Subway Stories

As it turns out, my embarrassing stories aren’t embarrassing at all. On the way home, my roommate G received a compliment today on the subway: “I like your work.”

Thinking the guy had mistaken him for an artist, or musician, or maybe Jackie Chan’s little bro, G said: “Um, I think you have the wrong guy.”

“No, I saw your work online!” Loud and clear, for the entire train to hear… “The one with the foursome!”

“…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” (G’s blushing and sweating profusely at this point.)

“The internet video with the foursome!” (Yeah, because he and the rest of the train hadn’t heard it the first time.)

G adamantly insisted it wasn’t him, only to have the deliverer of compliment say: “Well, you should be flattered that you resemble him then.”

…and the entire car’s worth of passengers whipped their heads around to catch a glimpse of He Who Starred in an Internet Porno Foursome.

…G still had three more subway stops to go.

I nearly spit my soymilk out all over the kitchen floor laughing.

In other news, my dinner was interrupted with this:

“Konichiwa,” he began, which is already a bad sign.

“Uh, I’m not Japanese.”

“I’m Junior. Chinese? Ni hao ma?”

“I’m good, thank you.”

“Where are you from? China?”

“……….California.”

Want to see a comedy show tonight? he asked. No, I have plans, I said. If I weren’t fully committed to my sandwich, I probably would have moved, but uprooting oneself halfway through a delicious sandwich is just blasphemous. (Tried to think of some plans I could potentially have tonight. Couldn’t, so I just repeated that I had plans.) He insisted on tomorrow night. No, tomorrow night I really do have plans. Breakfast, then? he said. Hell no, I don’t get up early for anyone, I told him. Besides, I said, I’m seeing someone. Oh no no no I just want to be buddies, he said. Did anyone ever tell you you’re beautiful?

(Yes. That homeless guy at the 4th Street station gives it to me on the regular. Can count on him like I can count on my Daily News.)

G says we need to find me a weeklong summer romance, because “everyone should have one in New York.” I quite agree, though I must point out I have had a very devoted romance with my MacBook. I’ve sacrificed perfectly good Sundays to spend time with it, I’ve taken it to the park, we’ve cuddled late into the night… sometimes we sneak out together at 2 a.m. for cheesecake, and he doesn’t even judge me when I eat with my mouth open. That’s love!

Old Digs, New Digs

Post-move, I keep waking up and thinking it’s still nighttime because it’s DARK. Then about half an hour later remember I don’t have windows. Owned.

Steph’s apartment is mind-blowingly new, especially for a New York City residential space. She just bought spankin’ new IKEA furniture and installed all the fixings — in fact the desk was being assembled as I arrived, and, get this — there is a washer and dryer in the apartment. At this point doing laundry would be an extravagance as I may as well just bring it home but oh, the proximity is so, so tempting. And, get this, the bathroom tiles are marble. I am more or less getting a complimentary two-week stay at a luxury motel, except there aren’t free razors in the bathroom.

The apartment is above a dental office and filled with mysterious Asian families. This means I experience the runoff of angry Cantonese hallway exchanges through my wall. (Unless they aren’t angry. After all, Cantonese people sound angry when they order dim sum.) Right next door is a Starbucks, and though I’m anti-commercialized coffee, there’s something that strangely comforting, a little nostalgic, even, about being greeted by the Green Mermaid’s signature scent every time I enter the building. New York, New York may be the polar opposite of La Jolla, but the number of calories in a Starbucks green tea frappuccino transcends all bounds.

I just checked out Steph’s fridge and there is Trader Joe’s wine and hard alcohol. I have nearly forgotten the joys of living with college students.

Obviously, scavenging for food was a main priority. So far I’ve discovered some great cafes, a 24-hour diner with free wifi AND gelato (such a win!), and a little Chinese hole-in-the wall with dirt cheap dumplings, soymilk, and sesame pancakes. There are too many cute boutiques in the Lower East Side that it’s not even funny. I’m going to freeze my credit cards in big tubs of ice before the weekend approaches so that I’ll have no temptation whatsoever, or at least temptation that will have to be carefully deliberated over a 2-hour period while my credit card ice blocks melt. (Knowing me I will microwave them to speed the process, but in theory it’d be a good preventative tactic.) Barring temptation, my luggage itself is already stuffed to the brim and I shouldn’t be buying anything.

