Eve's Travel Blog

Death in Shanghai

2008-04-12T17:32:00.000-07:00

By the time I get up to my room, fall into bed, into fitful sleep, there's something very wrong, and there doesn't seem to be anything to do about it.
My head is throbbing, my legs are throbbing. Everything hurts; my hair hurts, my skin hurts.
Time passes.
I'm sweating into the pillows and sheets, a tangled, sweaty mess of fever. My throat has closed up long ago. It hurts to get out of bed, so I don't.
More time passes, and it occurs to me, sometime Wednesday that I could die here in this Shanghai hotel, with the neon lights and buildings outside, with the lights off, with no one calling. I imagine that maybe I have some brain-eating virus -- something has to be eating my brain, or I wouldn't be hurting, aching, throbbing like this.
I feel so helpless; I would never allow myself to access this level of pain in my normal life. On the second day of any fever, or once my throat closed, I would be in a doctor's office like that. I can't imagine trying to call down to the front desk and make my way through the language barrier to get a doctor; I can't imagine trying to navigage my way through a Chinese hospital. I'm a little bit afraid, but the pain is actually too overwhelming to feel much fear.
During the very bad parts, I moan little prayers to a god I don't believe in.
We fly back to San Francisco; I stumble out of the airport, sit on my luggage, smoke morosely. Lisa drives up, feels my forehead, says, "Oh my god, I'm taking you to the hospital."
We go to UCSF and because of my "recent travels" I get a private room and the nurses, techs and doctors all come in with masks on. I worry they will stick me in a scary quarantine room but they don't.
Six hours, one EKG, a chest X-ray and multiple blood tests later, they give me the happy diagnosis of a non-brain eating virus and dehydration. I get 2 liters of saline pumped through my veins, a prescription for codeine and we go home, to Lisa's home.
I stay in her bed for three more days.
I am so happy to be alive.

The Whole World Is Watching

2008-04-06T23:18:00.000-07:00

I check Google News from the new hotel we’re at in Hangzhou. The top story -- the protests (over China’s human rights violations) in major European cities where the Olympic torch is making its way across the world.
I conduct an experiment here in the hotel internet cafe. I click on several of the news articles on the protest -- almost all of them come up. A few, however, give me what looks like a Page Not Found error. I Google "Tiananmen Square Massacre," and every single link comes up Page Not Found.
I can’t read Chinese, and I actually think the page reads an explanation of why I cannot view it.
The truth is, except for today’s village, the square has been my favorite part.
********************
I woke up sick this morning. Sore throat, body aches, fever. We made our usual frantic dash throughout the factories and took a nice canal ride. Today was actually the best day in spite of a hacking cough. We were allowed to roam for the tiniest bit of time in a small canal village. I walked through narrow streets and managed even, by pointing to the phrase "I’m sick" in my Chinese phrase book and coughing to prove it, to buy some inported cold medicine.
The village was beautiful and smelly and had little storefronts of fresh vegetables, little rooms that might have been houses or might have been restaurants, or more likely, a combination of both. I walked through the narrow alleyways, stepping aside to allow for the traffic of speeding bicycles. An old woman smiled to me and waved. "Ni hao," I said, returning her grin.
********************
I am not the only one breaking down from the crazy pace, the 141-thick group. Another man on our bus freaked out today, covering his ears with his hands to drown out the sound of everyone and skipping dinner, going directly to bed.
We’ve all had our moments. We muse about the fact that as a government-sponsored trip, we’re here only to see what the government wants us to see. We wonder if it is just the nature of organized trips to begin with. We talk about the consumerist quality of the trip even as we buy little hats from street vendors and silk scarves from the largest silk factory in China. ********************
I’m sweating; I have chills; my throat is raw.
The smog, the stress, the lack of sleep; the smog; the muggy weather; the night of semi-hard partying on our last night in Beijing and finally the intense, hard Chinese massage all pushed me over the edge. I didn’t think I’d be the one to get sick on this trip.
Didn’t think I’d be the one to turn down a night of exploring the neon-light streaked city outside.
I barely know what day it is, and I don’t know what city we’ll be in tomorrow. We are dragged or prodded onto bus after bus, hotel after hotel, shoved in round tables for meals, herded like cattle into factories and then marched back onto the bus.
********************
We’re so tired; we’d give anything to sleep till noon, wander for a few hours until we find tea, get lost and have to ask directions from a policeman, have strangers run up to us because they want to practice English.
We want to walk where no tourist goes and eat hot soup or find a dumpling stand. We want to go to a garden where there is not hundreds of Americans.
My friend Sarah’s dad said to me yesterday, "This entire restaurant is filled with white people. This is seriously the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen."
Me too.

