Will I Ever Stop Being a Tourist?

I'm coming up on my one-year residential anniversary with this city, and yet just this morning I was snapping away pictures right alongside the tourists in their Harvard and “I’m the real Green Monster” t-shirts. I was walking along the outskirts of the Common, rushing to the Park Street station to get to my lunch meeting at least somewhat on time, when I looked to my left at the picturesque Massachusetts State House with the golden dome (that is covered in real 23k gold leaf, as I remember from my duck tour eleven years ago) and decided I couldn’t pass without taking a picture. What a tourist.

But I do this quite a lot. And I justify my frequent trips to American Eagle and Urban Outfitters because they’re located in Quincy Market, and the H&M is mere steps away from the old state house. So obviously I should be spending time in these historic places, no?

One of my favorite things to do downtown is to see how long I can walk on the Freedom Trail inconspicuously. I mean take each step right on that wide red line—without mowing down little children who get in my way.

At least I find a way to have fun every day, even if it makes me no better than a tourist. I like to think I see the good in things and try not to take even the simple little joys for granted.

“If you awake every morning with the thought that something wonderful will happen in your life today, and you pay close attention, you’ll often find that you’re right.”

(I’m not sure who first said this, but it’s on a lot of yoga and meditation websites…)

And vitamin gummies? Best invention ever.

Fresh Air

Every morning I’m greeted with a fresh vase of flowers on my desk from my boss's garden. Today’s holds one bright orange flower - he loves me, he loves me not petals surrounding a fuzzy red center. The smaller petals in the middle are deep orange, the larger petals beneath are more faded, as if the color forfeits its intensity as it spreads. Purple flowers that remind me of caterpillars are arranged behind it. There are also three large leaves forming the bottom layer of the arrangement. Pale yellowish olive green, with translucent lines like on the palms of my hands.

I have this strange urge to take a deep breath every time I see a beautiful flower. When I walk through the community garden near my apartment, I’m afraid I’ll one day hyperventilate. But I think I’m just trying to breathe in the fresh and innocent beauty (those tea bags for the dark bags under my eyes are not working their magic anymore). The tall sunflowers in the garden have been especially enchanting lately. Isn’t there just something about sunshine and flowers and a warm breeze that makes you want life to stand still?

Laundromat Language

I feel like a fairly observant person, but if you ask me to explain or describe to you what I’m seeing, hearing, smelling, etc., I’m at a loss for words. This is a bad thing for an aspiring writer to admit, I suppose. Earlier today, I was in the wonderful land of the Laundromat. So I started thinking, How would I describe this place? I could tell you about the cold, hard seat that was hurting my bony butt. It was in a row of other colorful seats (blue, yellow, orange) to disguise the dread of having to use a Laundromat. Look, while you’re here you get to sit in these rainbow chairs! Or I could describe the whir of the washing machines, a row of different cycles and stages and this one is permanent press and this one is gentle. I wish they were louder. I want the rushing and spinning to cover the sound of the Channel 7 Local News coming from the TVs on all four walls. I’m not in the mood to hear about the little girl who was saved from the creek—her rescuer first thinking she was a dog. Or about the Florida residents in an uproar because peacocks are destroying their cars.

photo source

Or maybe I’ll tell you about the man across the room. He’s standing in front of the big Eco-Friendly Dryer, staring at the spinning dark colors. He’s tired. How do I know this? He’s somewhat slumped over, with his right arm resting across his stomach and his left arm squeezed by his side. His left hand is supporting his chin, with his neck stretched out, as if to peer into the dryer even deeper. He hasn’t shaved today. He’s wearing white painter’s pants and an off-white t-shirt with sponsors on the back, like the ones they give out at festivals or minor-league baseball games. But I’m still missing something. I don’t know how to go into more detail on how the man’s body language tells me he’s tired. Instead I can only imagine what has exhausted him in the first place. Or why his stomach sticks out over his pants like it does. I could go into a story on how he works eleven hour days and when he gets home he just wants to sit on his couch, because although his painting job is not exactly exercise it is still physically tiring. And his wife doesn’t have the energy to join a gym, so how can she tell him he needs to lose a couple pounds. She may be a nag, but she is not a hypocrite.

