Thank You, Grandma.

I haven't written in four and a half years.  I guess I've felt I have nothing to say.  Though, that isn't exactly true.  A lot has happened.  I moved back across the country, bought a Honda Fit, got a job at a school that I love with a department that's like a family, adopted a black cat and promptly named her Frankie, bought my very first home, fell in and out of love in two short spans of time, got T-boned and got a Mazda3, met and fell in love with a German Shepherd and named her Ferdie, and traded in my Mazda3 for a Subaru Forester (I love cars).

Those are the good things.  One major thing happened last week that is not good.  My grandmother died.

Grandma was 87 when she passed.  She caught pneumonia a few months back, went to the hospital, went to rehab, then caught the flu.  She quickly went downhill and died a few weeks after returning to the hospital.  People say it felt sudden.  It did feel sudden.  In a lot of ways, Grandma was doing great up until pneumonia.  But a friend of mine said, when you're 87, death is never sudden.  Grandma didn't deteriorate in front of our eyes for long months.  She didn't slowly wither away to nothing.  It's not the worst way to go.  But it's never easy.  Because we loved her. 

The thing I remember most about Grandma is her cooking.  She cooked in a kitchen the size of a walk-in closet.  She would cook for the whole extended family, her five kids and each of the grandkids.  She'd make picadillo with Spanish olives and fluffy white rice, roast pork every Easter, rice and gondules, black beans and pink beans.  She'd make all that and an extra batch of food for Papa, who ate a ridiculously healthy diet.  It had to be super bland for his high blood pressure.  Papa's food was the worst, but the rest of us ate really well.  My absolute favorite was her chicken cutlets and mashed potatoes.

She would never go wrong and no one can ever replicate it.  Grandma would go to the butcher and get her chicken cutlets that day.  She'd bread them and fry them in oil and they would be perfect... perfectly thin and crispy, never burned, never mushy.  Her mashed potatoes were a masterpiece.  They were always perfectly whipped, smooth and buttery.  I would eat seconds and thirds.  God, I miss those mashed potatoes.  I watched her whipping action on more than one occassion, try to do it, but it just never comes out the same.

Grandma babysat us throughout our entire childhood.  I spent many afternoons and weekends at her house.  In those times, I remember when my brother and I would fight, she would sometimes come in from the kitchen and threaten us.  We were never scared of Grandma though.  She only would ever hit us with her slipper.  My brother and I would look at each other surprised, like, "was that supposed to hurt?"  It was kind of comical and cute.  Poor grandma.

I loved to look in Grandma's cabinets after school and on weekends when we were hanging out at the house.  Her house was our second home and it was always "what's mine is yours."  She usually had one of those Danish cookie tins in her main cabinet and when we were lucky, it was filled with oreos.  I was always really disappointed when it had the Danish cookies still in it.  Mostly, it was oreos.  Grandma had another cabinet where she kept her spices and peanut butter.  Up on the top shelf, she usually had three packs of beef flavored ramen.  They weren't Top Ramen, they were Oodles of Noodles.  She would serve them to Artie and me in little green soup bowls with handles and chopsticks. 

Grandma loved to play the Lotto and every Saturday, she'd check her numbers, hoping to hit the big one.  She never did.  One day, my dad (or my uncle, I can't remember) got one of those fake scratch offs that look like a winner.  He gave it to Grandma.  She scratched one, scratched another and got excited, then scratched the third, screamed, jumped up and down, and it was one of the funniest things I can remember.  I wish I could remember what she said.  If Grandma ever won the Lotto, I know she would have shared it.  She had a very giving nature. 

Grandma was always working on a project.  She would crochet beautiful blankets for expecting mothers, shawls for us when we were children.  She belonged to a knitting club and her girlfriends would come over and they'd just sit and talk and work on their projects.  I was always impressed with how social Grandma was.  Her house was always pretty full.  Full of friends and full of family.  Spring, summer, and fall, we'd sit out front on the stoop and in folding chairs inside the chain link fence.  People would stop by and always be welcomed in for conversation, food, a soda, or a beer.  Everyone loved stopping by Grandma and Papa's house. 

Grandma had lots of friends who had kids and grandkids and she would often have a garbage bag filled with hand-me-downs for me.  I loved those...  some of those clothes were super fun.  I would pick through and try things on, planning out my outfits for the week.  I loved those hand-me-downs and I loved when she would take me to Caren's Cones and Candy.  We would beg and beg, never realizing that she was in the middle of cooking or cleaning.  She would either walk us down there and let us pick something out or she would give us $1 or 2 each and we would walk down on our own.  I loved getting the little white bag filled with those raspberry jelly candies, marshmallow twists, and jelly rings. 

I loved sleeping over Grandma's house.  She would make up the couch for me and the linen always had that clean, warm smell.  I would wake up to her thin, crispy around the edges pancakes and eggs.  For lunch, she'd make a  delicious grilled cheese sandwich.  She loved to feed her kids and grandkids.  It's what I think made her the most happy.  But ask her for a recipe and she gets kind of exasperated with you.  "Oh Laura... I don't know, honey!"  Because she didn't follow recipes.  She just cooked.  From her memory and from her heart.  You can't explain to someone how to do that.

Grandma had a hard life as a kid.  She grew up very poor in Key West.  She told me that they would take cornmeal and flatten it out in a pan with raisins and eat that over the course of a few days.  In her adult life, she had an amazing and loving husband in Papa, family that adored her, and was able to provide delicious food to her family, and a place to sit and talk over Spanish coffee and homemade flan for neighbors and friends.  I think that is what she needed.

Rest in Peace Grandma.  I love you, I appreciate all that you've given me, I learned from you, and I'll bet you're on this swing with Papa right now, happy to back with him.

37 Birthdays and So Much Wiser

I've had 37 birthdays.  Thirty-fucking-seven.  That's a lot of cake.

