A Year in a Brown Tweed Coat

I bought a brown tweed coat about a year ago. A girl who I considered to be a mythical being finally personified, that is, the alleged best friend for life you meet in college, accompanied me and was extremely helpful since she had once worked at some sort of coat-selling establishment. She told me to stretch out my arms in front of me and make sure the back fit and then walked around the store with me to see if I was comfortable in the tweed coat. Not too hot, not too cold.

I bought the coat because it was getting warm and my winter coat simply seemed too heavy to bear. So I bought the thinner brown tweed and dubbed it my spring coat. It was more autumnal than anything with its dark brown buttons and black spots and it proceeded to do little more than take up space in my small closet for the rest of the year. As it hung forgotten and increasingly pushed to the side by brightly colored spring skirts and tops, my relationship with that girl similarly withered and was pushed to the side by new friendships and increasing amounts of unspoken misunderstandings.

I hung the brown tweed coat up on a metal hook at my still relatively new job today and for a moment pondered it. I bought the coat about a year ago, but never really used it much until this winter. My heavy black winter coat now simply seemed too warm and too dreary to come out very much and the brown tweed has become a daily part of my wardrobe. I looked at the brown tweed coat on that metal hook that would have been utterly foreign to me a year ago and is now so familiar and was struck by how much can change in a year.

A year ago, this now slightly ratty-looking brown tweed coat was completely new. The buttons were firmly sewn to the coat and didn’t dangle in a worn way when not in use. The pockets didn’t sag out a little bit from stuffing too much in them and there was no pilling on the arms. A year ago, I had this friend who I thought was going to finally be the one to carry forward. I had a great apartment and great roommates and I was a student, and all that entails. Now I come to work and hang my brown tweed up on that crowded metal hook five days a week and I haven’t heard from that friend in over half a year. School is something that exists in the past and future for me, but not in the present, and most of the people I knew there have ebbed away.

This isn’t to say everything is now a dreary overcoat. Oddly, even though retrospectively I feel like I had it all a year ago, I’m vastly more optimistic in this January moment than I was that January a year ago in Target as I perused the coats, tailed by my friend. There is more hope now and less bleakness. There are fewer friends, but more keepers. There’s a smaller apartment, but a bigger possibility. There is a thinner, more worn coat, but I like to think I have more places to hang it.

Iberian Intrique

The New York Times recently published an article in their science section called “Gene Test Shows Spain’s Jewish and Muslin Mix”. This article, while on a personal level full of interesting tidbits as I am descended from those very Moors who were so violently ousted in the late 1400s, reminded me just how much the Iberian Peninsula is completely intoxicating to me.

The article, while brief, shimmies through most of Spain’s major historical events while making a broader point about Spain commonly thought of as being primarily racially pure since that 1492 expulsion is in fact much more of a mix than anyone previously thought. As I said, this is interesting as its own scientific discovery, but those brief little bullet-points of Spanish history really only got me salivating for more!

In 2007 I was inexplicably and suddenly seized with the desire to learn all I could about the royal family of Portugal. Wikipedia beautifully served here and I spent a few days utterly immersed and in awe of the convoluted and intertwining paths of the Portuguese/Brazilian royal family. It was fascinating and I couldn’t get enough. Spain holds a similar allure for me for reasons that I think are fairly basic: I am an British historian and if there is one thing I hold in common with the Britons I study, it is a firm view that Spain is an undeniable Other, one which is wrapped primarily in mystery but one that is also enticingly interesting because of that obscurity. I know very little about Spain beyond the typical things that have leaked out (expulsion of the moors, Christopher Columbus, Catholicism, etc.) and those little pieces only make me want to learn more and as quickly as possible.

To that end, I decided I wanted to know more about the period between 700-1600 in Spain, which would take me through the Muslim rule (while neatly avoiding the earlier battles of the Romans and Carthaginians) and the Spanish imperial state (before it fell into decline somewhere after the defeat of the Armada by my wonderful Brits). Searching for books called “history of spain 700-1600” unfortunately didn’t get me very far since there are both a million books answering that or part of that description and also few who cover so broad and specific a range. So perhaps I am doomed forever to the broad strokes of Wikipedia. If anyone out there reading this has any suggestions of better ways to find good Spanish history books or knows of any personally, I would be much obliged for the recommendation. Until I find that perfect Iberian history book, I shall remain intrigued and awaiting more dispatches from that mysterious historical front.

Overheard in Corey's Life

If we all clap our hands and believe…

Automated Subway PA: We are delayed because of train traffic ahead of us. Thank you for your patience.
Crazy train guy: That’s what you say every day…
Train Conductor over the PA: There is an express number four train passing in front of us, please be patient. We’ll be moving in a minute…
Crazy train guy: Fuck! Damn!
In a minute, the train does in fact begin to move only to stop again a few minutes later.
Crazy train guy: What’s passing in front of us now? A pink elephant?!

--Overheard on the uptown 6 Train

They grow up so fast!

Enthused second grader to visiting educator: Oooh! Can we do research?!

--Overheard at the British International School

Cleanliness never goes out of style

Seven-year-old to his bored-looking mother as they enter the bathroom: I’m going to wash my hands! I’m going to wash my hands! I’m going to wash my hands…!

--Overheard at the outlet mall

Power to the Sisterhood

Preppy NYU girl #1: I'm sorry, but I don't know why she does this...I mean, we decide who we have sex with! We aren't desperate! We decide!
Preppy NYU girl #2: Mmm-hmm.

--Overheard on E. 13th Street

The Lost Song from The Little Mermaid

Father to super-excited four-year-old son: Yep. That's a squid.

--Overheard outside the M2M Asian Convenience Store

Got some good ones to add? Comment and I'd be happy to add them to this post! It's not as rewarding as actually being on Overheard in New York but it's an easier process and you are guaranteed a post!

Obama's Attempted Pacification of a Hillary Supporter Fails: News at 11!

I feel I must at this time vent my annoyance regarding President-Elect Barack Obama. Before I do, I think you should know that I voted for him and think he is an amazing orator, a good man and an inspiration to many people, but that I am also one of those “die hard” Hillary Clinton supporters. I am still rather embittered and, though we as a group may come across as a trifle crazy, I agree with the Clinton die hard consensus that she was robbed. I know the election or the nomination doesn’t belong to anyone (which, I might add, is more or less Ralph Nader’s stance on the 2000 election, so mind your bedfellows), but, honestly, she was robbed.

