Personal insight

Some recent events in my life have forced me to take a personal inventory of myself: my attributes, the role I play, how I've defined myself to the present. Have you ever taken a step back and looked at yourself from the macro level? It's quite a surreal feeling. My friend J has always recommended doing that to realize all of your accomplishments and to feel better about yourself, because let's face it, on a day to day basis, if you're anything like me, you're usually beating yourself up wondering how you could've done things better.

Well, I had to compose a very brief profile of myself recently and I realized that the things that make me unique and intriguing to many folks are also the very same things that make me unapproachable. Unapproachable in the sense that, while most people would look at the profile and think "Wow, what a colorful life she's had," few would think "Wow, we have so much in common." I wonder if part of the reason why I find myself so isolated at times is due to this fact. We live in a society that is so self-involved; we've lost the appreciation for connecting with people. IM and texting have replaced oral conversations. As I was leafing through the pages of my sister's Ladies Home Journal today I saw an article that read Friends Lost and Found (or something like that). It was about how women tend to lose their friends once they introduce a family into their lives. Between kids, a husband and work, they find very little time to connect with their friends. Well, I don't buy that. I never have. I have friends in New York that DON'T have a family but with whom I still only hang out about once every 3 or 4 months. How could anyone be THAT busy? How is it that working women in most other Western countries don't have this problem but yet we do in this society? OK, I've gone off on a tangent and I guess that's a topic for another post.

Anyway, I guess I've just realized lately that I am a very interesting person. That's a good thing, for I can suffer from low self esteem. But I've also realized that what makes me so interesting can also make me lonely.

Launching a new blog - your advice needed

I've been asked to join the editorial/writing team of a new website geared toward men. I am told that when people visit the team page and click on my bio, they'll be directed to my own blog on which I can write anything. But I need to let them know what angle I'll be taking for this blog.

So my question to you is: what the hell do I write about to capture and maintain the ADD attention span of men? I don't know anything about gadgets and elecronics. My knowledge of sports extends to "David Beckham is SOOOOO hot!" I haven't owned a car in 3 years so I can't provide any input on that front. What else are men interested in? Sex. I'm not going there. I could so easily go there and often do with friends but I am NOT going to put in print anything on that topic and attach my face and name to it.

So what do I write about? The only non-chick topic that I care about is politics but maintaining fresh content on that would be such a huge undertaking.

Following is a list of topics that I could somewhat easily write about: international travel; dancing; yoga/spirituality; the environment; reading. The only type of guy I can imagine being interested in these is gay and wouldn't visit this particular site.

Please people, brainstorm.

Passionate dance?

My friend J forwarded me this article today about dancing tango in Central Park. There are milongas in Central Park on Saturday afternoons and evenings from June to September, and at Southstreet Seaport on Sundays. During the fall, winter and spring months they return to Chelsea Market.

When I first learned to dance the tango, I was intimidated and scared to get out there and practice. You see, I'm a good dancer. A really good dancer (yeah yeah, I'll admit it). So the fact that I didn't automatically know what I was doing after my first lesson dealt a sizeable blow to my ego. I would give my partners a puppy dog look and apologize any time I messed up. And they would graciously reply "Remember, it's always the guy's fault." I'll take that.

There's something altogether different about dancing at venues like Central Park and Chelsea Market. Even if you're a beginner, you still know more than the onlookers who watch, grinning from ear to ear, waiting for the opportunity to applaud you for gracing them with this unexpected gift. They happen upon this classic, beautiful dance and are usually surprised to see young folks dancing so even if you suck, you still walk away unscathed (egoically speaking).

I met a guy on my flight from Bangkok to Tokyo who turned out to be a tango dancer. He talked about how it's such a passionate dance, but I had to admit that I hadn't truly felt that passion. You see, a traditional milonga plays the old-school music from the 1940s (think phonograph). Every once in a while the DJ will throw in some nuevo tango songs (ie. Gotan Project). I enjoy dancing to the latter so much more. But it's not just the music. You have to fit with your partner. I've had the awesome pleasure of dancing with 3 guys with whom I felt so comfortable and so looked after. As a follower, if you're not given accurate cues, you fumble and aren't quite sure what to do. There are some great leaders and they all have different styles. Some are more direct, others more subtle. I prefer the direct ones: there's usually no question what he wants me to do, so I can relax into the song and into his embrace. Back to the topic of passion: I've yet to really, truly feel it. I've had some great dances. I've had dances with a couple of guys I was attracted to. But the passion that can only come from the right combination of attraction, synchronous dance styles, comfort with your partner, and music? As the dancer from my flight told me: "Not yet. But you will."