You know when you have those really, really embarrassing moments, and you hope to God no one saw you? I had one of those today. My arms were full of bags, and I was balancing a plastic container of okonomiyaki and fried noodles from Otafuku on top of my shit. I finally started reading Murakami’s After Dark on the subway this morning and I desperately wanted to continue, so I was determined to find somewhere to sit down with my meal. Finally I stopped at Tompkins Square Park, slid onto a bench, and my container went flying, in effect losing a good third of my noodles. While trying to precariously balance my box on one knee and my book on the other, I also lost a chopstick. So I sat next to a spilled pile of noodles with my book awkwardly positioned as I shoveled food into face with a single chopstick. Noodles, as one might venture to guess, are not meant to be eaten with single chopsticks.

Then a St. Mark’s hipster came over and asked me if he could shake my hand because “you’re just a beautiful lady.” I mean — *wipes mouth* — I guess.

Girl, Interrupted

For the third time this summer, I packed up my Life in a suitcase and duffel bag. For the first time this summer, I hailed a cab, before taking myself, with Life in tow, to the Lower East Side. You would think having had so much experience as a serial mover — nine times since sixth grade, not counting the holidays — I would have perfected the art form by now.

I have not. Somehow, as per usual, I’ve accumulated mountains of crap. And crap it is: Is my wardrobe not filled with nearly enough trashy H&M pieces? Was another book to add to my mothballed, unread collection really necessary? Did I think at any point I would need to coat my lashes in four different varieties of mascara? I know free junk is free junk, and lengthening is to apples as thickening is to oranges, but still. I never thought the day would come that I’d be throwing out beauty products. I guess life’s always throwin’ them curveballs — or bath bombs, in my case — at you, when you least expect it. It’s times like these that I wish I were an avid eBay user. I know these products “are not for individual sale” but I sure ain’t rolling in the dough at 4 Times Square.

Upon exiting my taxicab with my mountains of crap, I lugged Life up three flights of stairs. I am not a small girl, but goddamn was it difficult. After that grueling morning of unsolicited strength training, I walked back up to the village, stopping by St. Alp’s Tea House for taro milk tea as a reward. Why yes, I am a big proponent of personal gratification, how did you know? Walking down 10th, I ran into Ty, the celeb stylist who cut my hair my first week in the city. I went back to his (gorgeous I’m so jealous) apartment with him and watched the Olympics, entertained his dog, refused pot, etc. (Thank you for the applause. All in a day’s work.)

A while later as I was walking home from Ty’s, I got a call from Allen who was incidentally passing by my apartment, and, incidentally, going to have lunch with my high school digital imaging teacher, also, incidentally, on 10th street. What can I say? Shit goes down on 10th.

And so we went to Café Asean for a late lunch with a handful of her city friends. “You can call me Christine,” she said, but I don’t think she’ll ever be anything but Ms. Lubarsky to me. Seeing teachers out of the academic context is strange, especially since she taught at our high school when she was 22, which now seems particularly young. I’m not sure when I started feeling worthy of my 1+ year status as a legal “adult” or when my primary social circle graduated to the age range 21 through 35. But I want to say it happened sometime this summer between June and August, between 1st and 7th Avenue, between my morning coffee and my last-call nightcap.

So I’m here — a little lower on the island — for now, as if I have to gracefully exit Manhattan, one borough at a time, so that it might be weaned off of my loud, offensive, pants-less presence. By next Friday I’ll be packing for San Francisco, and then for Taiwan, and then for San Diego. Packing, indefinitely, now and forever, it seems.

