columbia’s Dodge Hall, where I got to talk with professors and find the reassurance I needed that this program was just what I was looking for. I was also relieved to be amongst people asking REALLY DUMB QUESTIONS, which made me think – hey, wait a second, maybe I CAN get into this school! Especially if they’re applying, too! Is that awful? Am I a horrible person? But I mean, who asks this: “So, what do you, like, want to read in the personal statement essay? Like, what will get me in?! [ha ha I’m so funny]” – girl with pink hair and five too many piercings, who I kind of hope applies. Hehehe. No but seriously, she asked that… and about 10 other questions… and I SAW at least three of the professors smirk or roll their eyes after responding with the same thing each time: we don’t have something we expect… we just want to learn about you as a writer. Show us your VOICE! Her response: "Yeah but what if I, like, don't get the luck of the draw -- and I know each person has what they like and don't like in writing -- so, like, what if I get unlucky and my essay is read by someone who doesn't like how I write?" Can I please throw a syllabus at her? THANKS. I was relieved when I shared the same reaction as the professors. Maybe I’m just jaded after one too many volunteer admissions jobs. When are people going to realize it’s not about following a recipe perfectly, it’s about following it and then adding your choice of ingredients to make it your own!?

The application process involves a lot of writing (two personal statement essays and “no more than” 30 pages of “your best nonfiction writing” of “literary quality”), and only writing. Honey, if I HAD 30 pages of brilliant, literary-quality writing, I wouldn’t bother forking over $100 grand to go to school for writing. Hehe. Actually, wait, that’s a lie… I probably still would. Ack…Can we not talk about money?? Every time I realize how much this will cost me, I get a little nervous. I better get a best-selling book out of this education!!! Ha. WISHFUL THINKING.

Determining what is my BEST writing is probably the hardest part of the application for me. Thank you, though, to all who have suggested I submit blog entries (especially the ones in which I witness butt cracks or make out with people). I can’t tell if the admissions staff's reaction would be “HA, this girl is ballsy and AWESOME!” or… “What kind of idiot would submit this smut to the #1 program for creative nonfiction writing in the country?” Oh, but I’m SO tempted!!!

It’s going to be a busy December – busier than normal. Last night I saw the first Christmas tree of the season, strapped to a wooden frame outside a Godiva shop on Broadway. It actually seemed a little bit confused; nobody was stopping to acknowledge it, there was no snow, and it was actually warm outside. Yet it made me smile, just knowing it was there and that it’s that time of year when I get to hear Mariah Carey’s “All I want for Christmas is You” song over and over and OVER again! YESSSS!! I know that if ANYONE can get me through hours in front of a computer screen whilst I search desperately within myself for the writer Columbia will be BEGGING to give a chance, it’s Mariah Carey. Come on Mariah… let’s run away and write essays together surrounded by confused Christmas trees (and menorahs -- holler) forever!

So that’s that. My application is due January 2nd, and until then, I will probably be spending a lot of time thinking about writing and much less actually writing. But I am really excited and hopeful, although realistic (650-700 applicants, 60 spots for the entire Writing Division, 15 for the nonfiction department, 45 for poetry and fiction). It’s a crap shoot, and while I hope for a small miracle, I will be prepared for my reality check in May when I find out my fate, or lack thereof. But, like the information session, if I don’t get into the Fall 2008 program, they better be prepared for me to come a-knockin' for Fall 2009… And I'm going to be even FIERCER the second time around!

Coughing up Thoughts

2007-11-07T11:20:00.000-05:00

Since coming back from Europe, there are a ton of stories and thoughts left un-blogged about, but at this very moment, it is New York that's back on my mind. Hopefully I'll get back to the Europe stuff sometime soon (since I figure that's what most of you are interested in, if anything!) but I just had to write about this…

Sunday was the New York City Marathon. Did I run in it? HA. No way. I actually have bronchitis, which is pretty awesome. How did I find out I have bronchitis? Because I talked with my doctor on the phone this morning (after being suddenly hit with some bug the moment I got off my flight from Brussels, which was a week ago now) and was asked to describe the color of my mucus while standing next to the copy machine for all the world to hear. Normally I try and avoid talking about bodily functions at my desk since I am smack in the middle of the office, which is a great spot for eaves dropping AND being overheard. This time, I figured I could quickly duck into the conference room when my doc called me back and be discreet when discussing my symptoms with her, but NO… someone was IN the conference room! So, I had no choice but to try and play it cool and talk on my cell phone by the copy machine, which was my best bet for privacy. However, it was a bet, and sometimes you lose bets.

I have no problem discussing my health out loud, but there is a line at work that you don’t want to cross when you know everyone (and their mothers) can hear you. So my doctor and I are talking headaches, sleep-deprivation and coughing, and then came the question… The question one doesn’t want to answer in front of his/her coworkers. "what color is your mucus?" BAH!!! I paused. [Haha, am I seriously blogging about this??] All I could see was one coworker who had just entered the conference room, another one whose cubicle was right behind the copy machine, then the NEWEST employee (one week and counting -- I bet she is excited now!) walking over to the copy machine to copy some documents beside me in dead silence…

I thought… CRAP… and said, “Uh… err…. Green I think?” [You are LOVING this blog entry.] And then she was like “TELL ME what COLOR it is in the MORNING and at NIGHT…” She sounded serious about wanting to know. There were now coworkers ALL the fuck AROUND me. I tried to talk quietly, but my voice is messed up from the coughing so sound doesn’t come out unless I act like I really want to be heard, so I had to speak more loudly than usual just to sound like my throat wasn’t being stepped on or something: “Uhhh… greeeen?? I think?? Maybe clear sometimes??” Oh gawd. My coworkers did an award wining job of pretending they weren't listening, but I KNOW... I KNOWWWWW they heard. So there it is… But, clearly, my being sick isn’t the only reason I wasn’t running the marathon.

Marathon day brings spandex-clad New Yorkers out into the crispy air like nothing else. One of my favorite parts of the marathon is around 3pm, when all the runners are limping around the city with silver foil capes and hard-earned medals (that they truly deserve) dangling around their necks. I always get this huge desire to talk to all of them. I want them ALL to be my friend, so I can give them a bubble bath or massage, or tell them they did SUCH an amazing job. But they're all strangers, strangers in a city that turns us all into neighbors, so I can smile at them when they look at me but I can't pretend I know any more about them than that they have been running for a very long time and are probably tired and proud.

The desperate scramble for taxis begins full-force, and runners feel both like they have conquered something great, but have also been physically defeated by miles of concrete under their feet. I felt kind of guilty because, while they were running, I had gone to a movie and then bought a violet-scented fizzy bath ball from Sabon (it smelled so good!), but it always makes me happy and nostalgic to see them all around me, for some reason. I guess they had a rougher day than I did though.

Anyway, with the Marathon under November’s belt, it’s definitely fall now in the city. Hot chai has replaced iced chai, and ice cream no longer tempts me without a sliver of pie underneath or a warm chocolate souffle cake nearby. The polka-dotted bikini I wore weekend after weekend for the past few months is now folded in some drawer I will rarely open, and my beloved flip-flops are already beginning their long hibernation in the bottom of my closet, where they will sit accumulating dust until the temperature breaks 60 degrees again. But with all this crispy weather, which I am rather enjoying right now (much to my surprise), comes all the glorious coma-inducing food of the winter holiday season. And damnit, I can’t wait to eat as much of it as possible!

This entry has been random and completely discombobulated (I loved words that sound like what they mean), but I can’t wrap it up without acknowledging that Europe was fantastic. As I had hoped, my need for a Western European adventure has been diluted from the level of “desperate necessity” to “desire.” Basically, I got my Europe-fix, but that doesn’t mean another craving won’t come right back. The NEEDING is gone, and has been replaced by just wanting to go back. I’m still trying to figure out how the heck to make a life out of traveling and writing, and still not positive that I can pull it all off, but I am hopeful -- more than ever. This is all very new to me, and it will probably be several months before any changes in my working life start happening, but for now… things are good. The Mexico book is out, my first issue of Trevor Magazine is published, and my family is already starting to plan a spring break trip to Hong Kong and Hawaii (AH!). I might have a trip to Ireland and Italy lined up for this summer too, but as I sip my Pumpkin Spice Latte from Starbucks, summer seems very far away right now.

Even with good things going on, the future is always a bit daunting. Figuring life out is such a process, and it can be intimidating, and exciting, but right now, I’m just looking forward to blogging my way through it…

Amster-DAMN, I Like It Here!

2007-10-29T19:05:00.001-04:00

It's raining and cold outside, and the grey has yet to subside, but I have returned from Amsterdam a happy Tavel, with a stomach full of hearty Dutch food and even more chocolate; I can't really complain. Amsterdam was... gorgeous -- more than I imagined it would be. The sky was constantly a wintery white, but the city was lit up by golden leaves that both fell from the trees and floated in the brown water of the many canals, which sat underneath bicycle-covered bridges and were crowded with old wooden boats. My immediate reaction to Amsterdam was postive, and that feeling never faded.

