Love in the Time of Swine Flu - Part 4

5-7
Here's how the day goes: arrive in Arequipa, shit my brains out, sleep, read some, tour the city with a nice worker from the hostel, shit my brains out at a nice restaurant, eat overpriced chicken soup though my stomach can't even handle that while everyone else gorges on tasty traditional Arequipenian dishes, shit my brains out again back at the hostel, sleep, chat with a Swiss couple from the tour, go out on the town with three English blokes, Noel, Rich, and Edd, peck some girl who Rich thankfully steals away leaving me to chase after prettier Peruvian gal who knows she's pretty, make plans with prettier Peruvian gal for an unlikely manyana dinner since she speaks no English and I no Spanish, make it home safely sans gal and happy to be solo as it won't be long before I have shit my brains out for the millionth time.

5-9
Grettings from Chivay, one of the gateway towns to Colca Canyon, which is more than twice as deep as the Grand Canyon. I booked a two day tour for $30USD, though there are plenty of hidden fees for park entrances and expensive touristy meals. I'm sharing a room with two French-Canadians, Guillaume and Stephanie. While we met back in Huacachina and again at The Point hostel in Arequipa, it wasn't until Colca that our relationship blossomed. We get on quite well.
Guillaume is particularly fascinated with my Jewishness. He is a 19 year old idealist quick to engage any and everyone in a political discourse. Last night he drunkenly confronted an Arequipenian policeman and pleaded with the officer to abandon his corrupt ways (assuming the officer was corrupt in the first place). Everyone from The Point went out after extreme university-style drinking at the hostel, replete with life-size drinking Jenga and forced shots of Pisco, which my attempts to refuse were met with "You're a pussy. Pussy! Pussy! Pussy!" at the hands of not just the mental coked out Peruvian girl on staff, but everyone else as well; something like 14 people from all around the world.
Good thing people have short memories. A few hours later we were at the bar having a grand time - Noel and I were taking photos with our pants down, much to the bouncers' dismay. I won over a fan in the form of a Peruvian girl who coerced me into doing my best impersonation of Footloose on the dance floor. Along with a reduced party batallion, she accompanied me to a new bar where we might've smooched once, I might've bought her and the crazy coked-out girl from the hostel each an overpriced martini, and I might've excused myself to the bathroom and ducked out of the bar without goodbye.
Upon stepping outside, I ran smack into Noel, who was very interested in having a sentimental heart-to-heart. There was lots of hugging and "No seriously, you are the greatest guy in the whole wide universe" from both ends. And then without missing a beat, he was chatting up an Irish girl and I jumped into a taxi home amidst some massive street brawl. I couldn't actually see the brawl, just hoards or Peruvians sprinting down the street and screaming inaudibly.
Earlier in the afternoon I met up with another girl from couchsurfing, Carla. With the Brits in tow, we all went out for smoothies. Mine had Tuna in it, a local fruit - not the fish. Most delectable. A pleasant few hours with Carla meant one point for Jared in the category of genuine Peruvian cultural exploration. Take that duality balance.

Love in the Time of Swine Flu - Part 3

5-4

I left the nest of my hostel in Lima, presently en route for Huacachina. The taxi to the bus station felt as if it might breakdown at any moment. The driver was old and friendly with a towel draped over his lap, maybe to conceal an accident involving bodily functions. Even though I could have walked faster than his cab, I was happy to give him the money.  

On the bus, they are playing the film, "Outbreak". I wonder if they're attempting to be ironic. While there is no evidence of any concern regarding Swine Flu in Peru, a Kiwi traveler from my hostel was stranded in Lima last night after his flight to the States via Mexico was cancelled. All flights for the past week via Mexico have been cancelled. 

Outside my window, the landscape has drastically transformed from urban metropolis into mountainous desert.  

5-6 

We all found each other at an oasis in the desert: Drew, the self-righteous dreadlocked American know-it-all; Malta, the 30 year old party-dazed German with a funny haircut, fisherman pants, and perpetually-lit joint in hand; Cecily, the 23 year old beer-drinking, football-watching, steel-stomached unassuming gal from Leeds; and Sam, the boyish 22 year old Brit with windswept hair and chipper but bumbling demeanor, looking as if he stepped out of Maroon 5; and then of course, me, the unique snowflake. 

There was nothing to do at the picturesque but ramshackle Casa de Arena other than laze about the pool and socialize. Surrounding us on all sides were the imposing dunes, looking as if we'd found something halfway to paradise in the middle of the Sahara.  