In Suzhou

2008-04-05T23:20:00.000-07:00

The misanthrope arrives, not unexpectedly. The Americans are infuriating. I myself am infuriating. I drop drug comments all day long in an effort to shock and halt further conversation.
I’m so bad with people.
They make me nervous; they make me angry; they make me uneasy and fearful and, finally, they annoy the hell out of me.
There are about a half-dozen like-minded people on my tour bus (my friends and their families), and there’s an elderly lady who is my new hero. She can’t be a day younger than 70, and she walked with great speed through the never-ending tour of Beijing yesterday.
Our last night in Beijing was the best -- we drank and made friends with the owners of the hotel bar, which we were delighted to discover is privately owned. Only about 5 percent of businesses in China are not owned by the government. We drank expensive fruitinis and cheap Chinese beer. We took silly pictures of stuffed animals and I laughed to tears.
Today is a whole other story.
Our wake up call was at 4 am, to catch a 7:25 am flight to Shanghai. The plane. And then the new tour guide, squeaky voiced and over the top. We go to the Garden for Lingering, but we are not allowed to linger, really -- we are on a tight schedule. The crowds of our tour group and a few others is overwhelming. I get the beginnings of a panic attack. There are beautiful ponds, exotic rock formations, mosaics on the walkways, and there are so many goddamn tourists, I cannot think.
Emily, our new guide, (I had to hug Tom goodbye in Beijing and I kinda miss him), encourages us to stick together like sticky rice, and 80 percent of us ignore her and take off for a moment’s peace.
I cannot hear remarks about "they" and "them" anymore. I cannot listen to the mindless enthusiasm about the next government-owned factory complete with shop where the Americans must shop. God (or maybe Mao) forbid the tour company would actually drop us off in a real Chinese marketplace. Where we might, I don’t know, actually get to talk to some locals. Where we might actually get some idea of real life here.
She does not appreciate our rebellious American nature and tells us we are "broken" rice.
Our bubble is so tiny, so controlled.
I knew this, of course -- that was my greatest fear -- How am I going to be able to deal with travelling with people when I always travel alone?
I did okay for the first few days. Today, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I am so used to being alone; I need to be alone.
Various groups take off -- some go to the tour-sponsored dinner. Some run to Starbucks and ask in loud American voices, "Where can we get American food?" They come to China, they must have Starbucks, they must have Pizza Hut. It’s not for the kitsch factor; they really need it. My friends take off to find some place cool. I’m exhausted; I cannot go further this evening and I cannot fake acting normal when I’m thisclose to breaking down. I’m not used to people; I don’t surround myself by big groups; I have never done this before and I can scarcely believe my disposition today.
I am so, so fed up. It’s my least favorite part of traveling - meeting, with total inevitability, the kind of American I am trying not to be. The one who gets a kick out of getting a cheaper price on a purse, complete with a "Ha ha, how do they make a living?" The one who believes American Chinese food at the local Chinese buffet is "better" than what we’re eating.
But who am I to judge, really? A few days ago or was it yesterday, I’m all mixed up, a woman didn’t want to take my $5 American bill because it had an ink stain. I wondered aloud if it would get by the next waitress - that next waitress was right in front of me, and I was so embarassed, so full of shame, I covered my face in my hands and winced and said of myself what I think of so many of the 141 people on the chamber of commerce tour: I am such an asshole.
***************
On my first volunteer trip to Russia, Richard, my one-week buddy, skipped the free dinner almost every night because, as he said, "There’s just too many Americans here."
I didn’t take it personally and I knew he didn’t want company. But every morning, I loved to hear about his adventures the previous night.
In another time, another country, we never would have bonded. He’s from the south, in his 40s, married, Republican.
But the night he came up to my room, the smell of his jacket, and the look in his eyes when he spoke of a great ache to experience the culture of the city outside of the group is something I am remembering now, and I wonder how I will be able to achieve Richard-like exhileration here on this goverment-sponsored trip.
***************
When everyone breaks apart to explore the local American chains and others walk to find something authentic, I find myself so exhausted and short-tempered, that I visit the Chinese restaurant here in the hotel for my dinner.
The beautiful girl asks me if I’m alone and I say I am. As she leads me to the restaurant, I ask her if there are any Americans in the restaurant.
She stops, thinking I might be trying to meet somebody: "No, not here," she says.
"Oh thank god," I say, shaking with relief.
I eat alone, with a book and my phrase book. I order dumplings and meat steamed in bread. I got sick this morning so I eat every bit of ginger in the tiny bowl.
I’m not free -- I’m in the hotel. It’s beautiful; my bathroom has a bidet. I’m not free, but I have solitude now, thank god, thank god, just an hour away from the group. Away from the loud strangers.
I wonder if there is any way possible on this trip to experience the tiniest part of China. On. My. Own.

