GChat and my Blackberry

Team Readers!
I thought I should let you all know that those times that you see me online on GChat afternoon/evening your time and very very late my time, I'm usually asleep.  My phone, for whatever reason, signs into GChat on its own, no matter whether or not I tell it sign out.  I'm telling you this not so that you stop IMing me, because who doesn't love waking up to IMs from their friends, but so that you know that I'm not ignoring you.  In fact, I'm probably dreaming about you as you IM and the gchat waves are streaming into my brain as I sleep and my subconscious is conjuring some psychedelic and non-sensical dreams (to which Arielle and Alexandra can attest).  Not to mention that I fear some of you have misconstrued it and think I'm some raging party animal here in Madrid.  By fear, I mean I know you think I'm living a life of debauchery to the max since I've even received some reprimanding IMs for being up so late (in contrast to what I said above, those ones I actually did ignore).  Anyway, fear not!  Being a loser isn't the kind of thing you just up and drop according to your environment.  It's just one of those things that comes with you everywhere you go...like baggage...
OK, so, now that I've cleared that up, please do IM me!  Without VH1, my mornings have been so quiet.  I love having them be the first thing I see when I wake up (after the snooze button, of course)!


xx

The Candied Apple Doesn’t Lackadaisically Stumble Far From The Tree

If you know anything about me, it’s that I have a lethal sweet tooth.  Or, if you’re ever in serious need for gum, I’m probably the first person who comes to mind. Let’s be honest. I better be the first person who comes to mind. I’ve worked hard to build the reputation as a gum addict/dealer! I’m pretty sure my love for sugar will be the death of me.  And, if it’s not my sweet tooth then it’s the other most important factoid about me: I can’t walk in a straight line. So, if you see someone with a lollipop zigzagging down the street while listening to her iPod and staring out into the ether completely in her own world, then you see me! Or maybe it’s a doppelganger. If you also happen to be in Madrid, then there is an extremely high chance that it is me and I’m about to stumble into your personal space.  Or, it is me and I’m about to jaywalk through what, unbeknownst to me, is the middle of the street.  Maybe you wouldn’t mind doing me a favor and grabbing my arm to make sure I don’t actually step into the road. If you do, I promise to give you two pieces of gum…

Let’s get to the point because I can’t imagine strangers read this and most of you already know about my candy/clumsy shortcomings.  Coming to Spain seemed like a godsend because the foods I love are located along the Northern and Eastern coasts of the Mediterranean and, along those same lines, the sweet foods I love don’t exist here.  I mean, when I think of the major components of Spanish Cusine, I think of olive oil, jamon, paella, and tortilla.  Of course, those foods are amazing but they aren’t my personal favorites.  So, I thought, I can come to Madrid, have some access to the foods on which I binge (mainly Greek, Turkish, Israeli, etc) and then major access to food I enjoy but not enough for them to be problematic.  Then when it comes to sweets, they have flan (gross) or churros (amazing but only for 5 minutes because they are quickly followed by feeling ill from eating fried dough).  And drinking? Beer and wine are cheaper than water and gas.  It’s more economical to drink yourself to warmth than it is to turn on the heat or take a hot shower.  Spain is mainly known for red wine, to which, thank goodness, I’m allergic!  So, needless to say, food hasn’t been at the forefront of my mind as a major part of my life here in Madrid.  I know some of you out there are judging me right now but I’m hoping you get over your judgments and read on.  I do love it…I just have a more complex and deep love for some other foods.