I jumped on a dune buggie tour, accompanied by 5 Israelis who squealed with delight as we precariously sped up mountains of sand and plunged down their steep inclines. To break up the heart-stopping ride, we made several attempts at sandboarding on bootleg contraptions waxed up with candles. I found it best going down on my belly, headfirst. One run I gathered so much speed I was nearly sent into orbit. 

At night all we did was booze, play darts, and shoot pool on a table with pockets smaller than the balls. On my final evening there was a barbeque, after which I managed to dance some with a motley crew of Brits and Yanks. Nothing like a gay guy sporting a hipster mustache to work a cockblock. 

In the morning, it was for the best nobody ended up back in the room besides Malta, my roomie, because the previous night's barbeque wasn't sitting well. I was off to the bathroom, but not before a painful toilet paper treasure hunt. 

The Casa de Arena felt like imitation Spring Break 2009, and while it was good fun, it reminded me about the dual track of traveling: there is the country being traveled, and then there is the backpacker world within it: young Western travelers looking to go crazy and suck you back into the dynamics of a high school party where you once again must prove your coolness. The backpacker circuit can be hard to escape, especially when one suffers from FOMO - fear of missing out; and IWETLM - I want everyone to like me. It will be interesting to see how I balance the duality.

Love in the Time of Swine Flu - Part 2

5-2
I'm waiting at the seaside mall, the Larco Mar, to meet up with a girl I found on couchsurfing.com. I made it to Lima. My second flight last night was delayed, but in the process I fortuitously became aquainted with a nice girl from Mexico, Elena, who complimented my Spanish accent even though I knew no actual words. Two older women on the plane requested that she switch seats since she was Mexican, and well, you know, swine flu. I wasn't afraid.
Elena helped negotiate my taxi to the hostel before we parted ways. The driver had some trouble finding the place as the roads in Miraflores, the neighborhood where I'm staying, can get mighty confusing; think Enter the Dragon's climactic house of mirrors. It doesn't help matters that Lima is perpetually shrouded in fog.
Today was low key. I went to the supermarket and strolled around some with a Dutch guy, Guido (said with a rolled 'H' instead of 'G'), who looks more Hispanic than Dutch. Back at the hostel I made friendly with my new dormmate, Laura - an attractive young-looking 49 year old with dreams of stepping into Machu Picchu on her 50th birthday in 18 days. Hailing from Vancouver, her accent points to previous lives in England and Scotland. She seemed eager to hang out, but I decided to hedge my bets with the girl from couchsurfing.
The hostel proprietor told me it would take over an hour to make it on foot to the mall. It took 30 minutes, even strolling at a leisurely pace that led me past countless affectionate couples embracing romantically before an ocean sunset.
Remarkably, I don't feel jealous or bitter...well, maybe a tad jealous, but no anger - probably because I'm too hungry to focus on matters of lust and love.

5-3
I wound up meeting up with Lucia, the 23 year old girl from couchsurfing. I jokingly messaged her on couchsurfing because all her photos were taken in a bikini...and then she responded. She stood me up at the Larco Mar and instead had me meet her at her house while she got ready to go out. Together with a 31 year old blonde american chick standing 6 feet tall and sporting a foot tattoo, and this 20 year old peruvian chica, Daniella, we went to a super posh bar that looked more like a rich estate from the outside. Turns out I found a yuppie girl to be my nightlife tourguide, and in trying to look cool, I bought everyone´s drinks and dropped $30 on one round...in fucking Peru! It was a worthy investment though as afterwards we gained free entrance to some fancy club where everyone knew how to dance salsa, merengue, chacha, etc.

While Daniella and I got our groove on, I secretly hoped that her drunkeness would disguse the fact I have no idea how to salsa. She must've been crazy because she said I held my own. Before I could kiss her, the American chick, Kristen - who actually had been to Michigan before...to visit her then-boyfriend who was doing time at the federal penitentary in Milan - got too drunk and smooched me. I don´t think I fit her type, but after playing macho guy all night keeping all the unwanted other male attention at bay, and her being 31 with a ticking biological clock and no interest in small Latin guys, I must´ve made an impression. She wasn´t terrible, but a bit white trash for my tastes. Nobody saw her kiss me, and so I was back with Daniella, and while trying to keep rythym with her crazy hips - think Shakira - we ended up...eh, enough with the details.

I don´t think Lucia was too happy and Kristen had too much to drink. At 4am, they piled into a taxi and left me alone debating whether to hail my own taxi or brave it home on foot. Drunk off pisco sours and the smell of the sea, I decided to sprint the 1.5miles home, no idea if it was safe, past the lover´s park where at all times of the day and night couples sit on the ocean cliff and suck face.