Permanence? It’s something I miss. But what’s life if not a constant packing and repacking, a journey in search of something that feels right? I’m not sure what’s home anymore. My hometown? San Diego, my place of extended residence? Or the city I’ve called home this summer, and the city for which I’ll spend my days counting down to my return?

If there’s any time in life not to settle, it’s now. I’m young, single, and uninhibited. In more ways than one (Har har, God my jokes get worse by the day)… there’s no need to settle for anyone, anyplace, anything. In the next two years, before Real World: Teresa premieres, I want to take every chance to squeeze everything out of the world like it’s ripe for the juicing. I want to take on poorly paid writing assignments and stretch myself to the limit, no holds barred, and test the waters, whether shallow end or deep, and travel to dangerously dusty corners, and do all the things that I will never be able to do once I spend my 9-5’s in an uncomfortable swivel chair and am gifted with monthly billing statements on my doorstep.

So… until then, I’m gonna see the world.

And Life, well, it’s coming with me, in a puke-colored rolly suitcase.

NYC: New York Crazies

As I spend my Friday night avoiding the packing that needs to be done for my move out of the West Village bright and early in the a.m. by blogging instead, I feel immense gratefulness for this incredibly well-priced, cozy place in which I spent my summer, and the wonderful roommates Cathy, Iru, and Josephine, who came with it. In my procrastination, I bring you the Best of Craigslist, AKA an option I was nearly reduced to in my desperate springtime housing search, before Christine saved my ass.

Many of you who read this ad are going to find it very
offensive. Please understand that while this offer might
not work for you, there are people out there in this world
that have different levels of comfort with certain ideas
that might be offensive to the majority of the population.

I got this idea from an article in Time Out New York
that I read a while ago. I live in a 2 bedroom
apartment that I inherited and now own. I live alone
in the East Village, and have an empty bedroom and a
lot of space. I am offering the empty room w/private
bathroom for only $100 a month. Here is the catch…of
course there is a catch. I’m a white late 20’s guy
that works in finance. I work A LOT and therefore my
social life has become nonexistent. So, I want to add
a little bit of excitement to my life. I would like to
rent the room to a woman between the age of 18-27.
You should be a free spirited, liberal minded person
who is very open minded. I would like you to be a
slim attractive girl who is OK with occasionally
walking around or hanging out in her underwear.

I would never ask you to strip or do anything at all.
You must be someone who occasionally walks around
like that and is ok with me being around when you do.

I know this is a strange arrangement, but like I said earlier,
I am trying to add some exitement to my life I am not
looking for anything to develop into a relationship,
or to have you start acting like a girlfriend. If you
are interested, send me an email so I can discuss it
further with you. There is no sexual contact or
anything involved. I WOULD NEED THE ARRANGEMENT
TO BE 100% CONFIDENTIAL. I know that it makes no

sense to put my pic on here if I want it to be confidential,
but I figured it was a necessary risk to take if I wanted
solid responses. If you are interested please send me your
pic. It does not have to be a provocative pic. But a body pic
would help. The apartment is huge-near St Marks. The
kitchen is big…very bright living area. The room for rent is
very big too AND HAS ITS OWN BATHROOM. PLEASE do NOT
respond by saying “WHY WOULD A GUY AS GOOD LOOKING AS
YOU WANT TO DO SOMETHING LIKE THIS”. We all have our
reasons…..Thanks

-Keith

Yup. The city’s full of CRAZIES I tell you. CRAZIES!!!

(Although I was pretty desperate at that point.)

(And $100?!?!?!?!?)

(I mean, I hang out in my underwear all the time anyway!)

One Hundred Years of Solitude

Sorry I’ve been MIA. After long, drawn-out deliberation and a couple pensive subway rides, I tried to start a more professional blog yesterday. Is it weird that I feel awkward about showing people that but not about publicly offering the details of my liquor-induced escapades? My priorities need major reordering. Maybe once that one gets started I will let this one fade into cyberspace anonymity.