Beijing to Shanghai

2008-04-05T00:54:00.000-07:00

The city is choked by smog.
I’ve not seen anything like it, not even in Mexcico City, or perhaps they’re tied. Our days are filled with live infomercials and gray skies. Our nights are filled by a 5-star hotel and the hotel lobby bar.
We walk.
From Tian’nmen Gate, we walk through an underground cross street and my eyes surprisingly, but not really, fill with dark gray water. I realize I miss Russia, I miss Moscow, I want to say "Spasiba," when I really should be saying "Shi Shi."
I realize that I look at a tall Chinese soldier and feel instead the quickening pulse that comes from walking by any Russian man.
I love the huge portrait of Chairman Mao; I love the big public square; I love Tom, our guide, who is a little bit communist, a little bit brainwashed like we all are by our governments, a little bit wise, a little bit shocked when two of us decide to opt out of the non-negotiable "optional" tour and strike out alone.
I feel so constrained, so trapped. I got lost today in the Forbidden City. I am the only person on our bus without a buddy, without a partner; I’m alone as I always am, and so when I stopped to squat in a public toilet, I got left behind.
When I left the bathroom and couldn’t find the group, I had an exhilerating few minutes of joy. I was free! I was outside of the box. The square inside the Forbidden City opened up to me. I saw an old Chinese man scream at his old and still smiling Chinese wife. How could she keep that amused smile on her face as she was being yelled at in public, I wondered? I saw young, god how young, soldiers marching. I was free, I thought. Free from the oppressive schedule, the merchants, every last one of them who accept my shitty US dollars. free from Tom overlooking us like a mother hen, free from the petroleum-guzzling bus, free from Lin with her camera, free from the complaining, irritating, loud, obnoxious Americans .... so free ...
And that’s when I realized that if I didn’t find my tour group pretty quickly, I was going to be totally fucked.
**************
I eat dumplings and duck. I don’t stray too far from the group, because they want to keep us in check, in a line, a number on a bus, I get it.
I buy surprisingly cheap souveniers. I tell a woman selling 7 purses for $10 that she is underselling herself. She can sell them for $5 apiece. Maybe she will come August when the Olympics are here.
Dear god, what are these people going to do when the Olympics are here? How will they explain the everlasting gray sky and factory pollution? Why would they even show anyone around town or even allow people to talk to foreigners when the story is the same as it is all over the world -- we are all controlled.
I drink tea. I am with people and this is not always a bad thing. Maybe I only breathe a little bit after the climb up the Great Wall. Maybe I pretend to sleep on the tour bus so I can think. Maybe my hands hurt right now and my contacts are falling out and I’m catching an early flight to Shanghai and I can’t really see the screen.
It’s still better than what’s going on at home.

Moscow

2008-01-25T17:58:00.000-08:00

What can I say about Moscow.
Can I say how beautiful it is here? Can I say how it is a huge fairy tale city? Can I say that the towers of the Kremlin melt perfectly with the huge skyscraper of the Samsung building?
The city merges old buildings with new. It merges new money with old babushkas.
I fall in love with this city. I fall in love with Cortney and Adam, the other two volunteers. I want to touch them and I do. I touch them on their shoulders - they bring me to tears.
We sneak bottles of vodka and paper cups of coffee on to Red Square and toast. To the city. And to us.
We throw pennies, kopyeks, over our shoulders in front of the gates, as we've seen the others do.
We take each others pictures.
I forgot how nice it is to travel with friends, and the three of us have spilled our guts to each other the way people who are thrown together do. We tell each other intimate secrets. We hold each other and choke up when we speak of the children, and what they did to make us happy or so sad.
I feel especially close to Adam and this thrills me and excites me and makes me hopeful. Adam is much older than I am. And since Cortney goes to sleep early, the two of us go out for beers or coffee and we tell each other our stories and we make each other laugh. And when we walk down the street and our arms or shoulders touch .. or when he leans over my shoulder into my ear to point out a landmark ... I feel so hopeful. Adam is going through a breakup with his wife; he is older than me and is not really "available," but I feel so much hope. That some day, I will be loved.