***

Today I explored central Lima with two girls from the hostel. Well, I guess Laura isn't so much a girl as a woman. We walked the streets, saw the plazas, stumbled upon a rally of sorts and witnessed the daily changing of the guard at the presidential palace. We visited an old Franciscan monastery and the catacombs beneath housing the bones of tens of thousands. In a nearby square there were random celebrations going on, maybe because of impending Cinco de Mayo, and even a weird carnival of sorts set before what looked like a colorful mountainside slum. For lunch I had ceviche. What can I say? I'm a badass!

Love in the Time of Swine Flu - Part 1

4-30
They said if I valued my life I wouldn't go; or something like, you've got the rest of your life to go. But I beg to differ: Peru can't wait, and so off I go to see the sights, smell the sounds; learn South American geography.
Meanwhile, sitting in the Detroit airport, a woman in a yellow blouse drags a red flower repeatedly around her face - possibly a new anti-aging practice I'm not yet familiar with.
It's raining buckets outside. There is another woman, probably in her late-thirties, fake and baked, flower bracelet ankle tattoo. A plunging reverse neckline reveals a tight back. Nice calves too. I want her badly.
I look nice today - freshly showered, gray v-neck sweater, well-fitting blue jeans, and just-the-right-amount-dirtied white Dunlop Volleys. Real sharp. Who wouldn't want to ravage me?

5-1
They bought me off with $50, a packed PB&J lunch, and a ride to the airport. I'm flying solo now on this trip to Peru after Emily and Mindy dropped out only hours before takeoff. Going to Peru wasn't even my idea in the first place. Emily succumbed to the swine flu scare - her family pleaded with her not to go to the point of tears. As for Mindy - Ms.'When are we ever going to be able to take a trip like this again?' - she bailed for a job interview, even with another job already in the bag.
And so I'm off without any idea why. I'm always keen to go anywhere in good company. In this case, I didn't know the company super well, but enough to know they weren't all about chasing after Latin women. I was ambivalent toward the destination - could've gone for Brazil or Argentina more. Now I'm out of company and stuck with an arbitrary destination. I can't stand to be alone for one day, let alone 32. Sure, I'll make friends, but are long stretches of time to myself inevitable?
I don't like the fact that I don't speak Spanish either, partly bcause I feel like I should know the language due to its huge influence in the States; and also because I'm nervous about getting hustled.
I don't know the first thing about Peru. The US media and my parents have convinced me swine flu will get me if I go. Come and get me swine flu. I dare you. I double-dog dare you.

...

What a sad moment it is to discover that a cloud cannot hold your weight.
On the plane, it seems like years ago that I said goodbye to Emily and Mindy and Mindy's marathon-running twin sister, Phoebe. In the sky, the plane violently lurches, feeling as though it might just plunk into the ocean below. I look to my seatmate, a large unattractive black girl. She is not someone with whom I wish to spend my final moments.
One would think that the more times you fly, the more comfortable you get. With me, it just gets worse every time as I think statistically the odds are stacking up against me in favor of a plane crash.
The flight attendants are all wearing face masks. Could it be swine flu?

Few Months In Few Sentences, plus an old letter

Move home because there´s no more money nor opportunity in Ann Arbor. Service industry managed to erode most of self-confidence accrued in last 24 years. Work very part time transcribing market research interviews for U-M Business School study on why people love particular products. Interviewees often get personal and share entire life stories. Jared listens intently and laughs when one man compares his love for ipod to love for biscuits and gravy.
At home, it is a solitary life. There is no transportation, notwithstanding Father´s Z3 convertible stolen on various nice days to attend high school wrestling practice as some sort of volunteer coach. Emotional attachment ensues to wrestlers, deepened by their elation in victory and sorrows in defeat. Sprinkle in a fling with someone from long ago, daily trips to the library, and weekend adventures with Germans. Parents insist living like this isn´t healthy, so they help in purchasing a used Subaru in the hopes it will drive him to a better place.
A job presents itself in DC teaching overachieving middle schoolers about leadership through the lens of history. Lots of random facts about the Nation´s capital are absorbed, e.g. the profile of Robert E Lee´s bust is carved into the back of Lincoln´s hair at the Lincoln memorial. Upon completion, brother Lane drives down in the Subaru for a road trip to New Windsor, New Paltz, and NYC.
There´s still some money in pocket, so why not blow it in Peru?