I don't remember them all (I challenge any of you to remember the details of your 3rd birthday... can't do it, huh?)  but I think my earliest birthday memory was my fifth.  Children in my kindergarten class got to wear a crown on their birthdays.  The only problem was, mine fell at the end of August.  This is traumatic for a young kid who wants to wear that glorious crown made out of construction paper and held in place with staples.  I did get to wear one on the last day of school... but I had to share the spotlight with 6 other yahoos.  There I sat with the other summer birthday children, wishing I had my own day all to myself like every other smug fuck in that little room.

On my 6th birthday, we spent the evening at my Grandma and Papa's house.  It was evening and we had cake and I don't remember many things that happened (because I was probably too busy running throughout the house screaming, "EVERYBODY LOVES ME!  IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!!!!) but I do remember us, at the end of the night, sitting out front, like we always did on summer evenings, aunts, uncles, my older brother... when my mom and dad came walking up rolling a strawberry shortcake bicycle... ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  Strawberry Shortcake was the shit in 1982.  That's right, mother fuckers.  There's a new bitch in town and she doesn't have to walk anywhere anymore... she will be blazing by on her Strawberry Shortcake bike with a strawberry-covered banana seat and a red and white basket to hold my crap.

On my 8th birthday, my parents threw me a pool party and invited a bunch of kids from my class.  It was my first big party with friends.  It was super fun; we swam, listened to music, and ate hamburgers and hot dogs that my dad cooked on the grill... and in front of all the kids, I opened up my Aunt Ceci's gift: a training bra.  Thanks Ceci!
We always made it a point to do things just the family, before any big hooplah, so this is our cake without all the kids, on my actual birthday.  Check out the sweet bear candle... my mom picked that out, I'm sure.  Also, I'm kind of loving that checkered-heart tee-shirt.

Sometimes, in August, the weather doesn't cooperate and this brings us to 1989... I had some of my friends over on this particularly cold day to hang out... because at 13, you don't play games anymore.  You "hang out."  This I learned from my more mature (cool) friend, Mary, when I mistakenly asked her to come over and play and she shamed me.  Anyway, I had my crew of girls over to hang out and I wore my new white Champion sweatshirt because it was chilly and raining and because Champions were the coolest back then.  We hung out upstairs in my room, far away from my parents because we had important shit to discuss (other girls and our crushes) and one of my friends gave me a Le Click camera.  I was really excited about it but when the girl who gave it to me went down to the bathroom, my other friend quickly informed me that that camera was very cheap and not at all a good gift.  Oh.  I shouldn't like it?   (I still liked it.)

My 16th birthday was something that only Long Island people will understand... I had a Sweet 16 party, complete with printed invitations, favors, a DJ, and balloons.  Many girls had these expensive parties and my parents couldn't exactly afford this and so, I vowed (and I did) to give them every cent I made from the gifts to pay for the party... I wore a gorgeous long white dress, had my hair and nails done and did the cake-lighting ceremony, where each of the 16 candles was dedicated to family and friends.  I danced to Sixteen Candles with my dad.  I still can't hear that song without thinking of that dance.  My family was such a bunch of good sports to go along with that nonsense of a fancy party.

On my 18th birthday, I engaged in some interesting activities with my friends Karen, Sean, and Mike and will skip the details.   It was the first time I ever thought I could possibly go out of my mind.  I also found hot dog buns to be among the most fascinating substance on the face of the earth.

By the time I was 21, I was so over birthdays that I didn't care that I could legally drink.  My boyfriend at the time tried, to no avail, to convince me to at least have one drink to celebrate but I assured him I wanted nothing more than to watch whatever movie was playing on cable and call it a night.  And that is exactly what we did.

My very first birthday in Portland was spent with people from my temp job at Tazo Tea and my friend and roomate at the time, Allison.  We went to a terrible Irish bar and then sat in my new car for a minute.  Uneventful but I sort of remember thinking it was fun at the time.

One of my favorite birthdays was the year I turned 26.  Allison and I had just moved to Southeast Portland and my friend, Nikki had moved from New York earlier that summer.  We threw a giant party and loads of people came.  We had no cake, so at one point, my friend, Benno, took it upon himself to go and track something birthday-like down.  He came back with a doughnut and a votive candle and pulled everyone together to sing to me in our backyard.  That's good effort.  Benno is good with birthdays.  He gave me a bunch of CDs he no longer listened to (because rather than throwing them away, put them to good use) and a coupon that I was free to use any time to do anything I wanted, his treat.  We ended up going out for dinner and drinks with that coupon.  Also, our coworker from that middle school I worked at that year had a gift for me and kept insisting that it was no big deal.  When I opened it, I saw it was a painting of a dancer that she said she got at the Saturday Market.  She said it reminded her of me (I used to take ballet) and I loved it... in fact, I got it professionally framed and it's hanging up above my head right now, 11 years later and across the country.  Thank you, Tiffany.

Turning 30 is a big goddam deal.  Or so they say.  I remember waking up on my 30th birthday to a phone call from my then boyfriend, who said to stay home for a bit if I can, that something was being delivered.  I made myself a cup of coffee and sat outside on the steps of my building in the sun with Finn.  Within minutes, a navy blue bug pulls up (I don't know how I remembered that detail) and out comes this giant bouquet of flowers.  That night, I invited a bunch of people to come have dinner at the Kennedy School and people showed up with some fun little gifts and we sat outside and talked and ate for hours. I loved loved loved my 30th birthday.

On my 32nd, I only remember sushi with my ex, a holga camera, and walking around for hours with my friend, Galina, taking pictures.  She took me for lunch at Foodswings.  Foodswings is not what it used to be but that day was super fun.  We sat by the East River and talked nonstop about whatever popped into our heads.  It was a low key and memorable birthday.  No cake.  Nothing fancy.  Just a couple of new friends hanging out.

The following year, I decided to have dinner just with Galina and Andrew.  They took me to Wild Ginger (always vegan for Galina :) and Andrew gave me a video camera!  Galina gave me vintage tomato salt and pepper shakers, which was super thoughtful because she called me Tomato due to my love of the song, Hang On Little Tomato by Pink Martini.  I have them on my oven.  They are very cute.  After dinner, we walked down to Relish (which is now closed) to have a dessert party.  A bunch of other people met us there and we ate all kinds of desserts and then walked back to sit on my stoop and bullshit.  That was a fun one.

