Walking In My Shoes

Leisurely Lunch in the Big Easy?

2012-01-03T14:28:00.003-05:00

Well, that was the plan during my 24-hour marathon drive from Tejas to Virginny. In theory, I thought it could be possible. I imagined myself enjoying a bottomless bowl of gumbo as I gazed across Lake Pontchartrain. However, I'd bet on a bag of greasy beignets my pilgrimage would be fraught with some sort of travel stress.

Most people would choose to spend three days, rather than three hours, in New Orleans. I have had Amazing Race travel experiences in the past, but this was a first. "Never be in a hurry," preached the New Orleans Lonely Planet guide. "And any time you step outside, be ready for a meandering conversation with a total stranger."

Not this time, LP. Would I be able to stumble along Bourbon Street, sip a cup of cafe au lait, snap some French Quarter sights and truly experience NOLA post-Hurricane Katrina during a period of time most tourists need to recover from their Hurricane hangovers?

Bleary-eyed after six hours of early-morning driving, I finally arrived at my destination. Jackson Square was decked out in its Christmas best. Who dat? Trombonists were hamming it up with their rendition of "When the Saints Go Marching In."

I originally thought the city would be quiet the days before New Year's and the Sugar Bowl. The long lines for Cafe du Monde and the Central Grocery proved me wrong. Waiting on them would make my three-hour tour an all-day affair. So I needed to think on my feet, and fast.

Hustling by a throng of hungry, clueless tourists, I finally sat still at a gumbo place adjacent to the French Market that screamed "McDonald's gumbo!" The Bourdain in me was angry at myself for getting suckered in, but my growling stomach ultimately won. The redeeming item on its overpriced menu were the boudins, a series of sausage balls that tasted a lot like haggis I had in Edinburgh once upon a time.

Well, it's not a trip to New Orleans without strolling down Bourbon Street. Unfortunately, I was in a punch drunk haze -- not one caused by the alcohol in a takeaway Styrofoam cup filled with some sort of frozen daiquiri concoction. While I was tempted to get a Blue Bayou to-go cup, I needed to drive at least 18 more hours. It was sobering to see Bourbon Street while I was not intoxicated. It reminded me of Amsterdam's Red Light District, without the Dutch sense of humor about tawdry fetishes. After passing by several strip clubs and frozen beverage bars, I was ready to turn the corner and hunt for a muffaletta off the French Quarter.

As the New Orleans skyline appeared in my rear view mirror, I could still spot some lingering scars from Hurricane Katrina six years later. In the aftermath of Katrina, it's bizarre to me that the Superdome still stands (and sponsored by Mercedes-Benz these days), while the Lower Ninth Ward has yet to recover. But I suppose it was comforting to see that the tourists, including myself, have come back to NOLA to laissez les bons temps rouler.

A Journey Through 2011

2012-01-02T19:10:00.002-05:00

2011 for me started off in the Washington D.C. metro area. However, for the first time, I wasn't quite sure where I would end up at the end of the year.

I lucked out in the first quarter of the year with a 10-minute bus/Metro commute to an editorial job I grew to love in Alexandria, Va.

I spent my birthday weekend this spring in Williamsburg -- Colonial, not hipster.

I finally conquered Great Falls in northern Virginia!

Fast forward through the heat and humidity, and I found myself living in a new part of the Commonwealth -- the Hampton Roads area.

This is my new office -- at Christopher Newport University.

Teaching journalism online and in the classroom kept me busy throughout the fall, but I found a long weekend to take a Megabus journey up to Toronto, Canada. It was a bit chilly north of the border, so I made sure to warm up with poutine, gyros and glogg.

I was so fond of red-eye car trips that I decided to drive more than 24 hours throughout the Dirrty South and along the Gulf of Mexico...

...I eventually ended up in Houston, Texas to see my family for Christmas.

On the way back, I decided to make a brief pit stop in the Big Easy. Stay tuned!

My Travel Companions

2011-12-19T11:30:00.000-05:00

Lonely Planet's Facebook page is currently displaying their readers' travel book shelves. A majority of my books are still in a box from my move this summer, but I took a picture of my shelf before I packed them up.

I know I've always had the travel bug, but it intensified after a backpacking trip throughout Germany, Austria and the Czech Republic in 1999. This shelf spans from 2000-to the present. However, there are some notable absences -- I believe my Greece, Japan and Hong Kong books are in a storage unit in Orlando.

The New York and London guides are "native" guides, not tourist guides. Both will always feel like home no matter where I am.

The Netherlands, Denmark, Wales, Poland and Switzerland copies are pretty beat up because I frequently consulted them during my time in grad school nearly 10 years ago (!)

I intend to hold on to the Germany and Belgium guides because there's always a possibility of my triumphant return to Europe.

Throughout the years, I said to my friends that if I bought a travel book, then that means I'm halfway there. At the moment, the following places have eluded me, but just like the Biebs sings and whines: "never say never."

Turkey
Dubai
Slovenia
Croatia
Cyprus
Singapore

However, I'm more tempted to do an extreme culture shock trip in the next couple of years, like India.

While I'm sad to be renewing my passport, it doesn't mean I am starting my travel adventures from scratch -- I now have more pages to fill up with stamps, with a better-looking mug shot of me in the front of the book. My new passport is my Christmas gift to myself -- it's the gift that keeps giving!

Southern Comfort

2011-10-19T15:30:00.001-04:00

"What is a hushpuppy?" I asked the waitress at a seafood place along the James River in Newport News.

The only Hush Puppies I was aware of before I saw it on a menu were the shoes I wore to Catholic school when I was around six years old.

"OMG! You don't know what hushpuppies are?" the waitress responded in disbelief. She tried to stifle a giggle, but was unsuccessful. Or, in other words, LOL!

"I don't. I'm not from here," I stammered.

"OK, they're like cornbread balls -- they're not too sweet. They're much better than fries, IMO." *

Ten minutes later, the hushpuppies appeared, along with an ice-cream scoop of fatty butter. One dollop of lard and a hushpuppy later, I was sold. Move over, fries...I'll devour the hushpuppies.

* * *

Southern grub is definitely growing on me, as well as sticking to my waistline. Whenever I go to Food Lion or Harris Teeter, I seek out traditional Southern cuisine, like grits, peach-flavored sweet tea, pimento cheese spread, Smithfield ham and banana pudding. By eating comfort food of my neighbors, I somewhat feel closer to them and their heritage.

However, I've noticed that there are plenty of places within walking distance that have my style of comfort food. There's a pretty authentic NY-style pizza place within stumbling distance, while I can get my fix of MSG at a Chinese place right next door. There's a diner in a strip mall down the street that serves kosher pickles and Boar's Head cold cuts (not lunch meat).

Much to my surprise, Food Lion sells matzoh ball soup. But no one was more shocked by my discovery than the express lane cashier. She looked into the jar of matzoh balls like it was a preserved brain stored in a container filled with formaldehyde.

Having these places nearby cures my homesickness somewhat, but yet, I still long for New York sometimes. I haven't been there in more than a year.

According to a professor colleague of mine, that's not so unusual.

"I know I'm homesick for Beijing when I crave duck and traditional Chinese meals. Not American Chinese, real Chinese food," she states firmly. "When that happens, it's time to go home for a while."

I couldn't agree with her more.

* For the record, she did say "Oh my God!" and "in my opinion," but I bet she was thinking in Internet slang.

A Whole New World

2011-10-03T17:45:00.001-04:00

"Where the hell is the bus?"

Ever since I moved to Newport News, Va. a couple of months ago, that's the question I most often ask -- whether it be to myself, or to a fellow passenger impatiently waiting with me. I don't doubt I look like a crazy person to the goateed guys driving by in their pick-up trucks with Confederate flags flying in the breeze. Then again, I think they are the ones who are insane.

During these endless hours, I have worked on my summer tan, got stung by at least 100 mosquitoes and pondered what to discuss with my journalism students at Christopher Newport University (CNU). After many years riding public transport, I thought I mastered how to kill time during a commute. But the Hampton Roads inhabitants are forcing me to take off my iPod earphones, and to chat with them rather than isolating myself with my music. Everyone says "hello" here. As a native Noo Yawker, I'm not accustomed to "Southern charm."

I must confess, the friendliness of my neighbors still startles me, even after eight weeks. Most of the time, I'm not quite comprehending their Southern accents. But to be fair, they're not fully understanding me, either. I'm noticing they are too polite to ask me to translate my Northeastern mumbles. So, we stand at the bus stop and awkwardly smile at one another until HRT arrives.

* * *

Newport News feels like a million miles away from D.C., but I was ready for "change" away from the nation's capital. Besides, I'd rather live near a beach than the swamp.

CNU's namesake: Christopher Newport himself.

However, since I moved here, I've endured a series of natural disasters -- first, I was breathing in fumes from the Dismal Swamp fire, then an earthquake, followed by Hurricane Irene, and now endless days of rain and mushrooms sprouting up all over the place.

Most of these events seem to occur on a Tuesday, the day of my News Writing and Reporting class. I'm getting the impression that Mother Nature wants me to have something to talk about with my aspiring journalists.

I asked my students about their impressions of the Hampton Roads area during our last class. After all, most of them moved here around the same time I did.

"Longboards," the class answered in unison.

"What is a longboard?" I asked sheepishly. After a month of trying to convince them I was "cool" -- after all, I lecture about journalism coverage of Lady Gaga and Beyonce's pregnancy -- one question made me sound like I was close to their parents' age.

"They're skateboards for lazy people," explained Hannah.

Ironically enough, after class, I noticed about 10 dudes cruising around campus on their longboards. I was so distracted by the longboarders that I nearly tripped over a mushroom patch.

It started raining yet again, so I ducked into the local Harris Teeter to wait for the (always late) 107 bus.

Of course, I made a new friend. He asked why I moved down to the "Peninsula" from the District. I responded because of an opportunity at CNU.

"Oh, you're studying there?" he asked. I smiled. "Ah, I wish. Nope, I'm a professor." Even though I'm the one teaching these days, it feels like I still have a lot to learn about life in the dirrrty, rainy South.

Time Is Running Out...

2011-07-28T00:43:00.002-04:00

Several miles up along the river, I'd imagine various Hill staffers are listening to this Muse classic on their iPods as the debt-ceiling debate rages on...well, if they are not suffering from food poisoning.

(sidebar: there was a report on Facebook yesterday from someone on the Hill that the fish was off in the Rayburn cafeteria, which is located in one of the House of Representatives. I'm sure some conspiracy theorists -- perhaps my "favorite" Glenn Beck? -- would contest that someone from the dark side was trying to poison the peons.)

Meanwhile, I'm stuffing box upon box with crap I've accumulated over the past 2.5 years in the D.C. metropolitan area. I'm praying the boxes don't fall apart in the sweltering humidity in the forecast for this coming Saturday. It's now official: I'm fleeing the swamp for the shore.

In a normal Washington summer, government employees, politicians and lobbyists would be twiddling their thumbs this week, eagerly awaiting the day they can get the hell out of Hades and enjoy their vacations. August is traditionally a dead month in the District, but something tells me this coming month will be anything but boring.

As the clock ticks down, and the debt-ceiling drama heats up, I know exactly how staffers are feeling. They are trying to keep a cool head while internally, the stress is bubbling to the surface. Hours turn into minutes, and there is a fear that nothing will be accomplished at the end of it all. When time is up, there will be no money.

I'm finding that my move feels a lot like this debt crisis:

I'm waffling over a cohesive check list in how I will accomplish the move.
I'm waiting until the absolute last minute to book the necessary arrangements.
And when it's all over, I'll be broke...just like the country.

Mean People Suck

2011-06-22T19:27:00.001-04:00

"Why are people in D.C. so mean?" a Starbucks patron philosophized to no one in particular.

I smirked to myself quietly as I pretended to listen to a YouTube video. I didn't want him to know I heard him. Just two hours before, Melinda made the same comment over a bowl of fried noodles in Chinatown. I suppose my indifferent reaction pegged me as one of the Mean Girls he was referring to.

The silence that followed after he posed the question probably gave him his answer. There is no time for idle chit-chat in this town; there are political deals to be made, and air conditioning to be found. It's humid and horrible outside; therefore, no one has the patience to be friendly.

Melinda further remarked that D.C. inhabitants are only nice when they can benefit from the knowledge and expertise of someone who can help. So, according to her theory, the District's theme song must be Janet Jackson's classic '80s jam "What Have You Done For Me Lately?"

In my experience the past couple of years, I've found that Washingtonians are actually quite nice. Then again, my basis of comparison here are New Yorkers, so my opinion may be skewed. However, I shouldn't throw my people under the bus -- the real, salt-of-the-earth Noo Yawkers are fine. We put on a good face for tourists, but in a matter of minutes, we glare and mutter at each other on the crowded streets and on the subway because NYC is a dog-eat-dog town. Only the strongest survive.

I guess I'm one of NYC's less hip inhabitants, according to Gawker, because I fled. Yes, D.C. now has a Shake Shack, but its urban culture is still another world away from the Big A.

However, now that my days in D.C. are waning, I'm getting weary. The "tourons" who have invaded the Metro since Memorial Day are the worst crop I've witnessed in a while. Perhaps it's the heat, perhaps it's their aggravation toward Obama and the country's relentless crappy economy, but the tourons have no respect for the nation's capital. Like many D.C. inhabitants, they pass through, leave their mark, and then bolt. Washington is the ultimate transient city.

The other day, I was walking around a campus that I will call home for the next several months. I was perspiring a bit in my power suit, but I tried to maintain my composure in the Southern heat. A 19-year-old student made eye contact with me, and greeted me with a smile and a hello.

I was stunned. Was he being sarcastic?

Apparently not. He was trying to respect his elders. I couldn't help but be amused. At that moment, I felt more like a clueless college student rather than a mid-30s writer and educator trying to crack the academia nut.

But, I can get used to more kindness.

Crazy Train

2011-05-26T14:29:00.001-04:00

It's a quiet Sunday morning on the Yellow Line crawling toward D.C. Excited kids are seeking out the monuments and the Capitol along the journey, and are chirping about seeing the pandas at the National Zoo. Then, a toddler's scream pierces the air.

"Give those kids a grenade to play with!!" growls a scruffy Santa Claus lookalike.

Bruno Mars wouldn't be impressed. He would advise Santa to jump in front of a train instead.

Now that he has the attention of his fellow riders, Santa proceeds to launch into his Sunday sermon.

"Our day approaches. We want this to end! The people will be free."

You would think he was ranting about the Rapture, but no -- his cause is the U.S. Day of Rage. Unlike a California preacher's prediction the chosen ones would disappear from the earth on May 21, there is no indication on the social networks about when this day will occur.

"Reclaim your democracy on the U.S. Day of Rage! Don't let the corporate mafia put a horse head in your democracy." The tweets don't really make sense, but then again, neither does the Tea Party.

"Our goal is to get 50,000 Facebook followers," he preaches to his companion, a strung-out woman with greasy, long dark hair. At the moment, Santa only has about 281 followers.

I'm doing my best to avoid eye contact with Glenn Beck's crazy cousin, but when I look up, I lock eyes with an older man huddled in the seats I refer to as the "make out" section of the car -- shaving his face.

Even though my fellow passengers are the nut jobs, I'm going off the rails on a crazy train.

Hope's All Askew?

2011-03-25T09:36:00.005-04:00

"NO PICTURES!"

A visibily irritated museum warden screamed at me as I sheepishly tried to pose with Obama in the National Portrait Gallery. Well, too little...too late. I might not have my V8 that morning, but my beloved shutterbug was able to get the snap.

Well, if crazy Conservatives like Glenn Beck are correct, Amerika is really now a communist country.

Tea with a Terrorist

2011-02-23T11:48:00.002-05:00

"Moammar Gadhafi is a hot mess!" Collin proclaimed on his FB status.

I nearly snarfed my cup of tea. Truthfully, Facebook has been boring me to tears lately, but I'll support it in its quest to resurrect democracy in the Middle East.

Collin's status about Libya's crazy dictator also unearthed a buried memory of a "celebrity sighting" I had a long time ago. I once had the pleasure of dining...uh, I mean spying...on Gadhafi in London. My mom is a tea aficionado, so I figured a cuppa of Britain’s finest at Harrods would give her a taste of Ye Olde England.

I chuckled at the Pink Palace where we were seated to enjoy our Earl Grey tea, crumpets and scones. The setting seemed very antiquated; vainly trying to resurrect an era when the sun rose and set with the British Empire.

“After this, we’ll have to check out the memorial to Diana and Dodi,” my mom commented, referencing the creepy shrine that Mohamed al Fayed erected in tribute to Princess Diana and his son Dodi after they were tragically killed in Paris.

“Oh, absolutely,” I grinned. “After all, you traveled all this way to see Diana’s alleged engagement ring.” As I glanced around the room to search for a waiter, I made eye contact with someone who looked like a Secret Service agent. He was dressed smartly, with a communication device in his ear.

“Hey, Ma,” I whispered. “Check it out at 3 o’clock. Why are there Secret Service-type agents crawling throughout the place?”

My mom strategically dropped her cloth napkin on the floor to scope out the scene. After she scooped it up, she whispered back, “I think Mohamed al Fayed is here.”

