The Funny Crux Never Goes Away

If this city didn't have 8 million people, I would've run into you by now and articulated with laconic speech and genuine charm how you caught me during a funny crux in my life; explained away that angry tirade I made on your bed about hipsters being dead (http://newyork.timeout.com/articles/features/4840/why-the-hipster-must-die).  While I've kept busy and upbeat, the thought of you still tugs at me here and there some months later. 
In my last email it was hard not to sound petulant.  And curses to John Cusack in "Say Anything" for holding a radio above his head outside Ione Sky's window and teaching kids like me that persistence was a good thing.
That about sums up my thoughts on this damp Thursday morning.

***

"Dude, you romanticize the old days too much!  There were always games... It's just that women had less choice about who to pick."

Improv & Premiere Party Crashing: Late July, 2010

Another day of improv intensive at The Magnet Theater.  The class and Armando affectionately (or so I hope) refer to me as sugar tits since I wore a tight polo revealing my larger than average mammories.  It's not that I'm particularly huge, it's just that everyone in the improv community is particularly puny.
I'm coming along nicely in my improv development, though I still feel awkward and tend to play it safe in my scenes.  I signed up for this three week class to get more comfortable on stage and ignite the creative juices within.  I needed to get unstuck, and I also needed the structure during a stint of unemployment.  It's been nothing but watch and perform improv, day in and day out.  I have an inordinate amount of respect for the theater's regular improvisers.  They're mini-celebrities to me these days, and it seems they all live in Clinton Hill.  It feels rather fateful running into them on the train rides back to Brooklyn, especially when I'm drunk.
Tonight was another episode of awkward film mixers.  I used it as an opportunity to catch up with pals Matt and Aaron from GreeneStreet.  We chatted with a girl named Courtney.  The four of us together crashed the premiere party for The Disappearance of Alice Creed at the posh Crosby Hotel in SoHo.  We passed Gemma Arterton on the way in.  She inquired if I was single.  I politely declined to comment being that her husband was present.

GreeneStreet's President came over and hugged me in his political way.  He asked me about the beard fuzz on my face.  I told him it was laziness. Then he shifted his interest to our friend Courtney before returning to the crowd.  I talked with the COO and his wife for a good while about the same topics he and I used to discuss: books, higher education; life paths.  I wrote him not long ago asking for a letter of rec for grad programs in the humanities/creative writing.  He wrote back expressing doubt about such programs.  I told him doubt was my best friend.
I swore I wasn't going to drink tonight since I had McDonalds on Monday and Tuesday and haven't exercised in over a week.  That plan went out the window as the clock ticked past 11 and there was fancy free wine to be had.  Servers paraded around with gourmet appetizers: fancy sliders, bacon-wrapped dates stuffed with blue cheese, mushroom pastries, and other delectable goodies.
I felt like a somebody again, for a moment.

Favorite Discussion Topics

Jared's favorite discussion topics (according to Leah):

- everyone having derivative opinions; reading the same media and regurgitating it for show, rather than inventing original thoughts
- the ethical perils of NYC's social anonymity
- "that kind of girl" who every guy wants because he thinks she's really nice and JUST shy of cover-model-hot to be gettable; but therefore she gets lots of male attention
- rampant infidelity
- girls like bigger guys... growing up skinny... hipster look vs. muscles...
- dilettantism - jack of all trades, master of none
- feeling compelled to say something - anything - to beautiful women
- mean girls and how you love them
- the allure of a status job


Other thoughts:

1.  I'm not sure why it took me so long to realize how tasty and easy broccoli is to cook with a little salt.

2.  Cereal gets soggy way too quickly in milk.

3.  If we know how to compress files into a .ZIP, why can't we teleport people?

4.  Seems inefficient that humans are biped.  Evidence: nobody knows what to do with their arms while standing waiting for the train.

Dear Max/Dear Jared - June, 2010

Dear Max,

I'm drowning in a maelstrom of self-pity. The cause?
Amanda Setton came into the office again today. The mean-looking brunette from TV shows I’ve never even seen, Gossip Girl and One Life to Live. She’s beautiful and I’m only moderately good-looking.
I really do want to see the first season of Gossip Girl, though maybe I shouldn't. Entourage used to be so much fun, but when I turned it off I got depressed. It was like, here is this really glamorous life that's not yours, now go back to your mundane existence. Some people enjoy seeing good-looking people. For me, it's a painful taunting of greener pastures.
I have never talked to Amanda Setton. Through Google stalking I discovered we share a mutual friend - my good friend's ex-girlfriend attended college with her - but I cannot mention this for obvious reasons (read: stalking, ahem, internet research, is a tough sell), and even if I did, I would have to make such a confession in front of the other models/actresses waiting for auditions. That would be beyond awkward.
The helplessness I feel with the Amanda Setton situation only exacerbates the crisis of joblessness come 6pm tomorrow. I’m 25, without riches, without dynamo girlfriend, and without creative masterpiece. Now I shall be without job. The goal of becoming a complete intellectual who expresses himself through film and writing (read: dilettante) has proven ripe with pitfalls, abstraction, and ambiguity of financial viability. When there is no structure, all frightening existential fears come to an overwhelming head.
Damnit, pretty girls kill me. This solipsistic mind of mine can only wrap its tentacles around death and girls, girls and death, death and girls, and once in a while, creative output, which it doesn't take a genius to tell me is merely a means of getting the girl and avoiding death.