One innocent Sunday afternoon (there have only been 2 thus far), I went to have tapas with my future classmates. We go to our first bar, a cute place off La Latina metro stop.  It’s small (as most of these places are) and it feels like I’ve just walked into a cigarette steam room.  Turkish baths must find bars in Spain to be major competition.  Tons of people in their late twenties and early thirties are packed in, smoking (obviously), drinking sangria or beer, and having a grand ol’ time.  It seems that the traditional 2 hour siestas must have been built in to help people recover from the night before and not because, as Harvard claims, a mid-afternoon nap helps the brain retain the information from the first half of the day better.  I know this isn’t some eye opening remark but I always just thought the Spaniards like to relax.  Now I’m realizing it’s a perpetual hangover from which they are trying to recover.   Most of the young people here dress pretty well.  Many girls have very blunt haircuts.  There appears to be an unusually high number of hippies with dreads and hemp clothes.  It’s possible, however, that I’ve just been exposed to an unusually low number of hippies in the other cities in which I’ve lived/traveled.  So, we snake through the crowd and place ourselves in one corner, have some cañas, and a plate of jamon with olive oil.  OK great, perfect.  Totally to be expected on the food and drinks front.  Let’s move on.  We go to the next bar for more tapas.  

A few breaths of fresh air and we’re already in the next tapas bar. Mind you, I have no idea what any of these places are called.  This one is smaller than the first and not as refined on the surface but with far more to offer than the last place.  It’s square shaped, with the bar and food counter on the left, a middle standing area and then some counters for eating on the right.  It can’t hold more than 40 people comfortably, but it’s hard to tell because it’s so smoky that seeing people is proving to be a challenge.  In no time, however, we have found a nook, ordered 5 tapas, double servings on some, making this quite a hefty serving of “finger food.” 

This was when I first realized: Spain is going to be a massive problem.  We had jamon, squid, bacalao, eggplant, pork, and tortilla.  Any and all fish dishes are always at the top of my favorite food lists.  Pez a la Sal, for example, is my favorite fish dish of all time…it’s Spanish.  Any monkfish dishes are also really high up there…they have lots of those here.  Seafood paella is generally amazing…turns out, they serve that in Spain.  I mean, fml.  2 plates of tapas amongst 6 of us later, I was more full than I’ve been in a super long time. I mean, painfully full.  I dragged myself home, to bed, and did my best to sleep it off. 

The following morning, the sun rises with big smiles and energy, it’s a beautiful day, my roommates are up and getting ready to head to their Spanish class, and I’m overjoyed by the mere fact that I’m no longer full.  It’s a new day! A Monday! And I’m going spinning! With Pilar (Kike was no good)! Here we go!

I’m not sure what I’ve been doing between the moment I landed and that Monday but clearly I wasn’t paying attention.  Awake, alive and ready to soak in Madrid, I walk outside, look to my right and realize that I’m actually living right next to a bakery.  I look to my left and it’s a candy store, which neighbors another bakery.  Is this a joke?  So, I walk to the gym.  On the way, I walk by a dried fruit and nut store, 2 more bakeries, and 3 more candy stores.  A few hours later I walk to school to print some things and realize that I’ve walked by another 2 bakeries.  At this point I’m a little bitter there is no candy store on my walk to school.  Then I walk to my friend’s apartment and see an Austrian bakery, a honey store, a specialty food store with baked goods, a diner type restaurant with more pastries, and maybe 3 more candy stores.  I take the metro home that night only to find there’s a candy store in my metro station.  Honestly, I didn’t go into any of these places but the sheer volume and proximity to it all made my teeth hurt and my anxiety go through the roof. 

Sorpresa! Of course I have a sugar addiction problem!  This is where I was raised.  How did I never see this before?  Spain is surreptitiously the country of sweets.   So far as I can tell, they aren’t known for their national sweet staples but the Spaniards love their sugar and, according to my passport, I’m a Spaniard.

As the realization that diabetes is actually a possibility in my future begins to sink in, the lower part of my body comes to a sudden, jarring halt and my upper body continues “walking” forward as I slam into a solid metal, round, small pole protruding from the street that I had never noticed before.  Frustrated by the pole and by my oversight, I look down to make sure I fully walk around it only to realize said pole is not a pole whatsoever and it is actually a little old woman taking a stroll on this peaceful Monday evening.  Gasping at my blind clumsiness, I open my mouth to apologize but before I even get a word out she has already moved on, swerving her way down the street and not even noticing that I nearly ran her over.   What? So, as I turn to finish my short walk home, I nearly hit a mother walking with her daughter.  I stop myself short, wait for them to walk by and then slowly complete my mission to my final destination.  If only it were that easy, right? Right.  There is one person walking in my direction and I decide to focus on walking straight and staying on my side of the sidewalk.  My competitor is on his side and I can’t tell what he’s looking at.  He starts to walk in a diagonal so I start to speed up. I know this could be the 3^rd collision of the night and they do come in threes.  Just as I think he’s about to straighten out, he does one final swerve and almost loops back.  I open up my body so that I’m facing the street instead of just walking up the sidewalk and let the dude walk past me (instead of into me).  Never once did he blink or really seem to acknowledge my existence.  How had I never noticed this before? No one  here can walk in a straight line either!  I’m assuming it hadn't dawned on me sooner because I was just swerving alongside everyone else.