I stealthily glanced in the direction of where she had tossed her napkin. Sure enough, the owner of Harrods was only a couple of tables over, dining with some close, personal friends. One of his friends had a striking resemblance to Libyan leader Moammar Gadhafi. Everyone dining around us seemed to be oblivious to the fact that we were all having tea with some terrorists.

“Wait! I can prove that’s Gadhafi,” I dug through my handbag for a recent issue of The Economist. I recalled that a story on Gadhafi in the magazine delved into how he was trying to mend relations with the West.

“Gadhafi’s son is a student at the LSE here in London,” I read, as I showed the article to my mom. “That’s totally him.” The picture in the upper-right hand corner proved our hunch.

We couldn’t help but stifle our giggles. This was better than the silly shrine in the basement of the department store. They finished up their cups of Darjeeling tea and cucumber sandwiches, and were quickly escorted out of the Pink Palace. Two seconds later, J.Paul sauntered in to join us.

“What did I miss?” He quickly sensed that we were enjoying a moment.

“Uh, everything!” I remarked. “We were having tea with the terrorists! Now that the Queen has arrived, the real revelry can begin,” I snickered.

Sour Krauts

2011-01-06T01:46:00.009-05:00

"I need you to strip."

I glared at the female security guard, dumbfounded. No, I was not standing in line for a full-body scan at a U.S. airport. Rather, I was waiting to enter the European Central Bank in Frankfurt, Germany.

The only strip tease I was performing was to take off my winter coat and scarf, much to the chagrin of the male security guards. Germans are accustomed to turning on their TVs at 8 p.m. to get their fill of smut. It was not happening at 8 a.m. on a brisk morning in December.

"Now, spread your legs."

"Don't touch my junk," I muttered under my breath, as she proceeded to grope me. She most certainly redefined German efficiency.

Much to my surprise, I found Germany to be quite frustrating as a traveler. I figured since Germany was the Fatherland, I'd coast through the country on the laurels of my German roots, along with my wit and dimpled smile. Nein!

German women were not amused at my attempts to sprechen sie Deutsch. They rolled their eyes as I butchered the language when ordering from a menu, and also sighed in disgust when I tried to navigate the snowy streets with my bulging suitcase.

However, German men were susceptible to my charms. In an underground station, a conductor smiled warmly as I attempted to ask him how to get the Hauptbahnhof, or the main train station. He gave me detailed directions on how to get to my destination in perfect English.

Prior to this trip, the only time I spent in Frankfurt was running along Lufthansa's lengthy corridors at its international airport. I'm glad I escaped the airport this time. Frankfurt captivated me with its precision and no-nonsense approach to business. It was quite a refreshing change from the waffling of Washington and Brussels. Frankfurters were direct and blunt. It reminded me of another city that I often long for -- New York.

Brussels Sprouts?

2010-12-16T20:42:00.000-05:00

Stumbling around Brussels in a jet-lag haze, I was greeted by a porta-potty named after me.

As most of you know, I'm always reading into signs, and wondered what this auspicious omen meant. Was this trip going to be really crappy? Or will I come out smelling like a rose?

I've spent a considerable amount of time in Brussels this past decade, and to put it bluntly, I waffle back and forth about my feelings for Europe's capital city. I am fond of its diversity, but then wonder if al-Qaida is lurking in the Metro. I feel at ease in the EU District, where English (begrudgingly) is the lingua franca, but then frown in frustration two blocks away from the Schuman Metro when Belgians appear to be much more rude than their French counterparts when it comes to speaking the local language.

If I have to describe Belgium in one word, it's schizophrenic.

Belgium currently holds the European Union presidency -- meaning that since July, the country is making decisions about European affairs. But the irony of that is the country itself does not have an elected government. For the past eight months, Belgians have imposed anarchy because the Flemish and Walloons refuse to compromise on their linguistic and cultural differences. Chatter emerges every so often that the two regions will split, and become separate countries. But Brussels is considered to be the heart of Europe, and has full autonomy on the decisions made in Germany. In Ireland. In Greece.

If that's not a symptom of schizophrenia, then I don't know what is.

"It's all about compromising in the European Union," a Eurocrat states in the halls of the European Commission, with confidence. I try to stifle a giggle.

"Nonsense!" a dissenting voice chimes in. "Europe has failed to provide an answer." The two Eurocrats are debating on the current state of Europe's economy, which seems to be imploding in front of our very eyes this year.

Some Europeans -- especially in Brussels -- are quietly questioning whether the "idea" of Europe is diminishing. But Brussels is a lot like Washington, D.C. -- it's the home of spin, spin, spin. Perhaps I will come closer to the answer of that question in Frankfurt, Germany.

Waffle House

2010-12-15T19:14:00.000-05:00

When I fiercely proclaimed on my Facebook status update before my trip to Brussels that I "wanted to trade in some Washington wafflers for some Belgian waffles," I never imagined I'd be greeted by this:

Well, guess what? Obama also "waffles" in Belgium, too!

Metro Magnet

2010-10-12T22:57:00.001-04:00

Did I miss the memo? When did the Yellow Line become THE place to meet a man?

If you are among one of my six loyal readers, you might remember I had a strange encounter with an Ewok last August. Lest we forget the Egyptian.

But the latest eligible bachelor who attempted to capture my heart during my commute today trumps them all.

Around 1:30 this afternoon (not in the a.m., as you might suspect), a drunken lunatic stumbled onto the Yellow Line toward Fort Totten, and proceeded to sprawl his soused arse on the seat right in front of me. Naturally. The stench of alcohol was coming out of his pores.

"Does this train..." he slurred at me over his shoulder.

"Yes, it goes to DC," I muttered under my breath, inbetween texting and changing the tunes on my iPod. "She Bangs" by Ricky Martin blasted in my ears. This will, hopefully, tune him out.

Of course it didn't. I suppose I was further "intoxicating" him with my "cuteness" -- he said I was cute around 20 times. He then bellowed at the tourists next to him as we approached National Airport.

"HEEEY! Can you take a picture of me and my new girlfriend?"

They looked at me, stunned. I gave them a pleading look not to take the picture.

"Sooooo....what do you do?!?" he inquired, after the paparazzi got their shot.

"I'm a writer. A journalist," I said, with gritted teeth. He started laughing uncontrollably.

"Will you write about me?"

You bet I will, I thought to myself. I'm gonna git you, sucka. This is what's called blogger's revenge.

"I'm tipsy, and I want to get off at Braddock Road," he slurred at me, trying to grab my left hand. I snatched it away.

"We passed Braddock Road three stops ago," I said, exasperated. "We're now leaving Virginia and heading into DC."

"Oh, good. Can I talk with you until you leave the train?"

I suppose...

"I'm tipsy..." he repeated like a broken record.

Maybe there was a reason why I got a Virginia license last week. Perhaps it's time to get a car.

Losing My Identity

2010-10-07T20:38:00.002-04:00

The jig is up. The party is over.

Well, I'm sure I could come up with several more cliches to describe a somewhat major turning point in my life, but I'll just tell it like it is. I finally got the nerve today to go to the Virginia DMV to get a new driver's license.

I've been delaying this pesky item on my To-Do list for nearly 20 months. It's the only document that proves I'm a New Yorker. Sure, I have my 718 cell phone number and my Noo Yawk accent when I'm a little tipsy and overtired, but other than that, my roots are getting a little blurry. I don't mean the gray hairs that are creeping onto my head, but most of my family has moved on from the Big Apple. I have, too -- but not at my core.

I'm not going to lie -- my pilgrimage to the DMV was a pretty painful experience. I felt like a traitor to my home state. Is this is first step toward becoming a Southern belle?

Not if my new ID picture is any indication. You are not permitted to smile for your Virginia glamour shot.

The DMV servant pried the license out of my hand, and fiercely hole-punched "VOID" onto my ID. I felt as if a nail was going into my heart.

In New York's eyes, I am now null and void.

Cruel Summer

2010-08-18T03:19:00.002-04:00

"I've been walking in the rain just to get wet on purpose..."

I growled at Bernard Sumner's prophetic words. The rain pissed down on me while I attempted to walk home a couple of weeks back. I gave up 30 seconds later, and ran for cover at a local bodega. For the first time all summer, DC felt like a typical rainy day in London.

It's been a hundred million degrees in the District since Memorial Day. Sweaty and sticky summers are expected here in the swamp, but this particular summer has been beyond ridiculous. It could be worse -- we're not battling smog like Moscow has been for the past several weeks. Sure, it's hot as Hades here, but there are air conditioners everywhere...even on Metro platforms.

Never mind the heat. How about that 3.6 earthquake in July? I'm still suffering from the "aftershocks" from it. Apparently, a group of survivors sought solace on Facebook. Not to mention the hurricane-like winds, torrential rain and fallen trees that made everyone freak out inside the Beltway.

Not only are the temperatures rising, so are Metro prices. In turn, my blood is boiling over the influx of tourists, whom Sean affectionately calls "tourons." They let their kids pole dance while the Metro is in motion. They inappropriately adjust their fanny packs when asking for directions. Travelers boarding the Metro from National Airport absentmindedly roll their heavy suitcases over commuters in flip-flops. Clearly, the "tourons" don't care if they pay $6/one way on the Metro at 6 p.m., during "peak of the peak" commuting times.

It's August, so I will continue the yearly tradition that everyone else in the DC metro area partakes in. I'm leaving.

D-Nabb in DC

2010-08-16T05:22:00.003-04:00

After Donovan McNabb shocked the football world this winter by relocating to the nation's capital for his twilight years, I couldn't help but joke:

"Well, he's following me...yet again."

I was at Syracuse a year before he called the Dome home. Fast forward 15 years later, and he's decided to join me in Washington. Hey, if Donovan can't find a place to live, he could always be my roommate.

Like many of us who have relocated to DC in the past year and a half, we come here with these delusions of grandeur -- like we can actually be the catalyst of change. While Barack, Donovan and I are all relatively successful in our chosen careers (sidebar: I love how I include myself in this powerful triumvirate), Barack is struggling with a hopeless economy, I'm suffering from nocturnal weariness, and Donovan has yet to win it all. No BCS title while at Syracuse; no Super Bowl ring during his tenure in the NFL.

After Donovan decided to move on to the Redskins, even my mom remarked:

"Well, that's nice he's now your neighbor, but he really needs to win one."

Give my mom a commemorative can of Campbell's Chunky Soup for that snarky remark.

I Live to Fall Asleep...

2010-08-08T03:10:00.031-04:00

I'm turning into one of those people. I now fall asleep at random times.

It happened again last night during an IMAX screening of Inception, of all places.

As the film delved further into Leo and Juno's subconscious, I couldn't stifle the yawns. Despite my attempts not to, I felt myself nodding off during the trippy dream scenes not once, but twice.

Well, I know the culprit of this disease. I can blame the graveyard shift for this ailment. I'm now on my ninth month, and yeah, I'm about to have a baby. But at least when you're pregnant, there's an end in sight to the cravings, the hormone-induced emotions and no alcohol. I'm not quite sure when my tenure in midnight purgatorio will be over.

Sometimes I think this is worse than being pregnant, though (although I honestly have no idea -- I've never been with child). A glass of red wine makes me snore. Even a Jersey Shore smackdown between JWoww and Trash Bags induces the zzzzzs, which is really pathetic.

I'm beginning to think I have a mild form of narcolepsy. According to Wikipedia:

Narcolepsy is a neurological sleep disorder. It is not caused by mental illness or psychological problems. It is most likely affected by a number of genetic abnormalities that affect specific biologic factors in the brain, combined with a set off from environment, such as a virus.

Word. What on earth could possibly capture my attention these days?

Crowded House tried to a couple of weeks ago. My eyes were wide open for most of the show, but unfortunately, I did find myself catching some shut-eye during a couple of their mellow tunes.

Good thing I didn't fall asleep during "Don't Dream It's Over." That would have been ironic.

Don't Call It A Comeback...

2010-07-05T02:26:00.006-04:00

...look what I invented here!

Yes, I've been MIA in this public sphere as of late, but I promise to make a triumphant return in the near future. Watch this space!

Bright Lights

2010-05-02T03:58:00.006-04:00

Not so long ago, I would have thought this was scene from a typical New Year's Eve. Or else, Mayor Mike Bloomberg (yeah, I still consider him "my mayor") is looking sharp for a midnight appearance on TRL.

But not in this day and age. It's terrorism time in New York City again. New York City police have evacuated thousands of people from Times Square Saturday evening after finding an apparent car bomb there.

"We don't know who did this and why," Bloomberg said, with a whine. He hesitated to call out al-Qaeda, but ever since September 11, 2001, that's the conclusion most New Yorkers jump to. And with good reason.

* * *

I can just imagine the conversation I'll have with my mom in a couple of hours:

Mom: "Cath, I don't think you should go to the a-ha concert Thursday." (for the record, the Norwegian group will be playing at the Nokia Theatre, just steps away from where the suspect car was parked.)

Me: "Awww, c'mon. Mom! We grew up in New York! We are New Yorkers! We don't get deterred from this sort of crap!"

Besides, this is a-ha's swan song. I can't possibly miss this due to some crazy terrorists trying to wreak havoc once again on my hometown.

I Dreamed A Dream...

2010-04-26T03:58:00.002-04:00

Well, I've always had a thing for bumbling Brits.

First, it was Hugh Grant, and then some real-life blokes that shall remain nameless on this forum.

Now, the object of my affection is none other than Nick Clegg, the "British Barack Obama" who is currently shaking up the General Election in the United Kingdom.

The right-leaning Daily Telegraph compares Clegg to another national treasure, Susan Boyle. Well, I've always fancied the underdog, so this is not a terrible thing. However, Boyle eventually lost that competition. Will Clegg on May 6? Well, that remains to be seen.

I can't quite pinpoint the precise moment I knew I was crushing on Clegg. I must admit, I am a huge fan of the yellow ties he's worn to both debates. Yellow is the color of the Liberal Democrats, the party that Clegg represents. A yellow tie is a definite departure from the power red and icy blue ties most politicians prefer.

Clegg's also multilingual, has studied at the College of Europe in Brussels, and spent a year living in the U.S. (in Minnesota, of all places!). So, we have the wanderlust thing in common.

I think it's his self-deprecating humor that charmed me, above all.

“I have my flaws and failings, but I’m sufficiently in touch with reality to know that what goes up can come down. The further people push you up, the further you have to fall. That’s the law of gravity.”

That's it. I'm now completely and utterly smitten. Go Team Clegg!

Europe's No Longer a Playground

2010-04-18T04:08:00.013-04:00

It's been a week since Europe started tugging at my heartstrings again. But now it truly feels like a world away, especially since the only way I could probably get there these days is if I start swimming.
First, Poland loses a huge portion of its government in a horrific plane crash. Lech, my Poland correspondent, eloquently states: "Poland is strange nation, usually arguing about everything, but in difficult moments you can't find better people in the whole world." Word.
"Solidarity is once again the best word to describe what's really going on here these days," he continues.
But like history dictates, Poland will get the shaft from the rest of the world when the going gets tough. This time, you can blame a pesky little volcano erupting in Iceland. World leaders won't be able to pay their respects. Barack, Prince Charles, Nicolas and Angela are snuffed out of Poland's state funeral because of the ash.
Call it Iceland's revenge. Europe essentially screwed over its economy the past decade, so now it's Iceland's turn to wreak havoc on Europe's not-so-friendly skies.
Oh, and don't forget the Greece bailout crisis. Yup, Europa is falling apart at the seams.
* * *
I will always consider the continent my spiritual home. Strangely enough, a guru asked me earlier today if a "foreign country" is my homeland. Technically, no -- that distinction goes to New York. However, for the three years I lived there, Europe truly felt like my home. Marc even calls me an "honorary European."
Europe is still very much in my life, as I cover it day in, day out for work. Yet, it feels like it is fading away. But I have hope. The same guru has forecasted that I will continue to have many journeys in the next several years.
So, Iceland volcano be damned. To quote a defected European who now lives here in the United States: "I'll be back."

Empire State of Mind?

2010-04-10T23:07:00.006-04:00

"Do you miss New York?"

Tricia shrugged, and responded, "Well, not really."

"Do you, Caa-ti?" His gaze lingered on me as he intently waited for my answer.

A new man, whom I have nicknamed Egyptian, has barged into my life recently. All he really knows about me so far is that I conveyed a New York City "subway attitude" on the D.C. Metro.

That, and my cell phone number begins with a 718, not a 703.

When we first met, Fgyptian asked me if the train was heading toward Washington, and I grunted in his direction. So much for flirty banter. In all truthfulness, I was really trying to tune him out. I secretly was hoping he would take the Bangles advice from the 1980s, and simply walk on.

I blushed. I didn't know how to answer that extremely personal question without revealing too much of myself.

* * *

This morning, I woke up to the strains of Jay-Z's and Alicia Keys' "Empire State of Mind" and felt a tear well up.

I then turned on the Mets/Nationals game and got sappy sentimental when I saw the New York City skyline -- from the New Jersey vantage point. I hate that view of it. It's not the view I grew up with.