Ending Things in Yaroslavl

2008-01-23T02:38:00.000-08:00

I have only two more days here. Tomorrow is my last day at Children's Hospital. It will be a special day for me. I'm going to repeat the project that Richard and I did so successfully last time - paper picture frames and a photo session of each of them with a Poloroid camera. They're going to love it.
The way the organization works is this: We go to a placement (hospital, boarding school, shelter, elderly home, disabled center) with a translator, and first off we do a craft. The Russians believe in "labor therapy," and so we have them do a project. At the hotel, one of the office rooms is our Craft Room, and there are shelves of paper, tissue paper, ribbons, sequins, glue. We make mouses out of pipe cleaners, greeting cards out of construction paper. On Friday, I'm going to help the women at the mental hospital make felt purses with ribbon and fabric. They're not allowed to have scissors, so everything will be pre-cut, and we'll use pipe cleaners as a needle with yarn.
After the craft, then it's play time. Uno is very big here. The women at the hospital like cards and dominos. Today at the children's hospital, we played a game similar to Chutes and Ladders.
If the kids don't want to play games, we always bring crayons and coloring books and plain paper. Also Barbies and little toy cars for the boys.
We play for about an hour, and then it's time to leave.
**********
Last night, Nadia, the director, took us to a banya. A real banya, not the scandalous one I visited last year in St. Petersburg. Adam was the only man, and Cortney and I have body issues, and Adam does too (he says he thinks he's part Neanderthal on account of his body hair) and we were all pretty nervous and freaked out. We women stripped in one room; Adam was lucky and had a room to ourselves. Then we all emerged wearing only thin sheets.
Yes. That's it.
Now, Cortney and I were freaked out. Nadia and one of the translators have done this a bazillion times and guided us through the process. All of us hopped into the banya, which is a small wooden room with rocks in a corner. We sat there for several minutes until we began to sweat profusely. And then, we came outside. Outside meaning into the snow.
We were all very shy at first. We didn't look at eachother, and fiddled with our sheets.
But by our second round, we were throwing snow at eachother.
God, the exhileration! The beauty of the forest! There was fresh snow everywhere, and I understood why they said banya was best with fresh snow - after leaving the banya, your body retains the heat for several minutes. You can walk around outside, pulling up handfuls of fresh snow and rubbing it on yourself (or getting a snowball thrown at you) or you can throw it up in the air and it sprinkles down on you and feels amazing. Like you want to cry, it feels so good.
We steamed like dumplings outside, and we took pictures of each other. I never thought I'd allow someone to take a picture of me half naked in the snow, but I did.
Back inside the banya, the beating with birch leaves commences. And that feels good, but it also feels hot. It is the heat of like nothing imagined. The leaves of the birch tree are very wet and very limp, and they smack against your skin, but just whipping it up and down creates a tremendous heat that is nearly unbearable. When it does become unbearable, that is when it's time to leave and go back out into the snow.
**********
I feel a great connection with Adam and Cortney. We quickly bonded, having similar senses of humor and irony. We laugh like crazy, and we've cried together, though we've only known each other for 11 days. Every night we go out together, we have a great time. We have a great time getting lost. We have a great time humiliating ourselves in front of Russians who don't understand us. We have a great time gossiping about our translators, bitching about the high strung ones, praising our favorites.
We talk about our placements - Adam and Cortney have spent most of their time at a children's shelter and a boarding school and at an elderly home. I've spent most of time with the Children's Hospital and the disabled.
Adam and Cortney don't love the Children's Hospital as I do, mostly because, as Adam describes it, it's pretty "grim." It is probably 200 years old. The kids are messed up and some of them like Maxim, my favorite, are pretty bad. Adam and Cortney love working with the little ones at the shelter - some of them are as young as two - and I understand it. Toddlers are easy to love.
On Friday, my last day here in Yaroslavl, Adam and Cortney are going to accompany me to Moscow, and the three of us will spend the weekend there before I go back home on Sunday.
**********
On the way to the internet cafe tonight, Cortney said, "When you leave, what do you miss the most? The kids?"
"The kids," I said. "Yes, the kids. But also - at home in L.A., I don't feel like I fit in. Here, even though I look different and I don't know the language - for some strange reason, I feel like I fit in. I don't know what it is. I feel comfortable."
**********
Everything has been wonderful, everything. The kids, yes. But the food, my god the food. Cortney and I can't stop eating cheese. Every day at lunch, we are served strange salads and steaming pots of every kind of soup - cabbage soup, chicken noodle soup, potato soup, pea soup. They're fucking amazing. We get chicken Kiev, potatoes, steaks dipped in egg, kabobs, green beans floating in garlic butter. Homemade brown bread. Special Russian ice cream, thick and not too sweet.
**********
We spent the morning in Rostov, a neighboring city, famous for its enamal factory. We ate lunch in a monastery. We visited cathedrals. Cortney and I had to wear skirts and scarves over our heads. Adam said I look Muslim.
We climbed to the top of the monastery, overlooking Lake Nero. A car drove on the frozen lake. Even here in Yaroslavl, the rivers are frozen over and men sit out there ice fishing.
Russia is beautiful right now - it is covered in snow and the buildings rise majestically with the church towers bright against the white sky. The women all look like supermodels, wearing stiletto boots and fur coats. The men smell like cigarettes and something else that I can't put my finger on, but something that makes my heart beat a little quicker when I'm close to one.
**********
Today at lunch in the monastery, Nadia told one of the monks that I had been proposed to several times. This is an exaggeration - two men last week tried to pick me up, but I use the word "men" very loosely because one of them didn't look older than 18, and Cortney joked that he probably remembered me from last year because he was at one of the orphanages.
The monk gave me some advice. He said that 20 percent of Russian men are very good, and the other 80 percent are alcoholics. But 100 percent of Russian men have very big hearts.
I am so moving here.