-jared


Dear Jared,

Amanda Setton came over last night and gave me head while I finished my novel. I told her we had a mutual friend in common at the distribution company, but she was more concerned about using her tongue correctly and when would be a convenient time for her to come around tomorrow. Read: fellatio.

-max

Kristen Bell - May, 2010

Reunited with Kristen Bell in the office today. After some memory jogging she remembered me.
It was hard to do anything but name drop and reminisce of people from our past. We acted in two plays together 15 years ago. I still have a paper plate award from her that reads: "Most likely to call when he turns 16." Her number's on the back.
At one point I said, "I guess it doesn't make much sense for me to ask you what you've been up to."
I tried to be cool but my voice kept quaking.
My expectation was that she would say, "You should totally come out with me and Dax tonight."
It never happened.
I eventually excused myself after we hit a lull. Duck-out classy.
My expectations were high, so I left disappointed. She remained reading on the couch in the lobby for another 45 minutes but I dared not to leave my little hole again.

I can't even remember what she looked like now.

Flash Fiction - "Father, Forgive Them"

He was a freshman in high school: boyishly good-looking with high cheekbones; tall, lanky, athletic, red-haired, and already 16 - not uncommon in Texas where boys are held back in Kindergarten to be more developed for football. The son of a Pastor, he bore the name Luke: a good, solid Biblical moniker.

One pristine summer afternoon, having recently acquired his license, Luke was taking full advantage of his new-found freedom, cruising around in the Red Dragon, a '96 Chevy truck, windows down and a grape popsicle in his mouth. He pulled up to a stoplight singing along to "All My Ex's Live in Texas," lost in a trance of youth, song, or summer.
A rapping at his window pulled him from his state. A large black woman of indiscernible age, twenties or thirties, was talking to him through the window.
"My car just broke down around the corner," she said. "I live down the street. Can you give me a ride? Please. It would really help me out."
With beads of sweat clinging to the corners of her eyes, forehead, and upper lip, she appeared innocent enough. George Straight crooned how Texas was a place he'd dearly love to be. Luke figured her to be harmless enough. After all, she is a woman. Woman, not a man, he thought.

She gets into his car and they start driving. Out of the corner of his eye he notes her broad nose and round face. He doesn't know what to say to her. She rubs her thighs through jean shorts tight enough that they produce unflattering protrusions of fat. Assuming she's not a George Strait fan, he turns down the radio.
"It’s hot outside," she says, breaking the silence. "Can we roll up windows and turn on the air?" It comes out more command than request.
Luke, mildly put off, agrees.
At the next red light, she turns to him again.
"Man, I just lost twenty dollars, can you help me out?"
I've made a mistake, he thinks. She wants money. They always want money.
In an amiable tone, he says, "I'm sorry, Ma'am. I don't have any money. I'm already doing you a favor. I'll just drive you to your destination and be on my way."
She looks down at her lap, thinks for a moment, then returns her gaze to him.
“I’ll suck your dick,” she says. "$15 and I'll suck you off real good."

Mortification. Yes, that would be the word to best describe Luke's reaction at that exact moment. During his short 16 years, nobody had ever spoken to him in such a way. He pulled off to the side of the road and demanded she get out. She might have continued to beg and offer but he was done listening. He couldn't even look at her. With the car stopped, staring at his thighs, he ordered her to be gone. His only refuge was to be found in a quote from the Gospel bearing his namesake: ‘Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.’

Flash Fiction - "Heart Stopper"

It was dark outside and drizzling. I was on my way home from work, messenger bag draped over my shoulder – the modern man’s briefcase. It didn’t protect its contents very well, and considering there were some important reports inside and I’d left my umbrella at Jenny’s, I decided to pop into the nearest restaurant, one I always passed but never actually regarded until now.
The place was unassuming from the outside. Inside, it was a throwback burger joint with pink vinyl booths and a jukebox. A large grizzly bear of a man stood behind the counter tending to a sizzling grill. The lone patron was a brunette in a business suit sitting on a stool up at the counter reading Gulliver's Travels. She turned to look at me as I entered. Her face was pretty and mean-looking – just my type. I took a seat up on a stool near her but left an empty one between, far enough away to not seem needy.

The grizzly bear tossed me a menu, which was no more than a single page with three options: fries, regular burger, and The Heart Stopper Challenge, underneath which read “If you finish this burger it’s free.”
“What it’ll be, friend?” the grizzly bear asked.
I inquired about the last option.
“It’s four pounds of pure beef.”
“Ah,” I responded stupidly. My stomach was rumbling, but even if I hadn’t eaten for 40 days, I still don’t think The Heart Stopper would be fathomable.
“I guess I’ll take the regular with fries, please.” Beat. “Does anybody ever go for The Heart Stopper?”
“You’d be surprised,” he grunted.
And that’s when he plated the most brobdingnagian burger I’d ever seen and set it down in front of the brunette.
I gasped. She looked at me and all I could do was point at her meal. She flipped her hair, placed one napkin on her lap, one next to her place, then proceeded to neatly cut the cow in half…and then into quarters…and then into eighths.

I stared in awe. There were no feelings of inferiority or inadequacy, just unbridled, utter amazement. And she was proper about the whole matter, politely dabbing at her mouth with a napkin in between manageable bites.