An inning into the game, I started shouting expletives at Oliver Perez, as his erratic pitching style cost the Mets dearly.

Later on, I grunted with impatience as Southern shoppers idly wandered around Safeway.

You can take me out of New York, but not the Noo Yawker in me, sadly. Yeah, I do miss it. Every friggin' day.

Speak and Spell?

2010-03-18T11:23:00.003-04:00

Well, it looks like Barack is badly in need of spell check...

Let's hope Joe Biden was able to spell his alma mater correctly on his NCAA brackets.

The National Front Disco

2010-03-04T19:56:00.015-05:00

"Bloody foreigners! Stop invading our country!"

In 2010, you would think a xenophobe would be shouting this at a burqa-clad female. Nope. I was the target of this racist wrath!

I shoved my way onto the Tube in London about a fortnight ago, much to the chagrin of a Brit whose face oddly looked like a smushed potato. He was too slow to hustle onto the Northern Line. The Noo Yawker in me just had no patience. He knew I was a "foreigner" because of my American accent.

J.Paul muttered to me: "Beware of the British National Party."

I snuck a glance at the Potato, and he was still sneering at me two minutes into our Tube journey. At that moment, I kinda wish I was in a burqa, just to hide from the hate.

* * *

So, even though it is 2010, the haters are still out in full force. The British National Party is the U.K.'s version of the Ku Klux Klan. The BNP seeks to restore the overwhelmingly white ethnicity of Britain that existed prior to World War II. Strangely enough, now different races and ethnic groups are urged to participate, which is a bit...ironic, I suppose.

In British elections scheduled for May, the far-right BNP is expected to perform strongly. Fantastic.

"England for the English, England for the English," Morrissey sang tongue-in-cheek once upon a time. Potato may think it's his theme song, but we educated and tolerant folk know better.

In the Dead of Night...

2010-02-03T05:28:00.003-05:00

Pardon me for not having the sunniest of dispositions in 2010. I never see the sun.

The past month, I've been living like a vampire, lurking along the streets of Northern Virginia and Washington D.C. at ungodly hours. Yes, I'm now a part of the cult that works the graveyard shift.

For the first time in ages, I really do feel like a journalist.

"So, how are you adjusting to sleeping?" a colleague questioned.

Once upon a time, I would be baffled by this question. I go to bed, I wake up. Sometimes I have insomnia, sometimes I sleep peacefully through the night.

But now, the question makes perfect sense. We nightly newshounds are a part of this weirdo sect, and we're forever bonded by our crazy sleeping patterns.

"Truthfully, I don't think I am," I said, with a laugh.

"Good answer!" she responded. "It's not a normal life."

Now, I never considered myself to be "normal," but this screwy schedule is taking me to extremes.

Nowadays, I battle the sun, cluster headaches and unusual distractions in both my professional and personal life. Caffeine is my new best friend. I debate on whether to sleep with an eye mask. I weigh the option of taking melantonin.

"Holy crap, it's too BRIGHT!" I muttered to myself the other day, as I attempted to run errands at 9 a.m. It definitely baffled me. If the January morning sun is too bright, how in the world am I going to deal with it in June?

Needless to say, I was beyond overtired. The sight of crowded trains and cranky commuters made me want to flee. Give me the sanctity of empty Metro trains and quiet moments at 3 a.m. Perhaps I truly am a "Sister of Night."

This New Century Keeps Bringing Me Down...

2010-01-03T00:26:00.011-05:00

Well, put it in the books -- the Naughties are no more. Time dubbed it the Decade from Hell, and indeed it was on a global scale. If I had to choose one word to sum up the decade, I would pick DUBYA.
On a personal note, the '00s took me on a crazy journey around the world -- and back. I logged a slew of frequent flyer miles, suffered from numerous hours of jet lag, accumulated enough stamps and visas to fill up a (stolen) passport and gathered countless tales to write a book. In fact, I did just that last year!
Not only did I have enough adventure to last me a lifetime, I also met a lot of interesting characters along the way. I befriended a whole bunch of people from Australia to Zambia who have left a lasting impact on me and my view of the world. But something (or someone) was missing from this past decade.
While I was cruising on I-95 yesterday, it hit me hard. As hard as this is for me to admit on a public forum like this, I really would like a co-pilot in the '10s. The Naughties had plenty of potentials (not to mention a whole bunch of psychos), but no stand-outs. Robbie Williams hit the nail on the head:
All the places you have been
Trying to find a love supreme...
I still haven't found him...just yet.

The Only Baggage You Can Bring...

2009-12-22T16:39:00.005-05:00

...left me behind?

My suitcase -- along with Christmas goodies for my fam and Li'l A -- is now safe and sound in Houston. Yet, I'm still in the Washington, D.C. area.

Sure, I've had many travel misfortunes over the years, but this is a first.

It could have been worse. The scene at National ("I refuse to call it Reagan") Airport yesterday was a contained chaos. The holiday season, along with the aftermath of Snowpocalypse 2009 challenged even the most seasoned travelers, like myself.
In the midst of the madness, I bonded with my fellow strandees. We were cracking jokes and making snide remarks at the appropriate moments. But when the agent called our names to discuss our situation, I remarked, "This is like a reality TV show. We're all 'friends' now, but once it comes down to who will be on board the flight, there are no alliances!"
"I'm not here to make friends," joked a cute, bespectacled Indian guy.
I then absentmindedly waited behind a camera crew from CNN, thinking they were on line at a security checkpoint. Nope, they were simply waiting around to film the next traveler meltdown.
It happened right when the Continental agent proceeded to book me on a flight for December 24. Three whole days later. I picked up my cell phone to calm my mom down, when an impatient old man started yelling at the ticket agent. I didn't realize I was waiting to fly to Haiti.
"And this is why all airline personnel drink!" my kind Continental agent announced to the masses afterward.
* * *
"Your luggage made it to Houston, and you didn't?" Lisa questioned. "Isn't that a security breach?"
Good point. Ever since 2001, this isn't supposed to happen -- passenger and luggage are either on a flight together, or off it together.
I honestly thought it was a breach too and once joked that since my luggage had made the flight, they couldn’t leave without me. Not so any more. All stored baggage is X-rayed, so they feel free to send it on ahead of you...or, if you’re unlucky, somewhere else.

So, as it stands, I will cruise into the Lone Star State Santa-style right on Christmas Eve. My suitcase will welcome me with open arms. The family better have some milk (spiked with Kahlua) and cookies waiting for me when I arrive.

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue

2009-12-20T16:57:00.006-05:00

I've had a major mail screw-up over the past couple of weeks. I ashamedly admit that it took me a lot longer than usual to memorize my Alexandria mailing address, but I figure I'll be living here for a while. I'll get it eventually -- along with the mail.

Then, last night, a neighbor asked me which unit I lived in. He knew I lived on the 16th floor, which I sarcastically label "the penthouse."

"1600," I responded, absentmindedly.

"Ah, like Barack's home?"

I can't believe I didn't make that connection myself. My studio in "the penthouse" might not be the White House, but my crib is pretty cozy and powerful, too.

Go On. Be A Cheetah.

2009-12-14T13:37:00.006-05:00

Another lifetime ago, I often wrote about Tiger Woods. However, it wasn't for his golf prowess or his personal indiscretions -- but to communicate about his advertising campaign internally for Accenture.

Every time I was in an airport over the past several years, I was often reminded about that period in my career ... and not necessarily in a good way.

In light of the scandal, Accenture took swift action as a "high-perfomer" and laid off Tiger from its global brand.

As I delve into the news coverage about Tiger's diminishing impact on advertising, I now realize I failed at that job big time. Nobody knows what Accenture's purpose is.

This is courtesy of the New York Times:

Since most consumers have no idea what a company like Accenture does, Mr. Woods became the human face of the corporation and a means to extol the corporate virtues of performance and risk-taking.

And here are some comments from the peanut gallery about Accenture dropping Tiger:

--> In reply to Another One Bites the Dust: Accenture Drops Tiger Woods Sponsorship I honestly had no clue what Accenture was, let alone that Tiger was a pitchman for them.

--> i didn't know what Accenture did either and after skimming the wsj article, realize they are even more useless than their fake-word name implies. Who knew that consulting firms had to advertise their, um, wares.

--> I didn't either! And I went to their website now and I still don't know what they do.

What Good Is a Photograph of You?

2009-11-24T14:16:00.005-05:00

These days, I am greeted at work by the following smiling faces:

They finally installed the official presidential portraits at the branch of the federal government I work for -- it only took 11 months, but hey. I'm now accustomed to the bureaucratic delays, and the snail's pace around here.

It might sound strange, but these portraits provides me a sense of comfort. It also brings me back to the day when I interned at another government institution 12 long years ago, and I was welcomed every day by this man:

Yes, the choice of a black and white portrait was deliberate, as that phase in my life seems like it happened in the Ice Ages. I was so idealistic and full of hope then.

I was a political junkie for years. I was warned that the second I moved to Washington, that would change in a heartbeat. Sure enough, it has.

I walk by the political book section at Borders these days, and cringe. It's a shame, because these demigods were once the people I aspired to meet. Politicians were my ultimate celebrity sightings, not Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt.

Perhaps one day the spark will return. The fact I got excited by the Obama and Biden portraits when they were unveiled restored my faith somewhat.

The Texas Way?

2009-11-18T00:05:00.006-05:00

After hundreds of miles driving along the Gulf Coast bayou, I was ready for a change of scenery. All throughout Mississippi and Louisiana, my mom was itching to stop at a casino, while Spuds yearned for yet another soggy McDonald's french fry. I just wanted some sign of civilization.

Well, I should be careful for what I ask for...

So, what exactly is the Texas Way? I was tempted to ask the Southern gentlemen behind the counter at the Texas Welcome Center, but he became all surly toward me when he found out I lived in the Washington, D.C. metro area. Apparently, Dubya's disdain toward the nation's capital pervades most of its state's inhabitants.

Texas is nicknamed the Lone Star State to signify Texas as an independent republic and as a reminder of the state's struggle for independence from Mexico in the 1800s. It seems like threat of secession is always a popular war cry in these parts -- remember the crazy ramblings from Gov. Rick Perry earlier this year that Texas should secede from the United States? Uh, don't let the door hit you on the arse.

Or is the Texas Way a harsh reminder that it was once a proud card-carrying member of the Confederate States? After all, these ladies still refer to the Civil War as the "War Between the States."

According to Megan, the word Tejas is actually an ancient Sanskrit word that means "the brilliant light of God." So, I suppose Houston was the appropriate place to conclude my Gulf Coast journey -- after all, it's also known as a Sun Belt city.

McDrama at a Louisiana McDonald's

2009-11-14T00:13:00.007-05:00

Scene: McDonald's, somewhere off I-12 in the Baton Rouge, La. vicinity.

Customer in front of me: "Hi, y'all. I'd like a cup of tea with seven Splendas."

I couldn't help but smirk aloud. Seven Splendas? Now, I know in this part of the country, "sweet tea" is a popular beverage, but this is ridiculous.

Ten minutes later, I'm still waiting on line. My New York impatience is getting the better of me, but I try to stifle it. What's the hurry? The only thing that lays ahead of me is countless miles cruising along the Bayou toward Tejas. After all, when in Rome, right? Or more appropriately, when in Baton Rouge...

Besides, this is real Americana, right?

Irate customer: "Can I speak to a manager? It's FREEZING in here!"

I was a little taken aback by her anger. Sure, it was a bit nippy inside, but we weren't trapped in a tundra.

"They probably can't do anything about the air from here," a woman with a long, gray ponytail mumbled to no one in particular. Since I have incredible eavesdropping skills and an insatiable curiosity, I decide to take the bait.

"Why not?"

"Because if this place is like Wal-Mart, the air is controlled by Arkansas."

"Really?" I questioned. "So, the air conditioning at Wal-Mart is controlled by the company's headquarters, no matter where you are in the country?"

"That's right," she said in a thick Southern drawl, with a kind smile.

The irate customer was chilled -- in the worst way possible. She was screaming at the manager to pipe down the air conditioner, while he shrugged helplessly.

"I hope you don't think all Southerners are like her," Wal-Mart woman said to me. "We're usually quite welcoming."

"Oh, I know. I live in DC now. It's much different from New York, where I'm from," I respond.

"DC is not the South!" she said, with a hearty chuckle. (sidebar: Well, I guess that finally resolves the Southern debate I've had with my friends the past year.)

Finally, I receive the breakfast I ordered nearly a half hour ago. An iced coffee and fruit salad for me, an Egg McMuffin for mom and a hash brown for Spuds.

"God bless ya!" My new Louisianan friend bid me farewell.

Suffering from I-10itis with Spuds

2009-11-13T23:38:00.008-05:00

It seems like every time I hit the road for a cross-country adventure, Spuds is my co-pilot.

My parrot can now check off about 18 states on his/her "Where I've Been" map. (sidebar: We call Spuds a "he," but we're pretty certain he is a she after 20+ years. That certainly explains his wild mood swings.) He was convinced he was retiring in Orlando, FL. I don't think he expected a move across the Gulf Coast in his twilight years, hence the pissed-off expression above.

But to my surprise, Spuds was pretty chilled cruising this time around. He was pretty entertained by the white trash in the Florida Panhandle, while somewhat bored by the scenery of the Redneck Riviera. He rang his bell with glee when we crossed the Florida/Alabama border.

Somewhere in Mississippi, we cruised past this O.J. Ford Bronco-esque vehicle. My faith in the Dirrrty South was restored.

However, Spuds got a bit restless once the sun set somewhere in Louisiana. It was one of the most gorgeous sunsets I've ever seen -- pictures don't do it justice. He was a bit perturbed by the darkness, so my mom and I decided to make a pit stop in Baton Rouge. Little did we know the hotel eerily resembled the hotel Javier Bardem frequented in No Country for Old Men.

Spuds had a shit fit in the hotel. I guess my chatter about Bardem's bowl cut gave both he and my mom the willies. After munching on some cold and pretty salty McDonald's French fries, Spuds succumbed to the motion sickness, and finally fell asleep.

Movin' on Up

2009-11-08T18:00:00.004-05:00

I knew my mom was in for a fun move when I heard this. A company who uses this early 90s Jock Jams classic as their theme song gets a thumbs up from me.

For a split second, I contemplated playing it while they attempted to hoist my mom's sofa bed couch down a flight of stairs. But the looks of frustration on their face deterred me not to.

Moving always sucks, but like everything else in life, it's not so bad if you can laugh at the absurd. The butt of our jokes was the elderly man behind the counter at the Budget Rent a Truck on the outskirts of Orlando.

"Mom, his fingernails are long!" I muttered under my breath. Not only was Mr. Budget Man creepy, he was badly in need of a manicure.

Jessy and Chris agreed. After all, Mr. Budget Man carded them to drive the truck -- apparently, this was the first time they needed to flash their drivers' license in this line of work.
There was no drama or tears during this move -- just a lot of joking around, and plenty of teamwork. Not to mention a bruised hand, and the beginnings of a hernia, but it's not a man's nature to piss and moan about moving injuries. They take it like a man, and solider on.
I sorta felt bad that I wasn't helping out more, but then I remembered -- they were getting paid for this. Besides, they like to move it, move it.

Hope Floats

2009-10-13T00:44:00.003-04:00

"Make no mistake. Change isn't easy. It won't be happen overnight. There will be setbacks and false starts."
- Barack Obama, Election Night 2008 in Chicago

Well, it was inevitable that both Barack and I would hit a bumpy road during our DC adventure. While he stews about health care, I lament the demise of my ancient laptop. Chicago loses an Olympic bid, and I lose a sense of normalcy as I lead the life of a vampire at the VOA.

There are some high points, though. He wins a Nobel Peace Prize, and I am anointed "Professor Skrzypinski" by aspiring journos. The Obamas are decorating the White House with contemporary art, while I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel on Craigslist for a purple couch.

Let me be clear. The past year has -- in a word, humbled -- us. But this town hasn't let us down yet. We're both looking to fundamentally change the status quo here in Washington. It could still happen -- I have hope.

Meet Virginia

2009-09-09T13:28:00.003-04:00

Ever since I moved to Alexandria a little over a month ago, my friends like to give me crap that I often refer to Virginny as the "Dirty South."

"Northern Virginia's considered to be the Mid-Atlantic!" Stephanie exclaimed.

"DC is NOT the south," Steve retorted. He should know -- he was a Tar Heel for many years before he made the move up "north."

Meanwhile, I still cling on to the notion that the Mason-Dixon line defines the border between north and south.

As I walk down my street to catch the Metro on a daily basis, these are the sights I encounter. If this doesn't scream "Dirty South," then I don't know what does:

A dead end, indeed.

It's time for the Dukes of Hazzard!

A Little Kindness Can Go a Long Way...

2009-09-08T13:03:00.011-04:00

There's something about Depeche Mode that makes me feel "Little 15" all over again.

I've been to nearly a dozen of their live shows in the past 15 years, and I still shriek for Dave Gahan like he's the second coming of Christ. Never to fear -- I am an equal-opportunity screamer for Martin Gore and Fletch, too. My Atlantic City experience proved that. I even traveled to Estonia to pay tribute to the boys of Basildon.