KOPE-IN

2008-01-19T12:56:00.000-08:00

The thing I have to remember about the Russian language is this:
1. Things that are prounounced similar in both languages (toilet, restaurant, nose) are written entirely differently.
2. Even though some words are written in the same alphabetical letters as English, they are pronounced entirely differently.
**********
Things are perfect for me, but for the personal matters of the other two volunteers. Thursday night, Adam got distressing news from a wife that apparantly wants to leave him, and Cortney spilled her guts and said her husband is divorcing her and has a 28-year old girlfriend.
What happens in situations like this is that I absorb the situation and it becomes my own. Until I forced myself to stop later that night, I found myself pacing my room and very anxious. I had to actually sit myself down and tell myself I was being incredibly selfish - to myself! - by making their problems my own. I read before bed and in the morning, we all woke up better. Adam has decided to stay in Russia anyways - after talking to his wife, he has decided she is confused. Cortney honestly has not broken down at all. Her strength is really incredible and Russians keep mistaking her for a movie star. **********
Today is a special day in the Russian Orthodox Church (what it is, I do not remember, except people get "baptized" by jumping into the river), and so one of the translators took us to the main Yaroslavl church and we stood through the latter part of the service.
How it works is this: You cross yourself with either two or three fingers, right shoulder first, before you enter the church, when you enter the church, and every time the priest says "Amen," which here, sounds like "Ah-mun." You also buy a thin stick of a candle, cross yourself and light it, cross yourself again. You may also kiss the glass of the picture of your favorite icon (Mary and Jesus are very big), but this I did not do because I could think only of the germs and bacteria on that glass. When I lit my candle, I said a prayer for the young boy outside the gate of the church who was begging. That is when I felt an overwhelming sense of my own atheism - I did not believe for a minute that the world, the universe, god, whatever, was going to do a fucking thing for him. I knew this in my bones. My soul, though I don't believe in "soul."
It came to me (an American thought), that I could simply give him money, a large sum, and that would ensure many things - 1. that the prayer that I said was not in vain and 2. here is the hard part, that I only realized afterwards, a thought so shameful, it hurts me to write it.
So that I would not feel so helpless, so that I would feel better about things, so that I would feel better about myself.
I looked over my shoulder, as though I was a criminal. What I was about to do was strictly against the rules of the organization I am with. I walked towards the boy, and with one last furtive glance, dropped the note in the outstretched bowl. His hands were red. He did not look up. I hated myself truly at that point, because what is the fucking point of any of this?
Am I like the Americans I hated last time? The awful rich women who liked to drop money on developing countries because it made them look good?
Am I like the women I hate, the ones who pose for pictures with AIDS babies and orphans because I like the way I look in those pictures, like someone holy, like Princess Diana?
I was struck by a choking lightening flash of terrible guilt and impotence. I pretty much reeled away from the boy as though he had actually struck me, and stumbled through the snow, up the icy ledge and I hid behind the church for several minutes until I pulled myself together.
I've had these thoughts before. But only now, writing it, does the entirety of the shame seem so fucking gross and true.
In order to come here to work with kids, I had to take some blood tests. I went to my doctor and handed her the paperwork, and she asked what I was going to Russia for, and when I told her, she said, "You're so good, you're making me cry."
"I'm not good," I said with meaning. "It's fun for me, I like doing it."
Well - I do like doing it. I like Maxim, the bad teenage boy who always hits this little girl. She cries, I hold her. But I hold him, too. It's not his fault he grew up badly. He's likely only re-enacting what he's seen for years at home.
I like Kola, and was kinda sad that Thursday was his last day at the hospital. I liked him because he offered me his gloves on the same day that he picked up big sticks and made awful, machine gun sounds with them.
Right now, though, do you know what I am remembering? I am remembering having pity for the little boy this morning, and I feel a kind of rage against myself now, because I am afraid that my "kindness," my "good deeds," are really nothing very much more than ego boosts.
And if this is true, then I do not know myself as well as I thought, and I don't know if I really like myself all that much either.

A Little Boy With Gloves - Children's Hospital

2008-01-15T02:30:00.000-08:00

Today, at the Children's Hospital, we went outside. I didn't bring my gloves because I didn't know we were going outside. A little boy pointed to my hands and pretended to be shivering. "I forgot them," I said, pointing away, and stuffing my hands in my pockets. It's amazing how much one can communicate without understanding each other's language. The little boy took off his left glove and handed it to me, and I almost died. "Nyet, nyet, spasiba!" I said, giving it back to him. It was one of the sweetest things I've ever been offered. This little kid has nothing and yet he offers me the glove off his hand. It sounds like a story one reads. It seems like something that happens to other people. It seems like a fairy story, maybe, a folk tale. But it happened to me this morning, at about 11 am. Even now, writing it, I am overcome with a feeling I can't identify, but feels like joy, sorrow, aching, love, all at once.
The three of us have a great thing going here, me and the other volunteers. We took a walk to a local grocery store today after our afternoon placement, and, only sweating a little bit, I was actually able to purchase bread and cheese.
The old Russian groceries are stuck in time, in a fabulous way. There are four windows/counters - one for meat, one for produce, one for cheese and one for bread.
First you go the window where the stuff is you want, wait in line, and you tell the lady what you want. She writes something down on a little piece of paper. Then you go to the fifth window, which is the cashier. You wait in line, then pay her, and then you take the receipt back to the window, and then you wait in line again, and give her the receipt and then you are allowed to collect your goods.
This process took only a few minutes to understand. At first, the three of us just stood by the door, trying to figure out what was going on by watching other people. But people kept knocking into us coming and going, so we finally were fairly pushed fully inside the store, and after pointing and saying "Pazshalsta," (please) and then the one good phrase in Russian I know how to say perfectly (I do not understand Russian, I'm sorry!") we were somehow spit back out onto the slushy sidewalk with a loaf of bread, wheel of cheese and two pastries that turned out to have a yogurt topping.
Yesterday, while we were waiting for the tram, I told Cortney that maybe people couldn't believe we wanted to go to Russia because in America, we still think of Russia as this big, dark, scary place. And then it kinda struck me as we were standing there in the near-deserted tram stop, with all the dead trees and shut-up kiosks, that it is big dark and scary. Cortney quipped, "You're really not that far off," and we all laughed like crazy, because it is totally true and yet still much much more than that otherwise we wouldn't be here.
It's cold and big and dark and scary. And it's also where, if you forget your gloves, a little boy will offer you his.