Leaving that hardened bitterness aside, I turn instead to the more recent actions of our noble President-Elect. Upon his election last week (was it just last week?) I decided to let myself be swept up in the tide of optimism that he brought with him. I grew excited about the possibilities for his Cabinet rather than focusing on his election which still wasn’t really getting me all excited. A friend mentioned to me that John Kerry was vying for the Secretary of State position and I allowed myself to get all happy about the wonderful possibility of John Kerry as our ambassador to the world. I thought pleasantly back to his 2004 jaunts to France, where he exhibited his fluency in the native language. I was reminded of all the reasons I voted for him in 2004: his intelligence, his experience and his passion to change things for the better. I was reminded of Teresa Heinz Kerry’s worldliness and her own proficiency with languages (English, Spanish, French and Italian, not to mention her native tongue of Portuguese). I got hopeful and excited and I crossed my fingers that Obama would choose Kerry.

I woke up this morning to the news that is has been leaked by some source or other (“two Democratic officials in close contact with the Obama transition team,” claims the AP wire) that Obama is considering Hillary Clinton for the position of Secretary of State. This information was painted with the brush of “he’s doing this to appease the die hard Hillary people because they’re still pissed she didn’t get the VP slot.” As a die hard Hillary person who is, in fact, still pissed about not just the VP slot but the entire presidency, I cannot think of a worse way to appease me then by giving Hillary the Secretary of State position. I was all geared up for Kerry and I was all excited that his exit from the Senate would leave Hillary the opportunity to become the next Ted Kennedy, the new Liberal Lion of the Senate. Now he’s ruining that dream, too? Honestly, Mr. Obama, can you do no right by the die hard Hillary people?

I am only slightly heartened by the fact that the AP also mentioned, in a dinky sentence at the end of the article, Chuck Hagel, John Kerry and Bill Richardson as other possible candidates. All the same, I can’t help but wonder if the leak was the metaphorical test balloon to gauge people’s reactions to the idea of Hillary Clinton as Secretary of State. From what I understand of these matters, things do not get leaked unless someone wants the information out there. Excuse my paranoia while I go off to hope that Obama doesn’t ruin this for me, too.

Once Upon a Time in New York City...

As this increasingly becomes the New York City randomness blog, I still feel compelled to share this lovely little New York love story.

Once upon a time in the West Village, there was a little apartment building with two spires that was appropriately called Twin Peaks. It was filled with little tiny wood-paneled garrets that were populated by the artsy and the literary in accordance with what the Village used to stand for. One particular year, an Italian bachelor and a French bachelorette both happened to come and try to make their way in the big city. As fate would have it, the Italian bachelor and the French bachelorette both found their home in Twin Peaks, just one floor apart.

As they came and went in the course of their new big city days, the Italian bachelor couldn’t help but often catch the eye of the French bachelorette and visa versa. One day, the apartment across the tiny wooden hall from the Italian bachelor became available and the French bachelorette, much taken by just the look of him, snatched it up and bought it.

Now that only a tiny hallway separated the pair rather than the rickety green stairs, they saw much more of each other. In fact, what began as a look and a “hello” as they entered and left their respective apartments soon became conversation and from there friendship and, soon enough, our Italian bachelor and our French bachelorette had fallen in love. They soon wed but couldn’t bear to leave the environs of their courtship. Thus, for the next eight years, the pair lived out of the both the tiny studios, trading back and forth between the apartments and generally being very much in love.

Finally, the back and forth had just gotten too much and they decided it was time for them to have their happily ever after in the country. So they put the wonderful little apartments up for sale and headed off into the sunset of Westchester or Long Island or wherever the wind would take them.

I went to the open house for one of their apartments last night and I am here to tell you that this story is even cuter once you see the apartment. A New York Times Streetscapes article for Twin Peaks is here, but that might not be enough. The listing for the apartment is here, but that might not be enough. I don’t think anything is really enough short of going immediately and seeing the place. It is wonderful and their story just makes it better.

I [heart] New York?

Since my week is rapidly becoming one of those where I end the days shouting purposelessly from our roof garden "I HATE CITIES WHAT AM I DOING HERE?!" I thought it might be a good idea for my mental health to think more about what I like about cities, namely the one I'm in, New York.

1. Public Transportation! Even if the subway never seems to be at the cross-street I want and the bus doesn't come when I am passing out from walking too far, I have got to give New York some serious props for their public transportation system. I love how easy they are to use, how convenient they are (yeah, I know, I'm in Manhattan and things can get dicey in the outer boroughs, but props!) and, generally, how on time they are even at rush hour. Perhaps this is just the 6 train and I'm pampered, but at the very least New York gets props for the 6 train.

2. Parks! New York is best known for Central Park and that is probably my favorite part of the city, but there are all these other, lesser-known parks scattered all over the place to generally improve your City experience. You can go to these lovely parks and pretend you're even not in the City and try to star-gaze (although, let's face it, there's probably still going to be too much light pollution to do so). At the very least, you can vicariously enjoy some puppy love since many of these little parks have great dog runs (notably Union Square and Tompkins Square Parks).

3. Helpful Hobos! If you are ever lost in New York, odds are there will be some kind of homeless person on hand to help you find your way. As I wandered aimlessly with friends this Monday looking for a seemingly invisible Thai restaurant (see below), a Helpful Hobo helped us out and pointed us in the right direction, only afterwards soliciting us for our spare change. I happily emptied my purse of its loose change and then enjoyed some high quality dumplings. (Admittedly, you're just as likely to run into the Helpful Hobo's polar opposite, the Insane Itinerant, but here's hoping for the former!)

4. Food! Everywhere! Say you want some Thai food at eleven o'clock at night. I defy you to find a place where it would be so readily available (outside Thailand!). Any given street is entirely likely to have twelve different kinds of food so you need never be bored on your nights out. And, yes, some of the best pizza in the world is here if you want to play it safe.

5. Subway Performers! Yeah, subway panhandling can be at best annoying, but the subway performers in New York are not just asking for your money, they are playing their hearts out for it and they rock! Apparently, there is this intense interviewing process before you are allowed to play in the subway and, I have to say, whatever the system is, it works! Subway performers are remarkably talented and extremely varied in terms of their talent. I've seen a guy play a bunch of old cans and it was just as amazing as a pair of middle-aged doo wop brothers who sometimes haunt the 6. Equally impressive, I'm told, was a group of subway car break dancers seen on the R Train. And let's not forget the mournful and mysterious Chinese stringed instrument played beautifully by the old man outside the E and V trains. The list could go on, but they are all amazing, talented people and they can really brighten up a day with their music, dancing or what have you!

That said, I'm off to go partake of number one and maybe number 5, if I'm lucky.

The Fiction and Reality of Central Meeting Places

As some of you might be aware, I am a rather big fan of the television show How I Met Your Mother. I see them at McClaren’s week in and week out and feel a surge of slight envy that they have their little group and their little hang and that they—gasp—actually meet people at this place. It turns out that McClaren’s is actually based on place in New York called McGee’s. It looks basically like McClaren’s and today I felt compelled to seek it out.