My 34th birthday was a strange one.  Galina took me out for dinner at Blossom but she was in a bad mood.  I didn't yet know that things were going to get worse from there.   She was about to have back surgery and move back to Portland.  And since birthdays make me emotional, I cried when I left her... and I had no idea that would be the last time I ever saw her.

I decided for my 35th that I wasn't going to be mellow.  I turned it up a notch.  I created a facebook invite and invited 20-something friends to a dinner at Baci & Abracci.  Earlier in the day, I prepared by going to a party goods store (what the hell are those places called?  You know, like Party City) and buying tons of little plastic animals, candy, bouncy balls, and sheriff's badges and made party bags like you used to get from a kid's birthday party.  Whatever happened to those?  That should be standard.  You have a birthday, you make party bags for everyone!  My friend Jared took it upon himself to make a mousse and they sang happy birthday.

And then last year, I was in Peru.  I was dealing with the loss of Galina, who left us a month earlier and I planned it so I could be alone in Machu Picchu on my birthday.  I could spend the day by myself in quiet and say a proper goodbye to my friend.  That was one of most humbling birthdays I ever had.  I left feeling lighter.  I think she heard the words being spoken from that sacred place.

And that brings us, dear friends, to the big 3-7.  I contemplated giving myself the gift of eternal youth and maybe I would start on this particular birthday lying about my age, but that's not my style.  Hell, I look good for my age and who wants to pretend they're in their 20s?  So, instead, I will spend the day at the beach if the weather is nice and if not, maybe karaoke or get our nails done followed by dinner at a fun place none of us have been to in the West Village.  My friend, Julia has already started coming up with some Plan B ideas if the beach is a no-go and Marisa made sure to text me at midnight on the dot to say happy birthday.  And that, people, is what good birthdays are made of.  You have to appreciate the things the people in your life are willing to do for you.  Appreciate every phone call, every card, every text, every facebook post, every smile.  I really appreciate the fact that my mom made sure to get a text in early in case I'm out and about tomorrow and she can't get ahold of me.  These are the little special moments to cherish.

Birthdays change so much from year to year and I'll admit, I've had some shitty and forgettable birthdays (all the ones not mentioned above) but I decided a few years ago that I will have a happy birthday every chance I get.  It's the one day a year I get to run around telling people something that makes them smile and hug me... why not milk it?  Maybe I'll make myself a paper crown tomorrow.  There definitely won't be anyone else wearing one.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

Early this evening, I went to the cafe across the street and ordered a sandwich and a coffee.  My friend said, "I'm only charging you for this sandwich because I have to... I really don't want to."  I mean, really, in what world do I get this kind of sweetness?  

I sat down and ate my chicken sandwich that was that type of perfection that only a sandwich in my special little coffee shop could be: the bread was chewy but soft, the chicken was juicy and the aioli added the  perfect amount of balance.  As I enjoyed my sandwich, I looked out across the street to see my neighbor ride up, finished with a day of work.  He hopped off his bike and wheeled it into his apartment.  He's the same neighbor that walked with Finn and me down to the flea market on Saturday afternoon and when I realized dogs were not allowed, insisted that he take Finn back so I can go wander around.  He's also the same neighbor that came up and disposed of a dead mouse for me when I wasn't as tough as I had thought I was.  

As I sipped my coffee and gazed out the window, a regular walked in and smiled a bright smile at me, wishing me a good day.  One of the new girls left and said cheerily, "see you tomorrow, lady!"  Another barista came in smiled at me as he took his shift behind the counter.

I said goodbye, walked across the street, and as I was walking up the stairs, my other neighbor was opening his door to head out.  I called out, "Hi!"  He asked me how my day was as usual.  Exchanging pleasantries with my neighbors is not unusual.  I am lucky.  They are all really nice people.

Once inside my apartment this evening, I was struck by the blooming tree outside my living room window.  Every spring she blooms these flowers that look like puffs of cotton.  And they get bigger and bigger until they eventually become green leaves that shade my apartment slightly from the sun.  In the autumn, those bright green leaves turn various shades of orange and crimson, gold and rust.  I have watched that tree go through its cycle for five years now and it never stops amazing me.  I was completely struck by the moment; that moment of living in this little apartment made so cozy with our wall hangings from our travels, the portrait my friend painted and framed and gifted me from across the country, the beautiful plants that I walk in and find my roommate watering, with neighbors that are thoughtful, courteous, and kind, living across from a cafe that never forgets that I worked there for a brief time a few years ago, a cafe that I love so dearly with people behind the counter that matter to me.  People who have become part of my every day.  The cafe where I sit and strangers become friends that know who I am and genuinely care to hear the answer when they ask me how I'm doing.

Every January and February, I get the bug.  I get the bug to move on; go roaming where there are wider pastures.  Usually, the thought is to go back to Portland since I know I love it so dearly and I have amazing friends there, too, creep into my mind.  And I honestly don't know where my life will take me.  I don't know where I'm headed in the next few months or the next few years.  But at least I know that my life here is good.  

And I'm really happy to be here in this moment.

hey. thanks for that.

I fancy myself a pretty together person.  I look the part.  I have the career, the education, I tend to know my shit or can fake it really well.  But sometimes, I lose it.  And for a while there, I was unraveling... and fast.

Last Friday, I went out with a bunch of people and I stayed out way too long.  I can't put my finger on which drink exactly it was that put me over the edge, but baby, I was over the edge and there was no coming back.  So, I did what I am really good at doing in those instances:  I turned away from the crowd I was with and stormed out the door without any warning or so much as a "goodbye."  I walked and walked for many blocks until I realized that I was lost.  I looked at the time and it was nearly 5am.  I teetered around until I found something familiar and eventually, found my way home.  When I got home, I was in my head so deep, I was unreachable.  I had been broken.  The strange and truly scary thing is ... nothing really happened to make me this upset.  In fact, after I picked myself up off the floor, dried my tears and put myself to sleep, I knew that I was the one who had put myself in this prison from which I was clueless on how to escape.