Back in Yaroslavl

2008-01-14T02:51:00.000-08:00

There is no snow...
The Russians are pretty pissed about it, too. They are used to having great snow during their New Year and everyone is worried about global warming. Forget about what it's doing to the environment – it is messing with my banya. For the real banya includes
not diving into cold water, I learned, but actually diving into heaps of powdery, fluffy snow.

Nadia, the director, is loathe to take us because she says that diving into slush is not "as nice" as diving into snow. She wants to wait...

I really hope it snows.
Everything here is exactly as I remember it. One of the hotel staff recognized me. The volunteer program staff are all very happy to see me, and I actually find myself a bit shy, really. I wasn't the greatest volunteer by far. I got flustered and made a ton of mistakes and everything. However, I am considered a seasoned pro here, although there are only 2 people to whom I can show off – Adam, a 40-ish dad from England, and Cortney, in her 30s, from Ventura County.
My biggest feat so far – I was able to guide us all, myself included, to and on the tram, and through the square, past the kremlin, down the slushy street to the 24-hour internet café.
I consulted the handbook, and was still somewhat stunned that I actually kinda remembered how to get here.
I requested and received placement back at the Children's Hospital. I was sad to see that 2 of the kids I saw last March are either still at the hospital, or have been sent back there. I don't think they recognized me, though it's hard to tell. One of the girls I hugged tightly, and she rolled back her head and smiled, and I realize that she must be really, really sick, and that made me want to cry.
Adam and Cortney are great. We are all on the same page, and Cortney and I took a scary trip to the market across the street to buy yogurt for her and sodas for me.

God I missed this damn place! I missed the smells and the market with all kinds of goods and meats and breads, and I missed the rickety old tram, and the drafty gloomy hospital and the rough children, all of it.
I am here for two whole weeks.

Bolshoi Ballet

2008-01-12T03:06:00.000-08:00

I wondery why I go to the ballet when I actually don't like the ballet. Although if I did care for it, I can see why Giselle might become a favorite of mine. It was beautiful and I could tell there was a compelling love story going on, but I began to fall asleep and left the theater during intermission.
The proprieter of the hostel I am at near Red Square gave me an excellent recommendation for dinner - a cheap, authentically Russian cafeteria-style restaurant where I ate beef stroganaff, boiled potatoes and borchst with sour cream. Really when I was sitting in the first balcony at the theater, I was thinking not of getting roaring drunk like I thought I might on cheap vodka, but was craving instead hearty, salty, hot Russian food.
Moscow is as I remember -- busy, cold, neon lights of the Samsung building across the street in sweet contrast with the lights of the Kremlin just a few blocks away.
The streets are icy and the fountain outside the Bolshoi Theater was dusted with a great layer of powder snow.
Things come back to me; I'm delighted. For instance, I know that a sign that looks like PECTOPAH means "restaurant." BAP mean bar. CTON means it's a stop sign.
I remember without even looking at my book how to say Good evening, Thank you.
OK, I'm not a rocket scientist - even my 6-year-old can memorize a few words of Spanish. My vocabulary is only about a dozen words and I cannot read a word of Russian.
I fell very easily into the tourist trap of getting ripped off. My cab to the city center cost close to $150. About three times what it should cost.
But I'm pleased to see the woman at the cafeteria wihp out a pen to write on a piece of paper how much I owe - the universal language of numbers, thank god. My dinner cost a 312 rubles.
And how well I remember the obsession over small change. She was unhappy with my $1000 ruble note and actually fingered through my outstretched wallet to try to find a bill that better suited her.
Frankly, it's too fucking cold to go out exploring tonight. Full from a good dinner, thousands of miles from family trauma and work stress, I try to stay in the moment (how many times in your life can you actually be immersed and fulfilled in the moment you are in?) by looking down at my thighs. Yes, my thighs, to bring me back from brooding over the glare my boss gave me on Thursday, or the amusing IM I sent to one of my coworkers.
Tomorrow, I will go out and secure a breakfast somewhere and some coffee. I will try to buy some cigarettes without humilating myself (this though is really a lofty goal - it is impossible to not embarass yourself as a foreigner in a different country).
I'm going to take a long and hopefully hot shower in this cute Soviet-era apartment-building-turned-hostel on Tverskaya Street. I'm going to sleep long and hard and when I wake up, I hope there is more snow on the ground.