Coincidence?  I think not.  Pay attention tomorrow? No, no thank you.  I think zoning out is best.  Health insurance?  Yes please! Anything! Now is the perfect time for all that paperwork to come through….

Trapped in the Magic of Madrid

To all future visitors to Madrid, beware.  All plazas have magical abilities.  You think they are round but in fact they have secret catapults at every degree.  True story.  Once you think you have reached the corner you want, you are quietly yet quickly thrown to a different corner and any direction in which you walk is invariably wrong.  It is so fast that it surpasses the speed of sound and light (is that possible? To do both?)  I was looking for Diego de Leon (a street), I followed the instructions on google maps, came across a plaza, crossed the plaza, to the corner exactly opposite where I started, got back on the same road, and then ended up going South West instead of East.

What a predicament, right?  Well, clearly I didn’t realize it at first.  It took me 20 minutes to realize I may be going the wrong way.  Listening to music while you walk proves to be a bad idea in a new city.  Did I mention that it’s been 30-40 degrees here?  Yes, it has been.  Did I mention I was in a skirt?  No, I didn’t.  And, at this point, I can’t feel my feet because, as it turns out, sandals don’t block the wind.  But, not all hope is lost.  The clouds parted, the sun shone down and the angels sang (they do that in Catholic countries) over a courier messenger marching up the street with packages to deliver. 

(Imagine the below in Spanish.  I have christened the messenger Jesus)

Karina: Hello, do you know where Juan Bravo is?

Jesus: Juan Bravo? Juan Bravo…Hmmm.

Karina: Or, Diego de Leon?

Jesus: What? Diego de Leon?

[uh oh]

Karina: Yeah, do you know how many more blocks till I get there?

Jesus: Ohh, Diego de Leon!  Nooo!  You are far far away. You have to be on the other side of the Castellana.  Woah.  Jajaja.  No, you’re going the wrong way.  Jaja.   It’s that way.

Well, at least he got a good laugh.  I hope it brought a smile to his face for the rest of the day to think about that silly girl in the skirt and army coat and pink scarf and sandals walking miles out of her way.  At this point I wrote off any chance that I may think twice about Catholicism and happily resorted to my misanthropic view on organized religion and reminded myself of the time I got kicked out of catechism school for asking too many questions.  Then I got a good chuckle and turned into the girl in the skirt, with the army coat, the pink scarf and the sandals who happens to also laugh at herself as she walks.  Any second, I was bound to start talking to myself as well and give these people a good scare (or a good story, take your pick).  So, I turned around, walked right back to where I started and decided to go the long way. 

Ahh, something useful to know.  I was on my way to register for national health insurance.  It’s the only thing that gave me some solace as I shuffled, jittering and unable to really pick up my numb feet, my way along the streets of Madrid.  No better place to go when you are coming down with hypothermia, right? So, I’m walking, nervous that I’m going to pass it again, and only made slightly more skeptical when I pass the bull fighting ring in Madrid.  Could it really be here?   Yes!  It was here!  For the bullfighters and for me, a seasoned bull-runner!  I walk in, bright smiles, even smiling with my eyes, and explain I need health insurance.  With big smiles and a great sense of humor, they promptly tell me I’m not eligible!  Jaja, right?  Yes, this is funny.  “But, I’m Spanish,” I explain.  “Yes, what is your point? Just because you are Spanish does not mean you get national health insurance,” they tell me.  Jaja, what? Isn’t that exactly what it means? That I do.  Isn’t that what is so great about Europe? Do my white extremities and red face and shaking body mean nothing to you?  I am drying!  Of course, had I actually said this them their response would have been something along the lines of “jaja, yes, life is terminal!  Want a smoke? Camel? Marlboro?” ARGH!  So, I bought myself a lollipop, moved one step closer towards diabetes and cavities and went home.