Like any good internet stalker, I took my first steps online to learn more about McGee’s. I found this nice little piece about it: “McGee's is a lively Irish Pub with a strong emphasis on great food and drinks as well as friendly service. Our main bar area boasts big screens, surround sound and a huge selection of draft and bottled beers. This pub offers a lot of booths comfortable for dining and sports viewing. McGee's serves hamburgers, salads, potato skins, fried calamari and a variety of other appetizers for guests to enjoy.” Sounds yummy, I thought to myself. So now McGee’s/McClaren’s is a good time, a good place to meet people and it has good food! Forgive me if the jealousy was more than a little slight at this point.

Then I stopped and thought about it. I often think wistfully back to my Northampton days as some kind of heyday that I can never replicate. There was a bit of a tradition (I say it this way because we went with only slight regularity but often enough that it could be called a tradition) for me and my three friends to go out to a place called FitzWilly’s. It too could be characterized as a lively Irish pub with strong emphasis on great food and drinks. It too has a lot of comfortable booths as well as a bar (and even more bar next door at the Toasted Owl if the FitzWilly bar was just too small for you). And it too has some great potato skins that we almost always ordered.

And that’s about when I had a rather pleasant realization. All that time I was watching How I Met Your Mother (or Friends or Seinfeld or really any show with a central meeting place) and feeling those twinges of envy, I was basically living the dream. I had my three friends and we went out to FitzWilly’s and drank and ate burgers and potato skins and laughed and generally had a good time. So while this may be bittersweet, I guess it reinforces those old lessons about being grateful for the present and being careful what you wish for. Who knows? You may have already had it.

Puffers in the City

I feel like every new Life phase I enter, there is incrementally more smoking. Given logic and positivity, you would think that this would not be the case. Considering the amount of advertising now done against smoking and what we now know about the health risks, you would think that this would not be the case. And yet, it is.

When I started at Smith in 2004, I was nearly blown away (no pun intended) by the amount of puffers around campus. They seemed to be everywhere as I pointedly hacked my lungs out in front of them whenever I could. I assumed that all this sudden smoking was because everyone was basically over 18 now and could thus legally obtain cigarettes. This compared with a high school full of underage smokers where smoking was the sneaky, semi-cool thing you did back behind the football field just over the school’s property line to thumb your nose at the school’s dictatorial principal. Perhaps in college, people were just expressing their newly-found right to buy cigarettes and that accounted for the difference.

Anyway, I got used to it. I chilled out, stopped my pointed coughing and just chose to hold my breath whenever I passed a smoker. I was damned if I was going to get lung cancer because that idiot couldn’t read a Surgeon General’s warning!

And then I came to New York. If I thought Smith was bad, New York was like living in a chimney. They were even more everywhere! And I couldn’t hold my breath that consistently as I walked around the city. (For any number of other reasons, that kind of oxygen deprivation probably wouldn’t do wonders for my health any more than breathing in their smoke would.) The subway was my only refuge from these people who just can’t seem to obey common laws of courtesy by keeping their addiction to themselves in some private corner. I honestly get a trifle offended by their insistence on polluting my air as well as their lungs. It doesn’t seem fair that my health should suffer from their habit.

I had a last straw moment today in the big city in terms of smoking. We had a protest at work this fine autumnal day (I work for a historic preservation organization so it’s okay and we’re not a bunch of crazies, I promise) and, of course, it was outdoors. It was there on the curb that my suspicions about my boss were realized. In addition to being a fruit juice-loving, passionately cause-oriented, gay, hat-wearing thirtysomething, my boss is also a smoker. And he just stood there on the curb talking to me about the building we were trying to save, smoking away, blowing smoke up above our heads. With each puff my respect for him diminished. How could he do this? Why would he do this? Does he really have a death-wish?

Just to cut to the chase, it didn’t resolve in me actually doing anything about it other than writing this. Because even if a smoker can’t respect my space, my lungs and my preferences, the least I can do is respect their right to make those decisions. I can be the better person in this situation by not exploding about why in God’s name they would chose to do this to themselves. So, just like I didn’t explode at my other smoking co-worker, I didn’t say anything today. I still feel imposed upon and little disrespected in terms of personal space, but there isn’t anything to say. They know the issues and they clearly can’t stop. Perhaps the number of people smoking has gone down and that I just keep entering these bigger and bigger sample areas so it just feels like there are more smokers. At least that’s what I like to think. And hope.

New Yorkers: Some Snapshots

I leave the alcove studio apartment I share with my mother at or very close to 8:20 a.m. most mornings. I take the elevator down from the twelfth floor to the shiny lobby and there encounter Melanie, the girl at the desk. She is kind of notoriously surly until you somehow pass some mental-Melanie test and you're golden. So the first three months I lived there, I was greeted every morning with a glare and silence. Now, I say "Good morning!" and she replies with a perky, "Have a nice day!" "You, too," I call back as I'm halfway out the door. It's a very strange transformation, but not at all unwelcome. In a city that is filled with unfriendliness, I would much prefer such a morning to a surly glare.

I only have to go around the corner to get the subway at East 96th Street. There, if you go before 9 a.m., there is a hunched Asian man of indeterminate years (he could quite honestly be anywhere in between fifty and seventy) handing out AM NY. He has one of this quintessentially Asian mustaches, the ones that are short above the lip and then hang limply down around the mouth, and he rarely smiles. He calls out, "Am NY! Am NY!" and attempts to foist a copy of the paper on every single person getting off the bus, going down into the subway or coming up out of the subway. The first few weeks I lived here, he offered one to me every day and every day I would shake my head with a small smile and a definite hand gesture and say, "No thank you." This daily ritual has been enough to win me over as his friend. Now, he knows me in a pleasant way that no one else in this big city has yet to rival. He sees me and grins but doesn't hand me a paper. I say "Good morning!" and he nods back with that smile on his face. The limp ends of his mustache sway a little at the unexpected smile.

Nothing happens on the train, as usual. I've heard and read so much that the train is a great place to meet people because you're stuck with roughly the same commuters five days a week on the platform and then in a tiny subway car. But the only people I ever recognize are this strangely heterosexual-looking gay couple whose only sign of their own gayness is a pair of matching, glittering rhinestone charm bracelets that they wear like wedding bands. They commute together every day down to Union Square. They get off there, like me, but I have no idea where they go. That’s kind of the thing about New York. You see people every day but don’t learn anything new. I like to think they walk each other to work, kiss circumspectly and then meet up for the commute home before ordering various kinds of exotic take-out every night because they both hate to cook.

As I trudge to and from work every day., there are these two utterly unclean old men who hang out on the stoop of a brownstone across from Webster Hall. I have no idea if they live there or are homeless, but they hang out there and sometimes one of them sings. As I was walking to work one day, I made eye contact with the African-American one and smiled (something no one in New York does, by the way). He eagerly leaned forward and grinned, "Hello!" he chirped. "Good morning," I replied civilly and continued on. These are the kind of people I meet on this street. Not international superstars. Not even people my own age. Just dirty old men.