Well, anyway. That will be my Last. Laundromat. Visit. EVER. My new apartment will have a washer and dryer unit all to itself. No more hauling suitcases down the street or having to watch the Maury Show. No more accidentally flinging underwear on the dirty floor three washers down or watching clothes catch on fire in the heavy-duty dryer and then turn to black char. Just six days ‘til the big move!

"I believe you should live each day as if it is your last, which is why I don't have any clean laundry. Because, come on, who wants to wash clothes on the last day of your life?"  —from a fifteen-year-old contestant in a newspaper challenge to imitate Jack Handy's Intimate Thoughts

On Honesty

Honesty should be black and white, right? You're either honest, or you're not. It's a virtue, a quality, a characteristic, a myth... The truth is that honesty is swirls of gray.

Honesty is like a pane of glass, or a window. It lets you see through to the other side, to the reality and truth. But sometimes it’s distorted or smudged or cracked. What then? You can still see through to the general outline, get an idea of the full picture, but you can’t make out the crisp details or the complete story.

But what’s more important anyway: the nitty, gritty cold facts, or the way you feel about them? When recalling memory, should we be honest to the events or to our emotions? And what is more honest anyway? What is more real? Our reality is made up of our experiences—our understanding of how things were, are, will be. Honesty is personal to each of us, and we therefore all have our own versions of the honest truth. So how, then, can there be any universal truth? Ah, but truth and honesty are two different things, aren’t they.

Maybe honesty is what comes from us naturally, unavoidably. How can we live a dishonest life? Our very being is the honesty of our self. Every breath begins honestly. But we twist things to please ourselves, and in the process turn them into lies. Honesty is easy, even if blurry at times. But through the blur, honesty should be ever present. 

This was an exercise for my Nonfiction Workshop on Memoir: Simply write "On" at the top of your paper, then add an abstract noun. As I've worked on exercises throughout the semester, it was nice to remember that the word essay (as in a personal essay) comes from the French verb essayer, which means "to try."

Oh, The Memories

I hate that I have to start every blog post with something along the lines of I’m sorry I fail at ever writing blog posts.* But c’est la vie.

I first have to give myself a shameless pat on the back for surviving almost a full year living with my sister and her boyfriend. Living with any couple is hard, as I’m sure you can imagine (or perhaps know from experience). But I feel it’s safe to say this particular couple is a special case. They are unbelievably corny and weird and lovey-dovey (and all of the things you hate to witness in your roommates). And yet I really like them and enjoy hanging out with them… so I have no choice but to put up with the torture. Who else would I watch back-to-back-to-back How I Met Your Mother episodes with? But I’ve made it, and I’ve even learned enough from my experience to craft this handy little how-to guide for other third wheelers out there. You’re welcome.

But Hallelujah, the Zs have stopped. Or at least have been drastically reduced. They informed me of a meeting they held the other day (meetings, apparently, will continue) where they talked about their use of Zs and realized it was annoying each but thought the other liked it. They still slip with an occasional “foodz” or “sleepz,” but I’ve learned to let it go.

I fear what The Sister and The Boyfriend will become once I unleash them to live on their own, though. In less than two weeks we’ll be parting ways and moving into two separate apartments in Cambridge. And although I’ll undoubtedly miss the mice** and noise and traffic and stabbings in my current lovely neighborhood, I’m mostly pretty freakin’ excited for the move.

I’m finishing up my summer class, a nonfiction workshop on memoirs. And despite one of my friend’s observations—“aren’t you a little young to write a memoir?”—I have come up with nearly forty pages of solid gold writing material along with countless ideas for future musings. And by solid gold I, of course, mean eh, it’s okay. But it has been fun wading through my memories, deciding which ones are real and which ones were manufactured, and talking over my pieces with classmates. If any of you out there are aspiring writers, I highly suggest taking a class or meeting with a supportive group of like-minded people; it’s very rewarding and motivational.