Looking forward to it.

It's time

It's time for me to go back home. After almost four months away from New York, I'm ready to head back.

Quitting your job with nothing lined up can be a scary thing. For some crazy reason, I wasn't mentally anguished over it. I walked in and felt like quitting. Two days later I decided to take four months off, go home to be with family and travel. Spending this quality time with my family has been just what my soul needed. I've gotten to know that beautiful little enigma, which is my niece, a lot better. I've had the support of my family while I ventured off on my first solo trip abroad.

But it's time. I'm ready to get back to a young city.

I'm ready to get back to my own space, as little as it may be. Working from home in my little studio makes me nervous (fear of cabin fever) but I'll have to make it work.

I'm ready to go out to dinner and be able to choose from Tibetan cuisine or Paraguayan fare.

I'm ready to order a glass of champagne at a lounge.

I'm ready to read a book in Central Park.

I'm ready to dance tango again and have a wider selection of partners than four men.

I'm ready to feel the pulse and energy of that chaotic city, no matter how many times it may send me to the brink of pulling someone's hair out.

Yes, there's still the expense, the competition, the mayhem, the schlepping of crap around on foot, the laundry situation. But it's a part of the package that I bought 3 years ago, and I'm not looking to return it.

So I'm ready. Wish me luck.

No wonder the earth's going to pot

I started boycotting Starbucks right after the 2004 tsunami when on a news program they showed the rubble of the beaches of Thailand and there, amongst the debris, was a Starbucks sign. I had already gotten sick of seeing one on every corner in my own city, but Thailand?!!? They had infiltrated eastern, exotic oases too?

I didn't mind avoiding Starbucks coffee because I prefer to support locally-owned businesses anyway. Last night my friend E and I went to a locally-owned coffeehouse, but based on what I saw, I'm willing to reconsider lifting my embargo against Starbucks.

While waiting in line for my drink I noticed that the sink near the coffee machines was running non-stop at full blast. As an environmentally-conscious person, this bothered me. I didn’t say anything but after I received my drink I sat down and hemmed and hawed with E over whether I should go back and say anything. I finally decided I would. I approached the girl making coffee and asked if there was a reason why the water was running. She replied that she kept it running to clean her pitchers. I asked why she couldn’t just turn it on and off when she needed to and her answer was "Because I've got like 20 tickets, so I'm busy."

Huh? I’ve worked in many restaurants before and I’ve never found that turning a knob on and off ate away precious minutes of my time. No, it ate away nanoseconds of my time. I found this to be a weak and highly unacceptable excuse but she didn’t seem the least bit interested in what I had to say. Would you believe that that water ran for the entire 2 ½ hours that I was there? The owner's water bill has got to be unnecessarily high. I wonder how s/he defrays those costs? Perhaps by passing the expense off onto customers through the price of their coffee?

Now, I'm no environmental Nazi, but I do my part. I consume hardly any energy in my apartment, I recycle, I live in a city where I take public transportation everywhere, I don't wash my hair everyday so I use up less water, I don't take a wadful of napkins nor plastic straws when I'm out eating, and I don't buy virgin toilet paper. This stuff is important to me and to the other 95% of the coffeehouse frequenting demographic. Did you know that water supplies in Turkey have dried up this summer due to the intense heat? They've had to ration running water in Ankara. The same goes for other Eastern European countries (wells have dried up in Bulgaria, for instance). Given these facts, how on earth can anyone accept the excuse that you’re too busy to twist the knob?

An unsettling feeling

For about a year and a half now I've been having a certain kind of dream that makes me feel seriously unsettled.