I’m not sure how much time passed before my burger arrived, but its delivery was marked by the entrance of an older man with owl-eyed glasses. He took a seat up next to me at the counter and ordered a coffee, which wasn’t on the menu but grizzly bear served up anyway.
We finished our burgers simultaneously. Well, to be fair, I had one bite remaining and was still picking at fries. Her plate was clean – four pounds of beef down the hatch of a girl who didn’t weigh a hair over 110. She collected her Coach handbag and stood up to leave.
“Thanks, George.”
The grizzly bear nodded. “Pleasure as always, Suzy. You’re single-handedly going to put us out of business.”
She laughed. “See you tomorrow night.”
After she was gone, as I was paying my bill, I couldn’t help but ask George, “What the hell just happened there? With that girl and the burger?”
“What do you wanna know? She just ate a pound and a half burger. That’s all.”
“That’s all? What did she mean ‘See you tomorrow night’?”
“Just what she said – she comes in here every night and does what you saw her do tonight.”
“But how? How does a girl that small eat a burger that big and still look the way she does?”
“How the hell should I know?” George was getting annoyed, so I took the hint. I nodded at him, then owl-eyes, and proceeded on my way, mystified.

Eulogy - February 29th, 2010

My grandpa liked to say, “This is the hand that shook the hand that shook the world.” I never totally understood what it meant, but to me, it was his hand that shook the world. Lord knows it was big, his grip fierce enough to break my own hand. He had that grip to very end. “I still got it, kid!” You do, you do.
He was born while Central Park was still a flower pot. You’ve heard the story before: kid drops out of school in the 8th grade to support his family. Poppie always said it’d be scary what he could’ve done with an education; it’s scary what he did without one.
He was a man’s man, a woman’s kinda man, a real gentleman. He was cool and tough; handy and earnest. He boxed, played baseball, golfed. He was a marine, a butcher; he ran a luncheonette, spanned nearly a century, produced educated kids, and used to send pigeons home from Yankee stadium with a piece of paper bearing the score tied around their foot.
He was awesome. I felt awesome having the same blood as him coursing through my veins. He was Italian. He was American. He was vibrant. He was strong. He loved life. Sure, everyone says that, but from his lips to God’s ears: “If I had to do it all over again, kid, I’d do it the exact same.”
Well, Poppie - I wouldn’t have changed a hair on your head, full as it was till the end.

This is the hand that shook the hand that shook the world.

"Might've Been Colgate" - Early January, 2009

They gathered around a table in the nurses' room at the retirement home for a send off meal consisting of sandwiches from The Bread Basket, Michigan's premier deli. Poppie barely touched his food, which was rare when it came to Corned Beef. A month shy of his 97th birthday, he swore that he'd already eaten dinner. This was clearly not true being that his grandson, Jared, had been at his side since 4pm and witnessed no such business. Poppie, who'd been telling stories on loop for years now, every once in a while curiously shared a story with which nobody was familiar. These were moments to be cherished, like a rare meteor shower, regardless of whether they were valid or mere products of his dementia. Today featured one such moment. It was about his sole experience playing in an organized football game.
"I'll never forget it, boy," he said. "I can't remember what team it was for - might've been Colgate."
"What position did you play?" Jared asked.
"Cornerback, maybe."
"Did you win?"
"Who can remember?"
When Jared relayed the story to his aunt and mother over dinner, they dismissed it as rubbish. "Eat your sandwich, Poppie!" they ordered.
"I told you - I already ate dinner" he exclaimed.
"No you didn't," everyone rejoined in chorus, then burst out laughing.
"I paid for that, you know," Jared's mother reminded him. She was happy to remind people when she was paying.
Jared was moving to NYC in two days for a film internship with GreeneStreet. Metro Detroit had proven to be a creative vacuum. His mother and father made no big deal of the move. It was his aunt's idea to treat the dinner as a sendoff. She even bought a cake of which Jared only ate a meager slice.
At some point the family contracted the sillies, all except for Jared and Poppie, who looked on with blank expressions. The family giggled contagiously and hysterically. That's how it usually went: everyone except for one person (and Poppie) would be on funny pills; and most times, that one person was either Jared or his mother. They took turns. Jared prayed that it spoke to no greater similarity of character. That's not to say other family members couldn't be the non-laughers. Everyone played the role once in a while. They were a family of opportunists and
shifting alliances. Not that it was impossible for everyone to be in on the laughter - those were the good times. Even Poppie could be susceptible to the chuckles, though it remained a mystery what he was actually laughing about. But most of the time there had to be someone remaining
sober; someone not laughing, to keep the situation in check, reality anchored, if reality meant being unhappy or unamused.
Jared's father asked him if he would write about this incident after the fact, like he did many things. Jared said no.

A few days later, Jared was in New York. He'd arranged an apartment living with a friend of a friend in Clinton Hill. Her name was Emma.
"Why did your former roomie move out?" he asked her while sharing their first subway together.
"Umm. Hmm," she stammered. "She got mugged on our stoop. I wasn't trying to keep it from you. I figured it just wasn't, er, necessary for me to bring up. And that I'd tell you about it if you ever asked, which you just did, sooner than I expected. I hope you don't feel cheated. The rent is $650. You can't beat $650." She smiled impishly with a shade of nervousness.
For the first week, Jared made it a point to sprint the distance between the subway and his apartment. That went on until the discomfort of running in dilapidated hi-tops proved too great. While it lasted, it was good for burning off beer calories, and inducing nausea.