Getting to Amsterdam was kind of funny. Dawn and I took a train from Brussels to Amsterdam, but in our haste to get on, did not realize we were boarding the first class car with our second class tickets. We quickly met two guys from LA, seated behind us, and just as we got comfortable and began to make new friends, a train employee came by to kick us off. Apparently, we are second-class citizens who CLEARLY do not belong on the first class car! Unfortunately, our compatriots' tickets were not checked, and Dawn and I were forced to move to the next car, which was packed to the brim with other travellers not worth of the empty first class car, and not a single seat was free. After waiting for a while, we pounced on the first seats that opened up, in a communal seating area that forced us to stare into the eyes of the stranger across from us instead of passing the entire ride in a daydream-like state. We were even forced to leave this communcal area, eventually, becuase it is reserved for bicycles and strollers. Well I never!! I felt like I was trying to sneak onto the pier of the Titanic or something when I was supposed to be kept in the steerage compartments. So, most of our 3hr train ride was spent standing up, sitting IN-BETWEEN cars (by the bathrooms, folks... MMM!) next to teenagers pracitcally having sex with each other, or sneaking back onto the first class car, which we eventually managed to do, and ended up getting laughed at by our Californian friends who threatened to use their obvious higher status to get us kicked off the train. Hehe. It was interesting and I was still totally jet-lagged, so I was just glad when we made it. Of course, when we arrived, our somewhat tumultuous and tiring journey was quickly forgotten.

The first thing Dawn and I noticed when we got out of Centraal Station was the bicycles. Oh. My. Gawd. Imagine the most bicycles you can fit into a your frame of vision, and then double it. What I didn't really know is that the dominant and obviously preffered method of transportation in Amsterdam is le bicycle. This was quickly proven by the aggressiveness of the bike riders and the piles of parked bikes lining every sidewalk, bridge and street. Also, there are bike lanes on every road -- lanes much bigger, proportionally, than the car lanes, and triple the width of the pedestrian walking-lanes. Bikes came in all different colors, some with wheelbarrows or kiddie-seats attached (some with both or more than one seat), some double-bikes, and some rickety shit-bikes decorated in flowers, leis, or junk. It was quite a site. I was very impressed by the multi-tasking skills of every man, woman and child who rode said bikes with such self-assurance and ease.

Then, there were the canals. Ahh... the canals! SO beautiful! Venice is one of my favorite places in the world, and Amsterdam, although it has a completely different feel to it, reminded me of Venice because of the constant streams that passed below every sidewalk. For those of you who don't know this, Amsterdam is comprised of several concentric canals, with gorgeous curving bridges filled with chained up bicycles and yellow leaves covering the cobble stoned streets. Below, row boats and house boats in all different colors and styles float effortlessly on the quiet canals. Each canal is separated by streets full of "coffee shops," stores, restaurants, and galleries. Quick crash-course on Amsterdam terminology: "cafes" are really bars, "coffeeshops" are where you go to smoke POT (yeah yeah yeah, you were all just WAITING for some mention of the pot, weren't you??). If you want an actual coffee, you can get that anywhere, but apparently finding a place for just dessert is unheard of. Dawn and I made friends with a coat-check guy who didn't fully understand why we wanted to get dessert and tea instead of beer or marijuana. Alas! We ended up in a place that promised us brownies, and once inside... we were ignored... and later told they ran out of brownies. Haha. But they bragged about brownies on the welcome sign outside!! And we ASKED about the brownies before coming in!! Oh well..

The next morning, Dawn and I wandered our way over several canals, dodging bikes and trams and falling golden leaves, to the Van Gogh Museum, which I highly recommend. Van Gogh ais the man -- I was really excited to be at HIS museum after done a major presentation that was a character analysis of Van Gogh based on two of his paintings (his bedroom in Arles and the midnight cafe) and his letters to his brother, Theo, about those two paintings. Or something like that. Along the way, we noticed many canal houses that seemed to sit assymetrically against other homes, as if they were falling out of the tightly bound sidewalks so slowly that almost nobody notices them. Many houses seemed to be tipping ever so slowly out of the cluster of buildings, in a very sweet little way. Little by little, I began to see this more and more. It wasn't until I found myself face-to-face with Van Gogh's painting of his bedroom in Arles that I realized how similar Amsterdam is to that specific painting; the city, like Van GOgh's painting of his own tiny bedroom, is completely comprised of skewed perspectives and odd imbalances that challenge logic/physics and add to the fragility and incongruent idiosyncracies of the city. Does that even make sense?? Eh, I'm leaving that sentence as is. Basically, there is a sort of fairy-tale, unreal quality to Amsterdam. Or maybe it's just a reaction to the pot smoke wafting through the air?

After the museum, we hopped onto a perfectly-timed canal tour boat, which was a fantastic way to see the entire city in 1hr 15minutes. Looking at Amsterdam from slightly below it was an interesting and unique angle to take it all in, but there really is no other way to feel a part of the canals and the many bridges that make the city so special and unique.

Dawn and I decided we needed a major lunch break, after hours of walking and sightseeing. I made the mistake of ordering the bacon and cheese pancake, which was INCREDIBLE (I was inspired by the two guys eating it at a table nearby), but completely dominated me in every way. NEVER AGAIN will I order that dish, as delicious as it was. I think I grew a separate stomach just to digest it all. Oh boy... YUM. I think??

Finally, we were off to the Anne Frank museum, built in the exact location of Anne Frank's home during her two years of hiding. This was one of the most important things for me to see, and I have to admit that I had a couple moments when I got a little choked up. It was really touching, although overcrowded and not entirely well-maintained. There was just something special about touring the home (yes, I'm 100% Jewish, although not religious at all -- heck, I ATE A BACON AND CHEESE PANCAKE before walking over here!! --- I'm a HORRIBLE Jew!!) between German, British, and Israeli tourists while viewing the home of a Jewish girl who had to hide out for TWO YEARS in order to save her life, when all her childlike instincts yearned to play outside. There we all were, in her tiny bedroom where she was forced to stay, only to get taken to a concentration camp once her family was betrayed, and die of typhus one month before she would have been liberated, in the wake of her mother, father, and sister's deaths at the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. I read her diary very carefully, fascinated by her whole tragic story as a kid, trying to imagine how it could have POSSIBLY felt to be her (scary how current and recent events make me wonder how far away her experience really should feel), yet relieved that I did't have to know... and there I was, as a young adult, in the very room she wrote the diary. It was touching in a few different ways.

After a light dinner and some fun at an Irish Pub, we hit up a blues club where we tried to ignore an Australian girl giving her boyfriend next to us a lap-dance for about an hour, and the happiest blonde, young European guy dancing like crazy in front of the stage (we LOVED him). It was a perfect way to end the Amsterdam experience, which was topped off with a stroll through the famous flower market (where, next to bags and bags of tulip bulbs were "grow-your-own-pot" kits!! HAHA! You know you're in Amsterdam WHEN....), and then we were back on the train headed for Brussels for the second leg of this trip.

I just got back from cooking some delicious food with some of Dawn's fellow Fullbrighters and now, it's time to give Dawn back her computer and think about what to accomplish tomorrow. Although there will always be more to say, I have left Amsterdam a big fan of it's off-beat, yet classy personality. It's a city where you can walk down the street and see scantily-clad women watching you from the flourescent-lit windows of the Red Light District, where you can go to a store called The Magic Mushroom and choose what kind of drugs you want to buy right out there in the open, and where you can get around the city by boat OR bicycle easier than walking... Yet it is also a very beautiful and charming city, with a rich and complicated history that breeds romance around every often graffiti-covered corner. Like Van Gogh's painting of his bedroom in Arles, there is something quirky and humorous about Amsterdam, but also something surprisingly calm and relaxing about it all. It wasn't a city full of crazy, young, pot-heads or prostitute-seeking tourists; it's a beautiful city, with many families and chic bike-riding Europeans that I'd love to spend more time in some day. I can't wait to grow my new plants!!! HAHAH just kidding just kidding...

OK... TIME TO GO!! SORRY DAWN!!

A Sleepy Haze of Belgian Beer and Chocolate

2007-10-27T04:31:00.001-04:00

Despite the fact that I am deliriously tired (I can barely see this screen right now), so far Brussels has been a slightly more stylish, more foggy, but just as beautiful place as I had imagined. Wait, am I really in Brussels? I think I asked that about 15 times yesterday. Or at least giggled to Dawn saying "I'm in BRUSSELS?? Heeheehee..." To give you a sense of how little I have slept, I will briefly breeze through my "day" yesterday... Can I even call it a "day?!" Whatever, I've already had two of the most incredible pieces of chocolate, 3 deliciously rich Belgian beers, and met 3 great people -- an American named Rachael (she spells her name wrong, oh well), an Italian named Laura, and a Spaniard named Miguel. I'm off to Amsterdam in a couple hours, so let's get to it.

On Thursday, I left NYC for the airport at 3pm after waking up at 7:30am that morning. I got on a 6:05pm direct flight to Brussels, Belgium, where I arrived a little early at 7:30am, which for me in NYC, was 1:30am. No, I did not sleep a wink, but I had a great 6 hour conversation with a Flemish woman that left me craving chocolate and goat cheese, which she had described to me as above and beyond what I will ever have in the US. After standing around at the gate for about 40 minutes, wondering what I should do if Dawn -- my lovely hostess -- decided not to appear. I must have looked a little flustered because a handsome Belgian man looked over to me, smiled, and just said "don't worry, she'll show up..." Hehe. We talked for a little bit and then, sure enough, there she was!! It was about 8:30 am when we hopped on a bus from the airport to get to Dawn's apartment. That would be 2:30am, NYC-time.

A couple of busses and turns down cobble stone streets later, we had arrived! The first thing I noticed was the side-by-side homes, all only a few stories high, and completely unique. Also, the tall narrow trees reminded me of a train ride I once took between Florence and Rome with my family. I was happy to see them again, feeling strangely at home as I looked out the bus windos at the intensely overcast morning that was just creeping out from under a starry night I had the pleasure of enjoying from the sky. The day stayed on the brink of raining without ever squeezing out a drop. I was expecting a mixture of languages, but so far all I have heard is French. Oh boy... how I LOVE hearing French spoken. It amazes me how easy it is to understand French, yet when someone says something to me in French, my instinct is to respond in Spanish or just stand there, dumbly blank, with no arsenal of words to throw back into the conversation.