Another fascinating fact about Madrid: When the walk light flashes green (implying that you should speed up before the little red man lights up), it lets cars know they can start driving too.  So, if you’re crossing and it starts flashing it actually represents your life flashing before your eyes…literally.  It’s like the magical plazas.  The walk signs actually allow you to cross your fingers harder than you’ve ever crossed them before, so they literally cross each other.  At first, it appears that the cars and people mirror your fingers.  They seem to magically cross each other as though they aren’t substantive lumps.  Then you realize you have just had one of those out of body experiences people talk about when they come back to life after being dead for a minute.

Too dark?  Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t get hit, then.  Not only because that might not be funny, but also because I signed up for the cheap health insurance where they don’t send my body back to my home country if anything happens.

INDIA STRIKES AGAIN

I arrived in Madrid sans luggage.  And what airline did I fly? Yes.  Jet Airways.  So, thank you, India.  I will fly you again because you are cheap but I will skip the baggage claim area from here on out. 

The whole trip from New York to Madrid can be imagined with me running.  I arrived at Newark with an hour and a half before take off.  If you know anything about an international flight, it’s that they generally start boarding an hour before take off.  So, I quickly dragged all my bags to the check in counter where I encountered a very pretty and very done up attendant who always looked at me as though she expected me to argue with her.  When I told her I was doing well after she asked me how I was doing, she stared at me for an extra 10 seconds, expecting me to continue speaking.  Last time I checked, my life story is not appropriate story telling material at an airport check-in counter so I generally try to refrain and keep my answers short and sweet.  Then, when she told me I needed to go pay the overage fees at a different counter, she grabbed her armor and positioned herself in defense mode as I replied with, “ok, where is it?”  Maybe a good 11 or 12 seconds later, she pointed me towards the sign.  All this quiet time, pregnant with anticipation, made me extremely anxious that I wasn’t a sufficient customer and really didn’t add much to this woman’s day.  I tried to get over it but I was battling my insecurity as I walked to the Jet Airways counter.  Alive and growing, my anxiety catapulted when the guy charging me the overage cost had to fill out the most backwards and antiquated paperwork both about the luggage and then just to get my credit card information.  He didn’t even have a swipey thing. He literally had to do everything by hand.  10 minutes later, I returned to the Jet Airways counter only to find that the attendant hadn’t waited for me and they had the luggage carrier waiting for me to give me my boarding pass.  He was really nice but I couldn’t help but feel a bit slighted. Did I do something wrong? I was all smiles and sunshine and easy and she couldn't even wait for me? Was she breaking up with me?

At this point, my flight departs in an hour and announcements for boarding are being made over the loudspeaker.  Security was pretty easy, I run to the gate and board the flight.  I love it when you sprint to a flight only to then sit on the runway in line to take off.  It was only 45 minutes but it was 45 minutes that fucked me over on the other end.  The best news of the day was that the flight was far from booked so I got 3 seats all to myself!  So, I pulled out my laptop and did something that I never do.  I made myself the most amazing playlist for the flight.  I KNOW!!  I never make myself playlists. As we all know, I get so much pleasure out of other people making me play lists.  It’s just so fun to hear someone else’s soundtrack.  And this time, I actually stepped up to the plate!  Anyway, clearly I’m really impressed with myself. 

So, onward ho, the flight takes off and lands and all is fine and dandy because I’ve pretty much succumbed to the fact that I’ll be lucky to make my flight and I don’t care enough to be stressed about it.  The flight lands, I grab my bags and sprint to the next terminal.  All seems to be in the clear when suddenly the crowds begin to slow down, people start to leisurely put their bags down and I’m forced to do a quick stop because I’m streaming through the crowds in such a blind fashion (like any well trained New Yorker) that I don’t realize the boulders in my way (generally referred to as people but when you’re just walking and avoiding them as though you were in a video game, it’s easier to do so when you stop looking and just acknowledge that there is some thing in your way rather than some one) are actually coming to a full stop. 