Even though I'm way beyond adolescence, their angst-filled tunes still resonate with me. Most particularly these two new gems. I'm still trying to figure out how to get them both on my iPod, but for now, this will suffice:

Riding on the Metro...

2009-08-25T21:15:00.003-04:00

As I'm quickly discovering, rides on the Metro during sweltering DC weekends in August is quite an odyssey. And a good place to meet some eligible bachelors in the process.

Bachelor #1 is a sweet, older gentlemen trying to make his way to the Pentagon. He was harmless -- until I thought for a moment that he was leaning in to give me a smooch on the Orange Line hurtling toward Rosslyn.

But wait -- it gets better. I'm in tow with my ancient laptop, and it's kinda heavy after a while. I decide to take a seat at L'Enfant Plaza. It's 11:30ish.

Bachelor #2 is a 20-something guy is dozing off next to me. He wakes up, smiles at me, and then says: "Hey, I'm really exhausted...is it OK that I lean on your shoulder?"

I was flabbergasted, but he looked beyond knackered. Before I can say "uh...sorry," he extends his hand, introduces himself as Micah, and then proceeds to crash. On my shoulder.

He looks like a cuddly little Ewok, so I didn't have the heart to push him aside. Besides, the Metro benches are like slabs of stone. He was simply trying to get comfortable.

The train to Huntington cruises in around midnight. Micah, the gentleman that he is, ambles onto the train before me, saves me a seat, and then literally snuggles next to me. I'm officially now his body pillow. He then proclaims I am "trustworthy," and asks me to wake him up at Crystal City.

I poke him like crazy around Crystal City. He attempts to stumble off the train, and he's like "I hope I see you again!"

I check up on both on Craigslist DC's "Missed Connections." They're not there. They must be still lurking around on the Metro, trying to find their way home.

Dog Days of Summer...

2009-08-09T11:11:00.005-04:00

The humidity has returned to Washington, and so have I.

After a long, strange Melrose Place-esque hiatus in Orlando this past summer, it was time to come back to the District, just as every politician fled for their hometowns. A new state, apartment, job(s) and a continuation of my 2009 life awaited.

Eight months away from the Big A, and it's weird to admit that I've grown accustomed to Southern charms like being called "ma'am," drinking sweet tea instead of soda and being offered a seat on the Metro.

Alas, here in the Dirty South, I am often a victim of "hootin-hollerin' season," as I am greeted with horn honking and catcalls by a bunch of "muchachos" as I make my way toward the Metro. It's not something I encountered often in my native New York. While the Noo Yawker in me scoffs at the whistling, I am secretly kind of amused.

I know I still possess a New York edge at times, but I also find I'm softening a bit. However, these days I'm also wilting, just like a bunch of pooches I also see along my Metro stroll. Day in, day out, three pomeranian pups lazily nap in the shade. That's how a proper Southern summer should be spent.

There Will Be No Turning Back...

2009-05-26T17:45:00.005-04:00

One of the best feelings in the world is when you truly forget about a kick-ass tune, and then it pops up on your iPod. A world is rediscovered. A memory is recaptured.

Annie's gem Pavement Cracks resonated with me in 2004, when I was still wandering the world, looking for a place to call home. Fast forward to five years later -- I'm still seeking that comfort zone. I think I might have finally found it, but yet...I'm still waiting for it all to come miraculously together. Today's mission at L'Enfant Plaza is one step closer. However, since my future employer will be a branch of the federal government, I still must wait another two months or so for the pieces to fall into place.

The rain continues to piss down, while my hair continues to frizz up. Someday, the past eight months will finally make sense.

Summertime, and the Livin' Is Easy...

2009-05-21T12:01:00.003-04:00

Now that the spring monsoons have passed, the District is gearin' up for a hot summer ahead.

Remember the Titans...

2009-05-14T20:19:00.005-04:00

...or the trolls? Well, either way, Norway's in the spotlight these days. First, the New York Times cooed over the petro-democracy, and forecasted that Norway's frugality will save the global economy.

Norge is also a front runner to win the Eurovision song contest this weekend, with this little horrendous ditty aptly named "Fairytale":

Ironically (or not), I also think Norway feels a lot like Disneyland.

Needless to say, Norway has a lot to celebrate these days, which will be happening this weekend -- its National Day celebrations are on May 17.

Where's the Beef?

2009-05-05T17:45:00.002-04:00

After a decadent lunch at Citi Field's Shake Shack (where the line moved much quicker than its flagship in Madison Square Park) last Saturday, I swore off red meat. I had my fill...and besides, you can't get much better burgers than NYC's finest.

Then Jonathan suggested we'd meet up at Ray's Hell Burger only five days later. While I was beefed out, I couldn't help but be amused.

"How can I resist a place called Ray's Hell Burger?" I cheekily responded. "I suppose I'll cross state lines for it."

The Diablo lured me in. Sure, it was hot and spicy in Hell, but it was worth venturing into Virginia for. Now, I don't think it trumped my beloved Shake Shack, but it came close.

Well, guess who had the same idea for lunch only four days later?

Barack and Joe -- we really need to sync our calendars together for a power lunch one of these days.

Cherry Blossom Girl

2009-04-09T11:49:00.006-04:00

Three months in Washington, DC have flown right by -- literally. The winds nearly knock me down on a daily basis, but have not come even close to knocking me out.

"Normally," the three-month mark is a time of self-reflection, as I'm usually pondering where to head next. But how can I possibly contemplate leaving Washington? Look at this gorgeous city -- it's about to bloom! Just like me.

Something tells me I might be singing a different tune in three months when I'm melting in the heat and humidity, but on a day like today -- DC is my city.

And now it's official -- I'm leaving behind Silver Spring next month for greener pastures. I am becoming an NE girl.

Now, that's change I can believe in.

Can I Forgive Him?

2009-04-05T20:40:00.005-04:00

Scene: Strolling through Rock Creek Parkway on a sunny Saturday, en route to Georgetown.

Chris: So, how was your birthday celebration?

Cathy: (giggles) Comrade, I can't believe you missed it. We were at this Slavic/Scandinavian enclave called Domku. It definitely lived up to expectations -- I even spotted two purple-haired women slurping Polish brewskis at the bar.

Then again, I knew it had potential when I saw drinks called "Velvet Revolution" and "Solidarity" on the menu.

Chris: Ah, those cocktails weren't available during Communism.

Cathy: Absolutely not. Too bad Lech Walesa wasn't the bartender. However, I felt like I waited on a bread line recovering the next day...it was a killer Sunday.

Chris: Domku -- where is it in DC? I'm not familiar with it.

Cathy: It's in Petworth. You so would not have ventured there. (Ed. note: Petworth is yet another gentrifying nabe in Washington, but still has an element of sketchiness that I think my NW boy would have felt uncomfortable in.)

Chris: (snickers) Where? The Pet Shop Boys?

Exactly.

Who Says You Can't Go Home?

2009-03-24T18:43:00.008-04:00

"Hi Cathy, this is the Big Apple Greeter calling. Can you give a tour this weekend?"

I chuckled on the DC2NY coach as I listened to my voice mails. Actually, I conceivably could. I was heading toward New York City. But I was more in the mood to be entertained rather than doing the entertaining.

* * *
What was my first pit stop on this leg of the Homecoming Race? I ran off the bus and hurdled toward the Shake Shack.

Along the way, clueless tourists asked me where Macy's was. Another asked if I knew of a good bakery to get a black and white cookie. I couldn't help but grin. I wasn't wearing the Big Apple Greeter pin, but I guess I still had it. I'm still a New Yorker.

While I didn't realize how much I missed my home city until I was actually navigating the concrete jungle, I also remembered that it often irked me when it was truly my home. The N train wasn't running in Midtown over the weekend. The dirty Lower East Side and Williamsburg hipsters still continue to annoy me. New York neophytes continue to wander around the city plugged into their iPods clutching their Louis Vuitton bags, oblivious to the Great Recession. Nothing changes around here, that's for sure.

* * *

After 48 hours of overindulging on cannolis, pizza and bagels, as well as spending quality time with good friends, it was time to go back home. Time to return to the new life I was creating for myself in Washington.

I waited patiently for the bus across the street from the Kmart at Penn Station. An unseasonably winter chill lingered, although it was technically spring.

"Is this where you catch the bus to Washington?" a sassy, elderly lady asked me.

"Yes, indeed!" I tore myself away from the latest A-Rod scandal to chat with her. "Are you going back to Washington?"

"Ha, no. This is my town," she said, with a laugh.

"Me too!" I said, a little too excitedly. "But I just moved to DC. I'm still settling in."

She smiled, "Ah, you're gonna love it. Washington's my second home. It will be yours, too."

Several hours later, I spotted the Washington Monument and breathed a sigh of relief. Hurray, I was finally...home.

Last of the Famous International Playboys...

2009-03-16T18:55:00.006-04:00

At the sweet and tender age of nearly 50, Morrissey still has it! He sweated through three shirts, flashed his pudgy chest twice and gave a special shout-out to "Swashington" at his gig at the Warner Theatre Saturday night.

In true Moz fashion, he rambled on and on about inane topics -- about refusing to appear in Rolling Stone (what year is this? 1973?), being interrogated by "huge" immigration officers in Atlanta and stating he's not Justin Timberlake (uh, duh). Morrissey rocked out the classic Smiths' tunes, but dare I say -- he performed his new material with amazing gusto. First of the gang to die? Not this charming man.

It's Great to be an SU Orangeman...

2009-03-13T15:22:00.005-04:00

This image of the Syracuse Orange celebrating after the "game-winning shot" is already a modern-day equivalent of "Dewey Defeats Truman."

As we all know now, this was only the beginning of a six-OT odyssey that occurred in Madison Square Garden last night. I loved and hated the game at the same time -- is that even possible? I'm still waay too emotionally drained to even comprehend it all -- I can only imagine how the team feels right now.

Jimmy Boeheim declared this "the greatest game in history" -- and for once, it sure feels great to be on the winning side. It feels like 1986 (Game 6) all over again.

Stand Clear of the Closing Doors...

2009-03-12T18:11:00.003-04:00

For me, a big part of feeling at "home" in a new-ish city is the random run-ins on its public transportation system.

Back in New York City, not a day would go by when I spotted someone I knew in a former life. There would be some days where I'd give my long-lost friend a warm hug and my e-mail, while others...I would cower behind my amNew York and raise the volume on my iPod to hide. Sure, it was kinda cowardly, but blame it on the 8 million-plus people vying for a seat or my attention.

I've been in Washington now for more than two months and that serendipitous Metro encounter still seemed to elude me. Or so I thought.

Last night, I attended my umpteenth networking event. As I gazed around at all the writers (and my competition) in the DC metro area, I finally saw a familiar, friendly face.

"Hey, it IS you!" Jen came up to me, and gave me a big hug. "I thought you lived here now!"

I smiled, but looked at her quizzically. We were friends at Syracuse, but lost touch after graduation. We were not connected on LinkedIn/Facebook, etc. so how did she know I just barreled into town?

"I saw you last week on the Metro. Around Metro Center, I think. You looked like you were in a rush!"

Well, whoomp...there it is. I was too busy acting like a Noo Yawker underground that I didn't even notice. People actually make eye contact here in DC. I even noticed a couple of decent-looking blokes checking me out. Which is all quite flattering -- don't get me wrong. I'm still adjusting to Metro etiquette.

But one trick that seemed to succeed in the Big A doesn't quite work here in the District. Back in NYC, I became quite good at body-checking myself into a closing door without injuring myself. It was all in the kick -- as the door started to close, I would stick my right foot in, shake my booty all about, and I was in for the kill.

I tried that same maneuver last night on the Red Line, Shady Grove. Not only did I nearly lose my right arm in the process, my wrist was all black (and blue) with tar, and I felt sore all evening. The Metro doors here seem to weigh about 50 pounds more than the NYC subway doors. Oh, well...I suppose I'll actually abide by the announcement to "stand clear" from now on.

Signs o' the Times

2009-02-26T17:23:00.007-05:00

A coffee table book recently brought tears to my eyes. Entitled The Clinton Years, it managed to capture the essence of the Clinton administration.

"These are the good ol' days," I said to Chris as I slammed the book shut. "This era in history is the reason why we decided to give Washington a chance in the first place."

Ah, the 1990s. Alanis Morissette unironically ruled the airwaves, while Bill Clinton was impeached for a "sex" scandal. Oh, that does seem quaint these days.

* * *
Now, when the inevitable The Obama Years coffee table book comes to print (or on Kindle) what iconic snaps will grace its pages?

Well, this is where Barack officially kicked off his Hope whistle-stop tour waaay back in January -- which already seems like ages ago.

Not quite "Progress": -- make note of the cartoon character on the far right. He's holding up a sandwich board saying, "The Park's my new home. Thanks, Mayor Fenty."

These mofos are still in business? If memory serves me right, Countrywide was one of the first catalysts of this catastrophe, correct?

Well, this headline is just grand. The subhead is even better. Watch this newspaper go bankrupt in a matter of weeks.

New York State of Mind?

2009-02-12T21:16:00.005-05:00

Once I really kicked off my relocation plans from New York to Washington, D.C. late last year, my mom started making travel plans to see me once I was settled.

"Yes, I will visit you down there," she said, with a Noo Yawk swagger.

"Uh, ma..."

"What?"

"Uh, you mean up there. You're much further south than I will be eventually." My mom is a typical native New Yorker -- born and bred in the Empire State, and now temporarily displaced in Orlando, Florida.

"Eh, whatever. You know what I mean. I'll see you down there."

She didn't even bother to correct herself, which made me laugh. Once a Yank, always a Yank.

* * *

I've spent nearly six weeks in southern territory, and I continue to struggle with my sense of geography. I gather it's a part of the culture shock, but c'mon. I can only use this as a crutch for so long.

Then I got another virtual bitch slap yesterday -- on Facebook, of all places.

I was discussing banal baseball gossip (not A-Roid) with my folk up North. They were taking the piss on me for catching the news about 10 hours too late, which prompted me to respond:

"Hey! I'm down South now...we get our news here by pony express."

That make me snicker a little (and made me proud that I can still snark like the rest of NYC brethren I've left behind), but little did I expect the deluge that would follow from my fellow DCites.

"I resent Cathy referring to a city north of Washington (referring to Silver Spring, MD) as 'down south,'" Collin chimed in.

"Savannah is SOUTH. Mississippi is SOUTH. Florida is its own country," Stephanie joined the chorus. "DC is not SOUTH. We do not base everything on the geographic location of New York City."

Fair enough. We definitely think New York City is the center of the universe at times. Sure, it's off putting, but I guess we can't help it. It's been ingrained in us since birth that if we can make it there, we can make it anywhere. So, I guess we do have a superiority complex, at times -- not that I'm proud of that, but it's a survival instinct. It kicks in when we get challenged.

"Jeez, who knew I'd cause a 21st century Civil War," I concluded, hoping that the battle would end there.

But this begs the question. What exactly defines "the South?" To me, I feel the Mason-Dixon line is both a tangible and psychological border. So, according to my definition, I now reside in a southern state. There's a gun shop a couple of blocks away, there's a Chick Fil-A in walking distance, my neighbors do have a bit of a twang...so, yes I do feel like I live in "the South" now. South-lite if you will, but the South, nevertheless.

Now I understand the geographical confusion my mom experiences on a daily basis. The New York City metro area is our compass, no matter where we reside. I mean, I still search for flights out of JFK or LGA, but they are both no longer my home airport. Like Billy Joel, I feel like I will always be in a New York state of mind, as I continue to base travel distances -- just like my mom -- to the Big A.

(This is a tribute to both my mom and Abraham Lincoln, both celebrating a monumental birthday today. I always joked that my mom freed the slaves, but she definitely freed me, too.)

Love It, or Leave It...

2009-02-09T14:51:00.005-05:00

The culture shock of living below the Mason-Dixon line hasn't quite worn off yet. I'm still not accustomed to being addressed as "ma'am" at the supermarket, while I'm still amused at D.C. cab drivers listening to NPR.

Now, I know Washington is a highly charged political city, and I was curious to see if political chatter would seep into my career here. I know it's usually a no-no to discuss politics in the office, but that never stopped my former colleagues back in New York, or the people I encountered overseas while working for the South China Morning Post.

Then again, most of my cohorts are members of the liberal elite. I never had a confrontation with someone from the "dark side." Well, until last Wednesday.

During my second day at "Onomatopoeia," an editing colleague noticed me killing time reading The Economist. This spurred him to test my political convictions.

"Do you know Noam Chomsky?" he asked me.

Well, not personally, but I am definitely familiar with his academic writings and musings on contemporary global affairs. He's quite the popular philosopher in Europe, but he's not that well-known here in his home country.

"Sure, of course," I answered.

"I wrote him an e-mail, and he wrote me back," Conservative Curmudgeon elaborated.

"Wow, that's great. What did he have to say?"

"Well, I wrote him about his views on Israel," Conservative Curmudgeon opined. "I mean, he's a Jew in support of Gaza, for Chrissakes. I asked him why he lived in the U.S. if he's anti-Israel."