Anyway, after a 2-hour DEEP, DROWSY nap in my trusty sleeping bag, I woke up completely out of it, but hoping to get out before I messed up my sleeping patern anymore. Dawn, Rachael and I hit up a delicious pizza place called Mama Roma, where I feasted on a square of pepperoni pizza with a perfectly flavored crunchy crust that left me thirsty! My sleep-depirvation was beginning to catch up with me in a bad way, so we turned another corner and, after popping into a couple places that didn't make the cut, found an adorable coffee shop that made me feel like I was in Paris. In we walked, past the red velvet curtain and around a glass encasing some of the most delicately delicious looking flourless chocolate cakes and other tarte-like desserts. Ahh... Europe! I have arrived!! I think that was the first moment I really felt like I was here.

I ordered a delicious latte that soaked up som of my exhaustion pretty quickly but, just as quickly, left me sleepy-headed again. An incredible orange chocolate lifted me back up, as did the brisk, fresh, undeniably European air when we walked back out into the grey. Dawn had class from 4-6pm, so Rachael and I walked all around for an hour and a half until I could barely stand up anymore (funcitoning on exactly 2 hours of sleep). The walk adrenalized me with excitement. THIS is what I had been waiting for so long to feel again. EUROPE. For some reason, I feel completely at home in Europe... yet subtley unstyish compared to everyone else in the upscale neighborhoods, and carry the biggest suitcases I could muster directly under each eye. I've already seen some beautiful, Victoria-style gardens, tons of sculptures and churches (yes, all this stuff DOES it for me like nothing else), and tons of bars/pubs with these cute cartoon-like signs hanging outside. I like it here. I like it here a lot.

At around 5:30pm, I began to crash. Rachael and I headed to her apartment where I quickly found her couch and went from vertical to horizontal in a matter of seconds, fighting heavy eyes and a creaky body. After an hour of fighting sleep (and feasting on Cote d'Or chocolates -- SO FUCKING GOOD -- and I'm not usually a big chocolate eater), Dawn arrived. The three of us decided to wonder around to find a place for dinner and ended up selecting this adorable little restaurant with brass/iron junk and ceramic pipes hanging from the ceiling. The place was incredibly warm and cozy, with deep brick walls and a small dining area where we were among Belgian couples speaking quietly in French as they sipped wine, in oh-so-European bliss. I tasted some of the most amazing goat cheese and enjoyed laughing and catching up with Dawn and Rachael.

We met up a little bit later with Miguel, a hilarious, adorable Spaniard (it felt like such a relief to speak Spanish after feeling so dumb without any Flemish/Dutch/French skills) and an fun, sweet Italian woman named Laura. Miguel kept choosing the beers for me, all of which were extremely tastey and Belgian -- just what I had been waiting for -- and ended up all getting drunk and laughing/talking until I was told I should probably go to sleep at 1:30am (this would have been 12:30am, which definitely means I was awake for over 30 hours, but I'll let YOU do the math!!). NOW, I am going to hop in the shower, pack a weekend bag, and head to AMSTERDAM for the next couple of nights! Can't wait! But I'm going to need a lot more delicious lattes and chocolates to get me through it...

Europe Soon

2007-10-23T11:46:00.000-04:00

It’s amazing how I feel like there is constantly so much to write about, yet this blog has been sitting here, untouched by my blabbing, for weeks! How have you all been holding up?!?! [I say that as if people are actually reading, which I continue to wonder about since I have no real sense of how many people check in, if any...] That’s what happens when you start thinking “I want to write something GOOD” instead of just freaking WRITING. So here is an entry that will probably not be “good” by my own standards, but I’m back to believing that actually writing a so-so entry is better than just thinking about writing a good one.

Two days ago I was in Boston, and in two days I’ll be on my way to Belgium (Brussels and then The Netherlands for a taste of Amsterdam). I know that’s pretty common in this day and age, but I can’t get over how small the planet can feel when I travel. It’s really a combination of the world feeling immensely large and complicated, yet so strangely accessible and intimate. Seriously though, getting from my hometown – which happens to be one of the busiest cities in the world – to a city on the other SIDE (yes I know it’s round, but you get what I’m saying) of the world is as easy as pushing ten or twenty buttons on a keyboard that sits in front of me while I play iTunes, soaking wet after a shower. Doesn’t that just seem a little CRAZY? Or are we too jaded to notice how cool it all is?

So, here comes another trip abroad! I am SO glad. Yet, as much as I ADORE traveling, I hate traveling. That’s right. I know what I just said. I’m not big into airplanes and airports, but I’ll do what I’ve gotta do to see as much of the world as I can.

People always ask me if I am excited about going away. Quite honestly, the answer almost always is no, although I know I am excited, deep down. It’s not that I am not looking forward to being wherever I’m going, it’s just that I have this strange sense of apathy before I depart for another country because I never quite believe that I am going until my plane has landed and I’m walking through an airport, deliriously tired, reading signs written in multiple languages and rushing my way to customs so that I can make it all feel more real. One of my favorite things in the world is that moment when I step outside of an airport and feel the air of a new place enveloping my tired face for the first time. That’s when I begin to notice things – the smell, the noise, how different the trees look – and that’s when the surge of excitement starts to infest and destroy my apathy.

Oooh, I think I just got a chill of excitement about my trip!! But that would be completely contradictory to announce, wouldn’t it? Hmm…

No matter where I’m going and how much I know or don’t know about the place, I always end up envisioning myself walking down some sidewalk in a foreign neighborhood created by my imagination. It’s always fun to compare my creation to the reality when I’m there and then the hazy, retrospective snapshots my memory creates once I return home; all three snapshots are bound to vary (the pre-, present-, and post-trip images). Right now, I can close my eyes and imagine Brussels – a city I know very little about – and this is what comes to mind: I imagine eating waffles drenched in chocolate sauce and powdered sugar after walking around in dreary cold with a backdrop of random shops, Gothic cathedrals, and intricate architectural details in every building facade. I imagine pints of beer at lunch and dinner, where I’ll be eating well in a setting of European sophistication mixed with small town charm. I envision people walking around with long umbrellas and small streets with lots of old large doors, bicycles tied to lampposts, and a couple plazas with cafes adorning the periphery. I have traveled so much in the past few years but it’s been a while since I’ve been to Western Europe (not since I studied abroad in Barcelona in 2003!).

In Amsterdam, I imagine a more graffitified [MADE-UP WORD ALER!] version of Europe. I have always been drawn to The Netherlands but it wasn’t until I saw an article in the NY Times recently that I decided I was going to make it happen… NOW! I get the sense that Amsterdam is a little rough around the edges for Western Europe, sort of like a Gothic cathedral juxtaposed with a wall covered in graffiti, but still pretty touristy and expensive. I can imagine two hipster 19 year olds standing in a dirty side-street, staring back at me while they take heavy drags of from their cigarettes with some sort of Euro-punk music playing in the background. I think Amsterdam will have a more “fuck you” attitude than Brussels, while maintaining a young, chic vibe that has a touch of Venice and a touch of London thrown in the mix. But I could be way off…

Right now, I’m wondering what I will really feel when I get to Belgium. It seems really far off, like it won’t really happen, yet I leave on Thursday night, or so my e-ticket says (that’s two days from now!). Every country gives me a different impression, a different experience I will look back on and remember, created from the complex details that weave themselves into a foreign blanket of sensory experiences. It is the anticipation of what that blanket will be made of that I find so invigorating about traveling.

I have never been on a trip that didn’t include a moment when I pause, look around, and feel overwhelmingly happy just to be there, silently in my own world yet completely immersed in the boisterous daily life of someone else’s. Hopefully I’ll find an opportunity to blog once I’m there seeing, smelling, watching, and thinking…

Seeking Pura Vida

2007-10-10T11:10:00.000-04:00

NOTE: This is an article I wrote for my high school's (Trevor Day School) alumni/ae magazine, Trevor Magazine (for which I am the editor, and this issue will be published in a week or two). You can tell that the tone is a bit different (and the story a bit more appropriate) than my usual posts, but I figured it was worth including since I have been SOOOO awful at blogging lately. Hopefully, I will be less busy and more inspired to blog over the next several weeks. A trip to Belgium and The Netherlands is coming up!! Oh thank gawd. There is definitely stuff to write about... There always is... but I have been enjoying life a bit too much to pause and write about it. There's always time to write when you're not enjoying life though, isn't there? Heh. Anyway, this is about my volunteer trip to Costa Rica in January, 2006 (without the scandalous adventures). Enjoy!

Seeking Pura Vida

As I looked out the airplane window, down at the rolling green hills of Costa Rica where I was about to land, I wondered what I had gotten myself into. A couple of months earlier, I had signed up to volunteer at a day care center in the central highlands of Costa Rica. My assignment was to take care of children while their mothers went to work, and to teach them some English and basic life skills while giving them love and attention – two things they ended up giving back to me. No prior teaching or volunteer experience was necessary; just time and a desire to help. Volunteering – putting one’s time into something completely detached from his/her own life – is a luxury not everyone has to offer. In my mind, one of the most valuable things I could give anyone was my time. I never expected to get so much in return.