This snapshot seems to be making an argument opposite to my usual point about New York City, that the people here are unfriendly and don't care if you live or die as long as you get out of their way. But the people in this little piece are the exception. I've been shoved by some overzealous, hurried city-person more times than I can count and the few times I've attempted to form a human bond with another pedestrian by making eye contact and saying "Hello," I've been ignored. I didn't even get past the eye contact. The people here are like this dog my high school French teacher used to impersonate: their eyes are anywhere but locked with yours. They'd rather look at a pile of garbage ("Oh how interesting!" you can almost hear them forcing themselves to say in their heads) than make eye contact let alone say "Hello." It can wear you down and I think remembering the few times someone did bother to greet you or shared a smile with you can help with the otherwise self-absorbed culture of this place.

Job Title: Gramma?

Well, I didn't really think being a mother could be this official and I must say that I find it quite amusing that it can. Here's to moms who are not just mothers, but are officially deemed so by the phone book!

The Debate between the Idiot and the Articulate Person...Sound Familiar?

There is a fine line between elitist and superior. Some would say that neither are good traits, especially shown off during a town hall debate, but I would say that only the latter is truly fatal. John McCain has shown a remarkably smug superiority throughout this debate which I find utterly unappealing and even off-putting. From the very second question (when he rather patronizingly commented to a young black man that "I betcha never even heard of Freddie and Fannie before"), I have never felt more spoken down to. Yes I want an intelligent leader, but I don't want one who thinks he is so godlike that he assumes all us commoners can't possibly know everything that he does.

McCain had a number of unbelievably patronizing moments in this debate, but I think it is really his policy and issue broad strokes and attempts at a folksy Sarah Palin rhetoric that will really do him in. He over-generalized complex issues to the point that he did not seem to have a firm grasp of them. It just ended up making him seem like some potty old man who can't understand complex issues let alone explain them in answer to a question. Obviously, I'm no expert, but I do have half a brain (which allows me to have heard of Frannie and Freddie and, yes, even the internet itself which Mr. McCain openly disavows) and I think this debate did John McCain absolutely no good. Once again, the republican didn't implode, but he (in this case) certainly didn't gain any ground either.

Meanwhile, I think Obama successfully sounded calm and informed rather than superior. He may have laid McCain's faults on a little bit thick and played a little fast and loose with his condemnations of his opponent's record, especially towards the end of the debate, but on the whole he was persuasive and intelligent.

A Stolen Font and a Stolen Voice

A small and large frustration occurred today in my co-worker's calm usurpation of my font. This sounds rather petty, but I don't suppose one can truly appreciate the individuality or prettiness of a font well-chosen until one has taken a printing class, as I had the joy of doing. The class promised to make us view the world in a different way and, unlike so many college classes who say they'll change who you are, this class truly delivered. I do see things differently. It's like an initiation into this special group of people who notice serifs and the differences between the slant of an "e." Anyway, I now take fonts extremely seriously and thought very carefully before choosing one for my work e-mail. I chose Georgia, a relatively new typeface designed for clarity on the computer screen while maintaining the lovely look of something from an earlier age. I really love Georgia and, to my delight, received a few compliments on my font choice from recipients of my work e-mails. There were others in the little font society and I got to communicate with them! They recognized the importance of the font and the choice. "It's like a different voice," one commented. Exactly as I felt.

One of the people to compliment my font choice was my co-worker, E. She is a genuinely nice person who notices the little things and never seems to have a negative or frazzled outlook (unless anyone brings up Sarah Palin, of course, but that sort of thing can be excused). Whereas S manages to up the stress level with her involvement in anything, E brings it all down a notch to calmness and is generally a pleasant person. Thus, I was quite pleased when she complimented the font. She rose in my estimation by showing off, most basically, her ability to notice the tiny details of a font and, more importantly, her similar taste to mine in terms of a nice font. "It's so pretty I kind of want to use it as my own!" she joked and we all laughed.

Fast forward a week to today when I received a short, ordinary e-mail from her. It was just asking me to enter some information in the database in the most friendly, polite terms as she always did. But it was all in Georgia. It was jarring. I was momentarily confused. It was like hearing your own voice on a recording somewhere unexpected or suddenly coming around a corner to face a mirror, and yourself. It took me a moment to realize what had happened: font theft! E-mail identity theft! Theft of voice! I was, needless to say, peeved.

But how to explain this to someone who is genuinely and simply practicing the oldest form of flattery in the book: imitation? She really did just think it was very nice and wanted something equally nice. How can one argue against that? The answer is that you can't and I just have to let it go, but it still rankles a little.

A Citizen's Call for Substance

A coworker brought up Sarah Palin’s interview on Katie Couric today at work, asking us if we saw it or what we thought. I asked when it was on, she guessed last night since the Times covered it this morning. I nodded and thought to myself, oh I’ll just read that then. No need to watch the interview because, and here’s the kicker, I realized that we have reached that point in American politics where it honestly doesn’t matter what actually happened. It only matters how it is viewed the next day. It really does matter more what the Times said about the interview than what actually was said in it. Perception has so thoroughly replaced truth that I, your average citizen, no longer even feel compelled to watch something—an interview, a debate, a breaking news story, whatever—since I know it truly will matter more in the long run of the campaign what the Times or the Post says about it. Any given candidate could be incredibly articulate, intelligent and generally erudite one day but if some blogger in Podunk, USA thinks the candidate was being—heaven’s forbid!—elitist, that’s the story. Apparently, we don’t want intelligence in our presidential race and we are apparently showing it by upholding that blogger as the voice of the American people and holding his words as more important than those of our ostensibly intelligent, committed leaders.

So here I am, throwing my hat in with my blogger comrade in Podunk. But rather than complaining about words I can’t understand in a campaign I increasingly just plain old can’t stand, I am calling out for a higher level of responsibility and intelligence in our political machine. I want it to matter what actually happened. I want it to be more important what was actually said than what was inferred. I want a system where a candidate can say something on Wednesday and then Thursday just skips the round-table debate over what the candidate ‘really’ meant. Call me idealist, elitist, wishful or a Frank Capra left-over, but I am an American voter and I am calling for a higher standard than we are currently holding ourselves to by allowing perception to triumph over substance.

Corey sat in the library, the sunlight creeping towards her across the table, completely stumped. Vaguely irritated, she looked out the huge windows before her and surveyed the light layer of snow over the still green grass. She saw evergreens, dead-looking shrubs and a highway. There was an ugly office building across the highway and a traffic light blowing in the wind. A few of the leaves left of the shrubs rustled in the wind she couldn’t hear or feel and cars motored past on the highway she could only observe.