I'm drifting through layers upon layers of dreams in which I am desperately trying to wake up. I wake up and then I realize, no, I'm not actually awake. So I try again then I wake up only to realize once again that my attemps have failed. I'm stuck in dreams within dreams within dreams. My attempts to awake are fitful. I try banging my head against a wall in hopes that the shock will do the trick, but I'm moving in such slow motion that the impact of my head against the wall is like that of a turtle slammning into a cotton ball. Or I try to splash water on my face but I can't open my eyes.

In these dreams I am in the exact same spot as I am physically located in real life. If I'm in my apartment, I see myself lying in my bed in my apartment, all my furniture in tact. If I'm in a hotel or in someone else's house, then I visualize myself in that exact same room. It's like I'm outside my body, looking down & observing this stranger move about with her 5 senses cut off, yet strangely, I'm sensing her fear. Because that's precisely what I feel. Fear and panic that I can't wake up; that I won't wake up. It's a suffocating feeling, being trapped in these dreams as if I'm trapped in a soundproof room where no one can hear my cries.

I've had lucid dreams before, where I will certain things to happen because I realize I'm in a dream. In these dreams I realize I'm sleeping and dreaming, but I have no control over the outcome, which sends me into a panic.

These dreams happen in the morning, as I near my normal waking time. They sometimes occur once a month, and at other times somewhere like 4 times a week. I have chosen to view this figuratively: fearing that I won't "wake up". That's a loaded sentiment and there's far too much involved to explain what I mean by that. I'm open to other interpretations. Has anyone ever experienced something like this?

Mixed bag of thoughts

I'm writing this as thoughts pour out from my mind, so there's not much organization to this post.

My friend V said he's going to hear the Dalai Lama speak at Radio City Music Hall in October and asked me to come. I think I may head there, though I feel a bit of a fraud. Let me explain.

When I was planning my recent trip abroad, I wanted to spend an extended period of time in a Buddhist nation, perhaps attend a meditation retreat or yoga retreat. That's when I decided to spend 3 weeks in Thailand. Well, we know how that turned out. Before leaving my sister recommended the following book for me to read:


I couldn't get enough of Eat Pray Love. Here was this woman I could completely identify with. Neurotic, wrought with worry, wanting desperately to find faith but a skeptic through and through. She too is a roamer. In the beginning she states that the one thing she knows about herself is that she is never more comfortable than when she's traveling. I was telling a friend that EXACT same thing about myself just days before I read those words in her book. I felt like I was in Italy with her, trying to analyze this thing called "pleasure" and how one goes about obtaining it, treating it like it's a lab experiment. I wanted to be in India with her, getting centered, coming to the present, identifying who I truly am. And I thought I might have that in Southeast Asia. No, I wouldn't have the luxury of spending 4 months at a retreat like she did in an Ashram, but perhaps I could inch a little closer to nirvana through 3 weeks of quiet contemplation, meditation and healthy eating. So when I gave into my fears of traveling to Thailand solo and cancelled that portion of the trip, I felt like a complete failure. I cried for days, wondering if I just threw away an opportunity to find God.

Then my sister recommended the following book for me to read:



Again, here was a Western woman who had already come a ways down her path, which lead her to Eastern principles and philosophies. Again, here was a woman who offered simple explanations and tips on how we Westerners could adopt some of these principles and modify our lifestyle for the better. I started the book at JFK, continued in Milan and dropped it somewhere in Athens only having reached mid way.

When I got to Bangkok and Japan and I observed people around me at the temples bowing and praying to the Buddhist statues, I realized how foolish I was being. Could I bow to these same statues in reverance? No. The faith of these people was as deep as an ocean while mine was that of a kiddie pool. Shrines, statues... I grew up in a religion that blasphemes image worshipping. Although I no longer practice the religion I was raised with, it's still a part of me, rooted in my cells.

In recent days I've been feeling like nothing's really changed. Swap out A from April with A from today and you wouldn't notice much of a difference. Yes, I've gone to some really cool places and I've learned some things about myself, but if you look at my actual life circumstances (still unsure what I want to do professionally, dabbling in similar work to that which I quit, still seeking fulfillment outside of me), you wouldn't notice a grand difference.