My eyes come back into focus only to see that I’ve approached an hour long security line.  I’ve never done this before but I march up to the front of the line, explain that my flight is leaving in 10 minutes and just throw my things on the belt and go through the metal detectors.  Karma. Oh Karma.  I get pulled aside.  Why? Because all the jewelry in my bags seemed hazardous through the machines.  Really Brussels? (that’s where I am)  No one else has ever given a fuck about my jewelry and now, NOW, you decide that it’s something to examine?  Again, as nicely as I can, I tell them my flight is in 10 minutes, my other flight was delayed, can they just check it fast and point me in the right direction.  So, they do but they fail to mention that it’s another 10 minutes up the stairs. 

Best work out ever. I’m sprinting to my gate.  The flight attendant is waving me down and ushering me in as quickly as possible.  She takes my ticket, along with my baggage tickets (argh) and pushes me on board and closes the doors.  Sweating and out of breath, I get to my seat, sit down, buckle up and we take off right as I realize that I don’t have the baggage tickets. 

Karma again!  Karina, why are you skipping the lines?! Why are you telling people to speed up?! Always bad!  So, a short flight later, we land and I march to the empty and static belt, exhale, turn around to the lost and found luggage man and do my very best to explain to him that I have lost my luggage, the luggage tickets, I don’t know the brand of the luggage, and I don’t have a phone number.  The very kind man who officially thinks I’m an idiot but who will help me because he has nothing better to do, saves the day, gets the luggage on a new flight, and promises me I will have it by Saturday night.  Well, it did not but who cares. I made my flights and, thanks to India, I didn’t have to carry my suitcases and I took a 1 Euro bus ride to a big bus station which happens to be 100 feet from my apartment.   

Oh India.  Always such a silver lining.  

Twiddling My Thumbs

I could have done so many things today and yet I’ve done none.  I am watching A Single Man and truly enjoying every moment of it.  I love the innuendoes, the vagueness of it all and yet the very direct and defined mission of the whole film.  Even though the goals remain the same and everything serves as the means to the end, we can see the slow shift of the currents towards an alternate ending.  So, what will happen? Does our dear professor find out suicide is moot if you’re already dead?  Is today his rebirth?  Or is this another Jules et Jim, in which death and life are interchangeable? Not so much interchangeable as they are the reverse? To live is to be dead and to die is to be free and alive? Or, at least, that was my theory based on the end of the film in comparison to the real life of Roche.  I won’t spoil it for anyone and we can discuss further once you’ve watched it.  Now that I’ve seen the end, my opinion has changed a bit.

On that note, let me explain why I’ve done nothing today.  The original plan was to wake up, go to the gym, come home, go to lunch, go to the bookstore, go to coffee, go to Brearley, watch the panel, then go to drinks, come home and go to bed.  Yes, it was this organized.  I was up at 6 AM, at which point some work I was doing ended up taking longer than planned.  My coffee was cancelled, which meant the bookstore wasn’t happening and which pretty much invited me to cancel lunch because I no longer had to be in mid-town and I actually had to get the morning work done.  Now, I haven’t gone to the gym, lunch, bookstore or coffee and am still waiting for the morning things to come through.  At this point, I have no desire to even make up for it.  Why?  Well, I’ll tell you.

LA awakened a love for spinning.  I know.  It takes you nowhere.  It may cause some people some physical discomfort.  I get the feeling certain friends believe it will effect their child-baring abilities.  In general, it looks scary from the outside and it has a cult following so why would one jump in unless they suffer from some form of derangement.  Well, I love it.  And it seems like a pretty awesome cult.  And the people in the class are hysterical and amazing and inspirational.  And we have special shoes too….