With each day of being surrounded by millions people I grow more and more reclusive. Case in point: today I have made it this far in my day having only spoken to the waitress at Dumpling House. I’m so proud of New York. Never in my life have I seen so many black and white people eating real Chinese food. Back home they all go to P.F. Chang’s and China Chili. I don’t even know where China Chili is; I’ve only heard good things. From white people.

Anyway, I’ve been on a do-things-alone streak lately. Yesterday I had a full-on sushi dinner by myself. I’ve always wondered what it was like to eat alone, so I figured I should give it a go while I’m still in New York. If I tried this in Fremont I’d probably get pity stares or get written off as a crazy by the Asian mothers and high school kids. Dinner in solitude gave me a lot of time to contemplate the wrong way in which I use chopsticks and to make small sculptures with my wasabi. (My elephant resembled a hippo, but nevertheless impressive, I think.) After work today, I walked thirty blocks down 5th Ave for the hell of it before taking the ferry to Staten Island by myself. In a movie I would have met Matthew McConaughey and shared special moments on the hurricane deck. Naturally, I did not. To compensate for my life not turning out like a chick flick, I had scallion pancakes in Chinatown. By myself.

(If there are any Penn Badgley-lookalikes who would like to make up for today’s lack of special moment, I am available to ride the Staten Island ferry alone again at around 4:00. Just putting it out there.)

So I’ve become a hermit. I ignore the multitude of texts in my inbox because after having gotten my makeshift replacement phone I haven’t saved phone numbers, ever. As a result, I don’t know who is who anymore. The other day I got a movie invitation that I thought was from one guy only to receive a call from the guy I thought it was on a different number. So I just stopped responding to all of them altogether. I have phone-fear (strange, I know) to begin with, so this recent phenomenon has only heightened it. I am now fielding Unknown Numbers right and left and avoiding my voicemail more fervently than I normally do. Giving out your phone number is like losing your virginity. New York City took my number, and He isn’t giving it back.

Tonight’s my last night in the West Village — tomorrow I set up temporary camp at Steph’s apartment in the Lower East Side. Slightly disappointed by the 10 extra minutes of morning commute, but it’s time to move on. I think I have thoroughly explored all the pastries that this neighborhood has to offer. I am a small yappy dog, and my work is cut out for me. I have new territories to mark, new trees bakeries to pee on ahem, taste-test.

My mother called me today to remind me not to eat, as it is of vital importance to save all caloric intake for our two-week Asia trip. Normally I would argue, but she’s sort of right. There are things worth gaining weight for, and there are things that aren’t. Taiwanese buns, fried doughnuts, steamed dumplings: worth it. Au Bon Pain cookie picked up on the way home from work out of sheer desperation for a baked good, any baked good, just give it to me now: so not. (Au Bon Pain is the Starbucks of bakeries, FYI.)

Today, I will write postcards. Seeing as they will arrive about three days earlier than I do in California, I’m not sure the intended effect will come across but a postcard is a postcard is a postcard and my loved ones should appreciate the sentiment, 2.5 months late or not. Also, I will mail my adopted soldier a postcard. He doesn’t respond to anything I send him (though I suppose I only give him the chance once every seven-month guilt trip), but like I said, I’m no stranger to one-way male friendships, so really, rejection outright nonresponsiveness is nothing new.

Also, 14 things that make me happy… for Lisa, after the jump!

Letter and E-mail Writing

I am so over:

All best,
Teresa

I cant say I’m a huge fan of “warmly” or “best regards” or “yours sincerely.” Really now, it would be a complete lie to suggest that one is truly “sincere” at all times. I sure wasn’t when I applied to 52 internships and received less than 20 responses (no harm done: training for my future as a frequently rejected freelance writer). I have written some pretty insincere customer service e-mails in my time, though if the customer can’t see my bright sales-rep smile without the use of a final adverb reassuring my genuineness, I must be doing something entirely wrong — and no closing line can salvage that.

I am thinking my new e-mail signature should be:

Eat cake for breakfast,
Teresa

That is what I genuinely wish upon people. With utmost sincerity. 100%. 120% if they are willing to share said cake.