I began this 'sabbatical' journey with the hopes that I'd find my spiritual grounding somewhere along the way, whether in Thailand, Japan or in my parents' living room. I thought that if I put myself in a situation where I was required to do the daily rituals (ie. a retreat or ashram), I would take these daily practices away with me and adopt them into my life back home. In essence, I've always pushed it off into the future "Maybe in Thailand. Maybe in Japan. Maybe if I join a Buddhist center in New York. Maybe Maybe Maybe" How can I expect transcendence a la Elizabeth Gilbert if I don't just buckle down and do it? I've sent out so many prayers into the universe in the hopes that some force outside of me would look down with pity and say "Oh dear, OK, you're finally ready and worthy of my blessings. OK, I'll now grant you the ability to love unconditionally and enjoy each moment's gifts" and POOF, I'd be healed. Kind of like those people on the Sunday morning church shows who get slapped on the forehead and are infused with the Spirit of the Holy Ghost. But it doesn't work that way. Just like the dieter who promises to resume healthy living the next day, right after he snarfs down the double cheeseburger and french fries in front of him, I too keep putting off changing my life. So when am I going to stop putting it off to tomorrow and instead change it here, now, where I sit?

So yeah, I can go listen to the Dalai Lama speak, but will it make a difference?

Secret burning desires

For ten years now I have harbored a deep, secret, passionate lust for a married man. Ever since the first moment I laid eyes on him, when I walked into his bar and literally gasped. He owns an ethnic, very cool bar/restaurant in my hometown. I only visit like once a year. Yet each time I do, my heart does the mambo, my head melts into the martinis he pours and other parts of my body yell "YOWZA! I AM ALIVE!!!!"

I can take it no longer. The next time I see him, I must confess my thoughts. Not my desires, not my lust. Just my thoughts. I will walk up to him and say "Dimitrio, I think you are beautiful. And not just physically. You are beautiful because your smile and personality light up this room. You are beautiful because of your devotion to your wife and children. I just wanted to let you know that I think you're incredible." I won't be able to tell him what I'm really feeling, which is, "Dimitrio, I love you. I think you are one of the most f'ing f'able men I've ever known. If ever you find yourself in the other 50% of the statistical range of marriages - divorced - please call me and put me out of my misery."

Tonight while at his bar an old guy sat down next to E & me and offered to buy us a drink. He asked me out to dinner next week. I lied and told him I had a boyfriend. "32 years old. Investment banker. We've been together a little less than a year. Why yes, he is lucky. But he's a wonderful man too." Yeah, whoever he is.

Just minutes after he asked me out, he showed us some rather interesting pictures of his ex-girlfriend, the porn star.

This is the caliber of man I attract. This is why I'm still single.

Snip snip. And I'm not talking hair.

Last night my mom popped in a 17-year-old home video of my brothers' circumcision party. Yes, you read correctly. See, Turks allow their boys to escape the hospital uncut at birth. These boys then spend the next 6-9 years of their lives knowing that they are fated to one day be alert and conscious, arms and legs pinned down, while a man recites "Bismillahirahmaaaaanirahim" (the way you do when you're about to slaughter an animal) and slices off their foreskin. In the case of my brothers, we had them sedated and modified in an American hospital. But we still had a party!

The parties are kind of like a bar mitzvah in the Jewish tradition, except the boy wears an outfit that makes him look like a mini Liberace (see picture to the right - no, these are not my brothers. Aren't they adorable though?).

Back to OUR party. I wonder if one day we'll look back on 2007 and wonder "What were we SMOKING?" the way I looked back on 1990 last night. I, at age 13, looked like a stick figure in a dress. A very short, very tight dress that was designed for someone with breasts. As a late bloomer, I developed my raisins two years later. Needless to say, I looked ridiculous. My hair looked like this man's, only wavier. My friend Medine looked like a backup dancer in a Salt 'n Peppa video, with her MC Hammer pants and her teased fountain bangs. Men wore white suits with black shoes or black pants with white socks. I'm sad to report that not much has changed on that front among this community.

So my parents want to have a circumcision party for my nephew this summer. He was snipped at birth because my American brother-in-law threatened divorce if my sister tried to do it the traditional way. But my parents want the party anyway - it's not about the cutting, it's about the party - something small, among family in the yard. I think they should hold out and have a full-blown traditional party for him next year in Turkey, Liberace suit and all.