My favorite class was always the Red Line Ride. You put on a heart rate monitor and see your heart rate waver between 70% and 100% on a big screen. Of course, the goal is not supposed to be to keep your heart rate in the red (somewhere between 90% and 100%, which in my case is between 185 and 195 bpm) but who can help themselves?!  I mean, if you’re raised to aim for As, otherwise known as 100%, then why wouldn’t you always go for everything labeled 100%, even if 100% is labeled red, which is also the color of a stop sign.  So many mixed messages.  Spinning all of a sudden seems more and more like a guy.  Hmm.  Well, that’s a comparison for another time. 

Thus far, I have taken 4 spinning classes in the city, all at Crunch.  Unlike the gay spinning instructors in LA who are either actors, actual trainers, or have their own tv shows, the spinning instructors in New York, thus far, have been Broadway hopefuls.  They perform to their soundtracks as though class is an audition or their rehearsal for rehearsal.  Yesterday, my guy got off the bike, did a hop skip off the stage, belted out Dave Matthews Band and sashayed up the aisle with his arms stretched out and his head bobbing to the beat.  I completely agree with you. Dave Matthews? Really? He should consider Carmen if he actually wants to get cast in anything.  OK fine, maybe not Carmen. But, you get the point. 

Saturday morning I took a class with a woman named Emma who seemed like she was actually a spinner. Like, she actually spun outside.  Like, actually knows how to ride a bike.  In the great outdoors.  Really intense.  And, she was from Eastern Europe.  I mean, the rough terrain is just as frightening to me as a team of aggressive pre-pubescent girls charging you on the field pretending to play soccer but actually just getting all their teenage anger out on you and the ground as though you were one and the same.  But, hey, I’m not still recovering from high school or anything. 

So, I walk in and Emma is deep in conversation about heart rate monitors with some woman who clearly thinks she’s the shit because she too is such an intense spinner. Emma is about 5’5”, dark brown, frizzy, brittle hair, pulled back in a low pony tail.  She is wearing all spandex with bright colors on the sides.  The other woman is small, a bit stalky, with short, straight dark hair and wearing a navy blue bandana. She too is wearing all spandex. 

Emma: Yes, we are very excited for the new class.  I am going to talk to everyone about it today.

Bandana Woman: That sounds great. I actually brought my new heart rate monitor today.

Emma: Wow, what a beauty. She’s great.  I can’t wait to hear your thoughts on her.

Really Emma?  Is a heart rate monitor the equivalent of a car to you? That special? That gorgeous?  At this point, she has turned on her music.  Yep.  It’s all techno. I have just walked into an Eastern European nightclub with hard core techno pounding underneath every bike and Emma is dancing/bopping (off beat, might I add).  I’ll be lucky if I can stay on the bike.  But, at least the music really helping me envision my serene natural surroundings in the mountains with trees, leaves, crickets and anything else you find out there….

Emma: OK, today we are doing my favorite class that I learned at the Spinning retreat.  Oh, I’m so excited for all of you.  I can barely contain it. Of course, I’m injured so I can’t do the class.

Emma. Again. Really? You dress like that when you’re not spinning? You pretty much have a helmet hanging from your neck for this class and now you’re telling me you’re not even getting on the bike? You went to a spinning retreat? You retreated to sit on a bike to nowhere? Does retreat imply outdoors to anyone else?

Emma: The final announcement is that I want to tell you about my new class which I’m launching next week called Psychology Spin.

I’m speechless. Please.  Go on.

Emma: Psychology spin. So, everyone puts on a heart rate monitor, we project the heart rates on a big screen so that we can monitor how everyone is doing throughout the ride.  You can really watch your body and work on changing it throughout the whole 45 minutes.

With baited breath, I waited.  And waited.  And then she turned up the music and told us to start climbing.  Emma!!  Hello!  Over here.  Yep, me with the flailing hands and gaping mouth in utter shock of what you have just said. Hiii!  You mentioned psychology.  Where in your description of the class does psychology come into play AT ALL?  All you’ve done is describe red line ride. 

Are you telling me that in order to get New Yorkers to come to your class you have to fool them into thinking it’s therapeutic?