In their third week of living together, Emma sent Jared this email:

Subject: Roommate bonding appointment scheduling

Hello good sir,

Instead of perpetually saying no I'm not free to your wonderfully kind offers and/or spending vast amounts of time roaming the night when I say I'll be home early...

I wish to propose times when I am free. To take the guesswork, spontaneity, and maybe hopefully not the fun, out of our hanging out. Cuz spontaneity,while enticing, is hit or miss. in this case, miss.

Would you ever be free/ interested in a breakfast date at Outpost (the wonderful coffee shop down the street)? They have terrific food and coffee and I'd like to share my love of the place.

How about Tuesday morning, the 19th? like... 9am...earlier later... depending when you have to get to ur internship?

Then laundry, we will do that too. it has been a long time for me... but i go home to CT often and do a bit then, so don't judge me too harshly.

anyway, thanks for coming to live with me. there are three free shelves in the medicine cabinet if you need them. and let me know if you want me to clear out one of the standing shelves in the bathroom.

Emma

They went on to share a wonderful breakfast together at a quaint little cafe mere steps from their brownstone, ironically named "Outpost", being that its clientele was mostly white in a predominantly black neighborhood.
As January neared its end, Jared felt satisfied with his first month in NYC. He had gotten to cover some scripts at work, drive around his boss' 7-series BMW (mostly to find alternative parking during street cleaning), answer the phone once to find James Gandolfini on the other end, and ogle the models coming into audition for casting agencies sharing office space with GreeneStreet. He earned some cash doing data entry for Howcast.com and serving as a production assistant on an intimate shoot with JP Morgan Chase CEO, Jamie Dimon. There was even a gig in the works shooting a music video about wine for a friend of a friend. Socially, he had reconnected with old friends and given bar trivia the ole college try, several times, without great success.
There was still the issue of why he continued to pee jet yellow despite drinking adequate amounts of water. Getting healthy amounts of fruits and veggies was also proving a challenge. And well, laundry, of course.
All in all, there was a palpable taste of promise in the air.

Adventures in Substitute Teaching: October - December, 2009

FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL

Giggly Student: Do you know who Run DMC is?
Me: Yes.
Giggly Student: (turning to friends) See, I told you he had to be over 30. He knows who Run DMC is.
Me: Are you over 30?
Giggly Student: No.
Me: I think your logic is flawed.

2 hours later

Giggly Student #2: Do you know about 8 tracks?
Me: Yes.
Giggly Student #2: You've gotta be over 30 then?
Me: Do you know about 8 tracks?
Giggly Student #2: Yeah, because of my mom.
Me: Maybe I know about 8 tracks because of my mom.
Giggly Student #2: You're not over 30?
Me: Nope.


WEEK 3
The student with strawberry-blonde hair, pale complexion, and jeans too short they fall an inch above her bright pink tennis shoes, paces back and forth on her toes in front of my desk, like some sort of exotic zoo animal; a modified ostrich. When I finally look up, she flashes a big smile gleaming with metal.
"Do you want to see my drawings?" she asks, eager for an audience.
"Sure."
To decline would kill her. She drops a binder on my desk filled with drawings and character biographies and backstory.
"There's six of them. They're all 12, and they live in a small Montana town. I've never been to Montana. I've never even been out of Michigan, so I had to do all sorts of research. See -" She pulls out a satellite image of Montana.
"Uh huh," I say.
"These kids live normal middle school lives, until one day, they fall through a wormhole and end up on this planet Gorgonzole, which brings out their special powers they must use in order to stop an evil ruler and get back home. This character, Torza, is modeled off my dad. See -" She points to an anime-style picture that resembles no human I know.
She flips through the pages, and when she gets to the end, she starts flipping in reverse. I'm surely the most attentive audience she's ever had. I notice that every character stands 5'2".
The bell rings and it's hard for her to let me go. I grab my belongings and cruise out the door. She chases after me clutching the binder in one hand and her bookbag in the other. She wants to know when I'm subbing next. I say I don't know and wish her luck in one day traveling outside the state of Michigan.

The next day, strawberry-blonde-aspiring-George Lucas finds me in the hallway. She presses something into my hand - a crumpled piece of paper containing various questions.
"I want to base one of the characters on you," she says.
I debate whether it'd be a terrible idea to satisfy her eccentricity. Sample questions include: Favorite genre of movies; favorite sport; preferred computer activities; style of dress; day or nighttime person.
"Do I have to be 5'2"?" I ask.
She looks confused. "I guess not," she says.
"Let me get back to you."
I walk into the teachers lounge for lunch. My mind is preoccupied with one student in particular, Roger. I had him in two classes throughout the morning and he was atrocious. Apparently I look drained, because the football coach, Mr. Roop, demands names. "Spit out the culprits," he says.
In truth, there had been several difficult students responsible for sucking the pep right out of my step; but Roger's name is clearly at the forefront. And when I say it, Mr. Roop cuts me off.
"Say no more," he says. "That's all one needs to know. Roger Muss is a Grade A ass-clown. He's a despicable little runt and you don't get paid enough to deal with turds like him. Hell, I don't get paid enough to deal with turds like him."
Everyone present issues a corroborating "Hear, hear," and I realize adults are no better than kids.