She paused to blow her nose and immediately felt unfortunately conspicuous. The Asian girl at the next table over sat in her zipped-up jacket with her backpack on, pouring over three small books she had appeared with about half an hour previously. Corey wondered what they were. A white-haired, balding man paced by, perusing the tax information provided by the library as the sun started to inch up Corey’s arms. This bothered her almost more than her inability to complete an essay. She was very sensitive to temperature and had been perfectly comfortable before the sun started to heat her up. She had already moved once and figured this was her comeuppance for sitting by the huge windows.

Somewhere behind her, a tutorial was going on. It had been since she arrived and she couldn’t figure out for the life of her what it was for. Physics, maybe. Or some standardized test involving physics. They were wrapping it up now, exchanging schedules and promising to call each other. A white minivan drove by.

Corey had come to the library to avoid her dog. This sounded rather infantile but the dog was having one of those days where she was all over the place and unhappy in all of them. This was particularly grating to someone attempting to write an essay that would hopefully secure her a place at the Cooper-Hewitt Museum in New York City for ten weeks in the upcoming summer. But apparently it wasn’t the dog. After some serious ponderance, Corey had come to the conclusion that it was not the dog, it was not her but it was, in fact, the question. This question that she had answered a hundred times over in applying to various things. “Describe your career goals and specific areas of interest.” Tell us your story, the essay question asked politely with a fake smile and a quirk of its head intended to show interest. Corey didn’t believe any of it and labored over making the essay interesting. She doubted that she would ever been happy with whatever she wrote and longed for mediocrity so she could just have it done and perhaps fine-tune it later.

The sunlight had now almost reached her neck. It reminded her of drowning. As the sunlight went up her body, she thought that her deadline would be when it went over her head. She liked setting these random deadlines for herself. It made her complete things. Yet still she sat, ineffectually writing something that wasn’t her essay. Enlightenment did not come to her and she had no idea what to actually write. Of course she had career goals and specific interests and of course she could tell the people at the Cooper-Hewitt all about them, but now her brain seemed intent upon making the essay interesting and different. She wanted to write it like a work of fiction, like a story. History is a story, she thought to herself, hoping she had finally stumbled onto the cohesive theme for her essay. History is a story and here is mine.

That’s where she choked. History is a story and here is mine inevitably led to her story. The story she had told a million times and was sick of so doing. She was sorely tempted to just recycle one of the other essays but this didn’t appeal to her sense of improvement over the years. She sincerely hoped that her writing has somehow improved over the past years and that using an essay from a year ago would show less-than-stellar writing. Not that her current writing was stellar. She didn’t flatter herself with that. She only hoped to consider it “better.”

Looking over one of the old essays, she didn’t think she would write it much differently now. It was written in basically the same style she always wrote in. She could just use it. Edit the last two paragraphs where she mentioned “Oxford” and make them read something equally inspirational about the Cooper-Hewitt. She could.

The sun was starting to reach her eyes now. This had to stop. She couldn’t work with sun in her eyes. That was intolerable. She sighed and looked out the window again. There were no cars on the highway and the light was green. The wind seemed to have picked up but she couldn’t really tell. She longed to just write the damn essay but it would not come for all her free-writes and thinking. She imagined the shrubs making a rustling noise as they silently swayed beyond the window. She felt sorry for the fichus plant near her table. It probably wanted to be outside with the other plants but remained perpetually indoors. Thoughts like that sort of annoyed her. She shouldn’t be thinking about fichus plants, she should be thinking about her career goals and specific interests!

She had to baby-sit in about an hour and a half. She was vaguely hungry. She wanted desperately to write this essay. But she couldn’t.

Travels to Erie (and back again)

After giving up on the M*A*S*H retrospective a little before eleven, both Dad and I went to bed. I slept on a couch that used to live in prominence at our house in Williamsville but has now been relegated to a mere half-life in Dad's Erie apartment. We joke about the apartment, that it is where our random things go to die. Erie is just a step above the trash heap. Things will be saved for my future, hypothetical apartment before they will be sent to Erie. I slept on one of these such relics that has gone into retirement in Erie. Dad slept in his comfy bed up the iron spiral staircase in the loft.

I awoke in the morning remarkably well rested but, strangely, itchier than I had been before reposing on the couch. Come to discover that the couch - like Posie and like the Swamp on M*A*S*H - was flea infested and that the fleas had happily gobbled on my delicious skin throughout the night! This comes after battling fleas on Posie for most of the break. Apparently, she has infested Dad's apartment, now even more pathetic because of the bug content. In any event, I am now flea-bitten in numerous spots on my legs and have dumped everything and anything that went to Erie in the washing machine. My first first of 2007: being flea-bitten. You can imagine my glee.

After this discovery, Dad decided he will set off (another) flea-bomb (yes, such things exist) in his apartment and we set off for the vet's office. Posie's flea collar was obviously not working properly. So I finally got to meet the famous "Dr. Dan," Posie's vet. He is young, as Dad said, and worked very well with Posie. I think she's just mellowing in old age, but she's less exciteable and skittish than she used to be. This does make her a fantastic driving companion, though, since she simply snoozes away in the backseat with a bark or a whine for the entire trip. What more could you ask for from a dog?

Anyway, post-vet, I returned to the apartment with Posie and Dad went to work. Dad's apartment, as I've said, is a rather pathetic dumping ground. The bookshelves from my bedroom in L.A. somehow migrated to Erie and became filled with various gifts I've bestowed upon my father over the years in hopes of bringing a little life to the apartment. Miniature maple syrup jars rest inside a disk made from an old vinyl LP. A home-made chess set - complete with pieces made out of rocks from our backyard in Williamsville - sits on a shelf unused with an old picture of the three of us from Christmas resting above it, frameless. Some pictures and comics I drew for his walls are nestled in the shelving unit and the walls remain bare. A gigantic, rock globe - a gift from Australia from Bubbie and Grandpa - also somehow went to Erie and now also lives on the shelf. An ancient television set occupies the main space of the lowest shelf, surrounded by home improvement magazines and five books. The television itself is not by any means in its prime and, if a viewer should care to flip around, he or she may only flip down in the channel numbers, never up again.

An unused treadmill and an equally abandoned miniature recording studio live in the opposite corner of the apartment. Dad's keyboard was loaned to the Erie Philharmonic and, as he sheepishly admits, he's never bothered to get it back. Two guitars are stacked in front of a mirror beside the bookshelf and our dining room table from L.A. lives almost under the iron stairs. For the longest time, Dad only had one chair since he was the only one who ever ate at the apartment. Finally, Mom and I came to visit and he had to buy two more. One as since disappeared so the table remains set for two. One chair is open for occupation and the other with a bag full of dog kibble the size of a small person living on it.