October, 2008 - On the cusp of 24

Dear ____________

It's inexcusable, intolerable, and punishable by death in some countries for how I've acted in not responding more promptly to your email sent nearly one month ago now. Please, burn me in effigy and flagellate my voodoo doll incarnation that I'm sure you have sitting on your dresser.
I'm still in Ann Arbor and bitter about it at times. As you know, I no longer work at Charleys. They fired me, and maybe it was for the best. I still believe I was the best waiter they ever had. I wrote a silly story about the whole experience in seeking closure. I was unemployed for a few weeks but now I have a part time gig doing transcription for a research study by the U-M Business School. It pays $9 an hour and I can work whenever
and wherever I feel so inclined. The only problem is that transcribing isn't exactly the most stimulating work.
I'm still volunteering regularly at 826. I don't know if volunteering is the right word but I'm in here quite a bit. In fact, I'm at 826 right now working in the store as I write this. Mr. Eggers paid us a visit a few weeks ago to check up on the store and our state of affairs. There was a volunteer appreciation event where we did drinks with the man for a few hours at Cafe Habana. He and I chatted briefly, albeit superficially. Sadly enough, I didn't get a job offer out of the shindig nor a collaboration proposal for a new book.
As for living arrangements, I stay with a couple around my age I sort of know from home. We live in Woodbury Garden Apts across from Colonial Lanes and I pay $350 a month. It's awkward living with a couple cohabitating together for the first time since it often feels that I'm an unwanted guest. The price is attractive and I don't know where else I'd live. Even though they claim to be poor, somehow a $1500 flat screen hi-def television ended up in our living room. I believe it was the cause of my bad migraine last Saturday after sitting in front of it for too long and then going to the strip club.
I'm biking everywhere these days. It takes me about 10 minutes to get downtown. Now that it's starting to get cold, I presume the bike's novelty will quickly wear away.
I still hang out with the Germans. There were a few more that arrived after you left - Felix, Reimo, and Thomas (ironically enough, Patrick's older sister's boyfriend) - and they've proven to be stand-up guys. Last night Felix, Reimo and I went bowling followed by a trip to Wendys for cheeseburgers to really put a cap on the whole American experience (though they got dollar chicken sandwiches). Brian and I probably hang out more now too than when we lived together. He's still dating Devon.
I sort of was seeing this girl for about two weeks, a 5th year English major at U-M who impressed me with her salsa skills at Habana a while back. Per usual, I panicked at the prospect of sober hookups and suggested trying out a platonic relationship. On going-out nights she'd dress up all sexy and scandalous, while on regular nights she looked like an indie rock chick. I was inexplicably overwhelmed with the transition. This past weekend she stopped returning my calls when I fled a bar after watching her freak some other dude. She texted me about twenty minutes ago saying she wanted to hang tonight. I'm confused and maybe deservedly so.
While I am making progress, the gap between girls who I'm compatible with and the girls I want to sleep with has proven most challenging.
My plan is to only remain in Ann Arbor for a month longer before taking off somewhere yet to be determined. My financial situation is rather poor and my patience has run thin. I can't handle chasing after pretty 18 year old dimwits and the lack of necessary day-to-day stimulation. I feel badly about leaving behind the Germans who have come to feel like family, but there comes a time in a man's life when he's gotta bust a move.

NYC (part III) 11/11-19: "You never got your generation’s memo that returning phone calls is so passe"