Oh, dear. The "love it or leave it" theory. I just love how how cranky Americans still live in a black and white world here.

"Oh, he lives in the 'States because he can express his feelings and opinions freely!" I responded.

"Exactly, that's what he said."

Conservation Curmudgeon did not need to pester Noam with that question. He could have simply asked me while we waited for the next editing project.

Don't Go Back to Rockville...?!?

2009-01-28T17:10:00.005-05:00

Missing my partner in crime...

I joked around on my Facebook status update last night that this R.E.M. classic would be my theme song of the week, as I was commissioned to take on an editing project for a company that sounds a heck of a lot like "Onomatopoeia." Yeah, pop...fizz...snap...is right.

After today's "wintry mix" in the Mid-Atlantic, the lyrics resonated with me on a whole new level.

"Be careful and stay safe," Mike cautioned me last night, sounding more like my dad than my boo.

Pish posh, I thought to myself. Not only am I am a Noo Yawker, I am also a Syracusan. Snow? Whatevs, I can handle it. Bring it on!

When I first stepped out of my apartment in the darkness this morning, I will confess...I nearly met the pavement. I did the little slip and shuffle dance about five times -- just on my street. The salt crew was not yet on duty. I cursed aloud, maintained my composure and carried on.

Instead of commuting on the Metro, I decided to be adventurous, and tackled the DC bus system. I knew it was a bit of a risk since the roads were icy, but eh. Once I settled in with my iPod and my copy of Express, DC's free paper, I experienced a strange sense of déjà vu.

This felt like a day with Discovery Reports in Norway. Yes, the parallels between Washington, DC and Oslo, Norway are once again resurrected.

I was on a random bus en route to suburbia; on my way to meet strange people that would only be in my life for hours. Sadly, I was taking the journey on my own this time around. No Pam or Prinda to make me laugh, no DaVinci Code to read. But I had a-ha in my ears, and my phone to text Mike en route.

"Hey, I'm cruisin' on the Beltway! It looks beautiful with the snow!"

WTF? A real Washingtonian would smirk at that remark. What's so beautiful about the Beltway during rush hour? But as I stared out at the creepy Mormon church in the distance, I realized that this was the adventure I was craving the past several years. I was looking at a new city -- and new commute -- with virgin eyes.

I could have used a pair of ice skates once I arrived in Rockville. But I arrived at Onomatopoeia waay before the eccentric scientists. In fact, I was the first one there, besides the receptionist. Turns out they were going to open for business at 10 a.m. on this day of inclement weather.

After an awkward waiting period, it was announced that my services weren't needed on this crappy day. Come back on Monday, and there will be tons of scientific documents to edit.

Wintry mix, indeed.

Post-Inaugural Glow?

2009-01-22T18:19:00.004-05:00

Are the good vibes continuing in DC post-Obama Inauguration day?

So far, so good. Earlier today, I was waiting on a rather long line (errr, try again later!) at HSBC, but no one was tapping their foot impatiently, or sighing with annoyance. We were all too wrapped up in CNN's broadcast of Barack, Joe and Hillary addressing the State Department.

Then, I made a quick pit stop at Kramerbooks for writing inspiration. As I was leaving, a bum thrusted out his Starbucks cup toward me, and growled...

"I love Obama! I love YOU! Oh...and I love your hat."

Yeah, I think I'm gonna like it here.

Obamapalooza!

2009-01-21T17:08:00.017-05:00

After what felt like an eternity, it was finally Obama's Day. After many frigid days of whistle-stop tours and celebrity bashes (including an evening with Jay-Z!), now it was finally time to close the book on eight horrendous years, and usher in a new administration.

During Bush's last hour of office, Lucia, Isaac and I spent that time wandering aimlessly around Washington -- much like he did during the past eight years of his presidency. Along the way, Barack managed to fit us in for couple of seconds, and welcomed both me and Lucia to his new hometown.

Inauguration 2009 almost had a coronation-esque feel to it. But we were most certainly playing the part of the plebes, as we joined the Mall madness right when Joe Biden was getting sworn in. Despite the chill, everyone was in good spirits.

Ironically enough, most of the strangers I chatted with during this historic day were from New York City. On the NYC subways, we wouldn't make eye contact. On the DC metro, however, we were sharing lifelong stories and our excitement about a new era in United States history.

Before the parade kicked off, we decided to go shopping. Even though there's a painful recession all across the country, capitalism was alive and well all around McPherson Square. The Inauguraltards eagerly purchased Obama pins, hats and T-shirts with vigor, while I absorbed the contained chaos of downtown Washington. I have never seen the city more bustling and more excited for change.

While we were quite far away from the parade's festivities, we became the stars of the show with our portable radio tuned into NPR.

"Wait, what happened with Ted Kennedy?" one Inauguraltard asked us. Meanwhile, an amateur photographer attempted to photograph me and Lucia as we listened to a live broadcast of the parade.

"I'm afraid that picture of us is going to end up on the AP...or else in her scrapbook," I joked.

"Or on her Facebook page, of course," Lucia bantered back.

Heading home, I noticed a lot of people boarding the surprisingly efficient Metro in their black tails and ball gowns for the evening parties. What a day. It's one for the history books, and one that won't be replicated anytime soon. I'm glad I went. Yes, I did!

Ed. note: Please check out Lucia and Isaac's Inauguration Day story, recently published in a Vermont newspaper!

Red Line, Shady Grove

2009-01-17T17:03:00.011-05:00

Most people new to the District (well, New Yorkers) tend to coo over its Metro system.

"It's so clean! So efficient!"

Yeah, yeah...compared to the "beloved" NYC subway system, it's the BMW of public transport. The clocks announce when the next train will arrive, while the flashing red lights alongside the tracks indicate that a train is pulling into the platform. In theory, the Washington Metro is perfect.

However, ever since I moved here, all newscasts are preparing Washingtonians for "major congestion and delays" on the Metro due to the Inauguration. Oh, big whoop. I can tolerate a crowded train for 15-20 minutes. I'll deal.

Or can I? About a week ago, the red line experienced a meltdown of sorts -- literally. A track between Farragut North and Dupont Circle cracked, and caused a bit of a catastrophe during a chilly Friday night rush hour.

At first, Southern hospitality was in full force on the platform. As I tried to focus on the new Ikea's "Embrace Change" campaign while trying not to breathe in the stench that permeated the platform, I eavesdropped on polite murmurs about when the next train was going to come by.

10 minutes passed. No trains in sight. The signs above did not indicate any trains going toward Shady Grove. The masses became restless.

Then, the red lights started flashing, and my fellow commuters became excited. The Metro rolled into the station, and naturally, it's packed. The people groaned with weariness. I chuckled to myself, as this was often my commute home to Queens back in the Big A. I wedged myself between a soldier in uniform and a big man wearing a Ravens jersey, and prayed that the next five minutes go by quickly.

Well, this commute quickly cured my homesickness. And it definitely prepared me for what I will encounter this coming Tuesday.

A Tale of Two Cities

2009-01-13T17:34:00.016-05:00

Five years ago when I moved to Oslo, Norway, I couldn't help thinking that I've been here before.

The streets are not teeming with manic commuters. The Metro is pristine and nearly void of trash and rodents. The skyscrapers are not as tall or as menacing as the New York City skyline. Initially, I was a little weirded out by the silence of Norway's capital city, but yet I was in awe of its civility.

Finally, it hit me on a bus journey throughout downtown Oslo. As I looked out at bureaucrats scurrying through the streets toward their government jobs, a wave of deja vu took me back to my intern days in Washington, D.C.

Oslo reminded me of Washington.

Now that I'm actually here in the nation's capital on the eve of an historic inauguration, the similarities are even more apparent to me. Both Oslo and Washington have populations of around 500,000. There's a nip in the air that seems to seep into my bones in both cities during the dead of winter. The buzz is more subtle than say, New York or London, but people both in Oslo and D.C. are genuinely kind to one another.

For instance, the other night I was a dime short for the bus fare. Fearing the impatient sighs of my fellow passengers, I was ready to leave the bus at a moment's notice. However, a woman tugged at my winter coat, smiled and handed me a dime.

"Why, thank you!" I said, very startled by her generosity.

Southern hospitality is alive and well here. I guess I'm still adjusting to the fact that my fellow Washingtonians are willing to help each other out, rather than what I'm accustomed to -- like native Noo Yawkers smirking at the newbie.

Alas, this is a move in the right direction, but I still have bouts of homesickness here and there...

Won't You Be My Mayor?

2009-01-07T11:45:00.001-05:00

With apologies in advance to my fellow Marylanders, I always thought you guys were a bit...uh, quirky. Then again, I'm a little strange, too -- so I think I'll assimilate here just fine.

I got a little lost on the streets of Silver Spring recently, and came across this little alleyway:

The Mayor's Promenade? Now, I don't think I'd walk down here at night, but it looks charming enough during the day. Then, I made the acquaintance of the mayor himself:

He's a drunk! Turns out he made this alleyway his home during a better portion of the 20th century. He was so beloved by his fellow Silver Spring neighbors that they dedicated this alleyway to him after his death. How apropros. I now know where I can live once my sublet is up.

And if the ladies kiss the nose of the mayor, we are guaranteed to eternal luck in true love. I gave the feisty mayor a quick peck before the torrential downpour ruined the moment.

One Is Silver, and the Other Gold...

2009-01-06T17:42:00.005-05:00

Yesterday, I woke up in a cold sweat. Thanks to the terrible falafel and Greek salad I had for dinner, I was dreaming about my old landlord Harry and my apartment in Astoria.

As I tried to snap out of my slumber, I experienced a startling case of homesickness. I honestly didn't think it would happen only 48 hours into my DC adventure.

My friends and family reassured me that a little case of culture shock -- even within my own country -- is perfectly normal. "Well, you lived in Astoria for a long time. It was bound to happen." So that makes me feel a little more at ease with my disorientation.

* * *

I've been a resident of Maryland for three full days now. The verdict's still out on Silver Spring. Some think it's cute, while others think it's crude. "A good old-fashioned sensory overload," Silver Spring's website boasts. Ugh, I don't think I'd be bragging much about that. I can see why people are repulsed by the bright lights...I know I am.

On the other hand...is this really much different than what's happening in New York City these days? Walk around Union Square, and you can shop for shoes at DSW, pick up some organic fruits and veggies at Whole Foods and take a Starbucks break at any given corner. Silver Spring is just like Union Square, in many respects. Build a shopping mall, and they will come.

Wandering away from the neon, I long for something gritty and real. I spot a Burmese restaurant, then a Jamaican place and lastly, a West African restaurant. Looks like I stumbled upon grub row. I make a mental note to return.

Then I get my first harsh reminder that I am, indeed, below the Mason-Dixon line:

Bang, bang. Welcome to the Dirty South!

Barack Opens Doors

2009-01-05T14:56:00.002-05:00

New year. New city. New job. New life. And lest we forget...new administration.

Needless to say, Obama fever is at a fever pitch in Washington. The propaganda all around the city is promising that change is coming. Still, there's a fortnight to inauguration. Two more friggin' weeks of Bush.

I was emotionally tired and drained my first full day in the District. But when I hopped on the Metro for the first time, I was surprised to see Barack on my Metro card, not the cute pandas.

Now, this is a first. As for me, I'm still caught between two cities.

High Fidelity

2008-12-31T13:07:00.012-05:00

In between packing, purging and procrastinating, I've come up with a Top 5 moving tune compilation:

5. Moving: Supergrass
4. Better Be Home Soon: Crowded House
3. Perfect Symmetry: Keane
2. For Tomorrow: Blur
1. Leaving New York: REM

All brilliant tunes with meaningful lyrics, but the CDs are taking up too much space in my boxes. Good thing I'm living in the 21st century, and have the songs safely stored on my iPod. I can make some chump change if I sell the rogue ones.

I wander into a little shop across the street from Duane Reade, and am greeted by a burnt-out Queens native. John Cusack he's not, but he seems friendly enough.

"Hi, I have some CDs that I'd like to sell you. Are these of interest?"

"Sure, I can take them off your hands. What'cha got?"

I show him a couple of random ones I can part with, like Echo and the Bunnymen, Siouxie and the Banshees and The Tears, among others.

"Ah, '80s goth fan...or maybe not, if you're getting rid of them," he lamely jokes. "Who are The Tears?"

"Lame Suede reunion effort," I respond. Then again, I am in New York City, not London. Stoner John Cusack looks at me quizzically. He's clearly never heard of them...like most people here.

I elaborate further. "Suede was big in the UK...but once they got off the smack, they started to suck."

He still looks at me like I'm speaking another language. He shrugs, and says, "Eh, I'll place it in the '80s bin with the rest of them." I don't bother to correct him that Suede's a '90s band.

"Why are you selling the CDs?"

"Uh, cleaning house, actually. I'm moving this weekend."

He then stops fiddling through my CDs. "Moving out of Astoria? Where to? Brooklyn?" I swear I hear him smirk.

"Errr...out of state. To Washington, D.C., actually."

"WHY would you move there? It's so boring!"

Spoken like a true Noo Yawker. I smile, and respond. "Time for a change. A job's awaiting there. A new life, too."

He's not entirely convinced that I'm making the right move, though.

"Are you following Barack? Getting into politics?"

Well...not really.

When I make a confession about one of the many reasons why I was moving, a big smile crosses his face.

"Well, good for you. It's the right decision. Even though D.C. is as boring as hell."

As I depart the shop, I swear I can hear him say, "Don't let the door hit ya in the ass!"

Little does Stoner John Cusack know I left New York before. I'm sure I'll have pangs of homesickness here and there, no doubt. But now's not a time to look back. It's time to gaze ahead, and embrace new beginnings.

Scenes from a Greek Diner

2008-12-12T11:21:00.009-05:00

During my many adventures with the Big Apple Greeter the past couple of years, most of my European visitors inquire about the best diner to check out in the city. I gather they watch too many reruns of Seinfeld.

As a true outer borough girl, I'm stumped suggesting one in Manhattan. In my opinion, the Tick Tock diner near Penn Station is cheesy and commercialized, while the others scattered around the concrete island are absurdly overpriced ($25 for a pizza burger? I'm not joking). I advise on a couple of diners in my neighborhood Astoria, but I know deep down my visitors will resist becoming "bridge and tunnel" tourists during their short stay in the Big A.

But I was proven wrong last night.

"Hello, are you all from New York?"

Prinda, Dan and I were catching up on our lives at the Neptune Diner when we were interrupted by a sweet European couple sitting next to us. They smiled sheepishly, clutching a New York City subway map and looking a little confused.

Why in the world are they in Astoria on this miserable, rainy night? It's definitely not beer garden weather. We smile at them, proclaiming that we are natives...how can we help?

"Are you all familiar with the show...The King of Queens?"

We all look at each other quizzically. Out of all the NYC-based shows to ask about...this is the show that makes the most impact on this couple? It's kind of sweet, actually.

"We are looking for The King of Queens house! "

They proceed to unfold their subway map, and begin to study it.

Prinda chimes in, "The King of Queens house is in Rego Park." (how in the world did she know that?)

I further explain that Queens is the biggest NYC borough, and not all of it is accessible by subway.

But the burning question remains...why the obsession with The King of Queens?

"It's a very popular show in Germany. We love Doug and Carrie!"

After a couple of more minutes of chit chat, the Germans leave the diner. They're ready to conquer their rest of their Queens pilgrimage, determined to meet more Queens characters like Doug and Carrie.

During my two-plus years of conducting Big Apple Greeter tours, I became accustomed to my visitors asking about Carrie Bradshaw, not Carrie from The King of Queens. But for some reason, this serendipitous encounter warmed my heart most of all. It's because The King of Queens represents the New York City Prinda and I know, and call home.

Fairytale of New York?

2008-12-10T11:32:00.004-05:00

Overheard on the streets of midtown Manhattan this Christmas season:

Me (muttering to myself as I try to take a decent shot of the Rockefeller Center tree): "Yikes, that star is blingin'. But the tree itself is tiny. It's a recession tree!"

The German couple posing for pictures next to me pause, turn to me and laugh. Hey, I'm the gift that keeps on giving this year.

A couple of blocks later, I eavesdrop on some Brooklyn guido shouting into his cell phone,

"Yo...I am on 49th and 6th and I'm f*ckin' freezing my balls OFF!"

Only in New York, kids...only in New York.

Bah, Humbug...

2008-12-01T20:30:00.008-05:00

Well, there's plenty of stories we unemployed journalists can write about these days:

Eh, most of us don't want to think about reality right now. After all, this is the (down)time we should be fine-tuning our memoirs, right? Sadly, that's not the case for me. My month-long stint of writer's block continues...

So, I just got this job posting in my stocking...errr, inbox. Let's be Santa's little elves and craft his letters to children around the world!

Project title: Letters to Santa
Project ID: 465758
Expiration date: December 31, 2008

Description: A relative of mine (fat and bearded) has been "doing" Santa for years at a variety of locations each Xmas. He has accumulated 100's of heartfelt letters from children he has performed for. He is in the process of sorting the letters by subject or theme so that he can begin to provide some text and create a Xmas book.

Let them know it's Christmastime again!