But the thing is, you can't escape from your escapes.  For many years of my life, I had been escaping in various forms.  I escape through movies and television and food and smoking and drinking and people and shopping.  So, to be in this place of escape and it's a nightmare, well you see the dilemma?  When I woke up the next morning, I decided I didn't want to escape anymore.  I wanted to live my life and be present.  And this whole week has been just that.  I've been present.  I've been watching and listening and noticing, rather than judging and self-obsessing and withdrawing.  And it's been working.

They say you've got to break a person in order to put her back together and I believe that is what happened.  I am so humbled and thankful.  Friends have shown up and I won't take that for granted.  Instead of running from people, I am looking them in the eye and believing that they have good intentions.  I feel like I woke up from a weird dream and I don't need to escape anymore.  As a friend of mine said today, "every day you can walk out your door and believe that the world is either a bad place where good things happen occasionally or the world is a good place where bad things happen occasionally.  It's your choice."  I want to believe the latter.  And I do.  At least right now, in this moment, I really do.

word association

Sometimes, when I ask my students to play word association, they just don't get it.  Although, I think everyone gets word association; we just might not want to share the associations that our mind makes with the world.  Everything reminds us of something.  It's how we relate to the world around us.  But sometimes, you might not know where a memory is coming from or how it is being associated.

And what is it about music that can bring back memories that you didn't even know you still had stored up in your little noggin?

I got a text from my coworker about Glee.  I started a Glee club at my school and the universe put in my path a partner in this endeavor...  not just someone who is willing to help out, but a bona fide musical person who sings and teaches and plays and writes music.  This person is so excited about Glee club starting this week that I've become accustomed to her excited texts about the songs we should sing and ideas of how we should structure our meetings.  So, then I thought to myself about what songs I wanted to do with Glee.  I put on some music and began to listen to whatever came my way from my library and pretty soon, I was memory trippin'.

What's funny is how you will associate a memory to a song.  This song may never have even hit the ears of the person it reminds you of, but in your mind- in your memory, that person is completely intertwined with this song.  Still the Same, by Bob Seger reminds me of a friend who I don't think cared one way or another about this song.  Every time I hear it, though, memories of this person come flooding into my mind.  They come in a vignette-type of slideshow, starring this person and the theme that makes up her life as I've interpreted it.  Pictures of her laughing and walking around and doing everyday things just kind of float around with the song.

Every time I hear Dangerdoom, I think of one of my ex-boyfriends.  He had mentioned that he liked them, so every time I hear it, I think of that summer we started talking.  I think of my blue 1994 corolla that I drove around in the summer that I got to know him.  I can feel the Portland summer as I listen to Dangerdoom, hearing the ring of my phone (before smartphones) go off as he calls me.  For some reason, I am always driving south on 33rd, right by that grocery store with the yellow sign whose name escapes me.

Bob Marley's High Tides brings me even further back into the late 90s.  It reminds me of college and a boyfriend I had when we were just getting to really know each other.  I think about his room in Delhi, New York.  I can remember the fall weather as we walk to his place from the dorms where I lived.  He had stone floors in his kitchen and a really big living room.  There was this sadness about him that I worried about and wanted to make go away so these lyrics became my message to him... "in high tide or in low tide; I'm gonna be your friend.  I'm gonna be your friend."

David Bowie reminds me of Portland.  My friend and I would play Bowie on the jukebox at Slabtown.  I bought my first Bowie CD my first year living there, living in Northwest.  I would play it on my stereo, which was huge and I had shipped all the way out from New York.  We don't have to do that anymore.  I haven't bought a CD in a long time and I no longer own a stereo.  Times change, huh?

I guess the truth is, you don't know what two things you are going to be associating in the future.  You might not know it, but just because you watched Will and Grace a few times, your then roommate  thinks about you every time she ever hears anything about Debra Messing... true story on my part.  Or you sing American Pie one time at karaoke and you will forever be remembered as the girl dressed up in the vintage red, white, and blue tennis dress singing that song because you thought there was supposed to be a superhero party that night.  

When I want to remember carefree spring days of driving around with my friends when we had not a care in the world, I'll always just ask for Mistadobalina...  ooh ooh Mistadobalina!

Peru

I just got back from a five week trip to Cuzco, Peru.  I had never been to South America before and something, I don't know what, maybe a cosmic energy, pulled me to the Southern Hemisphere.  Now that I had already traveled alone a few times, there's nothing really stopping me, is there?  I can go anywhere.  I can do anything.  But what is it I am looking for, exactly?

For one thing, I like to occasionally be pushed out of my comfort zone.  I like to see things from a different perspective.  I like to meet good people, I like to wander around a city but have access to nature, and I like good food.  Since I decided to go big or don't go at all, I realized that I needed something to do while I was there, so I wouldn't just wander and indulge the entire time.  I also feel it is necessary to have access to a community if you are going to be somewhere for longer than a week or two.  I decided to volunteer with this program that my roommate had told me about.  Knowing she had done the program, met the director, stayed in the house I would be staying in calmed the neurotic in me... somewhat.

I arrived in Cuzco on July 18.  It was a seamless journey.  The minute I got outside, there was a woman waiting for me.  When we got to my "home," we had to get out of the taxi and walk a little bit because the street was being worked on; exposed water pipes, piles of rubble, ditches, planks for people to cross from one side of the street to the other.  I walked into the house and nobody spoke English.  And guess who speaks barely any Spanish... this girl!  I mean, I could pass a middle school Spanish exam, probably, but conversationally, I'm no good after 'que haces esta noche' or 'tengo frio'.  Luckily, there was a family staying at the house who spoke excellent English and then came to meet other volunteers living next door who also spoke English.