You rub the sleep from your weary eyes, for it is now Tuesday and you are alive. You take your first shower in several days. It feels nice. Showers are always more satisfying when you don’t have them as often. Being clean never felt so good. Still, you wouldn’t be up at this ungodly hour if Horowitz didn’t have to leave for work. You stop off for some bagels and smoothies before jumping on the 7 train to Bryant Park.
Today will be different. You decide to change things up and head for the NY Public Library with all your bags in tow – can’t trust friends anymore who never pick up their phones. Upon emerging from the subway, you unexpectedly happen upon a massive ice rink. There are some chairs set up, conveniently enough in a patch of inviting sunlight. You grab a seat and stare for a while at a pretty girl on skates, gliding along the ice.
An official looking man walks by and you ask him how much it costs to rent skates. $10, he says. Too much. It’s nice just watching the graceful girl in the rink. She surprises you with a double toe loop here, a double salchow there. Maybe she lands a triple, but if that’s true, what would she be doing skating in Bryant Park at 10 in the morning? You wonder if she notices your staring, whether she’s flattered, annoyed, or just indifferent. That’s when you catch a creepy looking middle-aged man taking an equal interest in you, conspicuously ogling you each time he rounds your side of the rink. Thankfully a group of schoolchildren arrive and provide a human shield. You wonder if you’ve hung these children out to dry? Is the middle-aged man a pedophile? Do you still count as a youth at 24? You are a very young looking 24, what with the boyish face and lack of aggressive facial hair. It’s good that the children are standing there to protect you from his scary glare. Another man, most likely nostalgically reliving old hockey days, speed skates by the school children several times with one de-gloved hand outstretched, high-fiving them with every repeated pass. The sun has shifted and you’re out of the limelight. It’s time to go.
The NY Public Library doesn’t open for another hour, so you make your way into the auxillary library across the street. At the back of the 3rd floor there are some desks which look mighty inviting to rest your head upon. Lord knows it was tough work watching that pretty girl dance all over the ice like some kind of imagined succubus. As your eyes start to close, you hear the sound of snoring coming from the other side of the desk divider. It seems you’re not the first to have this brilliant idea. After yesterday’s incident at Barnes and Noble with the security guard, you’re not willing to take any chances. Flipping through the latest US News issue of college rankings and surfing the internet in company with NYC’s smelliest kills enough time before it’s off to the main library.
Past the sleeping lions you tread, up the stairs – it feels like walking into the Pantheon. Once inside, the vastness is overwhelming. Where are all the books? There are loads of tour groups, vaulted ceilings, multiple levels, winding stone staircases, and secret map rooms. The featured exhibit is all about Yaddo – an exclusive community of rotating creative types (artists/writers/musicians) invited to work in peace on a sprawling estate in Saratoga Springs. Notable names include Capote, Copeland, and Philip Roth.
Normally you are unamused by museums, but after so many trips to Union Square, this provides a welcome respite. Who knew Yaddo could be so engrossing? Two hours later, you can’t any longer stand on your own two feet. Here’s hoping Horowitz left your name on the list as you wend your way back to Long Island City.
Day turns to night as your time in NYC whittles down. Mike has invited you to the Upright Citizens Brigade theatre for some improv comedy. You oblige. The theatre is intimate, maybe 120 or so people. The acts are very funny. Around the middle of the show, the MC’s suggestively remark than on any given night, you never know just who might drop by. Sure enough, as the next group takes to the stage and the lights go up, the audience erupts. You can’t figure out what’s going on. An attractive blonde sitting to your right seizes your shoulders and starts shaking you hysterically. Of the 6 performers on stage, one appears slightly out of place. He is older than the others. He is funny looking. His name is Robin Williams and he’s standing no more than twenty feet away from you. Not a bad way to spend your final night in the city, and for a meager five bucks to boot. What the hell were you thinking spending $13 on the new Bond film?
The performance lets out, Mike leaves with his girlfriend, it’s colder than ever and you have no idea where you’re sleeping. The clock inches closer to midnight. It’s too late to call anyone – anyone except for Lauren with whom you were supposed to go out earlier but failed to return your calls. You never got your generation’s memo that returning phone calls is so passe. You send some passive-aggressive text messages “Firing her as a friend.” The ploy works, though you’re not so sure it’s a ploy. She calls and an invitation is extended amidst profuse apologizing. There’s even some left over food, she says.
Fate has fared you well, and even though you haven’t managed so much as a kiss during your eight days in the world’s most epic metropolis, you never had to sleep in Central Park.

NYC (part II) 11/11-19: "I'm going to punch you in the fucking face!"

A new day is born and I kill most of it holed up in Horowitz’s high-rise apartment checking email, futilely job searching, and eating a deli sandwich. That’s the best thing about NYC – there’s a deli on every street corner.
When I finally make a move, it’s to my safety zone of Union Square where I loiter in the warmth of Barnes and Noble reading plays. This time I thumb through half of Kenneth Lonnergan’s “This Is Our Youth” before it’s time to head for Hell’s Kitchen where I get to watch Lauren have her hair straightened for an hour at the salon. This is something she gets done every week.
“Some people spend their money on alcohol, I spend mine on getting my hair straightened,” she says.
“But you spend money on alcohol too!” I think but don’t dare say for fear of incurring a wrath comparable to the End of Days. No need to fluster her – I leave that to the first few restaraunts we walk into for a potential meal, their imperfect temperature settings send her into a fit.
Lauren agrees to sponsor my dinner after I whine about being unemployed for 24 years, but not without giving me a hard time about what I’m allowed to order. Even after I choose something relatively inexpensive, the Fish and Chips, she guilts me into buying us both some peppermint shots that cost more than my meal itself.
After dinner, I meet up with Leah and her new boyfriend Andrew in Midtown at some work party of her’s. She’s already trashed and her boyfriend looks bored to tears. We change venues, some loud and dark place where Katy and Justin await. Our new companions also appear bored to tears and unamused, probably because (and I’m speculating here) Katy is too hip for Midtown, and Justin doesn’t drink. It’s not long before Leah has her first lovers’ quarrel with Andrew and they leave. At a nearby diner, I look on as Katy pecks at fries while Justin consumes a turkey-avocado omlette, myself too frugal to deem late night dining over $5 a non-frivolous expense (nevermind that I just dropped $25 on three beers). Justin graciously passes me some leftover hasbrowns, and within the hour he and I are back in his Brooklyn Heights apartment ready for bed.
“Jared,” he says, “I swear to God, if you ask me so much as a single question in the morning, I’m going to punch you in the fucking face!”