But, seriously? I am flummoxed at the current state of my profession, to say the least. Last week, I spotted a position at a publication in Baltimore, scanning the prairie for a "cowboy writer." Giddyup.

If this is where my industry is heading, I think I'll ride off into the sunset.

Queer Eye for the Straight Ride

2008-11-22T20:21:00.010-05:00

For the past several months, I have become accustomed to the rhythms of traveling between New York and Washington. I text Sudha when I reach Metropark to let her know I've spotted her mustached peeps. In Wilmington, I scour the car for Joe Biden. I get a little antsy in Baltimore. Lastly, I can now time it on Amtrak to wake up at Union Station.

But with the economic downturn, I'm now "slumming it" down to the District on the DC2NY luxury bus. Contrary to the Chinatown bus, it's a somewhat pleasant experience. You're greeted on board with bottled water and an Internet access code.

And when you're traveling to NY from DC, you encounter a Eurotrash version of Carson Kressley.

"Oh, it's YOU!" Eurotrash Carson exclaims, and winks at me the last time I was waiting for the bus in Dupont Circle. We definitely know each other now.

"You ARE the front of the line." The hipster behind me cocks his eyebrow toward me, as he was definitely waiting for the bus longer I was. I shrug, and whisper: "I'm sorry. He's taken a fancy to me the past couple of times I've traveled on the bus."

Just as I say that, Carson pats me on my shoulder, and takes my bulging backpack. I think this is why he remembers me...

Carson mingles with each passenger; making sure we all have our boarding passes and bottled water. As we trudge on to the crowded bus, we attempt to settle in with our trash magazines and iPhones to entertain us along the darkened I-95 corridor.

"What movie would you like to see? Inside Man or An-ggger Management?" Snickers erupt around the bus at Eurotrash Carson's pronunciation of "anger."

Little did we know we'd be stalled in G20 traffic for hours. In hindsight, maybe we should have selected An-ggger Management.

Dangerous (Online) Liaisons

2008-11-12T12:01:00.011-05:00

Ever since I started my intensive sublet hunt in Washington, DC through Craigslist last month, I get daily warnings from my mom.

"Cath...they kill people on Craigslist."

"What the..." I respond. "How in the world is that possible?"

"It was in the news!" According to my mom, the "news" is what's splashed on Page Six of the New York Post. Or better yet, she's the first with breaking stories from the Massapequa Post. My mom continues devours that once a week from the comforts of Orlando.

Sometimes, I think my mom should have been the journo in the family, not me...but I digress.

"Anyway, a girl answered a Craigslist ad and got killed!"

"Ma, it's not like I'm answering a posting from Casual Encounters," I protested. "It's fine...this is the way people hunt for apartments these days. Don't worry about it. There's got to be a safe place in the DC area for me."

Famous last words.

* * *

First place I decide to check out is a studio in Dupont Circle, the Chelsea of Washington. I'm thrilled about the neighborhood, but a little concerned about the cost. DC is not as cheap as it was when I was interning there nearly 11 summers ago.

After waiting outside 10 minutes (I'm gathering the apartment is not in tip-top shape for my arrival) I'm greeted by a guy with dog breath. Ugh.

While he's giving me the quick grand tour of 520-foot space, he proceeds to swipe a whole bunch of condoms off his dresser into a drawer with a dramatic gesture.

I am both stunned and skeeved by the antics of Trojan Man. Dude, I wouldn't even have noticed the condoms if you didn't do that.

Strike one.

Second place on the agenda is a homestay situation in the northern part of the District. It isn't Metro-accessible, but the bus is right down the street. I'm not sure what part of town this is, but it seems pretty remote from the action.

My first thoughts when I stepped inside is that it felt like the Cosby Show house. It's a charming house, but something felt a little off. It didn't feel like a home.

"If you're staying out late, just text me to let me know you're coming in late," Clair Huxtable requested.

Oh, really, Cosby Mom? I'm 32, not 12.

Strike two.

The third place I decide to check out is a basement apartment in the Columbia Heights area. This is an up-and-coming neighborhood in the District, thanks to the new Metro stop and sparkling Target/Best Buy shopping mall. It's a slice of suburbia in the 'hood.

However, unsavory parts of Columbia Heights remain. This was confirmed by the tenant once I finally got to his apartment.

"So, did you pass by some prostitutes on the way here?"

Strike three. I'm out.

I need a better way to find a temporary home down in the Washington metro area.

Obamanation!

2008-11-07T15:04:00.003-05:00

On Monday, we were still shaking our heads over Joe the Plumber's ridiculous 20 minutes of fame, still baffled by the meteoric rise of Sarah Palin and pondering the horrific events of a waaay too long Dubya administration.
On Tuesday, the world as we know it changed (and we all felt more than fine).
On Wednesday, we all walked around in a (sleepless? Hungover?) daze, knowing that America just underwent a substantial transformation.
On Thursday, President-elect Barack Obama started preparing to become the 44th president of the United States. I also find it a little ironic that Obama is #44, just like another American civil rights hero, Syracuse football great Ernie Davis.
On Friday, it's back to reality -- jobs are being shed, while the global economy still continues to implode.

Quite a roller-coaster week, to say the least.

* * *
I found it fitting that I spent Tuesday evening near Union Square, New York's social activism hub for centuries. Nowadays, the dirty hipsters have Obama stickers on their skateboards, so the tradition still remains, somewhat.

Fastening my Obama propaganda pin onto my shirt, I hope I'm heading to a victory party, not a black celebration. But I feel strangely hopeful...

A hippie from Washington state peers over my shoulder, trying to catch a glance at the Election Day cheat sheet Gloria printed off of Politico.com. Yes, we are hardcore political junkies. Tim Russert would be proud.

"Hey, I share the wealth," I said, passing the sheet over to him. "I'm a socialist."

Members of hippie enclave snicker. Little do they know I'm not joking, but I wink back, a la Sarah Palin.

"Red shots or blue shots?" a weary waitress asks us.

"Uh, blue, of course!" She pours four shots (each) of a Smurf-color concoction. We're all prepared for a long night.

Obama wins New York! (we down a shot in celebration of our home state.)
Obama secures Pennsylvania! (we give high-fives to each other, and gulp the second shot.)
Obama TAKES OHIO! (we look at each other incredulously, do a happy dance and take yet another shot. Now I begin to feel a little beyond tipsy. This thing might actually be in reach!)

Around 11 p.m., Obama takes it all. The entire West Coast goes blue. Florida still remains undecided, but f- Florida. We don't need them this time.

The crowd roars like the Mets won the World Series, 20 times over. In a way, we have...and this contest actually counts. It will impact our day-to-day lives.

I take my final shot, and then the tears start flowing. They haven't really stopped since then.

Hard to Shea Goodbye...

2008-10-08T16:50:00.001-04:00

(Editor's note: I needed more than a full week to properly process this in order to write the farewell Shea Stadium deserves. As most of you know, the Mets once again blew it on the last day of the season. While it's not as heartbreaking as last year's collapse, it still felt like a punch in the stomach. Oh, the trials and tribulations of a lifelong Met fan...)

"If that's movin' up then i'm movin' out..."

Billy Joel, Shea Stadium's patron saint, greeted the die-hard Mets fans as we slowly made our way into our home away from home one final time. I will confess...it did bring a tear to my eye.

Just then, I looked over at Jen. Tears were streaming down her face.

"What's wrong...?!?"

"That usher just said, 'Welcome to Shea.' That's the last time I'm going to hear that!"

Just then, it started to mist. I guess the baseball gods were also crying over the demise of the dump in Flushing.

Yes, Shea was a dump, but it was my dump. I spent countless hours in these seats, cheering and cursing the Metsies; hoping for the best, but fearing the worst. Once upon a time, I dribbled (Darryl) Strawberry Sundaes here, joined the Wave, covered my ears when LaGuardia-bound jets flew overhead, displayed some pretty terrible orange and blue banners in hopes of getting on T.V. and prayed for Roger McDowell to come in and save the day.

In more recent times, Cow Bellman joined us in the cheap seats, while chants of "Jose, Jose, Jooose" filled the rafters. I no longer hoped for a foul ball, but for a home run...so that the the Home Run apple could make an appearance. The hot chocolate that once burned my tongue when I was a kid was replaced with a blue bottle of Bud. And it wouldn't be a trip to Shea without trying to eat a hot dog an inning, but that battle was usually lost after the 2nd inning...that's when I ran out of cash.

While the Mets imploded for the second straight year, Shea won't be. Over the next several months, the stadium will be dismantled, little by little. The blue monstrosity that once greeted me home will be no longer.

Maybe it's ridiculous that I'm mourning the loss of a building. But this place felt more like home than anywhere else to me in the past 20+ years.

Party's Over...

2008-10-05T23:04:00.002-04:00

"So, where's the bull? I want to take my picture rubbing the bull's balls."

I snickered loudly at that off-color comment. If that British woman was down on Wall Street wanting to run with the bulls, that ride is now over.

To be honest, I've been avoiding all financial news like the plague during the past fortnight. The grim news about September's high unemployment numbers and the Wall Street bailout has hit way too close to home for me.

But it's now time to face the music, so to speak. My first step was to look at this through a different perspective -- not someone who is directly feeling the effects of a burgeoning Depression; but as a writer and observer of human behavior. How are other people processing the Wall Street implosion?

Wandering down Wall Street these days feels like a funeral procession. While the drunken fools are celebrating Oktoberfest over on Stone Street, tourists are solemnly tiptoeing down the Canyon of Heroes, paying their respects to a high-flying era that felt like it was going to last forever.

People speak in a whisper, and quickly snap pictures of now iconic symbols. I spy a Frenchman posing in front of a Wachovia bank. Another silently points to a now-defunct Washington Mutual ATM. However, the biggest gathering is in front of the New York Stock Exchange.

While I missed the throngs of protesters throwing Monopoly money during the tumultuous bailout week, now stands a lone objector, with a sandwich board stating:

"Paris Hilton for President."

Yes, We Can?

2008-10-03T21:28:00.005-04:00

Capitalizing on the Olympics aftermath, the Asia Society continues to carry a torch for China. Nowadays, you can catch an exhibition there on Art and China's Revolution. Since I am obsessed with communism, I figured it was worth a Free Friday visit.

After countless exhibitions of the PRC's...uh, communist China (dinnerware), Little Red Books and propaganda adorned with Mao's image, I decided to pull a Stasi, and eavesdrop on my fellow museum goers.

"See, honey...Mao is just like Obama," I overheard one patronizing jackass lecture his meek wife. "Both Mao and Obama are cults of personality, and are larger than life."

I was stunned. How could this guy dare make this comparison? If Obama is the next Mao, then this country is beyond screwed.

Then again...maybe he's not so far from the truth.

Glory Days...

2008-09-24T17:25:00.007-04:00

"All the little ants are marching, red and black antennae waving, they all do it the same, they all do it the same waaaay..."

Yes, it's once again the mid-1990s. I'm hanging out in Faegan's, an old-school Syracuse University Marching Band shako is hidden behind the beer taps and Dave Matthews is on the jukebox.

I once joked to J.Paul that when I'm in a rocking chair at an ripe old age, I'll hear "Ants Marching" and instantly be transported back to my Syracuse days. Sure enough, it's already happening.

So, really...what's the point of a Syracuse reunion? Is it a good "ex-cuse" to act like we did nearly a decade ago? An opportunity to catch up with old friends--and meet their children? Is it worth the time and trouble to travel by planes, trains and automobiles to witness the "sportsmanship" of a pathetic football team?

Sure, why not. In 2008, we were greeted by sun rather than snow. Instead of sweating in our polyester marching band uniforms like we did in 1998, we are all adorned in orange and drinking before pre-game. This is not quite the experience we all had as undergrads...dare I say, this is better? For just one weekend, we're 18 again-without the drama and angst of being 18. Yeah, it's worth the trip.

While killing time in the JetBlue waiting area to come back home, I'm showing my pictures of the weekend to Cindy and Rich when we're interrupted by a overly cheery Long Islander.

"Hey, are you guys Syracuse alumni?"

"Uh, yeah..." we all stammer.

"OMG. I am so jealous of you guys. I just spent THE best weekend on the 'Hill. I'm so transferring to Syracuse next semester...it's like the perfect college!"

We all smile wearily at her enthusiasm. She seemed so young; so hopeful. Like we were once upon a time when we stepped on campus, and first witnessed the vale of Onondaga, meeting the eastern sky.

"Like, the weather was just perfect!"

That made us all laugh. "Uh, the sun never comes out in Syracuse. It's usually cloudy like this!" Rich said, pointing outside at the ominous gray clouds that always seem to cover Central New York.

That didn't wipe the smile off her face. She talked on and on about how much fun she had at the football game, and how she wants to live in Dellplain. She then focused on her iPod, and started humming along to Estelle and Kanye West. Someday, they will be on her Syracuse playlist. "American Boy" will be her "Ants Marching."

Ponderings on the Investment Bank Implosion...

2008-09-15T16:16:00.011-04:00

Like the rest of the country, I was startled to wake up this morning with the news that Merrill Lynch was absorbed by Bank of America, while Lehman Brothers filed for Chapter 11. As I was once a victim of a bankruptcy, I could relate to their plight.

However, my memories of both Merrill and Lehman make me shudder. During my Bridge days, I worked in the same complex with Merrill and Lehman...in fact, if I remember correctly, my 3 World Financial Center ID had the Lehman Brothers logo on it (then again, I dropped my then-work ID in the toilet, and all the details peeled off. I am not kidding.).

Long before 9/11, both the Lehman and Merrill douches used to prance around 3 WFC like they owned the place. Back before Y2K and the dot-com bust, I guess they did. When I ventured down to the cafeteria for lunch, they would blatantly cut the starving journalists on line, flashing their American Express corporate card for all of us to be jealous of.

Today, one of my old Bridge colleagues is breaking the story on the Associated Press, while Merrill and Lehman employees are packing up their belongings. A cruel twist of fate, huh?

What goes around comes around, Justin Timberlake once said. My, how the mighty have fallen...

Ride's Over at Coney Island

2008-09-08T14:29:00.005-04:00

Well, after years of trash talking in Brooklyn, it finally happened. Astroland shut its doors yesterday for the final time.

Yet another piece of "old" New York is dying, the purists lament. Even Prinda needed to pay her respects to a faded gem yesterday.

However, I can barely recall the "glory days" of Coney Island... after all, I was forbidden to go there when I was kid.

Well, the good ol' days weren't always good, Billy Joel sang once upon a time...especially when there were junkies washed up along the beach and hypodermic needles on the shore.

After the Cyclones game a couple of weeks back, Gloria and I decided spend one last evening at Astroland. While Gloria pondered a ride on the Wonder Wheel, and I debated whether to eat yet another Nathan's hot dog, I was still pretty skeeved by the uh...clientele.

I showed Gloria the picture I snapped of the "Future of Coney Island" above. She complimented me on the shot.

"Oh, but I totally censored the irony of the picture," I said, with a laugh.

"There were some big-haired girls standing to the left of the banner. I was afraid that if they saw me taking their picture, they would beat me up."

Yeah, I really don't think I'm going to miss that.

Words of Wisdom...

2008-09-01T17:15:00.008-04:00

And they say New York City is a bastion of cynicism...

Special Delivery

2008-08-31T20:55:00.005-04:00

In my travels to Orlando the past several years, I've noticed a lot of strange carry-on items. Strollers? Check. Disney bags? Of course! Perhaps the most unusual -- as it clearly doesn't fit in the overhead compartment--is a pizza box.

I usually chuckle to myself over that one. First, how does that get past security? Does the TSA demand a slice before putting it on the baggage conveyor belt?

Now, I know New York City has the best pizza in the world (as we native Noo Yawkers proclaim), but seriously...taking it on board a flight down the East Coast? There are some pizza places in Florida that import NYC's tap water -- recently proclaimed as the best tap water in the whole state -- so I'm sure there are some decent slices there.

Well, today it happened again. Sitting on the LIRR, I spot some guidos smuggling pizza boxes onto the train. Now it's happening within state boundaries? I'm really confused.

As one tattooed father shoves a slice (folded, of course) into his mouth before the conductor catches him, I try to stifle a giggle. But then again, maybe the joke's on me. In my lap, I have a gallon of "liquid crack" -- also known as Dairy Barn Iced Tea. I can't leave da Island without one.

So, I guess the pizza smugglers have a point. If you know where the good stuff is -- you'll hunt high and low for it, and be willing to travel great distances with it in tow.

Dem Bums from Brooklyn

2008-08-29T15:23:00.010-04:00

"Where's the salt?"

I am startled by a feisty, eldery woman who probably just came in from Midwood to enjoy Cyclones baseball. After all, she's a cyclone, herself.

"I have-uha knish here...it needs salt!"

Salt? I nearly choke on my own knish, lathered with Gulden's mustard. There's plenty of salt already on the knish to make her float on the Dead Sea.

"I think the last batch of salt got wet from the rain," I reassure Granny Brooklyn (sidebar: once again, a fun summer activity of mine is ruined by raindrops).

Just then, a vendor comes by with packages of salt. Granny Brooklyn thanks him profusely, and winks at me before taking her seat near the right field line.