It was during the twelve years I spent as a Trevor student that I first learned the value of volunteering. From an early age, I was taught that giving was an important part of life. As a kid, I was surprised that volunteering was actually… fun. When I placed hand-wrapped gifts and cans of food on the stone steps of the Church of the Heavenly Rest year after year, I always walked away proud of what I had just done. Clothing, canned food, and book drives were annual events at Trevor, as was raising money for numerous causes and participating in the AIDS walk. In high school I offered my time to cut bread and serve pasta at a soup kitchen where I got to see the people who needed a stranger’s time and services. The face-to-face interaction added a whole new dynamic to the volunteer experience. I knew that, in the future, I would find ways to volunteer again. I just didn’t know how or where.

After being given numerous opportunities to help out while I was at Bowdoin College, I moved back to New York and learned that I would have to find volunteer opportunities on my own. I decided to volunteer abroad because I felt restless and inconsequential working in an office just off Times Square while images of hurricane and earthquake victims constantly filled the vacant time in each day. My goal was to get away from life in Manhattan and immerse myself in an environment that smelled, sounded, and moved differently. I craved helping others and focusing on someone else’s life besides my own. At the time, although I didn’t realize it, the trip was as much for me as it was for the people I planned to help.

I chose to work with a program called Cross Cultural Solutions (CCS) because of its philosophy that the volunteer experience should benefit all who are involved. Through CCS, I could travel to a beautiful country such as Costa Rica, where my time would be evenly divided between assisting the community and exploring the host country freely on my own. I signed up for a month with CCS, prepared to give the children and the program as much of me as I could, and full of hope that I could make a difference. I had yet to figure out what that difference would be.

After the plane landed in Costa Rica, I claimed my luggage and left the airport in a van with nine other volunteers. In the first isolated moments of being there, I was already overcome with wanderlust. On the sidewalks, people moved to the beat of salsa and reggaeton music that seemed to pulse constantly throughout the streets. I took deep breaths, inhaling the sweet air I could almost taste, which was saturated with the natural perfume of plantain trees and burning sugarcane, and mixed with the haze of car exhaust. I had to remind myself that I wasn’t there for me, knowing this was probably a little lie I’d keep telling myself. The new environment took hold of me. I was excited to head to Cartago, the town in the Central Highlands where I’d be living for a month, and begin my volunteer experience.

After a good night’s sleep I felt surprisingly unsettled, but ready for the first day. I joined my group and ate my breakfast, which consisted of rice and black beans (a meal I would learn to love, or go hungry), accompanied by toast, guava jam, and freshly cut papayas, melon, and pineapples that melted like sorbet in my mouth. After becoming better acquainted with the other volunteers, we were instructed to prepare our daily activities for the kids and load the van that would take us to our individual placements.

All I knew was that I had been assigned to work at a day care center called Estrellitas (“little stars”), where I would be looking after twelve children whose ages ranged from newborn to six years old. My instructions were to give them attention, play games, organize arts and crafts and athletic activities, and teach them basic hygiene and English during our time together.

Before piling into the van, I nervously gathered books, games, and toys from an overflowing bookshelf of reused plastic, papers, and crayons. Rubber balls and hula-hoops spilled from the pile as we volunteers scrambled for puzzles and memory cards that were buried in the mess. We all wanted to provide our kids with the best materials we had access to, knowing that they owned very few, if any, of the toys that seemed to tumble out so abundantly in front of us. Armed with as many objects as we could fit into our bags, we got into the rickety white CCS van, curious and unsure of where we would be dropped off, but ready to help.

Our driver, Alan, turned on the engine and the radio. The volume was loud enough for the whole street to hear our music. After a couple days of the same ritual, I began to wonder whether life in Costa Rica could go on without reggaeton music. I settled into the car seat and, finally, felt a million miles from Manhattan – exactly where I wanted to be.

The van chugged its way through the central part of town, where store-lined streets were adorned with bakeries, fruit stands, and ice cream shops that sold a popular green mango popsicle dipped in salt. A bustling neighborhood unfolded from the pigeon-filled plaza located at the base of the large basilica silhouetted against the mountainous backdrop. Local ticos (the local term for Costa Rican men) walked slowly, grinning at each other, revealing imperfect teeth, while women with long black hair walked toddlers to school. This was their form of pura vida (“pure life”), a greeting that often follows “hello” in Costa Rica; I was there to experience pura vida for myself for a few weeks.

The van ride to our placements was our first real glimpse into life in Cartago. Reggaeton and salsa music continued to blast through the speakers as we bounced around on the unevenly paved streets, through villages with shack-like houses of blue, green, yellow and orange, many of which seemed on the verge of collapsing. Bright colors constantly exploded from the green scenery. Tanned, barefoot children played in their crowded front yards alongside stray dogs, using the skeletons of abandoned cars as dangerous jungle gyms in which they could simulate shipwrecks and battle scenes.

The van meandered through the steep dirt roads of the mountains, dropping volunteers off at their placements one by one. I watched this unfamiliar world, so different from mine, as carefully as I could, unable to wipe a smile off my face as wind from the open window blew my hair, smacking my eyes and assuring me that I was really there. Eventually, the van rolled to a stop outside a bright green butcher shop where an old man stared at us curiously while he swatted flies from raw meat. Alan, the CCS driver, called my name, and I knew I was about to meet my kids for the first time.

Alan walked me down the makeshift sidewalk, around a corner where flies hovered over dog excrement and aged trash. To my left was a ledge above a dried-out river that had become an accumulated mess of car parts, candy wrappers, and sticks in stagnant water. Pieces of glass and empty plastic bottles littered the dusty ground, conditions most people would consider completely unsafe for children.

Just beyond the trash and the flies were my kids. They were running around, playing tag in an alleyway of brightly colored homes, all protected by gated patios. Women sat on their stoops peeling fruit and yelling to their neighbors across the sidewalk. The children were playing on a dirty slab of cement that sat like an island between two small open gutters filled with bacteria-infested water. I felt concerned for the children who had to play in an unhealthy environment, but I could also see how much joy they took from so little.

One of the girls recognized Alan and knew immediately that I was the new volunteer. In the sweetest little voice, she yelled “La Gringa!” (“the white girl!”), which I was about to learn would be my new name. This got the attention of the other five or six boys and girls around her who all stopped what they were doing to sprint toward me with their little legs and dark hair flailing in the sunlight, chanting “Gringa! Gringa! Gringa!” as though I were Santa Claus. Already, in that very first moment, I had experienced the most enthusiastic welcome I have ever received, and I didn’t know whether I even deserved it.

The next half hour was spent trying to memorize the kids’ names as the girls played with my long wavy hair and the boys admired my red and blue Puma sneakers, trying to snatch the soccer ball I had brought them from my hands. Most of the kids fought over who could hold my hand, even when we were doing nothing but sitting and talking about colors. They’d try to climb me like a tree and I was constantly tugged at from every angle. I was there for them – to show them love, to teach them English, to play with them – yet I couldn’t help but feel that they were there for me, too.

It was clear how much these kids enjoyed having a new foreign friend. Yet they were also accustomed to watching their foreign friends leave them after two or three weeks. To them, we gringos were completely replaceable, but also memorable. To us, however, the kids were irreplaceable.

They’d tell me stories about the last girl who had been there, fully aware that my time with them was transitory. The kids asked me all kinds of questions with a contagious curiosity that fueled their excitement while calming my nerves. When I told them I was from New York City, they said “Ay! Noo Yark? Ay que bueno!” but, in reality, they knew nothing about New York. It was as foreign to them as the moon – a far-off place they had heard a lot about but would probably never visit in their lifetimes. Despite the garbage dump at the end of the alleyway, these kids had no sense of where they would rather be; they were innocently happy exactly where they were, a trait which, I realized, I was lacking.

The children’s unconditional excitement upon catching sight of me never seemed to fade. Although they probably didn’t realize it, I felt the same excitement toward them every morning when I arrived with my new set of toys. They’d greet me with kisses and hugs accompanied by the persistent call of “Gringa! Gringa!” quickly transforming me into a celebrity on their street (or a spectacle, at least). When I left the green gate of Estrellitas, each child made sure he/she could give me a kiss before I got back into the van. Their openness to me was unbelievable, and I’d smile all the way back to the van, slightly disgusted by the snot and dirt that had been smeared all over my shirt, as they watched me walk away, waving and yelling “hasta mañana! Adios!” (“See you tomorrow! Goodbye!”), with their little dirty hands flopping around in the dusty sunlight.

During my time with the children, I was under the impression that, in spite of their unsanitary living conditions, they were happy. For the most part, I was right. Being a child requires only simple pleasures, no matter where you are, and many of those (such as toys and games) I could provide. Most of the children were half-Nicaraguan, considered nicas by the Costa Ricans, a derogatory term referring to their Nicaraguan blood inherited from fathers who had left their mothers. Their single mothers used the time I took care of their children to go to work or find new jobs. Even with their third-world-country status, Costa Ricans are extremely peaceful and well-educated. Some feel that Nicaraguans – from just one country north and recognizable by their darker skin-tone – are less-educated and lower class, so children such as the ones I worked with were often considered inferior for not being 100% Costa Rican. Luckily, they appeared to have no idea.

Despite their apparent happiness, I couldn’t help but question how the kids really felt. One day, I had to borrow a ladder from a neighbor to climb a roof and rescue the slightly warped hula hoop that had been accidentally tossed onto the tin roof by Yanan, one of the more mischievous children who constantly challenged my authority, yet kissed me at the end of every day. As I climbed down the ladder, hula hoop in hand, the familiar hum of a low-flying airplane flew overhead.