Goodbye Africa

2007-11-26T15:42:00.000-08:00

I spent my last day in Ghana at an orphanage about 20 minutes away from Kokrobite Beach, where I stayed the last four nights. There are a ton of volunteers in Ghana, and a good portion of them were at the beach resort this weekend for the live music they have on Fridays and Saturdays.
This girl Alex, yet another Australian, is actually living and volunteering at the orphanage, and I was pleased with the invite.
I realize more and more that I know nothing - for instance, when I was in the orphanage in Yaroslavl, Russia, I remember thinking to myself that it was crumbling and third-world.
As it turns out, not even Ghana is considered truly third-world, and this despite the fact that the toilets were big holes where the waste goes god knows where, and flies, jesus, the flies swarming and the smell so awful I felt I would vomit.
I visited Naomi, the owner of the orphanage, who sleeps on a mattress on a floor and somehow manages to feed, clothe and educate 75 children with help from volunteers and private donors.
And I told her that perhaps I would come back to volunteer - she said it is $400 a month, part room and board, part donation to the kids ...
But I knew that I could never live there. I could never do something like that.
I am naive, yes. In Russia, the kids had clothes and running water and flushing toilets.
**********
But all in all I am sad to be leaving, not just because I dread the daily grind I am about to find myself in once again, but also because I know I could have spent more time with the locals ... I spent a lot of time on my own, writing and reading ... I wonder what other things I could have learned from the people that the hotel owners seem so interested in keeping away.
In Accra, there are actually hotels and "spots" where locals are not allowed.
Supposedly this is not exactly legal, but no one cares too much one way or another.
There was, I think, a bit too much tension between the beach hotel and the local villagers ... who know they are not welcome in the courtyard unless they have money to waste at the bar, and few of them do. And so there it was, again - the bottom line guilt.
**********
Spent the afternoon swimming in the beach, talking to Barbara and playing with the kids. Shopped for souveniers for my family - beads and handmade purses for my sister in law and grandmother. A small drum for my nephew.
**********
I wonder, when I get back to L.A., if I will remember that I hate my job now. I wonder if I will remember to save money and postpone a $1000 a month apartment so I can just get the hell out of there. I have met so many people on this trip who did just that ... saved money and dropped out of the rat race to travel around Africa for pennies.
I wonder if I will remember that my job is simply not important. And never was.
I wonder if I will remember Casey, the Peace Corps volunteer, Alex from Australia.
My chest is badly sunburned and I smell not that great, and I wonder if I really will come back like I said so many times this past week.

Seventh Day in Ghana

2007-11-25T01:36:00.000-08:00

Jesus Christ, an advenure. From Accra to Kokrobite, to Cape Coast and Elmina and Kakum National Park. Hiking and making flubbing mistakes.
Meeting highly opinionated anti-American tourists. The woman called "your people" ignorant, naiive, short-sighted.
She was an awful woman.
The locals who call us Obruni.
Barbara and her children, Amy and Jeremiah. And David, the local Rasta man from Nigeria.
And the volunteers from everywhere.
Christ, an adventure. Broken down buses, buses always late, trying to navigate the local transportation, paying money that caused the awful Australian woman to call me a fool.
Swimming in Atlantic. The full moon so bright behind the cloudy sky. The moon so bright.
The heat, my God, the heat. Sweat pouring everywhere always. Sweat pouring like I've never thought it could pour, literally pour.
Barbara and her beautiful kids. The little boy Jeremiah. They live in a ... I can't describe the houses here. They are mud houses. They are sticks with palm leaves as roofs. They are small stone one room houses. The smell of sewage. The goats and chickens and children running amuck.
And every single Obruni I've met has a very opinionated answer to Africa's problems.
I am tired of hearing of white people who think they have all the answers.
I prefer to spend my time with David and Barbara, the local villagers who have nothing and who (which none of the other tourists can believe) have asked me for nothing. They haven't asked me for a cent.
Which made me buy a few bags of groceries.
The popular sentiment of today: handouts are useless, they help no one. The person is the same tomorrow. Billions of dollars of aid has gone to Africa and it hasn't done anything good. What they need is education, what they need is empowerment.
What Jeremiah looked like he needed was a big meal.
**********
I sleep in a hut and my showers are with buckets of cool water. The toilet ... wow, the toilet. At least there's a seat cover.
The food spicy and good.
The roosters wake me up at 3:30 am.
**********
I thought that since Ghana is the model of African Union's push to stabilize the continent, that it meant there was at the very least running water and food for everyone who lives here.
I was wrong.

Landing in Africa

2007-11-20T02:16:00.000-08:00

The plane touches down 45 minutes early, to the delight of my new friend who sits beside me, juggling two babies while telling me about the beautiful richness of his homeland. And how happy he is that an American is travelling there on vacation, "just because." He tells me that Bill Cosby has a house in Ghana, but I imagine people like Bill Cosby have houses everywhere.