* * *
I can see why old-school Brooklynites whined for years about not having baseball in their borough. Seeing a game at Coney Island is quite an experience. There's a salty chill in the air, thanks to the beach right next door. Gazing out at left field, you can see the infamous Cyclone in the distance. Thankfully, you're too far away to hear the terrified screams. It's picturesque... well, when the weather cooperates.

However, the thrill (or the agony?) about watching a minor-league game is the fact that it does feel like amateur hour...in every respect. As soon as a future David Wright comes up to the plate, DJ Keyspan Park pumps up the Rihanna (you bet he played "Umbrella" during the torrential downpour).

Between innings, mascots Sandy and Pee Wee (named after former Brooklyn Dodgers Sandy Koufax and Pee Wee Reese) entertain the kiddies by dancing on top of the dugout to "Everybody Clap Your Hands!"

Periodically, there will be an announcement about the Mets (the Cyclones are the Mets' minor-league affiliate), and ads between BATTERS about Kings Plaza--a ghetto fabulous mall that I was forbidden to go to when I was a kid--off the Belt Parkway.

Still, you can't beat a Friday night watching baseball, noshing on a Nathan's hot dog, sipping a Brooklyn Lager and enjoying the fireworks at Coney Island. Even if the fireworks are caused by Granny Brooklyn, herself.

Love It When You Call...

2008-08-18T15:54:00.010-04:00

In this day and age of tex-mexing, Facebook status updates and a constant barrage of e-mails, sometimes nothing beats a good ol' fashioned phone call. Especially when random incidents are happening in my immediate surroundings.

"Holy crap! That kid just patted me on my butt!"

I stop in my tracks at the laundromat. I look up from separating my coloreds from my whites, and spot a little mischievous tyke scurry away from me, giggling.

"Just out of morbid curiosity...how old is he?" the voice on the other line asks, sounding amused, but also slightly peeved.

"Oh, I'm so not good at ages," I reply, with a snicker. "But I would guesstimate around 4 or 5 or so?" Phone companion simultaneously laughs and breathes a sigh of relief.

* * *
I'm one of those people who traditionally cringe at public cell phone conversations. If someone is yapping away on the Queens portion of the N about their hectic day at the office or about their love woes, I usually roll my eyes in disgust. Good thing I'm wearing sunglasses most of the time.

However, time has been of the essence for me lately. I'm now blabbing away while I'm trying to fold my laundry, or wiling away a Sunday afternoon in Central Park. Alone time? Eh, who needs it. (Full disclosure: I'd rather be with the person I'm speaking with on these calls, but I suppose this will suffice for now.)

So, I thought the laundry ass-pat of nearly a fortnight ago would be the pièce de résistance. Boy, was I wrong.

Near the Betheseda fountain yesterday, I'm attempting to read a book for the first time in ages. Then, the phone rings, and I'm glad for the distraction. There are waaay too many annoying tourists around me.

We're chatting away when I immediately notice a tennis ball hurtling toward my head. I duck in the nick of time. You would think the dynamic duo from Italia would stop their game of catch after they nearly gave me a black eye, but nope. They keep on chucking the ball at each other.

"I wish I could speak another language," I grumble into the phone. I then make a point to move away from the hurlers. The father sheepishly apologizes, but I get the sense that I was in their way! Hmmmph.

In my new spot, I'm now safe from the dangerous tennis ball, but not from the action around me. Just then, I spot a hippie (not a hipster, for once) strumming a guitar. She's so inspired by the bucolic surroundings that she sheds her shirt. I'm flabbergasted...I mean, I know Central Park now feels like Europe with all the Eurotrash milling about, but c'mon! I'm not prepared for the boobs on parade.

"Is anyone seeing what I'm seeing?" I whisper into the phone.

At that moment, I feel pity for my phone companion. Why does this crazy crap only happen when he's on the other line--especially incidents that involve cheeky innuendos? Awkward, to say the least.

Big Trouble in Little Chinatown

2008-08-03T21:52:00.013-04:00

The Olympics countdown is on! Time is ticking down to China's luckiest day ever.

The smog is lifting, the Chinglish is disappearing...life in China as we know it is evolving right before our very eyes. While I do envy those who are about to witness Beijing's unveiling on the global stage, I will have to watch--like everyone else--on TV.

Instead of Beijing, I decided to visit Flushing this past weekend to check out the Hong Kong dragon boat festival.

Weather-wise, it didn't feel like Asia at all. There was no humidity, but the sun was out in full force. Many umbrellas were out to shield from the sun, not the rain.

As the investment bankers geared up for competition, I was more curious about the fools preparing for the dumpling-eating contest. I was on my way over to the tent until my path was blocked. A line snaked around a booth claiming it had the "the best bubble tea" in Queens.

I'm a sucker for anything with tapioca bubbles. Why not?

As I patiently waited for my iced black tea fix, I was jostled by many elderly Asian ladies attempting to poke out my eye with their massive HSBC umbrellas, while pesky little tykes scooted in front of me on line to order several mango smoothies.

Well, whaddya know? I somehow managed to find myself in Asia after all.

Commuter Love

2008-07-25T17:15:00.001-04:00

Scene: The W (no, not Dubya!) train, en route to Queens; afternoon rush hour.

Train conductor: "Welcome aboard the W 'go home train' to Astoria!"

Yes, thank goodness. Put yet another long week in the books. I attempt to settle in with the week's Economist, until I'm interrupted by the blind guy playing the accordion.

He's a fixture on the N/W line -- I've seen him plenty over the past 3.5 years. I'm still amazed that he can serenade the weary masses without skipping a beat -- or colliding into a handrail.

As he leaves the car, another crazy commuter approaches all of us. Unlike the other panhandlers, he doesn't want money, an apple or the dregs of your iced coffee.

He simply wants a smile.

In a city full of grumpy expressions and exasperated sighs, he succeeds in his quest. I sheepishly grin in his direction.

Leaving New York Never Easy...

2008-07-17T17:06:00.002-04:00

I've been neglectful of a lot of things this summer. I've abandoned sleep, my friends, my family, my roommates, my bills, doing my hair (it's been in a permanent ponytail for about a month), pursuing my (creative) writing and yes...my blog.

Blame it on the metalheads.

I just realized that I haven't made this official on this medium. Michael Stipe, I can't find the words. Tell everyone how I'm feeling:

Yes, I'm wiping away the tears. Only three more months to go.
Starting immediately, I will chronicle highlights of the next 90 days in my home city. Stay tuned.

Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head...

2008-07-03T15:32:00.008-04:00

Well, this seems to be the theme of my summer this year thus far.

Last Saturday, Prinda and I waited out a rain delay during the Subway Series. It was your typical day at Shea -- the Mets underperformed (as per usual), while the Yankee fans tried to bring their trash talk from the Stadium into my house (which was greeted by the Shea faithful chanting, "Yankees suck!").

It wouldn't be a Subway Series without several barroom brawls, complete with a guy in my section being carried out on a plastic stretcher. Meanwhile, the paparazzi (or trashy Mets fans) started taking pictures of him with their digital cameras. Stay classy, Metsies fans.

We were a little wet, but not water-logged enough to leave like most of the capacity crowd -- including Curtis Sliwa, a New York institution. He and his red beret sat several rows ahead of us. We stayed until the bitter end to watch the Mets lose (yet again).

However, the R.E.M. show at Jones Beach about three weeks ago was quite a different story. A torrential downpour delayed the show for a couple of hours. Unlike Lushapalooza 1992, this concert wasn't rained out. Sudha and I were drenched, sober (no beer sold at Jones Beach) and ready for the world to end (as we know it).

This was the view Sudha and I had of Michael Stipe and co. I wanted him to sing "I'll Take the Rain," but I was quite content with the above medley.

I joked around before the show that we would bring some "strange currencies" to the gig. Then, the Jones Beach theater was struck by lightning in the middle of Modest Mouse's set. Needless to say, "strange currencies" took on a whole new meaning that night.

Here's Sudha's "Almost Famous" review of the gig, ready to be published in Rolling Stone:

"I nearly died at the show in Jones Beach along with my concert buddy and confidante Cathy (shoutout! Ed. note: Holla!), as we were almost electrocuted and washed away into the ocean with Long Island mullets and broken umbrellas."

Wasn't Umbrella (-ella, eh, eh!) last year's summer song? Heck, I'm behind a year, in many aspects. I'll claim it as mine this year.

Then again, my summer could be much, much worse. I could be living in the Midwest. Or England.

Celtic Tiger Growls at Europe

2008-06-13T14:36:00.011-04:00

Talk about biting the hand that feeds them.

Earlier today, Ireland voted against the Lisbon Treaty. To explain in layman's terms, the country pretty much rejected the future of the European Union (EU), drafted by out-of-touch bureaucrats in Brussels.

Hmmmph. After all, Ireland is a country that has benefited most from EU membership. When I was in Dublin 11 years ago, I was aghast at the value of the punt, Ireland's currency before the euro. It was more expensive to buy a pint in Dublin than in London. Also, the streets were clamoring with youth and energy, while EU flags adorned all construction sights near the River Liffey. Is the EU a success? Yes, I'd claim...just look at the economic strength of the Celtic Tiger in the past 15 years.

What does the no vote of the Lisbon Treaty by the Irish mean? Pure and simple -- Europe is simply not working. Sure, the euro is strong, but that's only because the dollar is weak. Investors are seeking an alternative to the dollar -- it's not the yuan (yet), so the euro will suffice for now.

In essence, Europeans don't believe in an United Europe. Case in point -- when the EU enlarged in 2004, the downtrodden in Central and Eastern Europe sought greener pastures. Ireland fit the bill--literally and figuratively. Many Poles, Czechs and Hungarians purchased a one-way EasyJet ticket to Dublin, and never looked back.

Nowadays, you can hear Polish, Czech and Hungarian all over Ireland. Newspapers are even published in Polish and Czech. Remember the movie Once? Well, that pretty much sums up modern-day Ireland, in a nutshell. Irish guy falls for Czech girl. This makes the more traditional Irish nervous, however. Once again, "outsiders" are taking over the heart and soul of their country.

The Irish are pretty much following in the footsteps of the French and the Dutch, who resoundedly rejected the European Constitution, a similarly ambiguous treaty that also attempted to communicate the vision of the EU. The Frenchies and the Dutchies weren't buying it three years ago. Today, neither are the Irish.

So much for an United States of Europe.

Good Evening, Baltimore!

2008-05-29T16:38:00.004-04:00

Scene: Twilight; outside Baltimore's Penn Station, trying to figure out the shuttle buses to the Inner Harbor. I'm confused, tired and a little road weary.

Random cab driver: "Hey sweetie, do you need a cab?"

Me: "No, that's OK. I think we're going to wait for the bus."

The Noo Yawker in me attempts to shoo him (or is it a she?) away.

Random cab driver: "It's a Sunday night...you might be waiting for a while."

I try to ignore him(her), and pretend to study the bus schedule. He/she's not getting the hint.

A straggler wanders up to me and Gloria. "Is there a bus coming anytime soon? I need to get to Fayette Street."

I have no idea where Fayette Street is, or what that has to do with us, but she seems friendly enough. Now that we're a group of three, that gives Random cab driver even more incentive to harass us.

Random cab driver: "C'mon, I'll give you a deal. $2 each for a ride downtown!"

That's a Metrocard fare. OK, I'm in. Even though I am a little skeeved at the cigarette butts on the car floor and the cardboard box the he/she is sitting on, I hop on board, and hope for a pleasant journey.

* * *
"So, I have some New Yorkers in the cab. Are any of you singers or songwriters?"

Yes, because all New Yorkers have the aspiration to become the next Madonna, I thought to myself.

"Uh, actually I'm a karaoke singer..." I say, half-jokingly.

"When I lived in New York, I was attempting to be a songwriter," Guy/Girl explained. "And I'd like to hear what you think of it."

Not focusing on the road at all, Guy/Girl pulls out some sheet music. The song is titled: "You Broke My Heart."

"You broke my heart..." he/she starts warbling.

He/she then proceeds to slow down to about 5 m.p.h. to focus on the lyrics. Meanwhile, it seems like I'm the only one focusing on the road. A 18-wheeler tractor trailer nearly plows into us. A Maryland driver screeches past us. Now, I know Maryland drivers are crazy...I just didn't think our random cab driver was a part of this sect.

"...it's like a knife is going through my heart..."

What the...?

All of a sudden, we're crawling on Fayette Street.

"Is this your hotel?" Random cab driver asks.

I look up. It's a Sheraton. I don't know if it's our Sheraton, but I'm ready to tuck and roll at a moment's notice. He/she's still cruising at 5 m.p.h.

I had a preconceived notion that Baltimore is the capital of the lurid and offbeat. This guy/gal literally took the (crab) cake. What an introduction to Charm City.

Black Celebration!

2008-05-09T09:00:00.002-04:00

Well, it was just a question of time.

Even before I hit up the Depeche Mode Baar in Tallinn, the Depeche vibe was in the air. I had some "Condemnation" with my pancakes in a Soviet-style cafeteria. Not to mention a bunch of drunken Estonians blasting "Enjoy the Silence" from their boom box while JPaul and I were enjoying some Estonian snausages at dinner.

That's right, boom box. What year is this...1990?

Pretty much. To this day, I'm still trying to wrap my head around the Depeche Mode obsession in Eastern Europe. A journalist from The Guardian attempted to explain the phenomena:

Electronic music is about the future: it suggests a new vision of the world, and that's what people behind the Iron Curtain seemed to crave before the collapse of communism. One fan, Albert, (with an outrageous Dave Gahan tattoo on his back) told us that the release of Violator coincided with the collapse of the Soviet Union, so he saw it as having been the music of freedom. Also, there's a melancholy in the music that I think appeals to Russian mentality.

Interesting. Therefore, Violator is not just an album in this part of the world; it's an anthem of hope. A sign of the times, if you will.

Walking into the Depeche Mode bar was like stepping back in time. This place could have easily been my bedroom on Long Island -- a massive Dave Gahan poster was hanging overhead, while the "Strangelove" video was projected throughout the bar. Just when I thought I couldn't get enough, I looked down at the rug on the floor...it was adorned with Violator roses.

The song "In Your Room" came on. At that moment, I made eye contact with a cute, bespectacled Estonian. He raised his eyebrow, which made me blush furiously. Any Depeche disciple knows that this is one of DM's, uh...sexiest...tunes. I went back to nursing my "Dangerous" drink and drooling over Dave.

This the closest I got to having a drink with the boys from Basildon, but alas...it was something to do in Tallinn.

Medieval Times

2008-05-02T10:19:00.004-04:00

The tourist literature for Tallinn touts it as as "modern-day medieval capital."

Those looking for fairy tales in Estonia are surely not disappointed...the cobblestones streets are charming, and medieval characters are lurking around every corner, selling roasted cinnamon almonds.

The Olde Hansa, Tallinn's medieval restaurant in the heart of Old Town is a tourist trap of Disney-esque proportions. Here, you can eat wild boar, elk and Estonian brown bear blood sausages. Oh, there will be blood. JPaul and I wandered into the gift shop, and stepped into the world of The Tudors.

"Would you like to smell a bar of soap?" a medieval wench asks, sticking a bar of tar soap underneath our noses. It smells like tires.

"We're getting seduced by the Olde Hansa cult," JPaul mutters under his breath.

Just as we're about to party like it's 1539, we get thrown back to the present.

"Oi...watch the cobblestone streets, you drunken arse!"

It's my first Estonian stag sighting! Stag weekends are such a vital part of modern-day Estonia, unfortunately. The Brit blokes are stumbling through the city in a drunken haze. They're extremely pissed...and I can see that the Estonians are pissed, too. Their country is being invaded, yet again.

Red Day Dawning?

2008-05-01T12:18:00.028-04:00

I wake up with a startle. It's 7 a.m. on a Thursday morning in Tallinn, and I swear to Stalin that I hear a communism anthem playing in the distance.

"Hey, do you hear that?" I poke JPaul. He groggily looks up, and squints at me. "Dude, it's the commie anthem, demanding us to get to work."

We both ignore the red plea, and fall back asleep.

* * *

Around the time OJ was fleeing the police in his Bronco, and I was graduating from Massapequa High School, Estonia was finally released from the shackles of the Soviet regime. Nearly 15 years on, you can still see the remnants of Mother Russia all over Estonia. Russian is still the lingua franca in Tallinn, as signs around the city remain in Cyrillic.

Even though Estonia is looking toward Scandinavia and the West to leap forward into the 21st century, Russian traditions and norms still hold a vice grip on the former Soviet state. The Estonia parliament building (below) looks as it's been transplanted to Tallinn from St. Petersburg:

Meanwhile, the Aleksander Nevsky cathedral is disliked by many Estonians, as it is a reminder of Russian domination. However, the Estonians still can't seem to let the Soviet past go, as the church was meticulously restored when the country regained independence in 1991.

But the commie imprint remains. As JPaul and I consulted the Lonely Planet for food options, we gravitated toward Russian and Azerbaijan food. Sure, you can't escape peasant food in the Eastern bloc, but at least we won't be eating bear and elk (common Estonian fare). Or will we?