WEEK 5
Five minutes until class starts. The first student enters. When the second student enters moments later, the first student exclaims: "Avery, I beat you for the eleventh million time!"
Avery looks at him and replies: "We haven't been in 8th grade that long."

In 6th hour, a student pops his classmate's zit and eats the whitehead for a pool of money amounting to $2.64. I try and stop him without success, then wonder if in a court of law I could be tried for contributing to the delinquency of minors.
The bell rings and I collect my belongings. Another student approaches me.
"That's Nautica, right?" he asks, referring to my shirt.
"Yeah," I say, looking down to make sure.
"You know that brand is racist? It is. I read it somewhere. Something to do with the slave ships."
"I didn't know that."
"Well now you know."
Later on I do some google research and find no credible support for his statements. I do find an interesting Maya Angelou poem highlighting corporate racism.

Love in the Time of Swine Flu - Part 8

There’s no better remedy for a broken heart than buying a gaudy pink Bolivia baseball hat that lands you in the arms of a pretty Kiwi girl.
The hat was purchased for a hard-bargained 24 Bolivianos in Copacabana before jumping on the bus to La Paz. A Canadian wayfarer-wearing hipster, Cam, chatted my ear off the whole ride while the Brits snoozed with headphones in their ears. He rambled on about his bartending exploits and how a vegetarian diet with loads of pineapple makes his semen sweeter.
The stretch of road between Copacabana and La Paz is relatively uneventful, and then, before you know it, a massive crater in the Earth opens up, within which sits a densely populated city of hilly streets, colorful buildings, and heavy pollution. From a high vantage point, looking out over La Paz at night, it sparkles like an international space station.

We checked into Loki Hostel, the same chain from Cusco. It wasn’t long before the booze came out and guns blazed. Though tired and in a daze, my pink hat worked magic. I’m sure those rum and cokes didn’t hurt much, and thus I landed in front of Felicity. I had seen a copy of her passport laying out at the check-in desk and snagged a peak. Her photo was flattering. My passport photo looks as if a bullet is exiting out of my head, pulling up an awkward tuft of hair in its wake.
So there I was, standing before the girl from the picture. I learned she possessed both Kiwi and British citizenship.
“You know,” I said, “If we got married, our kids could have access to all the great Western democracies.”
“So should we get married?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Where’s my ring then?”
I fashioned her a ring out of paper. The Brits looked on in dismay, cringing - convinced I’d surely blown it. Other people in the bar looked at me like an asshole. If someone else was wearing a pink hat, I’d think they were an asshole.
Felicity did not think me an asshole.

The next morning my right arm throbbed in unnatural ways around the injection spots from last week when I nearly died of food poisoning. I wondered whether something was severely wrong. That’s what hypochondriacs do. What if the pain was a symptom of blood clotting or impending heart attack?
Like a feeble vampire, I wandered the streets of La Paz with Rich in search of a novelty gift for Edd. We got him a wooden recorder.
Edd was turning 24. When you’re English, it’s the law that on your birthday you must drink the equivalent of one alcoholic drink for every year of your life. And then more. It was a miracle he was still comprehensible by the afternoon. Along with the bulk of Loki’s other residents, the English boys and I boarded a tourist bus headed for a Cholito wrestling match. We expected masked midgets wrestling women, but the actual event was little more than super-amateur WWF with pot-bellied middle-aged Bolivian men. A few females made appearances. Most won their matches; one took a disturbing beating over the head with a plastic chair. There was a sole appearance by a little person. She ended up tied to the ring ropes by her hair, squirming like a fish on dry land.
The event dragged on far too long. The real entertainment was Edd. He had a shot glass securely fastened to his right hand with a whole roll of tape. We couldn’t have him losing the shot glass in a drunken stupor. And so we wouldn’t lose him a crowd, he donned a pair of heart-decorated boxer shorts over his pants. There was also the green wooden recorder, so we could hear him wherever he went. He was a celebrity.

On the ride back to the hostel, he sat shotgun next to the bus driver and honked the horn in celebration. He conducted sing-a-longs amongst the passengers and had himself a jolly good time.
It was time to join Edd in his drunken state. I half-heartedly partook, looking on confusedly as Felicity chatted up other dudes. We presented Edd with a kaleidoscopic cake. I snuck off to email my family, inform them I was still alive, and upon return, gave it another go with Felicity. Conversation eased with each drink. Physical self-destruction is but a small price to pay when pitted against social comfort. There was a game of Uno. I was back in.
The hostel party transferred to a club spinning American Top 40, and even though it wasn’t Felicity’s cup of tea, we danced our pants off. We threw shapes so intense they left nuclear shadows on the walls. And when the smoke cleared, we grabbed a taxi home with Edd, Rich, and two pricks who attend U-M for grad school. At the club, the bigger prick of the two kept telling me, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll take the Kiwi chick home already before someone else does. I know what I’m talking about.” He claimed to know what he was talking about with every subject. This rubbed Rich and Edd the wrong way when it came to the subject of cramming six people into the taxi. They exchanged words and argued over who was more entitled to be traveling through Bolivia.
Dozing in my bed, Rich and Noel tiffed in a gentlemanly manner. I’ve never heard people criticize one another so politely…or maybe that’s the definition of passive-aggressive. Eventually everyone slipped off to sleep, and life was good.