Or perhaps:

Save the whales,
Teresa

At least I would be promoting a legitimate cause instead of wasting valuable space and time. Honestly though, someone needs to revamp letter writing altogether. I would do it myself but I can’t think of a way to capitalize on such an endeavor and God knows I do enough unpaid labor as it is. Greeting words are also way outdated. Between “Dear ____” and “Warmly, Teresa” I feel like I am Laura Ingalls Wilder, writing with quill and parchment to my across-town lover. (Was she fictional? I haven’t thought about her in a long time.)

If we are really getting creative:

Sugar, spice, and everything nice,
Teresa

I can almost taste the sunshine in that one. Anyone who fails to feel the sincerity radiating through their inbox is probably the type to stab small kittens. I wouldn’t want to write them e-mails anyway.

I can totally get away with it… right? Right? What would you sign your e-mails with? One day, when I have an officially established career and a solid reputation as somewhat of a loony, it will happen. (I will also be using hearts as bullet points on my resume.)

Mmm. Cake.

Notes on the Olympics

1. How depressing do you think it is to be a professional weightlifter? Your entire life’s training / professional career comes down to about four seconds. Maybe six, for those who overmeditate the whole hand-positioning bit.
2. Weightlifters should also be given additional bonus points based on their grunt-faces. China’s gold-medalist definitely deserves more than a gold medal for his facial expressions.
3. My favorite part is when the Americans win and they play the national anthem. All the athletes line up with tooly smiles on their faces and feel Proooud to be an Americaaaaaaan. I haven’t felt proud since Clinton was president, but these four-minute moments do light me a patriotic fire. As I think about Michael Phelps, at the top of the world, I think I can put my finger on exactly how he feels. You see, last week, my blog stats hit an all-time high that I’ll probably never, ever surpass again until there are nude photos on here (obviously of someone else). So yeah. I feel ya, Phelpy. Top of the world!
4. What happens to Olympic medalists after they win? I mean can you really make a career out of your athleticism if you aren’t one of the sports that America throws money at (i.e. basketball, baseball, football)? Do you get to live off royalties and sponsorships or is the rest of your life a disappointing fading-into-obscurity, much as I did in the California young-pianist scene after I peaked in 5th grade? I mean, remember after Carly Patterson took home the gold in 2004? After that she just gained a lot of weight and probably ate all the fried chicken she couldn’t eat for all the years prior. Once you go from burning 3,000 calories a day, even burning 1,000 calories a day will never give you the Body of Your Dreams thereafter. Poor Carly. At least she has cool stories for her grandkids. “I beat that skinny Russian bitch!” I’m still working on my cool stories. I don’t think my daughter will appreciate me retelling the “Well this one time Grandma was in Mexico…” story, though if I were a 5-year-old, envisioning my grandma crossing the border sans shoes would be hilarious. Just sayin’.
5. I haven’t watched any TV this summer, but I may in fact just keep the tube on a bit more if only to watch the female gymnasts. I was a gymnast once, you know. I use “gymnast” loosely. Few people can envision me doing anything physically intensive (why yes, I can type 120 wpm!) but I’ll have you know, at one point I could do 60 pushups in a row. It was beastly. I could also do a cartwheel on the beam — not regularly, but on occasion, which really made it all the more special when I didn’t fall off and hit the mat in a cloud of dusty chalk. The only remnant of my once athletic nonability is that I can still do my left splits, and I will, as friends and strangers will tell you, demonstrate this to anyone who cares. My interest in my spectacular gymnastic career ended soon after Sue stopped driving, because nobody wanted to make post-workout Jamba Juice trips with the frequency that I demanded. Also, my coach was a pervert. (Not exaggerating. Also not filing any lawsuits.)
6. Moving on: Why are Taiwanese athletes being referred to as members of “Chinese Taipei”? What. In the world. Is Chinese Taipei? Dear China: I understand that the world was somehow deceived into allowing you to host an event that represents international peace and unity even though you suppress good journalism, place bans on internet and blogging, and can’t make sense of what is going on with that island over there that you still think you own, but that doesn’t mean you can sit on your high horse and call it “Chinese Taipei.” Plus, we have better food.
7. This is our girl. Man, when the athletes and pop stars (Miley) are younger than you are… you know you are getting OLD.