I awake having to pee very badly, determined to put it off until the moment just before my kidneys explode. That’s sometime around 10am, and I can hear Justin rustling around in his room. I have no choice but to face the day. Justin’s all about making the most of his weekend. What that entails, I’m not exactly sure. He fixes us both a bowl of oatmeal and a plate of eggs just for himself.
We throw on the football game at noon. Michigan ultimately loses after keeping it close for most of the game, like so many of their exhaustive outings this season, only this time it cements their losingest season ever. I’m relatively unphazed. Justin takes the outcome more personally.
We take a walk. Outside it’s overcast and drizzly. I grab some Subway and Justin shows me the famous view of Manhattan across the river. The skyline is shrouded in clouds and mist. The expanse of promenade on our side of the river looks post-apocalyptic, but big banners hanging from the sides' of buildings with “One Brooklyn” written on them promise better days ahead. I decide it’s probably best to leave Justin and Brooklyn before they both start to hate me.
Once again, I set off for the safety of Barnes and Noble in Union Square. The rain imprisons me there for longer than I’d like. I finish up reading “This Is Our Youth”. Good stuff.
It’s Saturday night and there happens to be a big UFC fight card scheduled. Much to my chagrin I can’t find anyone to watch it with me. I momentarily contemplate heading up to Hooters in Midtown to view it alone, but at the last minute decide it’s too depressing and instead opt for a night out with Katy.
It’s pizza slices for dinner, washed down with some Svedka vodka tonics. Katy and I sit on her couch sipping our drinks while watching terrible music videos on demand. Kate Perry will be on loop in my head for days. We consume a decent amount of alcohol in short time before setting sail to some club where old NYU friends of hers await. Turns out they’re a bunch of business school grads, one of which is immediately curious about my sentiments regarding the impending auto industry bailout. I’ll tell you this, I have stronger sentiments about taking down my first ever shot of Patron on someone else’s dime. It’s also nice that Katy decides to bankroll my entire drinking bill which includes three or so martinis. Post-bar, in a state of pleasant-drunkenness, I happily lay down $12 for two slices of crummy latenight pizza on the stroll home. Once back in her apartment, my sleep isn't very effective for I’m too lazy to rearrange the massive pillows at the head of my guest bed and instead settle for resting in a very unnatural incline.

Sunday morning finds me in a Soho diner opposite Katy. She orders a turkey burger with bacon ala carte, I myself go for a Greek omlette that looks like somebody zapped it with a shrinking gun. When we return to her apartment, our stomachs digesting, Katy agrees to read my screenplay. She breezes through it in a record-setting 30 minutes, the time it takes me to read four pages in Richard Ford’s “Independence Day”. She reacts favorable to the manuscript. It’s time to get out of there before she starts hating me, and so it’s back to Union Square for the day.
At 8 o’clock, I meet up with Mike to attend the Fall Conservatory Scene Night of Mike’s girlfriend and her fellow graduating thespains. They’re a mixed bag of talent, but I quite enjoy the performances. It’s a nice change of scenery from Barnes and Noble and feels like a particularly New York thing to do: going to the theatre.
Afterwards we pick up some of those delectable NYC deli sandwiches, this time from a place run by a grumpy Korean man who gets angry with me for not wanting a bag. Back to Brooklyn we go to watch some Colbert Report and the major fights from last night’s UFC that I’ve made a point of all day to keep from being spoiled. Watching them there in poor resolution on Mike’s computer proves anti-climactic. The streaming video fails to capture the fight-ending punch Brock Lesnar lands on Couture. Instead it looks as if Couture falls down from his own volition. In life, I guess the anticipation is always better.
My sleeping arrangements are made in the basement of Mike’s spacious 5-bedroom Bushwick establishment. The conditions are artic, forcing me to sleep in my hat, shoes, and jacket. I doze off tonguing an icicle formed in the region where most other men can grow a moustache.