The kitchen is small but completely outfitted with appliances from the mid-1990s if not before. Commonly, the fridge houses an onion, a Brita water filter, some ketchup and whatever pasta sauce Mom made over the weekend and sent off to Erie for Dad to live off of for a week. I can only assume Dad doesn't eat at the apartment very often or that he gets take-out. Posie's dish - went she is in residence - just sits in the middle of the kitchen floor since the space is occupied so infrequently and it is in such close proximity to the enormous bag of kibble that will take her "twelve more years to get through," according to my father. But it was cheap so it came home.

The rest of the apartment consits of the loft upstairs which houses my dad's bed, closet and the only bathroom. The lighting throughout the apartment is shotty, with about two lamps and three lights. It very much suggests the life of someone who just goes to sleep when it gets dark rather than trying to artifically prolong the daylight hours. I know for a fact Dad doesn't do this (except maybe in summer when it's light until ten or later). Presumably he watches television until bed.

I don't know what inspired me to describe the place, I just felt like it. Hopefully you aren't too bored with such a description. Dad's apartment is truly something unto itself. I don't remember where I left off in the narrative but, suffice to say, on the drive home I mistakenly headed for Buffalo went I should have headed for Albany, drove around in Cheektowaga for a while and then finally rejoining the highway through a turn of luck. This eventually deposited me safely home at ten after three. All I want to do is sleep!

Auld Lang Syne

It's the end of the year when people start thinking about what to do in the next one and try not to think about all they didn't do in the past one. For possibly the first time in my life, I'm not irritated by the past year or remotely exhasperated with all that I did not accomplish. This past year was also the first time I had moments where I wasn't looking to the future and thinking about how great my life is going to be. Rather, these were moments of joy with the present. For the first time in my life, I was happy with my life at the exact moment I was living it. Not in retrospect, not in some abstract future, but in the wonderful present.

2006 was the first year I can look back on without regret or unhappiness over some unfulfilled resolution. Since I haven't made any formal resolutions since possibly middle school, the year becomes less about attaining some set goal than about simply taking what comes my way and living as happily and as fully as I can. This year I feel I did. There were so many things I did this year that, if you had told me I would be doing them in, say, January, I never would have believed it. I would have thought it would be nice if that were my life, but unlikely that it would ever occur. But now I've made it my life. The misty ideal in my head has become reality more than ever before and I'm able to both enjoy my present life and still plan ahead for all the amazing things of my future.

Before this year, I was always looking forward and not stopping to take stock of the moment I was living in. College, according to practically any adult you ask, is the best four years of your life. Up until Junior year, I was dimly aware of this and perfectly content to be at college. I loved Smith, I was happy with my classes and my friends didn't trouble me overmuch. But this past semester, I really do think this is the time. This is it. This is quite possibly as good as it gets. Which isn't as depressing as it sounds. I'm not despairing of the future when all will be dull and taxes. It can be great, too. But right now is the time I'm really savouring. Right now I'm living my life and, for the first time, in 2006, I'm completely, divinely and giddily in love with it. I love my life! If I got nothing else out of 2006, that effervescent joy would be enough. But, of course, I got other, equally wonderful things out of the past year and that just adds another layer.

On home for the holidays

Driving home Friday was a little difficult since it rained the entire state of New York and that particular state's size is nothing to sneeze at. It was a complete downpour the whole ride and only let up a little bit as we neared Williamsville. Even then there were semis to contend with and the spray from their wheels was even worse than the actual rain. But made it we did and in time for Friday night pizza with Dad, too! We capped off the evening with our annual watching of "White Christmas," me mocking the widescreen VHS the whole way in my efforts to attain the new, shiny DVD. (Mission accomplished, by the by.)

Saturday was superlative. I spent the morning alone at home taking care of some little, pleasant chores. I put out our nutcracker collection on the shelf by the stairs and then attempted to give Posie a bath. She was very adverse to this idea but I managed to shampoo her back before giving up entirely and letting her run around to dry off. After this, I settled down to read "King Solomon's Mines," since it is my J-term book goal. Possibly others, but mainly "Solomon." After reading for a little bit, Emily finally called me back. Earlier in the morning, I had rung up both Emily and Katie only to be put off by both (the former being in Kenmore and the latter being simply too busy). Thus, it was quite nice to hear back from Emily and we immediately decided upon taking my dad's new Prius out for a spin to Barnes and Noble (!) and the village.

So I spent most of my day inside of Barnes and Noble with Emily which, in my opinion, is one of the absolute best ways to spend a day. Emily is my best for-all-our-lives friend and I don't get to see her a lot so this was really nice. Add Barnes and Noble to the mix and I was a happy camper. After BN, we headed up to the village to hit Starbucks (to buy the aforementioned "White Christmas" DVD) and the little antique shop nearby. The shop is tiny, like I kept hitting my purse on wreaths tiny, but it was chock-a-block full of great old stuff. I ended up getting a spoon and some little ceramic dishes for my mother.

And now I would just like to take a moment to mention how completely rockin' the Prius is. It's like driving a spaceship. It's just so space-y and futuristic; I love it! Also, unlike my car, the gears switch without complaint and you don't have to be careful while you're speeding up after turning and such. It's incredible. You don't need a key! You just have this little stick and you approach the car, it unlocks and then you just press the "Power" button and off you go! Emily and I were in awe basically the entire afternoon.

We got back to my house and, happily, it was the last night of Hannukah. This, of course, means latkes! My mom's latkes are so good, Bubbie actually asked for the recipe. That blows my mind a little bit but, suffice to say, I was quite excited about the prospect of them when we got back. So, despite our lack of Hannukah candles, we all (Mom, Dad, Emily and I) exchanged gifts and had our festive Hannukah meal of brisket, latkes and apple sauce. After dinner, Emily and I did the lights on the Christmas tree and, once that was done, Mom joined in to put the ornaments up. I don't know if I've mentioned this, but Mom is very specific about the tree and what goes on and where it goes. Thus, both Dad and I have stepped off from actually putting ornaments on the tree and have been relegated to simply handing them to Mom. It was okay, excepting the excile of all my ornaments to a shoebox, but the tree looks gorgeous (of course).

Emily hung out for a little bit more and then I drove her home. Christmas Eve was less exciting but there was lots of present-wrapping and Katie found time in her schedule to stop by. I get the distinct feeling she likes her "college" friends more much of the time. It could just be a mood, of course. In any event, it was good and mildly awkward to talk to her. I wanted to hear all about Ireland (since she is newly returned) but it's hard for anyone to just go when asked about "Ireland" so generally. So I got some stories and I caught her up on "Grey's Anatomy."