Love in the Time of Swine Flu - Part 5

5-9 (and a half)
It's 6:30 in the morning and they're dancing, their colorful traditional dresses swirling, blank expressions on their faces. The sun is coming up over the plaza but it's still freezing. They do this every morning for the sake of tourists en route to Colca Canyon. It feels ugly.
What should've been a four hour drive the day before was broken up by too many stops and ended up taking the whole day. I don't think we ever drove for a stretch greater than 15 minutes, always stopping so that all nine passengers (plus the driver and guide in front) could file out of the economy sized Hyundai van, whose pseudo-luxury teased with the possibility of sleep, which made the impossibility of sleep and completely anti-ergonomic setup all the more frustrating. At every stop, a beautiful view of harsh landscape spotted with grand volcanoes and mountains, pockets of glistening water, wild and leashed Alpacas and llamas (the difference is in their neck length), and the ever present Incan women in traditional garb selling the same Alpaca-material sweaters, hats, gloves, and those small ceramic flute instruments. Climbing our way into higher altitudes, one stop treated us to Coco tea, an all natural aide in the body's adjustment process. A Brazilian traveler in our van offered me coco leaves to chew like tobacco. I accepted them with apprehension out of fear they would induce hallucination. Foolish me. Then I grew some balls and chewed them. I didn't get altitude sickness.

Upon arriving in Chivay, we inspected our artic-chilled rooms before setting off for the hot springs. They were three pools set before a mountainous hill. The French-Canadians and I plunked down in one spot in one of the pools and never moved, watching as it filled up with scores of older and pastier European tourists. I felt like a leper with my shoulder acne, which was not taking well to the Peruvian climate. What's a 24 year old doing with shoulder acne?
Night fell and we were taken to a restaurant with only tourists for patrons where we watched traditional dance accompanied by a band over a forgettable meal. The music was good enough that I bought the band's CD. The dancing was performed by a man and woman. They performed several dances and each dance told its own story and required a different costume. At one point I was brought up to dance a whole song with the woman. I caught on quickly, quicker than I did with salsa (which I still haven't actually caught onto). The woman said I was the best dance partner she'd ever had. I told her I was a great lover. A potential life in Chivay flashed before my eyes – kids, a garden, llamas, coco leaves with breakfast - and then it was over.

5-10
Back in Arequipa, I spent the night hanging out with gregarious Carla, whose English is so good because she spent a year on exchange in Cincinnati during high school. She had me over to her house to hang out and drink tea with her family. They actually own two houses on the same lot, though both are primarily unfurnished and in the middle stages of construction - no doors, windows, or proper flooring (Peruvians don’t have to worry about seasonal constraints like cold and snow). This didn’t stop the family from moving into the third floor in one of the buildings.
We sat around and made chit chat about subjects which escape me now. I lamely tried out my Spanish and Carla’s mom tried out her English. Carla laughed heartily. Two of her cousins and her brother, Froy, spoke good English. Froy did an exchange year in Michigan a few years back. In case I wasn’t convinced, he was sporting a fashionable Detroit Pistons hoodie.
At the end of the night, Carla's mom extended an invitation for breakfast in the morning. “You must come,” she insisted.” I agreed.

***

The invitation was for breakfast, but Peruvians operate in a strange time space continuum, so it turned into lunch. And while the house was under construction, that did not stop Carla’s mom from preparing a whole chicken in classic Arequipeno style, smashing a rock into a sharp knife to cut the bone and seasoning it in an assortment of spices initially produced in a solid frozen block.
Since they do not have an oven, nor a kitchen sink (not sure how clean all the utensils were), we walked the chicken down the street to a restaurant with a giant wood oven, waited an hour and a half, then came back to collect. In that hour and a half, I juiced countless oranges on the family’s juicer. Carla’s mom praised me for the job I was doing, skillfully placing the orange half on the machine, holding it in place while the machine did all the work. For the first time in my life, I drank so much freshly squeezed orange juice that I could have no more.
When it came time to eat the chicken, me being the picky eater I am and attempting to eat the chicken off the bone, I struggled. This proved very amusing to Carla and her mother. They asked me if all Americans were babies like me. I started crying and replied, “I am the only baby in America.”
I stopped crying when they agreed to help me with my laundry. In the Arequipeno sun, hanging on a rack, my clothes dried in about 15 minutes. And they dried in good scenery, with the imposing volcanoes looking over them protectively.
I said my goodbyes to Carla’s madre and her brother in his same Detroit Pistons sweatshirt from the previous night. Her mother told me she loved me, and then Carla and I set off for a visit to her university.
I like universities – they provide familiarity and comfort no matter where you are in the world. Carla had an exam to study for, and while she prepared, I scoped out all the college kids and had myself a nap; maybe read a few pages in my book, The Dark. Then it was time to say goodbye to Carla, and that brings me to now.
As I sit and wait for my overnight bus to Cusco, I'm not particularly excited, even though I'll be reuniting with plenty of the colorful characters who have populated my trip thus far. There is something unappealing about the hotspot nature of Cusco, the gateway to Peru's must-see jewel, Machu Picchu. I don't possess a strong urge to go, but I know it is essential (much like a high school diploma). Cusco is a town enmeshed in hype, and hype often leads to disappointment. This is a common theme in my life. There are expectations for Cusco, whereas the rest of this adventure has been expectation-free. I don't like expectations, but here's hoping I like Cusco.