Volunteering was really cool.  We worked with groups of kids who were affectionate and sweet... and funny.  The first week that I was there, we planned a parade that went through the streets of Cuzco and ended at Plaza de Armas.  There, each family (grouped by age) put on a play we had been working on all week.  Really cool.  Everyone was super dressed up and excited and had stickers and make up on their faces and wearing crazy hats and costumes.  The kids had an awesome time.  So did the adults.

Every Friday was a buffet at the restaurant that is part of the social project and often, dinner would end and dancing would begin.  Everyone stayed out super late;  Cuzco is a late night city...  Every Tuesday was Trivia Night.  And weekends were whatever I wanted.  One weekend, I planned a trip to Lake Titicaca, another I went on a motor bike trip to the salt mines, and the last weekend, I went to Machu Picchu.

The motor bike trip was my first time out of the city of Cuzco and also my first time meeting some of the other volunteers.  There were people from all over the world on this trip: Germany, Israel, England, The US, Argentina, Peru, Spain... so many different people from so many different places all in that little city for pretty much the same reason.  We stopped in this little town called Pisac, which was beautiful and since it was Sunday, there was a market happening.  We had lunch at this restaurant and  then we saw the salt mines  It looked like another world.  We rode back late at night and it was frrrrreeeeeezing cold; it's funny how in places like that, it is warm during the day, hot in the sun, and freezing at night.

The next trip I went on was to the islands in Lake Titicaca.  I had to take a bus at night to Puno.  The bus was super comfortable with seats that went all the way back.  When I arrived in Puno, I was anything but comfortable.  I got out of the bus at 4:30 in the morning to a crazy South American bus station with the realization that I had no clue what was supposed to happen next.  I wandered around, half asleep, looking for a sign... not a sign from the heavens but a sign with my name on it.  I didn't find it.  I searched desperately through any receipts that I had saved but nothing.  About an hour went by before I finally found someone willing to listen to my situation.  I was told that someone was there calling my name but nobody could find me.  I sat and waited and finally an hour later, a man came to pick me up.  He brought me to a hostel with no sign.  He slid open a door and let me into a room with 10 beds and not a soul in sight.  I went to the bathroom... no light and a hole in the ceiling where I could see the toilet up above... ah, Casa Ubamba, you classy joint, you.  I tried to sleep but the room stunk of smoke and, what I believe to be, some odd history.


There's nothing quite like that feeling of being alone in a weird situation like that.  It feels so funny (both funny-weird and funny-haha).   After pretending to myself that I was sleeping for about 40 minutes, I decided to get up and get dressed and go find this breakfast I had heard so much about.  I went outside and looked around and saw an open door with what looked like a coffee pot on the table.  I walked to the door and said, "hola!  desayuno?"  I quickly scanned the room and see that it's one of those rooms where the person does all their living: An unmade bed.  A small stove.  A kitchen table.  A box with a dog nursing some puppies.  The woman screams something and the man who picked me up ran up the stairs in a flash... I was in the wrong place.  Imagine you are in your home having your morning coffee and some random person came to your door and said, "HI!  Breakfast?!"  That's basically what happened.  Where Clever (the guy) brought me next was like a step up from that first scene... but only one step.  It was what looked like the skeletal remains of a once living business.  Table set for breakfast but no one there (but me), a bar that had been emptied out of everything except some garbage, a couple of dusty signs that said TRAVEL AGENCY here and there, an old, wrinkled map of Puno and Lake Titicaca.  I sat and ate my eggs and bread, wondering still, if I was in the right place being that he spoke no English and, I 'll say it again, I speak very little Spanish.  Conversation typically went something like this:
Me (in my broken-ass Spanish)- "so, we will wait at this hostel and you will bring me to the boat?"
Clever (in broken-ass English)- "yes, this is Puno."

Finally, a van came to pick me up and the one other person who happened to be staying at the hostel emerged from what looked like an underground chamber.  We were brought to a boat on the lake and rode for not very long before we stopped at Uros, one of the floating islands made entirely of reeds.  The cool thing about this island is that it is so clean smelling!  I met the Presidente.  He was the man.  He showed us how they constructed and maintained the islands and these women came out and they chewed on some reeds while people took pictures.  This island was all about tourism.  That whole "take a picture of me while I eat this reed" thing freaked me out a little, but I appreciated the gesture.  I didn't get a picture of that but I did snap a photo of a cute rabbit behind one of the reed huts...  and the Presidente.

We stopped at the next floating island and could you believe they had a little cafe?  I got a cup of coffee and felt like the earth started spinning again.  Ok, lake, let's do this.  We rode on the boat for more than three hours before we docked at an island called Amantini, where families were waiting to take us to our rooms and feed us.  The German guy who was at Hostel Ubamba suggested we stay together with the two other people traveling alone.  We had to walk a little distance to get to the house and when we did, the view was gorgeous.  Women herding sheep, chickens strutting about the yard, children running here and there, and a crystal blue sky sitting above a crystal blue lake.  These people live here?  This is paradise.

Lunch was quinoa soup, fried cheese and potatoes, with muna tea.  After lunch, we hiked up a mountain to watch the sun set.  A gorgeous walk, a gorgeous sit, a gorgeous sunset (see above).  We walked home, had dinner and then got ready to go to this fiesta they had for the tourists.  It was at the school and they dressed us up in traditional clothes.  The fiesta was funny... a bit like a high school dance.  The next day, after breakfast, we got on the boat and stopped at one final island called Taquile, which was similar to Amantini in many ways.  Again, gorgeous, no cars, no telephone wires obstructing your view, nothing but a stone path, green grass, blue sky, and people dressed very traditionally.  We had lunch on the island, walked around a bit and then headed back to the boat.  Once back in Puno, I had coca tea on a balcony and then met up with this guy Dave who was in town for the night.  Before I knew it, I was on the bus back to Cuzco.