As a New Yorker, I had heard this sound every day of my life and paid little attention. But before I knew it, all the kids were running from their homes, standing on the highest pieces of land they could find, yelling as loudly as they could up to the airplane, “AVIÓN! AVIÓN! SÁCAME DE AQUÍ!” (“Airplane! Airplane! Take me from here!”). They were jumping up and down, staring, calling, and begging the plane to take them away from that alley in which we had been playing so happily just moments before. I remember becoming choked up when I saw this for the first time. It reminded me that many of them would probably never leave the town where they had grown up, and that it was my ability to leave Manhattan that allowed me to give my time to them. When the airplane passed, they all sighed and went back to playing, as if nothing had happened, but I could not forget the scene I had just witnessed.
Every plane that passed overhead evoked the same reaction from the children. Soon enough, it was my turn to fly home in one of those planes. The kids were fascinated; some even asked me to take them to New York with me when I left. It was hard to say goodbye to the kids with whom I had spent so much time for a month. I knew that I would never see them again, but the time I had to offer was limited.

As my plane took off, headed for New York City, I sat there peering out the window at the green hills of Costa Rica again, wondering whether the kids would call out to my plane when it flew over their colorful homes. I realized how badly I wanted to stay in Costa Rica, where my life was simple, my surroundings beautiful, and people didn’t seem preoccupied with a constant desire to be elsewhere or do and have more. When I left, the Cross Cultural Solutions leaders hugged me and wished me the usual pura vida, which resonated in my mind for the next several hours. I thought about how long it might take before I became just another gringa whose name they wouldn’t remember. It was after I left that I realized how grateful I was to have had the opportunity to work with Cross Cultural Solutions in a stunning country with such loving, wonderful kids. I may have given them four weeks of my time, but time is nothing in comparison to the sense of fulfillment and appreciation that they had given back to me.

Like most people who choose to volunteer, I went to Costa Rica with the sincere intention of aiding a community in its humble quest to improve people’s lives. I left feeling refreshed and appreciated, reminded of how different pura vida is in other countries. When I said goodbye, my program leaders thanked me, as did the children with whom I worked. I knew I had been successful and had been able to help, as so many other volunteers had done before and will do in the future. But in the end, I was only able to offer four weeks. What I got back was an experience that I will always be grateful to have had, and one I will try to encourage others to have, as well.

For more information about Cross Cultural Solutions, visit: www.crossculturalsolutions.org.

My I-WISH-I-Was Blind...Date

2007-09-05T14:47:00.000-04:00

I’ve gone on one blind date in my life. It was bad.

What can I say? It was exactly one week after a “relationship” (for lack of a better term) ended and I was feeling free and very available. My friend, who I have known since third grade, called me up to tell me that her roommate, Matt – a normal enough name, must be a normal guy, right?! (WRONG) – was recently single and ready to mingle with a new, sweet girl, to be chosen by my friend, who we’ll call S. S thought of me right away, assuming that I was interested in meeting a “quirky, very unique” guy. I was warned that “he might not be [my] type” but that he’s really “out there” and “fun.” I, being naïve and having never GONE on a blind date, decided I was game – how BAD could it BE?

I was about to find out.

I gave S the OK, hung up, and felt a sudden spritz of excitement and curiosity perfume my mood. Oooh, I wonder if I’ll like him! Wouldn’t that be so fun and perfect?! PSH, SORRY sweetheart – this is New York, the land of crazy people, not a movie set: PREPARE for a psycho, just in case.

Fifteen minutes later, I got a phone call from Matt. Yup, FIFTEEN MINUTES. It was about 11am on a shitty looking Saturday morning in January, the kind of day that looks like it is constantly on the brink of snowing, and the kind that we have to thank for giving us SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) and “the winter blues.”

I hesitantly picked up my cell phone as it vibrated in my hand like a time-bomb about to explode.

“…Hello?” The number was unfamiliar.

“Hey Rachel. It’s MATT.” He sounded so sure.

“Oh…. Errr… Heeeeeyyyyy….” FUCK, what am I supposed to say? Do I really want to go on a blind date?! Wait…NO! This is stupid, I don’t want to do this anymore. And… I’m talking…STILL talking… What am I talking about? I’m still talking… So is he…Did I just make a joke?! Crap. Can’t… stop… it…

The conversation continued for about 5 to 10 minutes. I hung up, and the next thing I knew, I had a blind date set up for that night. Aaaaabuhhhh?! [Sound of me getting a little nervous mixed with slight confusion.]

Somewhere in those 5 to 10 minutes, I was given a few cryptic instructions:
1. Wear a ball gown, because we’re going waltzing!! (UH… NO! He obviously doesn’t realize I am not a ball gown kind of girl. I wore nice pants and lady shoes instead – HEY, they weren’t jeans – that’s a stretch for me!)
2. Meet at exactly 6:45pm on the platform of the N/R train in Union Square where the last car of the train opens. (OK, obviously this guy is trying to be mysterious. Mystery is ok if you can pull it off, but otherwise… like that show on VH1 "The Pickup Artist" -- NOT cool!)
3. Look for the guy with the wax-tip mustache. (RED FLAG! RED FLAG!)

It was too late. I had to obey.

Sure enough, 6:45pm rolled around, and I found myself standing on the subway platform in Union Square staring down every guy with a mustache that got out of the last car of the N/R train. I didn’t even know what I was looking for; what was a wax-tip mustache supposed to look like?!

The answer walked right over to me. When the train doors opened, a guy jumped out with an unmistakable ‘stache unlike any ‘stache I’ve ever seen before. For a split-second I thought – I HOPE IT’S NOT HIM – and just then, he looked at me, said “RACHEL?” and pulled me onto the train. FUCK. The date had begun.

I gave Matt the quick look over… My first thought was “this is going to be a long night…” I didn’t know what to notice first. He had the longest, Captain Hook mustache a 25-year-old could possibly muster the energy to grow. As if that wasn’t enough, he also had multiple tattoos, noticeable even in winter clothing. I don’t want to say I have something against tattoos, but I can’t say I’ve ever been attracted to someone’s tattoo… [I'd much rather a six-pack and nice back and shoulders than a fucking tattoo. Hehe. Anyways...] He was wearing black and white checkered pants, a leather jacket with random patches on it, and custom-made shoes (I learned this only moments later) with large arrows pointing to his toes on both feet. After a couple minutes, I noticed he had the exact same arrows tattooed onto his arms, extending from his forearms over his wrists that pointed to his hands. His hair was spiked STRAIGHT UP, he had a goatee, and… he was NOT my type. After ALL that, he was under 6 feet tall – too short. I mean, really... is that too much to ask?! [OK OK, I know I'm PICKY... SORRY!]

I learned very quickly that subtlety was NOT his forte. I find subtlety extremely sexy, so this was just not going to work. I HATE being a spectacle or the center of attention (with people I don’t know) and, apparently, Matt couldn’t CONTROL THE VOLUME OF HIS VOICE ]that was me yelling -- ha] on a train full of people who couldn’t stop staring at him.

Unfortunately, as torturous as the first few moments were, I had no idea where I was going and had to trust this wax-tipped mustache man. Thank GAWD I didn’t wear a ball gown – that would have been the most horrendously awkward faux pas.

Suddenly – I was in BROOKLYN, a whole borough away from home (I just sounded way too Manhattan), trapped on a train with a walking mustache in the DEAD of winter… and I was going WALTZING, of all things. We took the train to the absolute LAST STOP, which was Brighton Beach. I went from Manhattan to Russia in one hour, and I was so ready to say DASVEDANYA to Matt. Yes: I’m a horrible, judgmental person. [Uhh... In case you didn’t catch the sarcasm… I really hope I’m not horrible or overly judgmental… I just get strong gut reactions to certain situations and people! I can’t help it!]

As if going to the tip of Brooklyn on a train wasn’t far enough, we then had to take a BUS to the waltz. First, since we hadn’t eaten and I was fucking STARVING, he asked if I wanted a knish from this woman on the street. All the signs were written in Russian, and the woman didn’t speak English (why would she? We weren’t in NYC, that’s for fucking SURE), so I said sure… thinking, that’s the LAST fucking thing I want but I will probably pass out from hunger if I don’t eat it, so let’s knish-it, ASAP. I was… f-f-fff-rr-rrr-rrr-eeeezing. I could barely control my shivers [shout out to all my skinny sisterfriends out there. HAAAY!]. Since this was a date and the knishes were $1 each, I figured Matt would offer to pay…EVEN though I was fine with paying. He picked up four knishes when I said I only wanted one (he was having two), and then… asked me if I had two bucks. I tried not to give him the ARE YOU FOR FUCKING REAL?! look, and forked over the cash, glancing disdainfully at the tattooed arrows pointing to his hands as I looked sadly at what was about to become my dinner.

Yes, it got worse.

We caught the bus, which was an additional 15-minute ride through the Russia of New York. Again, Matt talked loud enough for the whole bus to hear, and all about himself, until a Russian woman decided to convert her ice-cold glares into verbal grenades she kept throwing at my mustache-flaunting blind date. She started cursing him out, telling him that we didn’t belong there and that we should get out of their bus… HOLY SHIT. Rather than respectfully apologizing or explaining while we were there, Matt, to my disappointment and horror, decided this was a fight he could win. He retaliated as I sat there, mortified, scared, and starving, watching his anger mount to an uncomfortable level…especially for a blind date.