In the morning, I am spared another trip to Barnes and Noble when the opportunity arises for a solid meal in Chinatown. We eat family style. The dumplings are supposedly to die for. I like them well enough. Lo mein, general tsao’s chicken, and all that other good stuff cozy up in my stomach.
By the time we finish it’s mid-afternoon and the sun has progressed through a sizeable chunk of its Western arc. A few of us lumber over to Battery Park for a screening of the latest James Bond film, Quantum of Solace. $13 it costs me, and when the smoke clears, I don’t feel any more enlightened. This city will be the end of me.
A few hours pass and I’m back in Barnes and Noble following a brisk walk uptown. The stint is an abbreviated one as I can’t keep my eyes open in the reading chair. It’s not long before a security guard is kicking me out into the impersonal New York night. At a loss, I peruse the collections at DSW and Phylem’s basement, and as I’m riding the escalator down on my way out to nowhere in particular, I spot ole Maxim ascending the other side. I have not called Max this trip because of harbored resentment over his questionable character as a friend, but it's nothing a little chitchat at McDonalds can’t solve over a big mac and ice cream cone. Max recounts for me his move to NYC to join his fiancee and their subsequent implosion. They lived together at her family’s house in Queens for four days before she threw him out along with his ring. His next host seemed gracious enough until after two weeks went sniffing through Max’s computer, found some bookmarked apartment listings in Chelsea and inevitably jumped to the logical conclusion that Max must be a “cocksucker”. That was that. Three places later, Max has seemingly found a stable living situation in Astoria, to which he kidnaps me for ping pong at some local bar. Meanwhile, my bag of clothes is still at Horowitz’s whom I fear might never pick up his phone again. He comes through right as I’m approaching wit’s end. I say goodbye to Max and hop back on the subway headed for clean clothes and a shower which I’ll put off until the morning.

“Sucking Down Water Like A Marathon Runner” (NYC, 11/11-19)

The plane lands at Laguardia. Cousin Greg picks me up at the airport.
“Get the fuck in the car already,” he yells. “I’m in the driving lane. You can’t just stand in the driving lane talking to me through the window.”
I oblige, and then it’s onwards to the Palisades Mall in Rockland County for a not-so-cheap meal at Chilis. It goes on my tab so when the gossip filters back to his mother she can’t claim I used her son for a ride from the airport.
Greg lives in Yonkers where I crash for two days: two days of incessant video game playing, NCAA Football 2009 and NHL 2009. NCAA 2009 is much different and in my opinion substantially less fun (aka not so easy to run up the score) than 2006 – the last version I played obsessively during senior year of college. NHL 2009 – well, hockey sucks, but Greg likes it.
When not playing video games, Greg and I perform copious amounts of email checking and applying for jobs we will not get (at least none that I will get: one being an indie producer’s assistant out in LA; the other at some public broadcasting TV station in NYC). Over these two days we do our best impersonation of agoraphobic recluses.
I abscond from Yonkers for a U-M alumni function in the city on Thursday. On the train I run into character actor Adam Lefevre. Not exactly Tom Cruise but I’ll take it.
The U-M alumni function is supposed to be a career mixer, but with the economy in its current dismal state, all the employers have themselves turned into job seekers. The event is held at some swanky bar in Midtown, which I enter with a degree of apprehension since Justin, my intended date for the evening, was laid up with a case of sickness and now I’m awkwardly stag. I coat-check my entire life belongings that I’ve been carting around all day, then proceed downstairs to a dark room where I’m just supposed to approach random strangers grouped together in the dark, hold out my hand and say, “Hi. My name’s Jared. I’m unemployed. What do you do?”
I suddenly don’t feel good and it’s all I can do to fight the urge to bolt. I am not alone in my social discomfort as I notice a few desperately-seeking-success rejects milling about aimlessly when they aren’t nervously sipping their waters with backs pressed up against the far wall. For the most part, my back is pressed up to the same wall. I am sucking down water like a marathon runner – one, because I’m thirsty; two, because alcohol is too expensive. These losers keep eyeing me as though we are kindred spirits (Ha, we can’t be, though, right?).
I try and make inane small talk with the greeters. That lasts about 45 seconds. It’s me and the wall again, until I work up the courage and approach a vaguely familiar looking Indian girl. She’s cute.
“You look familiar,” I say.
“Really? I don’t think I recognize you,” she responds.
We chat for a bit. I get her number. We will never hang out.
Once outside in the moist but consoling evening air, my sanity is restored. I remember Randy lives in the city and we grab a drink together in the village not far from his $1000 porta-potty-sized apartment he shares with three other people. One drink at a bar – whose name I can only remember rhymes with “Vas Deferens” – buzzes me; or maybe I’m just compensating because beers are so goddamn expensive in this city and I can’t afford many more. Gregarious Horowitz joins us for a short while before it’s off to his place in Long Island City where I finally lay my head down for the night.