My last weekend there, I took a bus to a train to a town called Aguascalientes.  Aguascalientes is beautiful, but it is a big-time tourist trap.  It is tiny and there is not much to do other than walk around and eat and stuff... and the food is really really expensive and not good at all.  So, filling my time there was tough.  I found a karaoke bar and went in and sang a few songs.  I was the only one in there.  And it felt really creepy.  And I can never un-remember that night, like unless I get amnesia or something.  But that's it.  That's the memory!  Anyway, I woke up super-early and went to Machu Piccchu and that.... there are no words.  I will just say that when I rounded the corner and saw the view, I started to cry.  Pictures cannot prepare you or do it a fraction of the justice that Machu Picchu deserves. I found a spot overlooking the rolling giant mountains and I sat for a long time and just stared.  Unreal.  I ended up going on a tour for a few hours, ate some lunch and then I went back to that spot.  It looked different with the sun totally out.  Then it started to rain, so I went back to Tourist Town.  Machu Picchu taught me that the more amazing a thing is, the less there is to say about it.

My last week in Cuzco, I met with a Shaman and his wife out in Qoya and got reiki.  I also met with a Vietnamese sound healer/ mystic who I loved.  I bought souvenirs, ate delicious foods, hung out one last night with some new friends, drank coffee and read at my favorite panaderia, and said goodbye to my five week life in Peru.

There was adventure in traveling and there was also adventure in doing nothing.  I wrote a lot, read a lot, walked a lot, absorbed a lot, talked a lot, and listened a lot.  My trip was super important to my learning a thing or two about a thing or two... one of the most important things I learned is to do what I do, don't do what I don't do, and don't regret any of it.  Everything I do in the style that I do it in is to be respected because it is the way it is for a reason.  No regrets.  So, no regrets.  My friend told me that my last night there.  And he is right.

mirrors

I had a moment this morning that I think might linger with me for the rest of my life.

I've been taking a class on 42nd Street and have been riding in all week on the subway.  For those of you who don't have to do a morning commute by subway (which is me; luckily I walk to work), there is a subway culture and there is also a very distinct feel to the morning ride.

First off, it is crowded.  I have been getting on the train by 8:20 and I never get a seat and usually am pushed up against several other people.  I have hair grazing my arm and there are about six hands piled on the pole, holding on tight.  This is the time that you look at no one.  That is part of the subway culture.  I've lived here for five years and in those five years have probably ridden the train about 1300 times round trip.  True story.  I did the math and even subtracted for those months that I go out of town or don't leave my little neighborhood.  It's safe to say that I'm a seasoned subway rider.  I only ever was talked to by a stranger, probably, twenty times.  Nineteen of those times were direction-related and one was a shoe compliment.  Suffice to say, people don't interact on subways.

It's because we don't look up.  Everyone is either on their phone playing a game, reading a book or the newspaper, in a conversation with people that they are with, or simply zoning out.  I'm the person that plays solitaire on her phone.  I think I mostly do it to avoid interacting with others.  I'm a bit of a lone wolf when I'm out in the world, I think.  I like to be incognito and not draw attention.  I hide behind my phone.  So, that is why this morning's moment was so ... touching, for lack of a better word.

I was jammed into the subway car, carefully staring at nothing and going over the twenty million thoughts and feelings I've been having surrounding my friend and her death.  I've had sleepless nights and tears out of nowhere.  I feel as though I have been living in a weird dream.  I have been feeling lonely, scared, and ... well, kind of just mourning this thing.  So, when I think about myself on that subway and what I might have looked like to others, I imagine a crinkled brow and really sad eyes that well up slightly every so often.  So, it made me feel a sense of connection with someone when I looked up into the mirror image of what I imagine I must have looked like.

He was probably in his twenties, darker skinned, maybe Dominican.  He was listening to music.  He was wearing tan shorts and a white shirt and when I looked up, he had the pained expression of a person who must have also just lost someone close to him.  I could see that he was fighting to hold back some tears.  He saw me looking at him and must have recognized my look because, within a second, we both nodded our heads and with our eyes, we said to each other, "I'm so sorry and I know it fucking sucks."  He looked up at me a few more times, each time with a slight, understanding smile.  I wanted to touch his arm.  I wanted to say, "I hope you have an ok day today,"  But I honestly felt like if I did, we would both start bawling and we didn't know each other.

Ever since I heard the news of my friend, I swear, I have been gentler with others.  I have been taking the time to see people more and to say things like, "it's ok" when someone says "sorry" after knocking into me.  Maybe that is the good that can come out of this sad situation; that I learn to accept people for who they are more readily, love a little more, and take the time to look into someone's eyes and be there so they don't feel so alone.  Because this world can be a cold and unforgiving place, but there is so much love around when you open your eyes and your heart and really look.

Dear Galina:

Dear Galina-

One night, back in 2006, I was browsing through the videos at Videorama on Alberta Street in Portland when I heard someone say, "Galina!"  I thought, I know that name!  Could this be the infamous Galina that lives with Mitzy?  I went right up to you and asked.  Your hair was super short at that time.  Your eyes were quizzical.  You were probably thinking, who the hell is this girl?  But as we got to talking, the laughter started and before I knew it, you were asking me questions about NYC (I had just gotten back from my visit) and recommending movies to me.

I always knew I wanted to be your friend.  I always thought you were super cool.  You have a great sense of humor, a curiosity for others, and a genuine heart.  Hanging out with you in Portland was fun, Vita Cafe, the waffle cart, coffee, smokes.  We had a good time, but I was moving back east... and was thrilled to find out you would be too.

You moved here in July of 2008.  My summer got so much better when you arrived.  Your mom helped moved you in and I bumped into you guys in the street while I was walking Finn.  You were super excited to see Finn and said Hi to him first.  I gave you shit for that.  You guys brought me and Nick to dinner at Wild Ginger... it was so nice to meet Glenna.  She was really sweet to us.

That summer was full of surprises and fun.  I got to do the exploring with you that I hadn't done on my own.  Remember the time we walked across the Williamsburg Bridge?  We walked all around the Lower East Side and the village, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, eating snacks, and of course, taking pictures.  Remember that cool community garden we stumbled upon all the way down St. Marks?  We sat in that gazebo in the garden and talked forever.  That was one thing, Galina; we were never short for conversation.