Sugar Addictions

I bought two for me and two for Rishi but naturally three ended up in my stomach.

My visiting friend Rishi was thankfully very easy to entertain because all he wanted to do is “see shit and eat shit.” Best low-maintenance tourist ever! He wasn’t into the whole touristy-scene, thank goodness, so we forewent the classic NYC tour, which I would have no idea how to take him on anyway, instead doing important things like seeing the city for what it was: a stroll through Central Park; cupcakes at Buttercup; a slice of real-deal New York pizza; exploring through West Village and Greenwich; shopping in Soho and Chinatown; carboheavy dinner and dessert in Little Italy.

Quality time with Rishi was bomb and also made me realize how much I miss spending time with all the purely platonic males in my life. I miss boys who find me sexually reprehensible and who possess no ulterior motives and/or hidden agendas. Or at the least, boys whose only hidden agendas involve bribing me into editing their humanities essays. I have about five best guy friends, and I MISS YOU ALL! Okay, so only John and Jon read this, so I miss you two the most, and am otherwise declaring my platonic love into a black hole of darkness. God. I can’t even get my calls returned from the guys in my life who actually enjoy my brains, my humor, and my company. What hope is there for the rest?

In other news, or should I say old news: I have a problem, my friends. This is the dessert-destructing I have done in less than 48 hours:

• Sugar Sweet Sunshine pistachio cupcake
• Sugar Sweet Sunshine red velvet cupcake
• Sugar Sweet Sunshine lemon cupcake
• Sugar Sweet Sunshine pumpkin cupcake
• Nilla wafer banana pudding
• Van Leeuwen’s mint chocolate chip ice cream cone
• Red Mango froyo
• French Roast marbled cheesecake
• Buttercup red velvet cupcake
• Buttercup vanilla cupcake
• Buttercup German chocolate cupcake
• Egg Custard King almond tart
• Little Italy cannoli

For some reason I have a misguided notion that I am a metabolically invincible beast who can consume saturated fat like it’s nobody’s business — and stay in shape. I am wrong. Invincible metabolic beast would be Melissa, my size double-zero friend, or maybe Sophia, my best friend who is one of those skinny-with-curves-in-all-the-right-places people we all love to hate. The shock of the summer is that I can still fit into my clothes. This is probably the real reason as to why I don’t wear pants anymore. Pants have waistbands and they tell horrible truths and expose horrible muffintops. Dresses hide all. Skirts, well, when they no longer fit on the waist… that’s when regular skirts suddenly become high-waisted skirts.

As I sat here 10 minute ago, finishing off my German chocolate cupcake, I reached the conclusion that my eating of massive amounts of dessert may be developing into a serious health concern. These days I derive just as much pleasure out of eating obscene amounts as I do telling people about how obscene my eating behavior is. But really, when that’s all you have left to brag about it is time to reevaluate your priorities in life.

(It’s time to reevaluate my priorities in life.) My new priorities, then, are going to include fresh fruits and vegetables. THIS CAN’T BE THAT HARD. Plenty of people don’t have to eat something sweet three times a day. I can be one of them. I can be one of them. I can be one of them.

Can I at least get something out of this? As Rishi says, it takes work to get fat. Not everyone can do it. I know I appear normal sized but my BMI is off the charts. (Seriously. Serena’s mom measured me in senior year and practically fell over when she read the number. And that’s when I only ate one cookie a day!) So maybe if I just tipped the scale a tiny bit more, I could write a book on Kicking the Dessert Habit: How to JUST PUT DOWN THE CUPCAKE, IT’S NOT WORTH IT. Or at least give me a profile in Shape magazine on How She Lost It (the weight, not the sanity, though at times I think that’s starting to go…)

I feel slightly nauseous from all of today’s sugar. I just received a text message that may or may not have been a booty call proposition. I am also blogging whilst trying to convince myself to toss the cake in the fridge so that my Health Cleanse can officially start tomorrow morning.