Luckily, we survived the bus ride and were back on the street, walking… and walking… and walking. My lady shoes were not making my feet happy. When we FINALLY got to the place where we were supposed to have a waltzing lesson, I find out… it’s a FUCKING RETIREMENT CENTER!! HAHAHA. Wait, it wasn't funny at the time. Everyone there was Russian, and over 50 years old… except it was a party being thrown by hipster New Yorkers attempting to get young people to join, which I quickly realized was a failure since me, Matt and his three friends were the ONLY young people there.

In a nutshell, the waltz lesson was… awkward. Like, REALLY awkward, and horrible, and not hawt. Matt was really nervous on the dance floor and couldn’t stop sweating. By that point, my feet hurt so much from my lady shoes, but I was just glad I wasn’t freezing to death or paying for knishes or getting hunted by the Russian mafia. [You know it’s a good date when you can say “AT LEAST” before that last sentence. Hehehe.] I met some of his friends, who were really actually cool, and also covered in tattoos with crazy hair, and I FELT LIKE A FREAK.

After an hour or two of TRYING to have a good time but feeling more uncomfortable and out of place than I have ever felt in my life, we decided it was a long trip home and I was ready to leave. BUT… he was hungry… so he insisted we go out to eat somewhere there instead of heading home. I had NO idea how to get home and was completely dependent on him and his many arrows to find my direction, so I went along with his dinner plan. It was a horrible position to be in.

Dinner was lame. He ordered so much food, I barely ate anything because I was just so uncomfortable, which convinced him that I don’t eat anything and made me feel even MORE uncomfortable when I tried to explain that I eat a ton (really!!), and then he asked if I would split the bill… or basically pay for his meal. SURE. Why don’t you get your mustache to pay a third, too?! This was not sexy. I mean… I have no problem paying… but… it was just… so… not date-like!! I don’t know. Maybe I should shut up about this part. SHUTTING UP.

Eventually, we made it to the train station, which was outside, so he hugged me to “keep me warm” for the 20 minutes we stood there waiting for a train. Ah! When the train arrived, I could have kissed it I was so happy. We hugged goodbye an hour later when I got out at Times Square and escaped. I made it! I survived my first blind date. It was 11pm, and luckily, a Bowdoin friend had invited me to a bar in midtown. I had never been so happy to be in Manhattan with a bunch of Bowdoin people, none of whom had mustaches.

I like to think that I might get back on the blind date horse again someday, even though my first experience was so traumatic, but hopefully it won’t be the mechanical kind that tries to buck me off in Russia next time. One of the many lessons I learned from this experience was: never leave the borough on a blind date. Also: always know how to get home with or without your date, eat dinner before you leave, and dress warmly – it could be a long one... That goes for both the night, and the mustache.

Blog It like Beckham

2007-08-20T12:10:00.000-04:00

The anticipation had been mounting for weeks. I wanted everyone to share some of the excitement I was feeling about the momentous experience I was about to have; I was going to see David Beckham – arguably the most famous soccer player in the world right now – and the LA Galaxy play the NY Red Bulls in one of the most highly anticipated Major League Soccer games of all time.

After weeks of sitting on the bench due to an ankle injury, Beckham had put my hopes of seeing him play into question. While his first several games in the US were spent on the bench, he played 63-minutes in a game earlier that week. Would I get to see him play, or was my excitement to be met by disappointment in an anticlimactic gust of bad luck? The day had finally arrived when I would find out, and there was still hope. Even if nobody else gave a damn – I sure as hell couldn’t wait to watch some soccer.

Exactly one year earlier, I was making the same drive to the same stadium, with the same child-like excitement pulsing through my body. Last summer, the World Cup had just ended. After watching 85-90% of all the games, I was drunk with knowledge about the players, aware of their unique personalities and the distinctive styles with which each country played the same game. I had done my homework, read up on many players' life stories, and successfully become completely caught up and captivated by the entire experience. Soccer became part of my everyday life again, as it had been when I was a kid playing on teams from second through twelfth grades. For the first time, the pride involved in watching every World Cup game wasn't personal, it was patriotic. When the Argentinean players took the field, I felt the kind of excitement that terrifies you and makes you want to laugh at the same time; there was a lot more to prove on that field than who could win a soccer game. It wasn’t each country’s soccer team on the field; it was their whole country.

In the end, the Germans beat my Argentineans by one unforgivable penalty kick. The final kicker for Argentina and the goalkeeper from Germany each prepared for one split second in which the entire weight of their country would sit heavily on their shoulders as a burden for the rest of their lives, or get lifted and thrown away, replaced by the cloak of heroism that would adorn their name for years to come. In one second, ONE SECOND, we lost. A 90-minute game after hundreds of other 90-minute games, and in one second, it was all over for Argentina. I guess this is when I’m supposed to admit that a tear dropped from my sad little eye (I’m SUCH a sucker for that shit!). But that tear… it symbolized more than sadness.

What lingered after watching the World Cup soccer games was that excitement for a professional sport that had become a dormant afterthought in American culture. I had become fully invested emotionally and psychologically in the outcome of each game. I wanted to come back for more; I wanted to feel like there was more on the line every time those players took the field than a high five for winning.

I realized that, even though the World Cup only happens every four years, the players play on. Last summer, new "greats" had been made, and certain names began to float to the surface of daily life where they could receive much-deserved recognition and fame after being ignored for so long by Americans like me. Even a month after that one second of truth had come and gone, the excitement lingered. I didn’t know it would carry me through the year that followed.

Last summer, I saw soccer superstars Lionel Messi (of Argentina) and Ronaldinho de Assis Moreira (the Brazilian more commonly known as Ronaldinho) of FC Barcelona – my home-team from when I was living in Barcelona – take on the NY Red Bulls at Giants Stadium. The experience was the closest I could have come to feeling like I was at the World Cup, because the energy from the games that summer had not completely died down yet. Flags and jerseys from every country and club speckled the 70,000-person-filled stadium. The crowd was an electrifying combination of colors and languages that I will never forget.

At the game last Saturday, the World Cup had been long over, but another soccer superstar was taking the stage – and this time, he was one of us… in a way.

We got to Giants Stadium and, immediately, I sensed the contagious energy of the crowd. Beckham shirts in every style, including homemade versions, crowded the stairwells and stadium seats. People of all ages from all over the world were there to enjoy the game, but the spotlight obviously would be stuck on only one man: David Beckham. With the NY Red Bulls averaging just over 11,000 fans a game, I was about to be one of the over 66,000 fans that would be there on that particular night.

I proudly wore my Argentina jersey with Messi’s name on the back, which solicited mostly positive responses including an Argentinean singing the Argentina fight song right to me. Beckham brought people to the game, but it was clear that not everyone was a fan of his. We were grateful he was there, all the same, which made for an interesting cocktail of reactions to his playing throughout the game. Other players’ names also graced the backs of people’s shirts – Zidane, Tevez, Ronaldinho, Donovan, Mathis, Ronaldo, Kaka, Lippi, Henri, Figo, etc. But there was only one name that nobody could forget as the night went on.

We got to our seats, located just behind the goal and the crazy, screaming ESC (Empire Supporters Club) – the only legitimate, real, hardcore New York Red Bulls fans. The difference between soccer games in America and soccer games in the rest of the world is that, in NY, we had one isolated section of craziness, whereas, in the rest of the world, that section would fill the entire stadium. Just below us, David (yeah, I can officially just call him David now since I was within 100 feet of him) and the rest of the Galaxy and Red Bulls warmed up on the field. After all that waiting, after all the articles and anticipation, David Beckham was right THERE, squatting, jumping, running, and passing the ball. I was eating a hot dog behind one of the greatest soccer players in the world. Just like that – me, Beckham, my Messi jersey, and a hot dog on a Saturday night in New Jersey.

From the raucous sounds of the crowd in front of us, we could tell it was going to be a good game. Screaming and flashing cameras welcomed the players onto the field (although it seemed like all 66,000 pairs of eyes were on one man – I’m surprised he didn’t fall over or something!). Before we knew it, the inaudible game-on whistle had been blown, and we were watching a historical game for American soccer.

Nine minutes later, the score was 2-1. NINE FUCKING MINUTES and we had witnessed three goals. As if the excitement of being there wasn’t enough, the game launched furiously into a near record-breaking display of goal-scoring (only 10 other MLS games had ever scored 9 or more points... EVER), much to the goalies’ dismay. We could tell that the players were as excited to have such a large crowd as we were, and only a handful of them had ever played in front of an audience half the size.

Throughout the game, drums thumped, people booed and cheered, drunk American guys tried to single-handedly turn the silent, verbal American fans into the singing, waling fans that crowd the soccer games of other countries’ teams. After all, soccer fans around the world tend to sing more than any other fans of any other sport. And yet there we were, cheering and oooh-ing as if it was an American football or baseball game, because we are still learning how to be soccer fans in this young country.

One great game, one great sport, one great player – but that’s not all I got to see on Saturday night. David Beckham’s team lost to my home team. This small fact serves as a subtle reminder that there are a whole bunch of other great players out there just waiting to be met by roaring, singing fans. While soccer in America has a long way to go before the singing, drum-playing, shoe-waving fans occupy the entire 70,000-person stadiums and not just one section of a record-full 66,000-person audience, the excitement of that one game this summer and that one game last summer has converted me into a Major League Soccer fan. The more of us there are, the more we’ll all get back from each game we go to.

Beckham, Ronaldinho, Messi and Saviola may have brought me out to Giants Stadium to watch the Red Bulls play, but the excitement I felt at each of those games is what will have me coming back for more.