I deserve a second chance - sadness

I made a mistake yesterday. Similar to a mistake I made with another person just a week ago. I'm human though. It takes a while for me to learn.

I may have thrown away a great opportunity due to this error. But I deserve a second chance.

God, I hope they give me a second chance.

Smuggling humans across the border

Yesterday my friend E and her friend J invited me to tag along on their day trip to Niagara-on-the-lake, a gorgeous little resort town about 1.5 hour's drive away. We left at about 1:30 and due to traffic, it took us 2.5 hours to get to the border. About a 1/2 hour before the border, J asks us "So if this place is on the Canadian side, do I need to show a birth certificate or something?"
E: Just a driver's license will do
J: But I didn't bring anything
A & E: WHAT?!?!? You didn't bring any ID?
J: No, I thought this place was on the American side!
E: No!!! There's nothing on the American side. The American side blows. It's crap! Oh my God, we can't go!
J: Oh shoot, we're going to have to turn back. Even if Canada lets me in, the US won't let me back in because of heightened security and I can't be detained in Canada. I have kids!
A: OK, let's calm down. Honestly, all you need is a driver's license. A terrorist can easily get a driver's license. I don't think they're that strict. We've already come all this way, I think we should at least try it.

J continues to protest, fearing she'll be detained and deported to Guantanamo Bay, never to see her kids again. She was so cute, all American Pie and so by-the-book. But, I'll confess my weakness and admit that at that moment I wanted to smack her. So we're devising all kinds of stories to feed the border patrol agents, from "My purse was stolen" (but how do you get around the lack of a police report) to "We don't know who this lady is, she just jumped in the car with us and we asked ourselves 'What would Jesus do?', so we're taking her back home." I, despite being the ONLY one who brought proper identification for entering a foreign coutry (a passport) am told by E and J to not open my mouth and to show my driver's license instead of my passport since it's recently been stamped with entry into and exit out of Egypt. Sure, pick on the Muslim! Give ME grief. I assure everyone that we'll be fine. That J will spend the night in her bed and that I've been through these ordeals with shady looking non-American citizens before and that the worst that happens is that they turn us away.

So Canada lets us in. The very scary-looking 5-foot-nothing lady asked us where we were from, never asked to see our ID and just let us pass. Cake!

Niagara-on-the-lake is lovely. Their flower arrangements are priceless, the architecture old, rich and colonial, the mansions imposing, the lake serene, the shops and galleries exquisite. Honestly, this place makes the Hamptons look like Flint, Michigan. There were LOTS of tourists and many from Europe.

We had a HORRIBLE meal at The Buttery - do not go there. I repeat, do not go there. If you value your stomach, tastebuds and money, do not step foot in this place. They screwed up EVERYTHING. Even the bread. How can you screw up bread? The crab cakes tasted like microwaved Mrs. Paul's fish sticks, my salmon was like someone pulled it out of the water and poured a flavorless cream sauce over it, E's pork tenderloin could've been used as a hockey puck and J's vegetable strudel was a "Where's Waldo" exercise of vegetable seeking. We very kindly told the manager that it was the worst meal we've had in months. That the waiter was fine but that this really was awful. She gave us a discount but really, she should've just let us walk along our merry way. It was that bad. At $26 an entree, how dare you serve a meal that tastes like your dog made it?

I then proceeded to have a GIANT "small size" ice cream in a waffle cone. I couldn't finish it but the damage was already done. I had one too many licks for I became really ill afterwards. Anyway, the sunset was a fiery red and you could see Toronto's C&N Tower off in the distance. Really, outside of the meal and that momentary lapse in J's judgment, the day so far was perfect.

Until we got to US Border Patrol.

Agent: Citizenship?
E: American
Agent: IDs
(A & E produce IDs and J feigns angst over not being able to locate her ID)
J: Guys, I can't find my license.
E: What do you mean you can't find your license?
Agent: How'd you get into Canada?
E: They never asked for IDs
Agent: They'll let anybody in. OK, pull over and go with this lady.