And then he disappeared into the water - INDONESIA

Just got swindled out of $10 at some shady money exchanger through some fancy sleight of hand (there were no other options other than the money changers), otherwise Indonesia (at least Java) has proven quite friendly and accommodating (if you don't count all the sleazy men making crude comments in Bahasa to Leah, my travel partner). Ben actually should be in Michigan about now visiting the university as a prospective philosophy Ph.D. student. Before Bali I was in the city of Yogykarta where I have a friend teaching. It was a good stretch of relaxation in this trip of constant traveling. We took a horse-drawn carriage of sorts around the city to see the famous sites (albeit unimpressive in comparison to those of Thailand and Cambodia), got massages (a mixture of shiatsu and traditional during which my masseuse walked on my back, massaged my mostly bare bum, asked if I wanted to be her boyfriend – all through the translating of my friend Casey and her masseuse behind the next curtain), and we watched Atonement & Superbad on DVD. From Yogya we took a bus to Gunung Bromo in East Java, a collection of massive volcanoes that look like something from a different world. The lengthy bus rides enabled us to bear witness to some of the coolest landscapes which could easily provide the setting for a new King Kong movie, made all the more atmospheric by the constant boarding and de-boarding of musicians looking to make some pocket change through rockin' serenades. An endless day of grueling bussing and ferrying brought us to Bali.“And there’s another one here, and here…” she said while pointing out what she believed to be bug bites on my back. They were in fact pimples.
“And here too” she repeated.
Leah laughed. Here we were with the Indonesian bar girl on the beach from “Paddys” night club whom we somehow collectively brought home together the night before. Casey begrudgingly called it a “bout of genius” to do such a thing. Indri, the bar girl, was enamored with Leah and I, under the belief that we were the most perfect brother/sister duo to have graced the Earth. We had stood Indri up the first few nights in Bali after making small talk as she worked the outside of Paddys in the sexy door girl role. Little did Leah and I know she’d only been working the gig for a few days and was naively genuine when expressing interest in meeting up post-work with two flirtatious underage-looking clientele pretending to be siblings, a ploy devised so as to prevent Leah and I from cockblocking each other.
Indri seemed very sad to see me go today. Never did I imagine my final day in Asia would be spent in Bali amidst such unexpected company. Indri grew closely attached to Leah & I so quickly, and then after sleeping between us in bed, we couldn’t get rid of her, even as she was nearly drowning in the ocean and pulling Leah down with her in a fit of panic. It was only Indri’s second time or so playing in the waves. She didn’t fare so well. A day ago, we were all in Ubud (minus Indri) witnessing ceremonial cockfighting at a Hindu temple. In the afternoon, back in Semanyak, we were getting thrashed around in the giant ocean waves as it started down pouring. I had an almost dream-like interaction with a handsome middle-aged Frenchman when he and I were the only two in the water while everyone else heeded the red flag swimming advisories. He gave me some advice on body surfing and demonstrated great acumen in gliding through the massive wave tunnels sideways with one arm extended as if he were Superman…if Superman had worn flippers.
“If you’re even remotely afraid” he said, “you shouldn’t be out here. To me, catching waves – it’s a game. I’ve been doing it everyday for the last 30 years. It’s what I love.”
It was scary, though, getting tossed around like a rag doll in the washing machine. It was stormy. The waves were imposing. There was a moment at the end of each big wave I rode where I thought I might drown.
Buli was his name, the Frenchman. He’d been living in Bali for 23 years without having to work.
“How’d you make your fortune to afford such a life?” I asked.
“Ah ah ah ah” he responded in the kind of tone that says ‘don’t touch.’ “That’s my business.” And then he disappeared into the water.

Presently, it is with no concretely identifiable feeling or emotion that I ride a plane to Jakarta on the first of five legs of my trip home. Like death, I must do it alone. It is not climactic, probably because I cheapened things by going home already in October. The parents will be in Israel and there is no longer a loving girlfriend waiting with open arms and a Jimmy Johns sub. There will be Auntie, and Lane arriving 3hrs later, and an unwritten future up for grabs.