Pass Me the Sassy

2007-08-08T15:57:00.000-04:00

For some strange reason that is beyond my usually tactful process of selecting what I will blog about next, I have decided to share a story that reveals a little more about my real life than do some of the other entries. I don’t usually expose revealing stories so irresponsibly but, in a pathetic attempt to show you all that I do get to have fun once in a while (even though most people don’t get to hear about it) I am going to lay one of my stories out there for the blog reading vultures [YOU] to pick at.

I have numbed my anticipation of regret and will calmly continue to post this entry, fully aware that someone might read it one day that will lead me to curse this very moment. For anyone who thinks I’m a spinster, here is one of my more sassy stories from several months ago that I hope will keep you subtly entertained, if not more. And let us not forget, you don’t know what you don’t read. Correct?

* * *

You know when life is just going along -- you’re coasting but feeling very little about anything in particular because nothing seems to be changing? Then, you go on a trip abroad and, upon your return, you notice that you are refreshed. A wild, animalistic look has replaced the sleepy, disappointed look in your eyes and, suddenly, a fire has been lit inside of you and you're craving excitement!

Uh, yeah… me either… [echem…awkward moment….it’s passing… it’s passing… OK GONE.]

Several months ago, I was privy to such a mood. Just after I got back from a family trip to Argentina, I decided that I was in a rambunctious mood and that it was time to make out with someone. That's right -- YOU HEARD ME. I wanted to kiss someone -- hard. A couple weekends after I returned from South America, I went out into the night like a pit-bull, ready to accomplish my goal – but without lowering any standards, of course. Life had felt too boring for my taste and I needed to add some serious spice to it… and FAST. After all, I used to be called the TAVANIMAL in college, and I am definitely not living up to that name as a young “woman.” Strangely, when I get THAT determined to do something, the stars have a funny way of lining up just enough to let me get there… Or at least, when it works out, it can be pretty fantastic.

My first attempt to accomplish my goal was Friday night. I hung out with an attractive (shhh!) male friend who invited me out. We have one of those friendships that has flirted with the friendship line, but never crossed it. I had no idea who else would be there that night, so I went into the evening thinking – hmm, maybe I’ll just have to CROSS that little line for fun! I know, a dangerous call I rarely make, but at least the thought of it was exciting.

When I got to the restaurant where I was to meet him and his friends, who did I find was also there?? His new GIRLFRIEND. GRRRREAT. It was him, his girlfriend, two guys and another girl. I got the picture immediately: there was going to be NO making out for me that night. Luckily, I had a great time with all of them regardless. But sheesh, leave it to a girlfriend to put the muzzle on the Tavanimal! Anyway, since I’m no home-wrecker, my fate was sealed that evening: no dice.

Then came Saturday night -- every weekend’s way of giving us that second chance. My friend was having a birthday party in the swanky, don’t-wear-flip-flops-or-you’ll-never-get-a-beer Meatpacking District. She’s my Bowdoin friend’s girlfriend (they’re EVERYWHERE, aren’t they?! And yes, none of my friends have names). I happen to have a semi-flirtatious friendship with this Bowdoin friend, especially near bars or dance floors (with or without boyfriends/girlfriends around). It’s just playful and always in good fun, so it worked well with attitude as I went into the party. I tend to spend most of the time cracking up with him. but sometimes we have to be careful when we get silly because not all girlfriends like that, and I am a lover not a hater.

Even though this nameless friend has a girlfriend, if we’re out drinking and he gets me alone, he’ll say things when nobody is listening that gives me an extra kick of confidence, like a caffeine boost that won’t stain my teeth. We joke all the time, but this night, it would help me accomplish my goal.

I had gotten a haircut that day so, I admit, I felt a little sexier than usual [what, I’m allowed, right?!]. This, I realized later, was KEY. As soon as I took off my jacket, someone made a comment that made me feel like my muzzle was officially off and I was unleashed and READY to go. I felt an electric boldness come over me as I scoped out the scene, and there was no need to pull the plug.

Soon after I arrived, one of my friends’ best friends from high school entered the scene. Immediately, I was intrigued. Now, for me, this does NOT happen easily. I very rarely (almost never) have an interest in or attraction to someone so quickly. It usually has to grow from interaction upon interaction, which can be a tiresome process when I just want to make the fuck out.

Then, this guy came over to me. That was it, my decision was made – target located, proceed with caution, over and OUT. The details of his identity must remain a mystery, but I will say that right when he entered the room – BAM – I was interested. The poor, unsuspecting, handsome guy was going to be my victim (if I was lucky). That rare attraction was stirring inside of me and I was officially on the prowl, like some nocturnal animal you don’t want to come across in the woods alone. He had a great smile, was definitely above six feet tall (sorry, I sort of have a rule…) and seemed very relaxed and upbeat, all good things for a girl on the hunt. He picked me out right away and, to my surprise, said “hey, we’ve met before!” Holy crappola… It’s true! He quickly followed this statement with, “but last time, I think you had just broken up with your boyfriend and you were really sad or something, so you left early” Turns out, I met him a couple weeks after a long relationship ended two years ago, so that was an accurate recollection. As my Bowdoin friend quickly reminded me – we definitely showed interest in each other way back then… So apparently, the attraction had remained – ooh la la!

This guy came in with a girl and a couple from Bowdoin, so I just assumed that he had a girlfriend, a disappointing realization that I’ve become quite accustomed to these days. Much to my disappointment, I figured it was yet another dead-end, and my excitement-starved eyes would have to be rest elsewhere. Oh well. But as the night went on, people started trying to see if I was interested in him. They kept asking a-la-high-school if i wanted him. I shrugged and plainly said, “well he has a girlfriend.” EHHHHHH (sound of alarm going off). No, no, no, missy! I believe the quote went like this: “Are you kidding? He does NOT! He’s SO single!” The words "SO SINGLE" echoed in my ears for the next 15 minutes as I put my game face back on. Did someone just put on sexy music and feel that sudden breeze that is blowing through my hair?!?! This was when the spark in my eye lit up again: GAME ON.

The night continued, fueling my determination to complete my goal by the fun I was having. Mingling with the entire group (under the influence of the social lubricant I like to call – BEER) only inspired me more. I felt more like myself than I had in months – so free, so happy, and so ready to do take action. I decided my best approach was to be very BLUNT all night, and to make it clear that I was there ready and willing to kiss someone I was attracted to, and I had only one person in mind…

All his [my nameless victim’s] friends got really excited about my admitted interest and said I HAD to kiss him because he was DEFINITELY interested. There was a strange sense of urgency in everyone's voice... and I liked it. His female friends started coming up to me and telling me how he is the best guy they know (yeah but can he KISS?! Ha. I kid.). They told me he was top-notch, sweet, incredibly smart, good, funny… cute... I began to realize I was a little nervous. In reality, I have never really put myself out there and made a REAL first move without some time to feel out the situation and get a sense of whether or not I was going to get rejected. I have NEVER been able to make a FIRST move, despite my usual confidence, so I decided (sheepishly) that HE had to make the move! Oh GAWD.

Then my Bowdoin friend – the link between my potential kiss and myself -- came over to me, picked me up, and put me on a bar stool. He stood there, looked me in the eye, and basically said “Listen to me: he’s a pussy, but he wants you. Here’s the deal; YOU make the move. TRUST me. Don't be a Sally. GO for it!” After my little pep-talk, which I couldn’t stop laughing about, that came complete with instructions on how to make my move and when to do it (immediately, of course)… I went right up to the guy and started talking. I quickly realized I had no idea how to get from point A to point hard-core-making-out, so conversation was deliberately awkward. I nervously continued our conversation while trying to figure out how the FUCK I was going to get him away from everyone else to some creepy dark corner where I could kiss him (I mean that in a classy way...).

I suggested he get another drink to buy me time, which he agreed to, and I happily ended up with one myself (but I SWEAR, to all you males out there, that I don’t know HOW or LIKE to get guys to buy me drinks so I DON'T do it!). Then, after I stuttered several times and probably looked extremely foolish, I somehow explained that [we were in a downstairs lounge] I was fully aware of how tactless I was being but I was just going to be honest and wanted to steal him away. To my shock and amazement, I found the balls to ask him to come upstairs with me -- there was no escaping now!!! MUAHAHAHA!!

Luckily, he seemed more than willing, so I took his hand and led him away from all our friends, completely aware that everyone was watching. The poor guy didn't know what was about to hit him...

FUCK TACT.

I brought him upstairs, prepared to bulldoze anyone that was going to get in my way, and, like a true lady, found a dark corner where we could “talk” more… Pshh, TALK?!?! Ha.

By the time I realized that we were right up against a window to the street outside, it was too late. I let him get one sentence in before I just bee-lined for his lips and planted a HUGE kiss on him!! I’m going to go ahead and say… he LOVED it. I know I did! It was probably the best make out session I have had in a LONG time. We took turns pinning each other against the wall, and just kissed and kissed and smiled and laughed and talked and…wow, it was AMAZING fun. Let's just say we didn't go back downstairs.

I hate to do this, but I’m going to stop there.

Hahahahaha. OK ok, here’s a little more.

We knew people were watching and we eventually figured out that all our friends had taken turns coming upstairs to watch us and see what was going on, but we didn’t give a shit. Then this girl outside breathed onto the glass window we were up against and wrote “WORD!” We saw it, laughed, and continued to make out. Hehehe.

Eventually we realized we were the only ones there and that the lounge had CLOSED!!! All of our friends had left and our jackets were in the coat check, which had been shut down. We had to get a bouncer to open the door so that we could get our stuff and leave! Now that’s a good sign, isn’t it? Hehehe.