I love this quote from Willa Cather:

"All my stories have been written with material that was gathered—no, God save us! not gathered but absorbed—before I was fifteen years old."

I believe my own memories were absorbed, too. Some things I don’t want to remember (like the day I came home from school and found my cat dead on my bedroom floor). Some things seem to have happened solely to entertain me all of these years later (like the time I thought I was going to die from eating baking soda). But all of my memories have been absorbed and tucked away, ready to be dug out and explored when I’m ready. Or when I have fifteen pages due in 48 hours. You know, whichever comes first.

*Yes, I realize it's really pathetic that I only have 7 posts for the year and a half that I've had this blog.
** "Guys, we really shouldn't leave the bread on the counter because the mice might Aahhhhh!"

The Price I Pay

I haven’t yet decided if the entertainment my sister and her boyfriend provide is worth the pain I must endure as the witness.

New low: She called him last night from the bedroom to the living room. I mean, our apartment is kind of long, and sometime those 30 feet can seem daunting if you’re feeling extremely lazy. But calling him? Their bedroom is close enough to my couch that I could hear both sides of the conversation.

“Where are you?”

“The couch. Where are you?”

“The bedz. You come to the bedz meeting soon?”

Let me explain. #1. They’ve gotten into a nasty habit of ending every word they possibly can with Zs. Like lolcats but much, much worse. Example: of all the things he could have said when she showed him her new phone last month, he says, “Gasp, you haz the fancy phonez now?” And of course she answers with “I knowz!!” When she came to the living room one night empty handed, he asks, “You no find the cordz?” I think they’re just doing it in an ironic, sarcastic kind of way. I think. (I hope!) But it’s very possible it could also just be in a weird kind of way. Saddest thing about this: I’m not even exaggerating.

#2. They like to conduct “meetings” whenever they can. The first of this was early in the fall when they decided it was essential for them to have a book club meeting on my bedroom floor that I was not invited to. This “weekly meeting” has since only occurred once. They also frequently have “couch meetings.” Meaning they both sit on the couch. This one happens on a regular basis. And of course the “bedz meetings” I mentioned before.

I must say, though, she’s got it pretty good. Many of their “couch meetings” involve her stretching out with her feet on him and him arranging his laptop or dinner plate to accommodate her. He’ll also cover, uncover, wrap, or unwrap her feet with a blanket at her every wish (which is very frequent, especially it seems through the quiet parts of movies). And from my outsider’s view, her biggest frustration with him is that he occasionally sits too close to her on the couch. As if the fact that he wants to be near her is a bad thing.

And speaking of The Boyfriend, I have to admit I also have it pretty good. You know the worst thing about this roommate of mine? He does the dishes way too often. I’ve literally had to go out to the kitchen and yell (or speak sternly) at him to “put that dish down! That’s not yours!” Sigh, it’s a tough life I live.

As Time Goes By

Wow. I really fail as a blogger. Good thing I never did quit my day job, huh?

I really have no excuse for not writing. Except maybe to spare you from the somewhat-boringness that is my life. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy said boringness. In fact, I have proven that “down time” can make me quite productive. During the summer I got a stellar job with flexibility for the semester, found a great (although now I might say “okay”) apartment, and learned brewed green tea bags do wonders for the bags under my eyes. Impressive, right? 

I’ve also learned, through the wonderfully informative Science section of the New York Times, that our fingers turn “pruny” after being in water for a while due to an evolutionary trait. Our bodies do this automatically to increase traction on slippery/wet surfaces. But anyway...

I realize I have a lot to catch you up on since we last met via this blog, but I feel I must first update you on how my whole “Quest for Tom Hanks” is going (I say “is going” rather than “went” because I’m not quite ready to give it up). Well, I never did run into him in NYC as I had hoped. I kept a lookout for him up until the second I boarded my plane, but to no avail. I did, however, see him over the summer… In his new movie, that is. Larry Crowne was everything I was hoping it would be: funny, sweet, and starring Tom Hanks. What more could I ask for?