Christmas Eve evening we had our traditional dinner at Gramma's, roast beef for Dad, Mom and Gramma, ham for me. Then we headed over to my cousin Beth's house since she was having pre-Mass desserts and such. I never want to go to these things and I feel pretty ridiculous about it. I don't dread family get-togethers because there will be some painful drama or two family members hate each other or anything, I dislike them simply because they are so boring and awkward. I guess I'm just not as happy to see my extended family as I should be. I love seeing and catching up with my parents and my grandmother, but beyond that I'm afraid I'm just not that interested no matter how nice my other relations are. But we went and I had some conversation with a distracted Aunt Janet and Kate and some actual conversation about whether or not Google is evil with Uncle Jim. I watched snippets of "Snow White" with Callie et al and then we were all ushered out to Mass.

We got there a mere ten minutes early so there was no room. Tons of people always turn out for Christmas Eve Mass so Dad and I were stuck in a foyer, thoroughly bored and unable to see a thing. So that was a painful hour and a half. We drove Gramma home, came home, waited the few minutes until midnight, proclaimed it Christmas and went to bed. It was an excellent two days.

Since July 28th (really just July 28th itself)

Note from Corey of August 2, 2007: I've left out two e-mails because...well, I can't come up with a reason. I just did. I guess I'm still nervous about them. One of them is the "Oh my god, Mom, Mike just kissed me!" e-mail. Maybe later.

I am so infuriated with myself for not e-mailing regularly. I'm angry since I now have no records of every little thing I've done, which I wanted to have and I'm angry since you actually thought I was sick because you hadn't heard from me in days. I don't know why I've stopped but I feel like I never have time. I need to make time. This is important.

So, in an effort to re-create the tradition, here, for your edification, is a narrative detailing in not as much detail as I would like what has happened since Friday, July 28th.

Friday was the seminar trip to Cambridge. Miraculously, Mike, Courtney, Yuan and myself all gained spots on the trip. The UMass Summer Seminar is one of the most disorganized programs in the history of study abroad programs and, as such, commonly only has about 15 seats available for group trips. So people e-mail like mad, hoping to get into the trips and, somehow, we made the cut. So we woke up early, actually went to breakfast, and all crowded onto this old bus. It was a public bus that was probably last renovated in the 1980s. The air-conditioning barely blew out coldish air and it was sweltering outside. I unfortunately chose the sunny side of the bus which just made it hotter as the windows did not open. What none of us knew was that the bus to Cambridge was a not a short hour-long affair. No, no. It takes upwards of three hours to get to Cambridge. Hell was about to ensue and none of us had a clue.

In recent weeks, whenever "the crew" (Yuan, Mike, Courtney and yours truly) watches movies at night, I somehow always end up in Mike's arms. There's been lots of cuddling (Mike is a truly excellent cuddler) but this bus ride was the first time we took our cuddling show on the road and out in public. There is not much to do on a four-hour bus ride (which is what it would eventually become) so I settled on sleeping. Mike had taken up the seat next to me (another new switch since Courtney is customarily my seat buddy) and about an hour in, I was leaning on him, his arm was around me and we were both dozing in the heat.

Over four hours after getting on the bus at the Oxford bus station, we all piled out into the comparatively cool air of Cambridge. Cambridge, sad to say, was not worth the four-plus-hour bus ride. It's a lot smaller than Oxford with the result that there are really only three things to do in Cambridge: 1. go punting; 2. see the colleges; 3. go to one of many pubs. My some strange twist of fate, our crew grew to include Lauren, Amy, Christina and Eugene. We were expecting the first two but the latter two were a surprise. Eight people doesn't sound like a lot to coordinate, but it really is. It's impossible for everyone to continue on in a sane manner with eight people to accommodate. Within minutes, Lauren was stressed out and manically eating while searching for a map, Yuan had wandered off, Eugene was making arbitrary decisions for the group and Mike was being slowly driven insane by the chaos. At first I was also on the verge of angry breakdown, but then it all just hit me and I started laughing. Everyone had such different personalities, it was too funny to watch. Everyone is such a character here. We had every possible comic stereotype in our group and, while it was infuriating to be in the middle of it, I just had to laugh.

The hilarity of the situation soon wore off and was replaced with simmering displeasure. I kept my happy face firmly in place but I was very unhappy on the inside. Eugene kept making decisions that I disagreed with but not enough to do anything. After a stand-off that pitted Mike, myself, Courtney, Lauren and Amy against Christina, Eugene and Yuan, each group split off to find their own punting. The former group wanted to hire a punter because it's hard to punt your own boat and we just wanted to be able to enjoy the pretty colleges around us without having to worry about hitting a duck, other punter or both simultaneously. The latter group wanted to hire their own. Eugene had some bizarre male desire to punt his own boat, thank you very much. So they went off to get their own boat and we all huddled into a hired boat with three other Americans from William and Mary.

The forty-five minutes on the boat were by far the nicest we spent in Cambridge. "The Backs," as the backs of all the colleges are called, are just as picturesque as every guidebook and person promised. Add to that a knowledgeable tour-guide who knew all kinds of random historical trivia and I was pleased as punch with the whole situation. I liked the company, it was cool on the water and there was architectural beauty all around. It was a good forty-five minutes. Sadly, it was also an extremely fast forty-five minutes. Soon we found ourselves deposited back on the shore and having to wait for the rest of our group to return from punting their own boat. So we wasted some time on the banks (Lauren hitching up her pants and climbing into the river itself) until Eugene, Christina and Yuan returned.

Almost immediately after the threesome returned, things turned sour once more. Eight is simply too many people. Six I could probably do, five is wonderful and four is ideal, but eight is too many. So the spirits of Lauren and myself dipped and we finally were able to commiserate while being ignored by the other six over dinner at a pub. Neither of us were hungry so we sat at the end of the table, wedged against a wall, not eating and talking to each other quietly. It was nice to be able to speak frankly about the situation with someone who was feeling basically the same way. So Lauren and I had more bonding time, which was nice. Eventually we got out of the pub and I finally asserted myself and informed everyone that were going somewhere where I could buy some food for the bus ride back. I'm fairly certain Eugene definitely and Christina possibly thought this was an imposition on their time, but by that point I was getting at least one thing that I wanted that day. We found a Marks and Spencer which was blissfully open and I happily paroozed the shelves for a good dinner. I found an interesting sandwich that was pork, stuffing and apple sauce all on a white roll. Sufficiently intrigued to purchase said sandwich, I grabbed some Belgian chocolate milk and green grapes and proceeded to the check out.

By this point we only had about forty-five minutes until we had to catch the same hellish bus back. The day had gone by incredibly quickly and we hadn't even seen any colleges. Mike, Courtney, Lauren and I finally broke from the group and hung out in one of many communal parks located in Cambridge while waiting for the bus. Lauren rattled on giving post-trip analysis even though it wasn't really over yet. We all basically agreed on her repetitive points but that didn't stop her from continuing on about what went wrong. It felt good to hear it coming from someone else, though, so the whole diatribe wasn't as depressing as it sounds.