And that, friends, is why I can’t be bothered to go spinning.  It’s turned into this massive lie.  It better not be like this in Spain.

Snowy Subway Ride

I want to stay on the honesty train today. Manhattan has so much to offer upon which we can comment but I don’t want to exhaust lessons too soon.  I’m not even in Spain yet.   What if I find the same things there and then I can’t write about them because I wrote about them this week out of sheer boredom? I need to be thinking 5 steps ahead here if I plan on keeping this blog alive….

Anyway, honesty.  My mom and I were on the N train heading down to Union Square from mid-town.  It was about 4 PM so the train was populated by a manageable crowd.  There were enough seats for people if they wanted to sit and enough space for those people who chose to stand.   After a treacherous walk from Bendel’s to 49^th and 7^th Avenue through the snow storm, we were cold and exhausted and ready to actually sit.  I hate sitting on the subway but made an exception this time.  I looked like a drowning rat, with soaked hair, splotchy cheeks, and melting snow all over my white army style coat and shearling Donald Duck hat. Sure.  I know what you’re thinking.  “Karina, even if you’re soaked in snow and melting right before our eyes, why in god’s name do you own a shearling hat which you would describe as a Donald Duck hat?”  My answer to you, friends, is that that is completely irrelevant.  Although I appreciate your honesty, I like my hat and even if my dad thinks I look like a Mongolian hiker in it, I don’t care and I will persevere and wear it till you start to love it. 

Hat or no hat, the train is in motion and at 42^nd street.  To my right, a black woman in her mid-40’s enters our car.  She is homeless, blind, hunched over wearing wool blankets draped over her body.  I can’t help but feel like a spoiled brat, to have just lived in LA for a year and not really been witness to any homelessness.  My thoughts come back into focus as two white guys in their late teens shuffle onto the train.  Both are wearing baggy jeans with chains on them and black trench coats.  One has dry, dark hair that is pulled back in a small pony tail and a piercing underneath his bottom lip, right between his lips and his chin.  It’s truly a terrible place for a lip ring because Mr. Walking-Stereotype also has a terrible under-bite which is only further highlighted by the silver cone protruding from his face. 

As we wait for the subway doors to close and the train to resume motion, the woman deigns us with a soundtrack for our ride.  She sings a variety of songs, including some Jackson 5.  Let’s be honest, most homeless subway performers are not Juilliard Graduates, no matter what Jaime Foxx lead you to believe.  But, when you give money to a homeless person when they are singing it’s not because you appreciate their vocals, it’s because they need the money and they are doing more than sitting on the sidewalk.  She walks by slowly, singing and trying to keep her balance on a moving train as she holds onto her walking stick and a plastic container awaiting donations.  I can’t help but wonder, if she’s blind, how does she know what people give her and if store owners are honest with her about how much money she has?  In her position, she pretty much has to trust everyone.  I am sure there are good people at a church or a shelter who help her, but what about everyone else she meets on her way there?  My 2^nd daydream of the past 4 minutes has been rudely interrupted by the angsty caricatures standing in front of me as under-bite boy exclaims “god, get a fucking a vocal lesson.”

The train may as well have stopped.  Every conversation was cut short as all heads turned towards him.  The girl to my right says, “that is so inappropriate. I can’t believe you just said that.” The Midwestern guy across from us says, “god, you’re a fucking asshole man. Shut the fuck up.” My mother chimes in with “you should just get off the train. You’re probably not even from here and you should just leave.”  Then my mother says, “those boys are supremacists.”  Oh god.  Now we’re getting to touchy subjects.  The grungy commentator just laughs to himself.  At the end of the day, he’s probably 17 or 18, going through puberty, thinks he’s far cooler than he is, and isn’t actually equipped with intellect or wit to come back with any form or response or defense.  It’s clear that had his mother reprimanded him, his only response would have been to chuckle and say something like, “I don’t even care.”  Needless to say, if he can’t fight his mom, how can he battle the N train as its inhabitants flex their thew and remind him how worthless he and his scummy friend are especially under the looking glass of true New Yorkers.