…

…

My Saturday nights have reached an all new low. HOLD ME.

Bars Galore, the Finale

Our last Bar None night ever!? Say it isn’t so!

I officially met a black man who doesn’t like me, and he is the bouncer at the Village Pourhouse. This is major cause for concern. I might have to get the rest of my fanclub to convince him that it’s okay to be part of the status quo, and to just give in to the overwhelming desire to like me. Kirby is officially baffled at my choclate magnetism, because, as she points out, “you don’t got a bootay.”

(And it’s true: I don’t got a bootay.) But still, they continue to flock. I may as well inform my parents far in advance that while the chances of marrying a nice little Chinese boy are slim, they have their pick of NYC’s black men. Really, they can choose down to the profession, the native country (tonight: French!), and so on. The possibilities are endless.

Tonight was kind of bittersweet, as it was the last night all of us would go out together. Kayla heads home to [where is she from again?] this weekend, effectively ending our summer friendship. Bitch. Who will wear the colors in the midst of all our monochromatic color schemes? I demanded, as I gave her a hyperextended hug. I know you’re going to be back in two weeks, Kayla, but really, leaving me was unnecessary.

Today was also the last day for Namina and Kaitlin, the two editorial interns at Glamour. Our grand plan is to ditch our mag-editor dreams in exchange for a yearlong travel session that we will somehow get paid to write about. We figure as an African immigrant, an all-American white girl, and a west coast Asian, we have covered all the diversity bases and Seventeen/CosmoGIRL! has no excuse not to accept our “three teen girls travel the world” pitch. More likely than not, this will fail and we will find ourselves in the Conde Nast building once again next summer, eating more oily pad thai together, and extra cookies and cupcakes, to stick it to the Man.

My high school buddies Rishi and Shiv apparently arrive on the Chinatown bus at 11 a.m tomorrow. I’m sorry, boys, but I have zero itinerary planned for your arrival. And I’m not really up for waking up at 10 to think extra hard about it. Why anyone trusts me to be a tour guide when I have not seen the MOMA, the Statue of Liberty, or the Empire State Building is beyond me. Mel, having met several of my friends who have all been unfailingly Asian or Indian, is probably severely confused as to whether or not I know any persons who have Anglo-Saxon hereditary backgrounds.

For the record, I’m also particularly disinterested in museums. I feel overwhelming guilt about said disinterest but it’s the truth. Call me uncultured, but they bore the shit out of me. I hope no guy ever tries to impress me by taking me to a museum. If he knew me slash did any Google research on me it would be blatantly obvious that a trip to the local bakery would more than suffice.

Inbetweens

We walked the Brooklyn Bridge tonight. It’s one of those things I’ve fully intended to do, that is fairly easy to convince me to do, but that I would never take the initiative to do myself. And so I was thankful when Megan suggested and Angela convinced and Lara researched, and all I had to do was passively agree. These days there are so many aspects of life I try to dictate play-by-play that sometimes I need a moment of spontaneity — a moment whose life does not begin as a carefully printed note to self in my planner.

There was something magical about being surrounded by movement as we walked away from Brooklyn into Manhattan’s city lights, with the constant of cars zipping by just below and the expanse of water meeting the horizon. Walking behind and in front and beside me: Angela, my childhood friend; Kirby and Ching, my college friends; Megan, my friend from this summer. It was this overwhelming feeling of solitude in company, of silence in chaos, of familiarity in the unknown, of home in a city away from home.

I wondered then if New York could ever be quiet. What would happen if we just pulled the plug on the whole city?

Hush, I wanted to say. Be still.

But that’s a silly thought. Without the lights there would be no reflections, without the cars, no bridges, without the people, no life. Without the life… it would be New York City, minus the City. And that just wouldn’t be the same.