We all piled back onto the bus. Happily, the sun was starting to set so it wasn't so hot anymore. Where there had been a rather pervasive silence between Mike and myself on the ride up, there was a constant flow of conversation this way. It was extremely pleasant since I'm normally so bad at striking up conversation. It just flowed without much effort on either of our parts so we talked for most of the trip. Lauren sat behind us chatting to some other girls about us (they all decided we were very cute) and then informed us of their decision. It wasn't awkward, surprisingly. Neither Mike nor I made eye contact with the other and I couldn't really look at him to gage his reaction, but it wasn't awkward. (I know it sounds like it was, but neither of us was weirded out.) So we dozed in and out, me leaning against the window with my legs stretched out across Mike's.

Another four hours later, we were finally back in Oxford. Somehow I was persuaded to go over to Courtney's to watch some episodes of The West Wing (I say "somehow" but you basically need only mention the title to me and I'm in). I ended up falling asleep during the second episode (with my head on a recumbent Mike) but when Courtney's roommate returned and all of us, save Yuan, were half-asleep anyway, Mike, Yuan and myself all left for our respective beds.

To be continued...

Tuesday and "Who's Zoomin' Who?"

After deciding that today was a day absolutely prime for sleeping in, I almost did a back-flip out of bed this morning when a loud siren noise exploded all around me. It took me a minute after sitting bolt upright and tossing Tramp across the room in fright that it was, in fact, the fire alarm. This was only slightly less alarming than unidentifiable, loud noise but I managed to stumble out of my room and into the common room. Lauren looked equally confused, staring at her alarm clock. "Perhaps we should go outside?" I pondered. "Yeah..." she muttered. "I thought it was just in my room..." (Lauren always speaks in ellipses.) So we went outside.

Had I been more awake, I would have realized at lot sooner than I wasn't wearing my glasses, that I was wearing my retainer and that I had forgotten to put on my sleeping bra the night before. Perhaps it was for the best that I wasn't more cognizant because, if I had been, I also would have realized this was one of those top ten embarrassing moments in life. Everyone else had not recently been jostled from sleep (it was 9:20am) which made me look additionally foolish. I rubbed my eyes and crossed my arms rather grumpily. Mike claimed to have just woken up as well but was miraculously fully clothed. I wished I had had such forethought.

After such a morning, I went back into my room and did not leave. I spent the day singing and reading about the legality of the US-led invasion of Afghanistan in 2001. I was surprised how little I knew about it to begin with. I knew the vague basics but, for living through the period, I really wasn't very well-informed. This shouldn't have surprised me since my news-gathering skills aren't very good, but I was still a little annoyed with myself. Not that this deterred my singing! Oh, no, it was a singing kind of day and sang I did.

Law class was excellent and I was the most prepared/least confused person there short of Jillaine herself. Christina's freaking out again (unnecessarily in my opinion) and everyone seemed really confused about the whole assignment. It seemed quite straight-forward to me. I'm writing about the legality/illegality of the US-led collation invasion of Afghanistan in 2001. It's weird because I really thought I knew what was going on there (hey, I lived through the period) but I'm really poorly informed. So I'm learning a lot more about the background/history of it all, which is a plus. Other people chose the NATO invasion in Kosovo because they didn't know anything about it, but Afghanistan is equally good since I've now realized how little I know. Also, it's nice in that the US gave a statement to the Security Council outlining their exact reasons for going in so there's no speculation there. (Of course, their reasons are hogwash, but that's another issue.)

This week's lecture was Samuel Beckett. I had no idea who the heck he was prior to the lecture but now I can say that I know and I do not like his "art." I dislike performance art so much! There was this one that was just a mouth talking incessantly and incomprehensibly. It gave me a headache; I almost couldn't watch. The lectures are getting worse and worse. The first one (on Thomas Hardy as a poet rather than as a novelist) was quite good, even if you didn't like Hardy or didn't know much about him. Mary Woolstonecraft was an interesting topic delivered by a rather dull lecturerer and Samuel Beckett was just completely uninteresting and delivered poorly. And it was hot. It's always hot here. I'm just perpetually dehydrated. I am so glad I disregarded Jim Leheny's clothing advice and brought my summer attire. It rained overnight, though, so now it will be presumably cooler.

One of the defining characteristics of the participants in this program is a love of gossip. Any information is happily swapped and one of the sure-fire ways to gain entrance (however brief) to another clique is by having information to share. People bargain for information saying things like, "You tell me what you've heard about me and then I'll tell you what I've heard about you." It's absurd. Like either party is going to tell the truth. Anyway, I have, for the first time in my life, people wondering about me behind my back. I guess this is a plus since people know who I am (probably also a bit of a first) but it's also a little strange. Both Lauren and Courtney have let it slip that people asked them about what's going on between me and Mike. This makes sense since the number one favorite type of gossip is regarding who is hooking up and who might hook up and what happened last night. I find the whole titillating and I'm definitely glad that gossip never goes right to the source and asks there. I would have to come up with some kind of diplomatic, didn't-really-answer-your-question answer and I don't have that kind of instant wit. Besides the fact that I myself have no idea what's going on between me and Mike so that would cut down on my ability to answer the question even if I was inclined to do so.

Last night (Tuesday night) half the program camped out in Mike's room waiting for his roommate, Sam, to come back from escorting his very young, very pretty tutor home. Basically, the guys who were waiting wanted to beat him up because, apparently, this young tutor was quite the attractive piece of woman and the girls waiting for him wanted all the juicy details. I suppose I should give them kudos for actually wanting to ask Sam about it, rather than circle the wagons in an attempt to draw out information in some sneaky, I'll-ask-your-friends way. The whole thing makes you very careful what you say and to whom. I accidentally started a rumor about Emad yesterday when I was simply griping about Bill Speck's class to Marissa/Melissa and Christina. It was repeated back to me, word for word last night. It was weird. I guess I have to be even more guarded, which doesn't leave me with much to say.

I must go now, someone might be listening! The walls have ears!

Love,

Daughter

(note catchy code-name so no one will know who said all this)

PS - Padre, sorry I missed your call! If you want to call sometime in between one and 3:30, I'll most likely be in my room. :)

Beginning a new thing

Good morning, cyberspace. Since I've been inspired both by my cousin Pedro and the fact that actual things are happening to me, I thought I'd start up this blog. The posts will be quite long since I just naturally write in long sentences/paragraphs so there's a warning for you. I'll be working on getting all my previous letters home up here. That's what this will be, these are my letters home from a summer spent abroad. I'll post pictures and video when appropriate but mainly it'll just be me.

So there's your introduction, enjoy paroozing the back-dated entries!