I don’t think I need to spell out any lessons at the end of each post, right? It’s pretty obvious?

xo

February 24, 2010: Honesty

My Virgin America flight to New York was completely booked and I had reserved seat 5E for myself, thinking that if I can’t have an aisle seat at least I can be close to the front of the airplane so I can be one of the first people off it.  I overlooked the fact that the closer you sit to the front, the closer to the back of line you’ll be when boarding.  So, I was in group F, the final group which should otherwise be categorized as the group which is not afforded the opportunity to put anything in the overhead bins and is forced to check in their carry-on bags.  I was saved, however, by a 5’3” brunette who distracted the flight attendants by putting up a fight when they asked her to check in her coat.  I managed to slither through with 2 carry-ons, my sweatshirt strewn over my bags and my tennis racquet (a lethal weapon, it turns out, as you walk through the aisles and stumble on outward angled feet, causing you to grab onto the closest seat and allowing the racquet to swing to your inside arm and into the face of an unbeknownst recipient). 

Anyway, I’m digressing and honesty is, in fact, a relevant moral to this story.  As we waited in the aisles for the crowds to shift forward, the Napoleonette decided to make a call.  Standing in her black leggings, black suede knee high boots, wife beater under a grey cut up 80’s sweatshirt, black plasticky headband with heart shapes engraved into it and hair so tightly pulled back it made me thankful that hair is already dead and not experiencing the suffocating pain of being so wound, she readjusted her plaid wool winter coat, dropped her ticket and proceeded to have a conversation with her right leg lunged and her left leg stiff as a board.  I want to define my coming actions as eaves dropping, but I’m pretty sure that in any contained environment, such as an elevator, airplane, office, street corner, all is fair game.

“Hey,” she said.  “Thanks for watching Lola last night.”  Let me interject here and mention this was the first time I realized that thing under her arm was a heinous coat and not a matty discolored dog.  I’m assuming Lola is not her child but really didn’t put much thought into who Lola might be.   With a completely straight face and speaking at Olympic speeds, she quickly followed her thanks with, “well, you know, why would anyone want to get to know a crazy psycho. You’re a crazy psycho.”  Woah!  Should we send a search party for Lola?!  Did you seriously allow a crazy psycho watch your dear Lola?  Are you concerned at all??  You haven’t once asked about her well being!  She’s not your kid, right?  She’s a plant, right?  Please tell me she’s your pillow friend who you hide from everyone but the voice at the other end of the receiver.  Without any real remorse, she says, “I’m sorry but I’m just being honest with you. Have a safe trip to Canada.  What? You can’t find it? You need a passport to go to Canada?” I almost tapped her to say, “Friend, people like you make me think we should pass a law requiring a passport and a visa to go to New York.”  But no, she’s an honest person and, quite frankly, I’m not sane, my face is tear stained and my eyes are bloodshot so why would I subject myself to a tirade from a woman who left Lola with a crazy psycho.   All of a sudden, my ear tunes in behind me to a man leaving a voice message, “John, hey, it’s Jeff Smith.”  I stopped listening right then and there because I couldn’t help but feel bad for this 6’5” married giant.  Why hasn’t he changed his name?! Does he have identity and insecurity issues, always feeling like he doesn’t stand out and like he’s a nobody because he’s everybody? Poor guy.

Finally, I get to my row.  Yes, row 5.  All this has happened in the mere walk from the entrance of the plain to my approach to row 5.  I sit down.  To my right is a screenplay writing East Asian girl in yellow pants and to my left is a too cool for school dude with thick, black rimmed glasses, a cap, blue and yellow plaid shirt, boating shoes and tapered, rolled up jeans with a serious flatulence problem.  Here’s my chance, right? To implement today’s lesson?  Tell my compatriot writer that her dialogue (because, yes, I read over her shoulder) is boring and tell the white steve urquell to my left to please isolate himself in the bathroom until he feels ready to be in public?  Ahh, can I do it?? 

Ha.  Of course not. Instead, I’m writing it to everyone else.  But, baby steps, right?  It’s just day 1. 

Ugh. He just farted again.