One day, I was going to the beach and asked if you wanted to watch Finn.  You walked for 20 minutes to my apartment to pick him up that morning and bring him all the way back.  I don't know why I didn't drop him off, but I didn't question it.  I figured if you offered...?  You said he lied in bed with you and you guys watched the Wire, which you were kind of obsessed with that summer.  Finn adored you.  Remember that waffle dog treat you bought for him?  Only you would manage to find a dog treat in the shape of a waffle.

Hanging around with you that summer was what gave me the much-needed courage to break out of my relationship that was all wrong for the both of us.  And I was always grateful to you for that.  I also went on my first roller coaster with you at the Jersey Shore that summer.  That was one of the most fun trips.  We laughed so hard, it was ridiculous.  All we did was walk up and down the boardwalk, ride the rides, people-watch, and smoke, but it was laughter-filled.  I can't remember a single conversation we actually had, but I remember us laughing a lot.  We stayed at Doctor's Inn, which was the strangest name.  You found that hotel.  It was an odd place but cool at the same time.

I remember on my birthday that year, August 19th, you showed up at my door with a little present.  It was a dollar sign necklace.  I wore it that day. I have it on in that picture you took of me by the East River, but I never wore it after that; it was too goofy and I felt silly.  Sorry for that.

That summer, I became obsessed with the song, Hang On Little Tomato.  You started calling me Tomato.  You even bought me vintage salt and pepper shakers in the shape of tomatoes.  That was one of the most thoughtful gifts.  You are a very VERY good gift-giver.  One Christmas, you gave me a book on spirit animals.  Remember?  Your spirit animal is the spider.  Mine is the hawk and it said that hawks and spiders get along very well together.  And I think we did.  One year, for your birthday (33rd maybe?) I gave you a necklace with a tiny wishbone. You actually wore that necklace for a really long time.  I had a bad cold that night but you insisted on hugging me anyway.  That was a funny moment in our friendship.  The two of us were not really huggers, but I remember one day, out of the blue, you said "we can be friends that hug, ok?"  and I said, "ok."  And from then on, we'd hug each other goodbye.

Another thing I thought was really cute about you was  the way your goodbyes would last forever.  We would, literally say goodbye and start talking again and get into another 15 minute conversation, say goodbye again, and then bump into someone, say goodbye again, and .... so on.  It was always in odd places too... like right by the subway entrance.  Speaking of subways, we would always get each other lost.  Remember that time you were following me and I was following you from Atlas on 2nd to the L train... the L doesn't run on 2nd.  We walked all the way to Chelsea before we realized that neither one of us were actually leading the way.  But I loved getting lost with you.  Because we would talk and laugh and talk and laugh.  Your laugh.  It is the best, isn't it?  Every friend you had and every friend of mine that you met all agreed on one thing: your laugh is infectious and nothing short of wonderful.  Remember that time I was walking with you to Urban Rustic and someone said something funny, you laughed and we bumped into Zach.  He said he heard your laugh from a block over and that's how he found us.  

I do miss my movie buddy, Galina.  You and I spent so much time and money at the IFC, Angelika, and Sunshine.    Did you know that a new theater opened up here in Williamsburg?  I go a lot but today, a friend of mine and I went to see a movie at the IFC and guess what?  We sat in the same theater you and I saw Antichrist in... that was a lot of fun.  Seeing Antichrist with you, Flemming, and Fryd.  Remember that part where she hammered his penis, that girl in front of us screamed bloody murder and the whole row of us burst out in laughter?   I still laugh when I think of that moment.  Remember the time we were standing outside Angelika smoking in the freezing cold and you spotted James Franco?  I, of course, insisted we follow him.  You were way not into my uncool plan, but you humored me and we followed him for a block and a half... thanks for that.  

You came here to study photography and that you did.  I think you breathed, ate, and dreamed in photography.  I love the fact that I got to see your scavenger hunt show at ICP before your classes began and I got to see your exhibition at the end when you graduated.  I felt so proud of you.  I knew how hard you worked.  I also got to see how much your work changed over time, yet that style was still there.  You are so very very talented, Galina.  I always felt silly showing you anything I'd done, yet you always called me an artist and cheered me on.  And I thank you for that.

One of my favorite memories was when we made a little bed on my rooftop and watched Tim and Eric outside.  I loved Tim and Eric and I think I got you to love them too.  We watched the whole disc and we joked around about that Brownie Mountain song... I felt like we were always going to milkshake mountain... So Many Milkshakes with you.  Vegan cookie dough milkshakes that tasted like frosting... mmmmmmm.  

Remember when I made you watch The Baby.  You were going to leave but I wanted you to just see the first 10 minutes of what I thought to be the most terrifyingly funny cult movie in the universe... You couldn't leave after 10 minutes, though.  You stayed for the entire movie.  It was just that good, wasn't it?  And I also got you to watch Jersey Shore!  On New Year's Eve, you came over with two snuggies that you found in Arkansas (I remember you were actually concerned because all the stores were sold out of them.  You texted me an urgent message that you couldn't find any snuggies! But then you did, and they were pepto pink), pumpkin waffle batter, and a waffle iron.  We made waffles, coconut french toast and watched the Jersey Shore season finale.  Flemming dropped by and I got really embarrassed of the snuggie because we had just started dating, but then he insisted on taking our picture in them.  I loved that New Years.  

I also loved that October we went to that farm sanctuary in Woodstock to visit my chicken that I sponsored, Olive.  The funniest and best thing that happened was when that goat head-butted you and knocked you over!!!  That was ridiculous... I laughed really hard.  Sorry!  You might have been a little embarrassed, but it was way too hard not to laugh.  We stayed at my brother's that night and his canary, who lived right outside the room we stayed in, was making noises that sounded exactly like guitar riffs, which my brother warned us about.  You liked my brother and he liked you too.  But that's not saying much; everyone likes you because you're just so likable.