In other news, Boston is making me realize how utterly unexciting I am. Mostly just because as I sit here writing this, I can’t actually think of anything to write. To risk boring you, I may take this time just to mention a few observances I’ve made in the past few months.

1. This varied Three’s Company living situation with my sister and her boyfriend is harder than I anticipated, albeit extremely entertaining at times. Living with a couple is hard enough. Now add in the fact that this couple is sickeningly “cutesy” — sometimes, I think, just to push the limits of my gag reflex.

“Hi Dear, how are you?”

“I’m feeling a little down today.”

“Oooohhh no. I’m so sorry, Dear. What can I do?”

“Thanks, Dear. Just having you here with me is making it all better.”

See what I mean? Gag. And then they have this ritual where they brush their teeth together every night and think they’re hilarious when they clink their toothbrushes together (cheering to healthy gums, perhaps?). But sometimes the boyfriend will decide to brush his teeth without her. Watch out! She doesn’t like that. And what’s really fascinating is the boyfriend never learns his lesson. At least once a week I must hear this argument; doesn’t he know by now? But I can’t really blame the guy. Sometimes you just want to brush your teeth on your own. I get it.

2. Grad school is simultaneously encouraging and disheartening. My professor’s introduction to Book Publishing began: “An awful lot of books die, and publishing is an extremely high-risk profession. If you’re here to make a lot of money, you’re in the wrong seat.” Well, the money part is not a deal-breaker; I’ve already resigned myself to not having a wildly successful career and instead just plan on marrying someone rich. But it’s proof that even the man who is supposed to be teaching the importance and need of publishing doesn’t have a whole bunch of faith that it will bring financial success. On the bright side, my classes this semester are looking very promising… if not for building skills, at least for building my resume with skills I’m going to pretend I have. Great plan.

3. Yes, public transportation CAN cause motion sickness.

Well, that’s it for my observances for now. I need to save some profound thoughts for future posts, after all. 

And now I’m going to leave you with a quote that more or less sums up my life right now:

I tried not to think about my life. I did not have any good solid plans for it long term — no bad plans either, no plans at all — and the lostness of that, compared with the clear ambitions of my friends (marriage, children, law school), sometimes shamed me. Other times in my mind I defended such a condition as morally and intellectually superior — my life was open and ready and free — but that didn't make it any less lonely.
– A Gate at the Stairs, Lorrie Moore

My Quest to Find Tom Hanks

First, Happy International Tom Hanks Day!

Tom Hanks has been in NYC to shoot for his new movie Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (with Sandra Bullock).  And as most of you already know, I may be a little obsessed with him, so I've been trying to keep track of where he's shooting each day.  But here's the problem - they don't let the public know these things in advance (you know, to protect him from those crazy stalkers...) so I feel like I just keep barely missing him. 

I found out Monday night that he had been shooting all day at 21st and Broadway, just FIVE BLOCKS from where I work.  So Tuesday morning I got up early and checked it out... but no sign of them.  I walked by after work, too, just in case, but no luck.  And then I found out yesterday that he had shot the last two days in Central Park!  *sigh*  I really don't mean to seem like a stalker, but if I don't at least try to see him while he's so close I'll never forgive myself.  Wish me luck, because he's not gone yet... so I'm not giving up :)

The Grass is Always Greener: Things I Miss and Will Miss

Things I miss from home...

-food. real food. from a kitchen. made on a stove or in the oven.

-space. for clothes, shoes, coats, books, food, a sock monkey, myself, and my sanity.

-a refrigerator that's larger than a hamster cage.

-did I mention food?

-my clothes. I've worn the same 8 outfits for 68 days now.

-nice people. Are friendly salesclerks/waiters a Midwestern thing... or just a non-New Yorker thing?

-nature. I know I pretend to be allergic to "the outdoors" once in a while, but I really do like nature. And now I miss it terribly. I don't like concrete.

Things I'm going to miss from the city...

-Banush plain cheesecake. Cream-colored heaven on a plate.

-$2.50 NY style huge slices of pizza just a block away.

-an excuse to go buy said pizza slices three (or more) times a week.