At Troika, we partake in all the Russian customs...shots of vodka, consuming pickles, borscht and blinis drenched in sour cream. We decline the 3,200 EEK black caviar though, much to the disappointment of our stoic waiter.

"He's not very friendly," JPaul commented.

"Yeah, I think the Estonians are sick of being invaded by foreigners," I responded. First, the Germans, then the Russians, now...the Brits, Europeans and Americans.

* * *
After some time wandering around the Old Town, it's time for a sweet escape. I'm absolutely frozen, so I'm looking forward to a cup of coffee, or even a cup of hot chocolate. Meanwhile, the Estonians are all eagerly devouring ice cream cones at McDonald's.

What the...? It's beyond frigid, but yet, they're licking away. I'm shivering just looking at them. Then I remembered, the Russians also had a soft spot for ice cream, too. Goes to show you can take the Russians out of Estonia, but you can't take the Russian influence away from the Estonians, no matter how much time passes.

East of the Sun...

2008-04-28T15:08:00.021-04:00

It's a blustery, gray Wednesday afternoon in Tallinn, Estonia. JPaul's eager to cross the street at a green light, but I stop him.

"What's the rush? After all, we're kinda in Scandinavia now."

He glances at the other side of the street, and notices that all the Estonians are staying put. They're waiting patiently for the red light, much like their brethren in Denmark, Norway, Sweden and Finland.

* * *

There's definitely a Scandinavian feel to Estonia. Even Tallinn's airport reminds me of Oslo's Lufthavn, Gardermoen -- on a smaller scale, if you can even imagine that. The walls are paneled in a light wood that's supposed to resemble the tranquil settings of a sauna. There's a kiddie play area by the bathroom, filled with toys from IKEA.

Luckily, my experiences with Estonia's border control are not similar to my encounters with immigration officers in Denmark and Norway -- the Estonians stamp my passport with a smile, and let me go on my way.

Once JPaul and I settle into our Estonian enclave, he passes out. Since I'm not much of a napper, I decide to take advantage of the free Internet access in the room. First thing I do is brag about my travels on the Facebook...and immediately feel guilty about playing on the Internet during my vacation.

But I shouldn't! After all, surfing the web is an Estonian past time. After all, Skype was invented in Estonia. Take a peek into any of Tallinn's cafes and restaurants in the Old Town, and you'll see people "skyping" away while sipping a cup of coffee or eating pig's knuckles.

Speaking of which...the Estonians are rather fond of pork, much like their Scandinavian friends. Wandering down to breakfast, I have the option of Estonian sausage (blech, no) or pickled herring in boiled eggs. I get a little queasy just looking at the dishes. Where's the aquavit to wash it down? The Estonians have their own version of this, called Vana Tallinn. It's a chocolate-syrupy liqueur that makes ice cream or soda a bit sweeter. JPaul had "a sweet escape" from reality the last night we were in Tallinn, so it does the trick.

The nip in the Baltic air completes the Scandinavian feel to Estonia. Even though we were in Tallinn in early April, spring was nowhere in sight. The trees were still bare, the flowers were not in bloom and most Estonians were bundled up in scarves and hats.

In fact, the most popular souvenirs from Estonia are knit ware. I ended up buying a hat, an impromptu Estonian souvenir, because I just couldn't shake the chill.

But I guess that's why I traveled thousands of miles to the heart of the Baltics. Every winter, I tend to get a little Scandinavia-sick, and since the U.S. dollar does not go very far in Copenhagen and Oslo these days, I was looking for a cheaper alternative. Much to my delight, Estonia is Scandinavia-lite.

Together Forever

2008-04-21T11:23:00.010-04:00

Scene: Eurostar waiting area in Brussels.

"Mesdames et Messieurs...incomprehensible French...Merci."

The groans all around me indicate that we're in for a long wait. The Eurostar to London is delayed for a couple of hours due to a bomb scare in St. Pancras.

In the meantime, we're allowed to get a free glass of Belgian beer with our Eurostar tickets. Some bottles of beer to compensate for the bottleneck, I suppose. Even though I ODed on waffles and frites earlier in the day, I decide to partake in more culinary gluttony. Why not?

Just then, I'm serenaded by a familiar voice from my childhood...

Mesdames et messieurs...dames en heren...I've been Rick rolled. In Belgium!

Don't Leave Home Without It...

2008-04-20T20:20:00.012-04:00

When I told people I was taking a vacation to Estonia this spring, here's the reaction I got from most:

"What's Estonia?"
"WHERE the hell is Estonia?"
"Have fun in the Balkans!"

For those interested in a geography lesson, Estonia is nestled in the Baltics (not the Balkans), across the Baltic Sea from Finland, with Russia in striking distance.

OK, so I realize that Estonia is not exactly tourist destination #1 for most Americans. But I'm sure people are now traveling there, since it's now a part of the European Union. First things first... does American Express carry Estonian currency?

No euro for Estonia just yet -- they're still spending kroons.

The currency cashier looked at me like I was crazy when I asked if he carried Estonian kroons.

AmEx guy: "Uh...Estonia? What's the currency called?"

Me: "The kroon. Or maybe it's under crown?"

AmEx guy: "Well, I can sell you Croatian kuna."

What?!? Croatia is like 1,000 miles south of Estonia! In fact, Croatia's in the Balkans -- light years aways from the Baltics, in some respects.

Needless to say, I was unsuccessful in my kroon exchange. However, I was able to change $55 to £25. I'm not kidding.

* * *
So, why Estonia? It's the microcosm of my obsessions: Scandinavia, Communism and Depeche Mode. It was inevitable that I would make a pilgrimage to the former Soviet bloc someday... good thing I did before the euro! Stay tuned for the adventures...

City of Delusion

2008-03-26T16:02:00.006-04:00

Scene: The crossroads of Hell -- aka the corner of 23rd and 6th (not the Avenue of the Americas) -- right in front of the Best Buy around noon today.

Lacking an iPod (and apparently, some common sense), I am sort of in tune with my surroundings for once. Just then, a 16-year-old boy thug in front of me peers over his shoulder, and proceeds to SPIT. The saliva lands right in my face.

Boy Thug turns around, looks at me with horror, and stammers in da Bronx accent: "Oh, my God. I am so sorry, ma'am." (Ed. note: Ma'am? Am I really THAT old?)

I am too stunned to react. I just look at him out of the corner of my eye, wipe the saliva off my face, and duck into Duane Reade without looking back. Now, I know this city can spit you out in a second, but actually spit AT you? That's a new one.

Yet another "New York, I love you, but you're bringing me down" moment!

America's Mall Madness

2008-03-10T11:01:00.015-04:00

In the past several months during my Big Apple Greeter outings, the first question I ask my new found friends is:

"Are you finding New York City cheap?"

They respond with a rousing YES. Their mission is to go home with as many "little Brown bags" as possible, filled to the rim with Ugg boots, iPods and other Americana gems they can find for "half off."

Thanks to the shaky dollar, the Euros are invading NYC to get their shop on. To my chagrin, New York City has turned into one gigantic shopping mall.

This means I can take more visitors through Big Apple Greeter around the city. But, as I try to point out some historical aspects of my hometown, they're distracted by Magnolia Bakery and Macy's. Oh, well. Capitalism at its finest, I suppose.

* * *
On the other side of the coin, it's making my own shopping expeditions more entertaining. Last weekend, I was on a mission to replace my New Balance sneakers.

Now, I'm not much of a shopper at all. First off, I abhor crowds. And, I am the most indecisive person ever when it comes to purchasing...well, anything. I hem and haw whether a pair of white sneakers makes me look like I'm about to walk the on the moon. It also doesn't help that my feet are nearly the size of Paris Hilton's. I needed Laura's guidance, but I was on my own this time. Or so I thought.

I was debating whether to change up my sneaker style when a bunch of tourists from Ireland needed my help.

"Oi, we can just try on the trackies right here?" The Modell's salesperson just looked at them, bewildered -- like they were speaking another language. They needed a translator, and fast.

"Sure, you can do it yourself -- you don't need the salespeople here to go in the back and find your sneaker size."

"Feck, you just said 'sneaker!'" the laddie exclaimed, with a twinkle in his eye. "Sneaker is a trainer, right?" I confirmed this with a smile.

"I only hear that term 'sneaker' in movies that are based in New York!" the laddie confessed.

Apparently, I was the only real New Yorker shopping that day. In the next sneaker shop, I was scrutinizing a pair of Converse when I saw a woman grab a gold-tone sneaker. They looked very Eurotrashy, I thought to myself. Then she opened her mouth, and confirmed my suspicions. She's definitely a limey.

Well, mall madness is far from over. Starting in April, the Open Skies agreement between the U.S. and E.U. will be in full force. More "half off" iPods for everyone.

Scooped!

2008-03-01T19:08:00.012-05:00

For the past three years, I've been writing a book in my mind. It's witty, erudite and insightful -- one that is guaranteed to win a Pulitzer.

Too bad the damn book has already been published by another native Noo Yawker obsessed with Europa.

Over the past week, I've been immersed in the book While Europe Slept: How Radical Islam is Destroying the West from Within. Ironically enough, I began the book while I was steps away from the al-Qaeda portion of Steinway Street. As I waited for my laundry, a woman in a burqa was folding her towels. I almost felt like I had to hide the cover of the book so that she wouldn't be offended.

But then again, this is America -- a nation where a melting pot culture is honored. That's pretty much Bruce Bawer's hypothesis throughout the text. To sum up his findings in one sentence: He's proud to be American because all Europeans are pretty much xenophobes, and have turned a blind eye toward the increasing Muslim hostilities from Amsterdam to Oslo and all throughout Western Europe.

Don't get me wrong -- his argument is sound, and I found myself nodding in agreement more often than not. The first 50 or so pages pretty much mimics the first 17 pages of MY book -- he talks about his desire to live in a civilized place after numerous years in New York (ha, doesn't that sound familiar). Once he touches down in Amsterdam, he gets a huge-ass bitch slap from the Dutchies. He gets mugged in broad daylight, and his "intellectual sensibilities" and the "American way of life" are continually bashed on from his new "enlightened" European friends.

Dude, we have parallel lives.

Then all of a sudden, he gets all rah-rah "USA! USA!" on the reader. His views irked me -- like he was trying to audition for a spot on "Fox and Friends." On some level, I know how it feels to be in a "foreign" land, constantly on the defensive about your home country. But that doesn't mean you have to turn into a mini-Rush Limbaugh.

Above anything, it's inspiring me again to get cracking on my own masterpiece. But I feel like there's still another chapter to be written before I really plunge into this. Today, while browsing around Borders, the European history section provided me with the inspiration to finish my tale.

I need to go to Turkey, stat!

Murder on the Dance Floor!

2008-02-26T10:49:00.005-05:00

In Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, that would be a possibility back in the day, thanks to Saturday Night Fever.

Now, the horrendous multi-color dance floor is gone, but the murders are not. Yesterday, a body was found in the bathtub of a Best Western. Reading about it further, the whole thing screams "mob hit" -- his mouth was gagged with duct tape, and I'm pretty sure the tub was filled with other liquids besides water. Ew.

Once upon a time, I would say unequivocally this was an Italian mob hit. Not now. It's a page ripped out of Eastern Promises -- this is most definitely a Russkie hit!

The ironic thing is that I stayed in this Best Western over three years ago, while I was interviewing for jobs here in the Big A. My mom and I sensed it was a sketchy Russian hangout. The lobby was smoky, the desk clerks barely spoke a word of English, while the concierge leered at us. It cracked us up at the time, but hey...at least we lived to tell about it!

Manhattan Skyline

2008-02-16T18:57:00.001-05:00

Since no one can afford to live in Manhattan anymore, the trend these days in New York City real estate to buy a loft with a view.

For nearly two years, I paid $150/month for this view. From my driveway.

Standing On the Shoulder of Giants...

2008-02-05T14:18:00.004-05:00

Scene: N train toward Brooklyn, around 9:20 this morning.

Homeless dude: "Good morning, I hate to bother you, but my mom just passed, and I have no money..."

Then a train conductor, eerily sounding like Barry White, crooned: "It is illegal to beg for money on the New York City subway system."

Just another day on the N. I crank up The Shins just a little bit louder to tune out the excess chatter. But there will be no peace on today's morning commute.

The doors open at 49th Street. A bunch of pimply-faced Jerseyites board the train, decked out in red, white and blue. No, they're not dressed in patriotic colors to commemorate 9/11 or Super-Duper Tuesday...they're on their way to the ticker-tape parade downtown for the Giants. Heck, I'm not even a big NFL fan, but that Super Bowl matchup the other night was pretty intense.

"Go Giants!" one screams at the top of his lungs. "Give me a G!"

"G!!!!!!!!"

"Give me an I!!!!!"

..."I???"

The passengers on the train start chanting. The homeless dude is being out-hustled by the Giants fans, eager to turn the Downtown N into an impromptu pep rally. Last I looked, this wasn't the Meadowlands parking lot. Let's see if this chant goes the distance with my fellow straphangers.

"Give me an A, N, T, S..."

I was impressed. He had the whole subway car cheering by the S. I was waiting for the Wave, but maybe that's for when the Mets take it all in their last season at Shea...

"Go Giants!!"

Writers' Strike!

2008-01-31T10:15:00.000-05:00

I'm showing solidarity with Tina Fey (and the crazy gray-haired guy screaming on the left) with the writers' strike; hence my lack of posts on the blogosphere as of late.

Ha, ha...that's not necessarily true. I've been busy writing other rubbish, but I hope to make a triumphant return soon...watch this space!

Christmas on Crack

2007-12-15T16:26:00.003-05:00

Growing up in the outer boroughs, my parents could never be bothered to take us into the city to see the tree in Rockefeller Center. Instead, we went to our local mob-infested neighborhood to sit on Santa's lap, be serenaded by the Muppets and Brenda Lee (f*ckin' pie, anyone?) and be awed by the gaudy lights.

This year, I wanted to return to an innocent time. Forgot ice-skating in Bryant Park; how about a drive out to Dyker Heights in Brooklyn? It didn't disappoint.

Woke up this morning, and got myself a gun...

Looks like Santa Claus is not coming to town here.

Jesus is the reason for the season, after all.

Sure, it was tacky and glorious at the same time, but there's an innocence to it that the Manhattan sights lack. Kids were genuinely excited to see Santa. However, the cynical adult in me kept on wondering how much these people were paying Con Ed this month.

Tunnel of Looove...

2007-12-13T16:59:00.005-05:00

(Scene: appropriately enough, the New Jersey side of the Lincoln Tunnel, waiting in traffic to pay the $6 toll. Tune playing in the car: The Smiths' "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out." That's depressingly cheerful, no?)

I drive up to the toll, clutching a $10 bill. The toll collector eerily resembles a "White Men Can't Jump" version of Wesley Snipes, complete with gold-rimmed glasses. He's a relatively attractive toll collector, but a little too slow. The traffic on a Sunday night is a killer.

He's taking a long time to collect my cash, but I'm in no rush.

Me: "Hello, how are you?" (I always say hello. Most of the NY metro toll collectors usually just grunt back, but once in a while, there's a nice one.)

Wesley Snipes: (staring a little too long that it makes me a little uncomfortable) "Why, hello there."

Uh-oh.

Wesley Snipes: "I just wanted to let you know that I think...well, you've got it!"

Got WHAT?!? The Motts? The Right Stuff?

Ha, I'm not that naive anymore...I knew what he was getting at. The color of my face matched my red gloves. I mumbled an incoherent thank you.

Wesley Snipes: "No, I should be thanking you! You made my day. I hope I see you again."

And with that, some SUV cut me off as I tried to enter the tunnel. Back to reality.

No Longer a "Massive New Yorker"...

2007-11-12T15:35:00.003-05:00

It's been nearly three years since I returned home (or as I affectionately call this phase in my life -- Real World: Back to New York).

Even though I continue to crave pizza every Friday, roll my eyes at the hipsters dominating the Nouveau New York, and have muttered plenty of pottymouth words under my breath about the crazy homeless and the more insane investment bankers on the subway, Stephanie noted this:

"Well, you're not quite a massive New Yorker anymore."

That made me nearly snarf up my egg nog latte.

However, I knew what she meant by it. The Noo Yawk accent hasn't quite returned with a vengeance -- well, unless I'm ranting to my mom. I don't consider myself to be a neurotic mess. I am still claustrophobic, but not nearly as commitment-phobic...staying in a place for nearly three years has been good for me in that department.

Sadly, the past three years have made me a bit more cynical about the direction my life is going. My sarcastic edge is becoming more and more prevalent in my personality. Because of that, I stopped reading Gawker (and besides, it sucks these days anyway).

Don't get me wrong; I have a very full life. However, the pace of it hasn't changed much since I kicked off my career here at 22. I'm always running around from happy hour to dinner outings, frantically catching up with my friends. It's a blast, but why do I get the feeling that if continue this much longer, I will always be a perpetual teenager?

I guess I'm craving a big life change, yet again. I have been for a while. Funny, the last time I was burnt out from the Big A (another three-year stretch from 1998-2001), I was escaping to Europa. Sadly, I don't think I'm heading back there permanently this time, but something's brewing on the horizon...