There are so many memories.  I know the minute I stop writing this, I will think of five other funny things that happened.  I know it wasn't all good either.  I wish that we could have talked again.  I wish that we had stayed close.  But that's life, isn't it?  Filled with ups and downs and times of silence and separation...

 So, maybe I will just imagine that we are still standing on the corner saying one of our never-ending goodbyes filled with laughter and "one more cigarette."  Maybe we don't need to say goodbye after all...

I love you forever, Galina.  I don't think you'll ever comprehend how much I adore you.

the load less carried... or should be

I've been carrying around an extra suitcase everywhere I go for the past few days.  This, of course, is a metaphor.

I'm not one of those people who starts sentences with, "my therapist says..." and I never want to be that person.  So, I will simply say that lately it has felt like I have been traveling through life in slow motion listening to a fight going on in my head and a certain person agrees with me.

That's some schizophrenic shit right there.

In my mind, there is a critic; a really high-strung one who comments on everything I say and everything I do.  This critic has got something to say about simply everything, from how I wear my hair to all the decisions that I make, big and small.  Something as simple as an invite to a party or happy hour turns into a heated debate in my mind and, given the right fuel, can bring me to tears.  It may seem like I am being dramatic, alas, it is 100% truth.  I welled up yesterday when I was invited to go to City Island with some friends.  There were, in my mind, a million factors to be considered: how we were getting there, who was going, how long we would stay, whether I could handle being around everyone for that long, my bathing suit unready body.  So, I decided to stay home and there were a million factors to weigh there too... you could see the challenge.

I feel like I'm willing to change.  I'm willing to hear how I could be wrong.  I try to be happy and do the right thing, yet still, I am hindered.  All by a critic who lives in my head.

Today, I moved one of my student's seats and his reaction was the usual, "why me?  you always move me!"  This is the same student that looks for all the things that go wrong; he will do something nice and then throw a fit when he doesn't get praised because he feels like he is always caught in the 'wrong' and never in the 'right'... which sucks.  I get it.  But at the same time, it's a self-fulfilling prophecy.  There's a dialogue going on in his mind, too, and that inner voice is telling him that the world is against him.  So, when he doesn't get the praise or he gets his seat moved "again," he feels justified for being angry.

Is this the way I'm walking around?  Because it sucks.

And it doesn't help that I feel like a pregnant woman.  Not an adorable pregnant woman who looks like she's not pregnant until you see her profile.  I'm talking the cankled, weighed-down, fanning herself, too heavy to get up and walking everywhere leading with her stomach pregnant woman... completely burdened, physically.

I also hate this fucking weather.  It is hell on Earth, pea soup, swamp-ass, sweating-under-sunglasses, too-fucking-hot-for-shoes weather.  Mad props to people who live in Key West... then again, you could always just jump in the ocean.  Mad props to us city-dwellers without a car.  I will take clouds and 65 over sun and 90 any day of the week.

The moral of the story is this:  don't always assume you've got people all figured out because chances are, you are more wrong than mayor bloomberg's mother for giving birth to him.

My two cents.

brother, can you spare a dime?

This evening, after my awesome-amazing-super-fun-time class about Japan, I went into this little place called chickpea to get some dinner.  As I was waiting in line to say that I wanted the hummus platter with the mushroom and almond falafel and bulgur wheat, this man comes in the door and starts asking this woman if she has a quarter.  She said "no" and when I heard, "Ma'am, do you have quarter?" I knew he was talking to me.  I said no because unless I have one right in my pocket, there's not a chance.  But this man made me think, what the hell does he need a quarter for in this generation?

As all four of us in the restaurant said no to his demand for $.25, he proclaimed that there were dead people outside and that he guessed since none of us could cough up a measly coin, he'll just let the dead people stay dead.  Before you go imagining a frantic man, freaking out over dead bodies, don't.  He was calm as could be, which made the whole scene that much more bizarre.

There are two thoughts going through my mind as I recall this experience that happened only a few short hours ago: 

1. Was he really in need of a quarter to place a call with a pay phone?  I don't understand.  Everybody has a cell phone.  AND even if you don't have a cell phone, calling 911 on a pay phone is free.  And pay phones, by the way are still wildly abundant throughout NYC.  It's funny because I never notice them and this weekend, on my commute to and from my class, I started picking them out and taking note of the fact that we still have plenty of pay phones around... just in case.

And if said people were, in fact, dead, wouldn't there be other people around the extremely busy East Village neighborhood we were in.  He probably would have had a relatively easy time asking one of them to call 911 if they were in the presence of the dead people.  Why did he need to run into chickpea and ask us one by one for a quarter?  It was odd.

2. I'm tired of people being so manipulative.  How could you put that on us, the patrons of chickpea?  We're just trying to purchase some falafel and you're telling us it's our fault that those dead people won't have a chance of living?  I had the worst experience yesterday with a manipulative man who worked at a third party AT&T store.  He basically talked me in circles and used the slimiest ways possible to get my information and make it really really hard for me to back out of buying a new iphone.  The thing is, my old iphone was purchased at the end of 2009 and was starting to split in half.  I did, in fact, need a new one.  But this guy didn't even wait for me to say I wanted to do it before he started looking up my account, photocopying this and that and started to run my card.  Psychologically, it's proven that when a salesman starts the process or puts something in your hand, it's that much harder for you to turn around.  And I felt like I'd been had.  I felt vulnerable and weak.  So, I left this third party shop with one shiny new iphone and zero pride.  I did, however learn a valuable lesson: fuck manipulative people.

And this wandering- pondering has brought me to my final thought: what would this guy have done with that quarter?  Was he saving up for a forty?  Was he going to make a phone call?  Was he going to save the dead people's lives?  Would he have grabbed my wallet and run had I been so kind (and foolish) to go fishing around for that quarter?  Why did he really need the quarter?

 Because, believe me, when I left the shop five minutes later, there was not a dead person in sight.