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.
Meanwhile, sitting in the Detroit airport, waiting for my flight to DC, 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 trouble is that transcribing is far from 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.

***

And now for a very important message:

The best bakery in Gothenburg, Sweden, is Pour Bon. Read more about catering Göteborg. Several months from now, I will visit Sweden and indulge in the delights of this spectacular little establishment.

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!"

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“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.

From Vietnam With Love (and lots of hassling)

To cross into Vietnam, all it took was a bus, a boat, then another boat, a transportation scam in Chau Doc (with Ben & I being on the receiving end), and a rabid two year old boy dancing in my lap and slobbering on my arm while I practiced monosyllabic Vietnamese with his 22 year old mother whose tough formative years made her look more like 50. Can Tho wasn’t so memorable despite the friendly company, imposing statue of Ho Chi Minh, and pleasant geographic situation along the river. It was big for not being so famous - over a million people. Saigon was even bigger with loads upon loads of motorbikes. We visited the Cu Chi tunnels which the Viet Cong used to sneak into southern Vietnam during the war. The tour was tarnished by our guide’s pained attempts at speaking English through strained apoplectic faces while pointing out the painfully obvious. The bus ride to Dalat was only supposed to be a few hours, but it wound up taking at least 10 after something in the road forced us to take some ridiculous detour, plus the bus driver had to repeatedly stop and pour jugs of water on the radiator for some mysterious reason. The city is in the mountains and thus cooler in temperature and different feeling from the rest of Vietnam. It’s almost like a European city out of the Twilight Zone: there’s a greater comparative wealth, strangely architected buildings, and a pristine central lake. Everyone is constantly wearing their motorbike helmets (even when they're not on their motorbikes) while donning long sleeves and pants (and while I said it was cooler, it's still like 80 degrees during the day). Wandering along the lake’s perimeter at night we caught many a glimpse of couples together on benches, arms around one another, romantically sporting their helmets and pollution facemasks.
Today I bought a slick new pair of sneakers that I just couldn't resist. They look a bit like Asics. A few days ago I had to buy a new backpack, a Lowe Alpine imitation, after my Sierra Club one from high school had seen enough of this world.

"crazy house" in dalat

I’m sitting on the main beach in Nha Trang. Last night I battled with a bout of exhaustion and slept for 12 hours. I feel much better today, relieved that it wasn’t a parasite. Leah, who joined us in Saigon, is off for a stroll while Ben is at my side. He fancies me a dilettante these days compared to all the serious artists he knew back at Vassar. Unlike me and amazingly enough, he is unbothered by the constant bombardment of women wearing rice paddy hats approaching every five minutes trying relentlessly to sell us something useless.

***

It was in quaint Hoi An along the UNESCO protected streets where we briefly joined forces with Arielle, the former PiA girl who was posted in Malaysia before bowing out amidst scandal. She resurfaced some months later in Hue, and after some message swapping agreed to meet up.
Hoi An felt like it was a city made for midgets – why, I don’t know – and every other store sold the same style of women’s pea coats with slight modifications in color. Leah bought a swanky red one for $30 so she can be all the rage in NYC next winter.
Having learned our lesson from the miserable standard overnight bus ride from Nha Trang to Hoi An, we opted instead for the sleeper bus to cover the stretch between Hoi An and Hanoi. The journey would’ve been even more pleasant had the stench of recycled air and dirty socks not been so pungent. Unfortunately for Ben, he had to sleep next to some strange man with funky nose jewelry (read: a massive hairy mole) while I paired off with Leah. Our time in Hanoi was brief and rainy. We had only a day of exploring, for the next day we set off on a dodgy two day tour of Halong Bay. We were delayed three hours because the other van of people joining up with us struck a motorbiker on the drive from Hanoi.
The bay was pleasant, like a more grand version of Khao Sok, and the Lord graced us with favorable weather. Ben and I were forced to share a bed at night on the boat. At around 4:30am, while in the throes of a dream about urinating on the wall of a locker room shower, I awoke to find that I was indeed pissing myself in real life for the first time since preschool. None of it made its way over to Ben.
We returned to Hanoi for our final night in Vietnam spent outside amidst some pseudo cluster of outdoor bars on those same miniature plastic chairs used for time-out. We downed cheap beer at 3,000Dong a glass while listening to some bizarre Australian couple rave about the book “Shantaram”. The female Aussie kept oddly referencing the fact every 30 seconds that she was a writer herself. "It's such a great book, and I can just appreciate the structure so much more being a writer myself, you know?"

And so it was in those final hours that we said goodbye to Vietnam, to Ben, and to love.

Cambodia (fake police, overstuffed pickups, prostitutes, abandoned french hill stations) - March 1st - March 11