-cinnamon raisin Europan bagels, toasted with cream cheese.

-a never-ending list of things I want to see or do in the area.

-keeping an eye out for famous people.

-Central Park.

-the cute restaurant in Little Italy with the best $7.50 lasagna I've ever had.

A Spoonful of Updates

I fail.  Not even my excitement of having a blog could keep me on track for updating all of you fine people.  But no worries, I have a long list of things I want to share, so you will not be disappointed.

Some new developments:

*As if seeing him on stage was not enough, I was lucky enough to run into Alan Rickman at the NYC Ballet as well!  And when I say "run into" I mean "stand five feet away from while debating whether I should speak to him or not, awkwardly walk towards him, and then feel his jacket brush against me as he walks away."  It was epic.

*Our film event a few weeks ago proved to be an exciting adventure for multiple reasons.  Not only did we encounter a strong wind tunnel in the train station stairway that would have given Hurricane Donna a run for her money, I got to show off my (pretend) hurdling skills while becoming a delinquent (along with my professor) as I jumped over the turnstile to run onto the train!  It was more exciting than that time I ate Subway at Mugger's Coffee House (Christine- that's for you!).  

But back to the point, we went to the Landmark Loews Jersey Theatre, a beautiful old movie theatre, to see The Big Sleep with Bogart and Bacall.  I love classic black and white films (or maybe I just like knowing my grandma loves them and that I get quality time with her when we watch them together?), and it was really neat to see a classic up on the big screen.

*I'm having a love affair with Central Park; I run off to it whenever I can to get away from my cramped room, and I constantly find myself daydreaming about the open lawns, winding trails, and charming bridges that I long to return to...  

*I. Hate. This. Heater.  The heater in my room was sent from the evil spirits of No Sleep Land.  It's one of those old radiator heaters that always has water rushing back and forth in the pipe.  And it has decided that its favorite nightly activity is to clank very, very loudly and once in a while shoot out water in a game called "how much of Katie's stuff can I drench?"  It's great fun.

From the Empire State Building

*My friend from home, Brittany, came to visit this past weekend and I finally got to do some tourist stuff I've been looking forward to!  We walked through Central Park and Times Square, got dinner in Little Italy, went to the top of the Empire State Building, and saw a Broadway show (my first!) - Mary Poppins.  It was just as magical as you can imagine and more.  Statues came to life, Bert walked on the ceiling of the theater, and Mary Poppins floated up with her umbrella to wave to us in the balcony at the end.  And we even got a surprise guest in the form of a little kid in the audience who loved to sing along to every performance of "Spoonful of Sugar."

 

*As I'm catching up on journal entries for events, I've realized I still need to let you know what I've been up to lately.  Let's see... we went to Dizzy's Jazz Club to listen to Randy Weston's "African Rhythms," a surprisingly perfect blend of jazz and African beats.  The moody atmosphere in the club was really fun, and the $15 per person minimum on food/drinks forced us to order an insane amount of appetizers and desserts that we all shared.  I walked through a great exhibit of Edward Hopper's paintings at The Whitney Museum.  I saw Don Pasquale at the Metropolitan Opera, heard the London Symphony Orchestra play Mahler's Seventh Symphony at Avery Fisher Hall, and saw very impressive puppetry and hand-shadow skills in Stravinsky's opera The Nightingale at the Brooklyn Academy of Music (BAM) Opera Hall.  I heard the amazing, patriotic songs of Kate Smith sung by the wonderfully talented soprano Stephanie Blythe - I tried to stop the tears from spilling over, but "When You Wish Upon a Star" and "White Cliffs of Dover" were too much to handle, in a good way.  We walked around art galleries in Chelsea one day with our art professor.  And just last week we spent the day at The Frick Collection, where I saw some great Turner pieces and made a guard scowl at me when I dropped my audio guide on the marble floor.

*And, oh yeah, I'm going to grad school!

Well, I think that's it for now.  Must get back to those pesky journals (actually, I really don't mind writing them - it's just that my perfectionism makes it a very long process) and maybe grab a few Oreos before bed.  hehe.