Anyway, this is when the story will have to end, just like the night had to. Unfortunately, the person does not live in NYC (booo), although they will be in the tri-state area soon… But for the moment, that was that (clapping hands downward to show that I am “done”). From there, we had to go our separate ways, but I couldn’t have asked for a better way to remind myself that somewhere in this messy adult world of complicated relationships and responsibility, the Tavanimal lives on. And being single never felt as good as it did that night.

A Moment in Maine

2007-08-02T21:58:00.000-04:00

It's the middle of summer and I'm sitting in blissful laziness by Sebago Lake, wearing a damp polka-dot bikini while horse flies viciously feast on my ankles. To my left, water claps consistently against the broken down stone wall that separates me from the clear, olive-hued lake, which spills out endlessly in front of me. The wall that once was sturdy enough to function as the edge of a driveway has now crumbled and fallen. Jagged rocks have replaced what was once the trusted ground, and not even the most callused feet walk there anymore. The sounds of summer are all around me, yet the feeling of summer is still distant, like a boat humming loudly miles away that I can watch, but cannot ride. The clapping occurs all day, becoming subtler yet more-defined in the evening when the drone of motorboats has subsided and given way to the chatter of family and friends indulging in the fleeting perfection of summer evening barbeques. Sebago Lake seems large, more like an ocean than an enclosed body of water. Then I notice sky everywhere, even bigger.

All around the lake are families, each with their own jokes and traditions, who play in the same Sebago Lake water each year. Some have spent decades here. Some, like me, are just visitors who see the lake as an unknown, not a familiar place.

For many, the best summer moments are spent in our imaginations, away from where we really are. Thousands of moments are spent imagining the summer, the lake, and the barbeques with neighbors while void moments pass us by like birds flickering by a window. In front of computers, nuzzled in pillows, looking out car windows – all my summers take place then and there, in my thoughts, in my memories, in my silent moments when summer is more of an idea than a fraction of the calendar months through which I so happily get to pass.

Summer is elusive, like the sound of the ocean in a shell; it always feels distant, like I cannot hold onto it, no matter how hard I try. Every summer is a ghost of another one to me. In my memories, 80% of my childhood occurred during the summer, but that is impossible...

I adore summer. I need it. But it all happens so fast. I spend half the summer trying to convince myself that it is actually summer and the other half watching it dissipate into the crunchy brown leaves and crisp breeze of pumpkin-colored fall.

I continue to listen. Dogs bark, boats speed by, children splash and splash, making up games. Their parents sit nearby, talking about past summers while they sip beers and iced teas as if they know it won’t last, like ice in July. They watch the summer they have created for their children, thinking about the ones they once had -- the only true summers they can remember.

As the waves of Sebago Lake roll softly against the shore, I know it is summer, yet I cannot tell if I’m fully convinced. Instead of being there, I’m thinking that I should write about the moment as if that is the only way to caputre summer moments like this one and make them real. I pause for a moment to inhale the green-scented warm air. Suddenly, a horsefly bites my ankle. After I quickly smack the spot, I hear the clapping of the waves just a few feet away, and I realize that I don’t need a shell to hear it.

I Do Not Like the Time Warner Cable Guy

2007-07-21T17:22:00.000-04:00

I just had a cable moment so dehumanizing, I would say my soul hurts.

We, in the Tavel home, have been having serious trouble with our cable over the past few months. Channels have come and gone, once-clear, high-definition images on the beautiful flat-screen TV in the living room have been reduced to screens full of scattered cubes, resembling a picture Picasso could quite possibly confuse for one of his own cubism pieces. How’s a girl supposed to watch Dirty Jobs or other shows of equal quality when she feels like she has to crack some secret code for CTI in order to be mindless for 30 minutes? This seemed like a problem only a capable cable guy good fix, so I made the call to Time Warner.

The only day I was available to sit around and wait for the cable guy to come was a FUCKING Saturday – today, in fact. The world has conspired against me even more, making it the most stunning and gorgeous Saturday I have seen in a while. Only my slight-hangover was grateful for the fact that I needed to stay in the apartment (on said gorgeous Saturday) between the hours of 12 pm and 4 pm to await the mysterious cable man who was, allegedly, going to fix my Picasso-inspired cable problem.

Sure enough, the cable man arrived at 3:15pm, and he brought a whole lot of uninvited attitude along with his tardy ass. Wow. What an asshole! HA. Oh, it feels so good to say. Sometimes passive aggression is the BEST.

The cable man arrived through the back door (hehehe… back door….I’m mature) accompanied by my Dominican doorman, Fernando, as is the policy in my building. In walked the asshole cable guy, with his little bag of fucking TOOLS and CABLES or whatever, and immediately, I sensed that this was not a man who loves his life. Unfortunately, his bad day was about to be ungraciously spewed all over me and my doorman through subtle side-comments and inconspicuous cursing. The next hour was about to be as wonderful as his butt crack, which I later had the pleasure of viewing.

I let THE FUCKER in, showed him the problematic TVs, and proceeded to search all over the apartment for every possible cable jack we have. All the while, I am trying my best not to vomit in reaction to his rudeness towards my doorman, who doesn’t speak English. Cable asshole man (hehe I am loving the variations I keep using to describe him as more than just “the cable guy”) kept ordering my doorman around “yo, pass me that step-stool,” and cursing under his breath at how nothing was working and how he couldn’t fix the cable. Every TV he had to fix, I was asked impatiently to remove all objects in the way. The spawn of Satan (aka, you know who) became increasingly frustrated when he realized he might not be able to solve the problem (and, aka, do his JOB). This wasn’t about to make my time with him any more pleasant.

While he was mumbling about shit I don’t give a fuck about, using the words shit and fuck as often as possible in my silent apartment, I had to call my mom – who is out of town – to relay some information. So, I am there in the room with the bastard who hates his life and is unable to fix our cable problem, while my mom is on the phone trying to help with whatever information about our cable history she can. Meanwhile, Fernando decides to turn on the Yankees game in the kitchen. My mom starts asking me questions that I have to ask Fernando in Spanish and then translate the answers for the cable guy, who rolls his eyes at all of us, talking to me under his breath as we walks around the apartment.

In my parents’ room, I am asked to move a large dresser because he doesn’t want to get in trouble if anything breaks. I say ok, and begin heave-hoeing the large piece of furniture away from the wall as he watches. I create as much space for him as I can, and then he tells me that it’s not enough space for him and starts pulling it farther out, which then scrapes are wooden floors. GREAT. JUST GREAT! He gets down on the floor, bitches and moans for five minutes, gets up and knocks over my dad’s deodorant and ignores that he has done this. I ask him if something fell over and he says, “oh yeah, maybe…” Don’t maybe me you fucking asshole!! [hehehe.] I say “I’ll take care of it” and try and pretend I am not dealing with such a rude human being. After I pick up the deodorant that fell, I notice the awful, dark abyss that is his butt crack… and I look away, but the damage has been done.

Finally, the ordeal is almost over. Of course, he cannot solve the problem without destroying our walls, in which hidden splitters are causing Time Warner major cable-drama. The man starts walkie-talkie-ing someone to explain the problem. He is still being rude and even being condescending to his boss on the walkie-talkie, who is dealing with him very well. The cable guy turns to me and says, “oh this is a problem. A major problem.” I am about to open my mouth and say something, when he continues so eloquently by saying, “a big big problem that I cannot solve. You have yourself a big problem, but I’m out of it. It’s between you, Time Warner, your mom and your building now.” After which, he almost chuckles to himself.

I tell him that I understand he cannot fix the TVs and he goes ahead and sets up another appointment while I call my mom to double check that there isn’t anything I left out that might help. She says “Maybe I should change all the cable boxes,” which I relay to the cable guy. He looks at me in a completely straight face and says “oh good, that should do it. Why don’t you tell your mom to go do that; go ahead and replace every cable box that should solve the problem! I'd actually like to see that! What do you need ME here for?” Are you FOR REAL!?

I am stunned by how rude he is capable of being. Is this REALLY happening? I look at him in the eyes and I say, “Excuse me… SIR… what are you trying to say? Do you really want her to go do that? Are you trying to solve the problem? Let's be serious, please?” and he gets serious, realizing his job is endanger because he is being a total FUCKHEAD and I WILL call his boss up and tell him how disrespectful and condescending he was to a customer. Ooooh, I was ANGRY. He noticed and said “I’m just trying to explain that the cable box is not the problem but if you and your mom don’t believe me then you can do whatever you want.” I try and explain that we are only trying to help solve the problem, which he snaps back at me with “yeah, why do you think I’m here? Listen, I have been doing this for a LONG time. I know what I'm doing.” I then tell him “well, there is no need to be rude to us we are only trying to help, but if you don’t think you can solve the problem, then I think you’re done here, is that right?” Fernando smiles at me, and the most obnoxious cable man in New York City leaves my apartment, having done absolutely nothing to help the situation (which I understand wasn’t totally his fault). I am relieved, and shocked, so I head right to my computer to record the experience I just had.

It is not often that a visit from a cable guy turns so awful that one feels compelled to blog about it, but this particular cable guy had outstanding audacity… so here I am.

In the end, I waited all day for the cable man to come and then spent almost an hour with the rudest man I have ever met. The gorgeous Saturday has come and gone, and now and the TVs still do not work. It is moments like these when I am grateful I have a blog through which I can expel my frustration, something the cable man could probably use if he wants to keep his job. Such is life, I guess? At least I don’t hate mine like some people clearly do...