They take us into the Customs and Immigration office where we explain the situation: How J seems to have lost her license somehow; how she's an American citizen, born & bred. They're not buying it. They're telling us that E & I can pass but J can't - not until she produces valid papers. At this point, we're Thelma & Louise. If one of us goes down, we're ALL going down. I think this is a very generous act on my part, considering I've only just met J. We tell them this and they say "Suit yourselves."

We spent the night there. On cold, hard benches, J frantically calling her ex-husband to please pick up her identification and bring it to us. Crying on the phone and begging her kids to remember that she loves them. I'm rolling my eyes. It's all her fault. How could she be so STOOPID?! I called my family and told them the situation. My overly-dramatic mother begs to speak to the agents, threatening to commit harry carry if they don't set us free. I, still nauseous from the contaminated salmon and pound of ice cream I ate, am running back and forth to the bathroom every 5 minutes. This raised suspicion among the agents and they barred me from going to the bathroom. So I puked on one of the agent's feet. The whole night was a MESS. At 9am J's ex finally strolls through the door, producing her birth certificate. They finally let us go free. E & I made Janet ride back with her ex. We thought it a fitting punishment. Throughout the ride we thought of other ways to make her pay for that night detained at the Canadian border "Maybe she can pay for our trip to Italy next year. I think it's only fitting."

OK, I have to admit something now. I just lied about that whole ending. After all the buildup in the day of "Will J be able to step foot on US soil again?" and ridiculous stories, I just thought this alternate ending would sound a lot more interesting. Here's what really transpired:

Agent: Citizenship?
E: American
Agent: IDs
(A & E produce IDs and J feigns angst over not being able to locate her ID)
J: Guys, I can't find my license.
E: What do you mean you can't find your license?
Agent: How'd you get into Canada?
E: They never asked for IDs
Agent: They'll let anybody in. Where'd you go, how long were you there and why?
E: We just went to Niagara-on-the-Lake. We were there for about 5 hours and we wanted to walk around and have a nice meal. But instead we had a horrible meal.
Agent: Oh yeah? Where?
A & E: The Buttery. Don't go there!
Agent: What'd you order?
E: The pork tenderloin. But I could've been eating my shoe. That's how dry it was.
Agent: Alright ladies, go ahead. Have a good evening.

See? Now which ending would YOU have preferred writing about?

Renouncing identity

My aunt wants to sing "God Bless America" on July 4th and raise a can of brew to our president. She wants to eat hot dogs at ball games and bake apple pies. My aunt, ladies & gents, wants to become an American citizen.

She asked me yesterday to translate her 5-page booklet of questions for her. Call me old fashioned, but I think that in order to become a citizen of a country, you should at least be able to understand the questions asked of you during the exam. You should probably know a few more words than just "Hello, thank you" and "unemployment office". On my blogger profile it states that I do yoga, live in NYC, am into green & natural living, and I'm a francophile. It doesn't take much to guess my political leanings. But on the immigration front, I'm kind of torn. I think it's because I personally know many people who've been in this country almost 40 years but who don't know 40 words in English. They always used their children as their mouthpiece.

So I translate the questions for her.
"If the President of the United States were to pass away, who would take his place?"
Translated "If Bush croaks, who are we stuck with?"

There were questions on there like, 'Who made the first American flag"?
My sister's answer: Betty White
My brother-in-law's answer: Betty Crocker
My answer: Betty Page
Google's answer: Betsy Ross.

See? We grew up here and WE don't even know the answer to that. I don't think half the questions are relevant. In my opinion, you should be able to speak and understand English and understand CURRENT affairs. You should also understand how our government works. But do you have to know "Two if by land, one if by sea"? I don't think so.

Welcome to the blogosphere

When I started my blog over a year ago, I did it mainly to give my friends a glimpse into my daily life in New York. I had been in the city less than a year and there were so many experiences, sights and smells that are so very New York that I had to share them with my non-New York world. I never sought out attention and never visited others' blogs.

In the past couple of weeks I've thought about reaching out more, establishing a network of friends and just communicating more with other bloggers. After almost two years of blogging, I'm just NOW learning about the blogosphere. And now I'm addicted.