Yeah yeah, the temples of Angkor were fancy schmancy. We decided one day was enough to see what we wanted to see, and while the sites were impressive, the scores of other tourists made it difficult to feel like Indiana Jones. There was also our dramatic DIY attempt at seeing the nearby floating villages met with a tuk tuk driver in collusion with a fake police officer, Freja’s conclusion that the villages didn’t constitute authentic culture, and a shady private boat operator with a penchant for spitting. All the trouble seemed a little silly when our trip to Battambang the next day took us the same route anyway. The scenic boat ride to Battambang was followed by an adventurous drive in a pickup over non-existent road with 17 other folks crammed in the flatbed. One evening was all we spent in Cambodia’s second largest city. We did eat at a rather nice café. By the morning sun of the following day, we were headed to Phnom Penh. During a pit stop, the bus took off and gave us a good scare. To our relief, it returned 10 minutes later with a full tank of gas. The first morning in Phnom Penh, I was awakened very early while it was still dark outside to the sounds of sweeping. It’s ironic considering how dirty the capital city still is notwithstanding 5am sweepings. I dreamt of Emily and woke up feeling dour. I hoped that a visit to the horror sites of S-21 and the Killing Fields would make my personal romantic anguish seem trivial in comparison to the greater suffering of man. After stepping out of the first room at S-21, a once elementary school transformed into the most infamous torture center during the Khmer Rouge, my mind was just beginning to refocus and process the gravity of historical events. And then, with one more step, I ran smack dab into Damien Kennedy, the oafish womanizing neighbor of mine from 3 years ago in Melbourne. My brain immediately shifted from thoughts of genocide to those of paltry gossip in the snap of a finger. Being reunited with an old friend can make attempts at somberness difficult, and we spent the rest of the day together. Kennedy is built like a teddy bear, talks funny even for an Australian, and is ripe for being picked on by eleven year old Cambodian kids selling bootleg books. While we were eating, they came up to him and started smacking his face, poking him in the side, and making mock attempts at spilling water on his head. I never could understand how he did so well with the ladies. Probably has something to do with a fearlessness of rejection.
Into the wee hours of the morning, there was no rejection to be had, but rather only to be administered on our end as we danced and frolicked and nothing more with prostitutes at Heart of Darkness, Phnom Penh’s infamous nighttime venue.

***

Phnom Penh is a city of grit and poverty and Lexus SUVs. Brendan B, one our hosts (along with the gracious Andrew), was/is a fast-talking rookie writer for the respectable weekly paper. He either qualifies or disclaims every statement or question escaping from his mouth. Behind his visage that bears a striking similarity to a more hipster Haley Joel Osment is a hamster wheel of a brain that is spinning much too fast. And while I blame Damien Kennedy for landing me in Heart of Darkness that first night, Brendan Brady is to blame for putting me there the second night with yet another prostitute for a dance partner. And despite the pestering of a stranger telling me it would be the biggest mistake of my life to not take her home for a meager sum of $20, I sadly declined, opting instead to skip out on the AIDS epidemic.
During the days in the city, we walked around and frequented super yuppie cafes for meals, looking as though they had just been transplanted from NYC – an odd juxtaposition amidst the surrounding squalor.
From Phnom Penh we headed south to the laid back riverside city of Kampot. We checked into our accommodation at this place called Bodhi Villa, a cesspool of stoned backpackers who seem to have gotten stuck and forgotten they’re in Cambodia, not Jamaica. There are signs everywhere instructing you to “chill out”, and just asking a question of how to get into a town is a good way to be met with ridicule and laughter that you could be so uptight. As Brendan put it, “There’s nothing that stresses me out more than when people are telling me to chill out.” Our room was a bare bones bungalow with partial curtains instead of an actual door. We rented a motorbike and zipped around town a bit before booking an ‘illegal’ tour up Bokor Mountain, though the tours are publicly advertised in front of every guesthouse. It’s illegal because the government officially closed the mountain a month ago after selling the impressive and historical real estate to a private Korean company to make way for a multi-billion dollar resort catering to rich Asian tourists. On the tour the next day, things were fine if you don’t count the fact that the truck broke down on the way up, we were left stranded for two hours at the top while they struggled to locate the truck, and at the end of the day when it was time to go home, the only road out was obstructed by yet another broken down vehicle. That said, the decaying buildings – constructed by the French back in the 1920’s before abandonment in the 1950’ – were an imaginative child’s dream come true to explore, plus the view up there of nearby Phu Quoc Island and the endless stretches of flat Cambodian landscape below weren’t too shabby. Once back in town, we discovered our motorbike was missing from where we’d parked it early that morning. Ben and I looked at each, started to cry, and threw up our arms in defeat. Cambodia had hit us where it hurt. You can be as rugged as you want, but when your rented motorcycle gets stolen, Huntington Woods doesn’t sound so bad anymore. We dragged ourselves into the nearby guesthouse for shots of their strongest rice wine only to learn that the guy who’d rented us the bike had actually stolen it from us after seeing it parked in plain view as the sun was going down. Good tactic for boosting customer relations. He returned the bike with a mild reprimand, though I still don’t understand what the hell we should’ve done if not parked it in front of the tour agency as advised; and if that wasn’t silly enough, we were further scolded by the desk guy working back at the Villa.
“Uhh, so I got a call from your motorbike rental guy last night and heard you were irresponsible with the bike” he said to us the next morning as we were checking out. Ben and I looked at each other, then back at the guy. In unison we responded, “Chill out.” On the bus back to Phnom Penh, we just barely got on as the decrepit vehicle was pulling out. It was inexplicably leaving 30 minutes early, so we didn’t have the chance to purchase tickets beforehand. The bus continued to pick up more and more passengers on route, and it only took 15 minutes before Ben and I had to relinquish our seats. For the next five hours we were relegated to these mini plastic stools – the kind used for putting three year olds in time-out – wedged in the aisles lacking enough space to properly situate my butt. For five hours, my knees performed torturous deep tissue massage on all the wrong parts of Ben’s back while the guy behind me was kind enough to return the favor.