Turns out I was dead wrong about Ghana -- it is third-world, or "developing" or whatever euphemism is used to describe a place where there may or may not be toilets available at the local pub.

Had an eye-opening experience yesterday at the local arts market, where I was led down an alley and in every other corner, there was a family watching me, and he pointed to beyond a concrete wall, and when I walked past the wall -- what was I expecting? -- I saw just a floor and some more concrete wall. And large openings in the concrete floor that served as drains. I think I actually said, "OK!" out loud, in shock.

It is warm here and for that I'm grateful. The wind and icy temperatures of New York were punishing and at one point last Friday, I couldn't even feel my face any more.

Here, it is very tropical and moist. I visited two museums and walked around a bit. Nobody is that surprised to see a foreigner - I saw three of them yesterday at the bank. One of them was a full-on ex-pat, a short white guy in his mid-fifties, wearing a brown and white local dress with a matching cap. However, I am the recipient of many kissing sounds and inquiries regarding my marital status, but I have not received any outright proposals as the guide books promise, and I wonder if, like in America, there are two types of girls: the type you marry, and the type you ____ and if even in Africa, I am the type of girl you ____.

Lodgings are a bit ... run-down. I have a room to myself. I wish I hadn't booked a room to myself, but I'm only spending two more nights here in the city before I leave to the beach hut I've been dreaming about.

Little girls with outstretched hands - remind me of Mexico. I press some coins into her tiny hand.

I compose a letter to Marcel in my head, the beautiful man at the piano bar on 51st St and 8th Ave. I write it like this: Dear Marcel, I don't know if you remember me, but we talked for a small while outside the piano bar, and you told the guy who was begging for change that you had been where he was: poor. And you told me that you taught high school history and you came from Brazil, and you found your way out of poverty through sports at the University of Kansas, and you asked me how long I was staying in New York and I said that I was leaving in two days, and you looked a little disappointed, and that's why I didn't give you my number, because you said, "People come and go all the time," but I wonder if you believe that maybe happiness and love are possible, even with a stranger? If you believed, then I would believe too. Your eyes were dark and beautiful that night, and I think I might have fallen in love with you; you looked like the person I dream about being in love with.

Here in Accra, the noises of the taxis so different and yet so similar to New York, I feel not at all a part of things, but somehow very separate and I start to crawl inside of myself, and I dream about work and I think too much and I walk back to the hostel and surprisingly, only get a little bit lost, and the smell of burning sage and sewer is overwhelming.

I have big travel books of all that I am supposed to see, but I find myself here and I don't know where or how to go.

And Then Good Things Start to Happen

2007-11-16T01:43:00.000-08:00

The Connecticut leaves are golden. The days are rainy and some nights are frozen and others nearly balmy; though I haven't visited the park yet, I imagine what it will look like - yellow everywhere with hints of red. It's on my agenda for Saturday, my last day in the city.
Things improved dramatically on Tuesday, my second night in the East Village. I met a girl named Jayde from England, who is here after graduating from design school. Loneliness caused desperation and in this state, I fairly flung myself on this girl, who said she hadn't yet visited any bars because she is here on holiday alone, and hasn't felt confident enough to visit any nightspots - Oh, come with me, I said. We'll go out. I have been very lonely - I had spent too much time in midtown, where there are too many tourists traveling in couples and families.
And we did go out. We brought a Brazillian girl named Danielle with us. We drank overpriced drinks and listened to live music. We took a cab all the way uptown and navigated the subway back downtown.
Last night, we had coffee and cake at a nearby shop. An Austrailian woman fron the hostel joined us and we were four girls, sipping lattes and eating muffins on a cold evening in November in a cheap shop and I was extremely happy. I almost got enough sleep last night.
Today is my last day working in our Connecticut office, and I'm glad that at least it's a sunny day. Working from here has been stressful. I wish I could think of a better word. I wish I could write how sometimes, I get so frustrated at work that I need to put my head in my hands and take deep breaths and let a few tears leak out to relieve pressure.
I wish I could write about my daily headaches and the stiff tendonitis that leaves my hand muscles hard and aching.
I wish I could write about how hard I work and how quickly I fall into place with the bottom line: Make more money. Make more money.
I want to write about my boss who did everything he could think of to persuade me not to apply for a job opening in a different department, and when I finally said I wouldn't, acted like he could have cared less to begin with, and how goddamn infuriated I was, and how I implied he owed me some fucking gratitude, to which he said: Take a vacation.
On Monday I will be in Accra. It will be hot. I will be confused and discombobulated and jet lagged. But for 11 whole days after today, I am going to do my best Not to Think About Work.
So much left to do that I have not done - gone to the park, gone ice skating, called my friend Randy's friend Patty, bought my family gifts, have yet to visit the Empire State Building.
Was surpised to find that nearly every foreigner I've met wants to visit Ground Zero. Though I am not a New Yorker, one of the girls asked me about it, and I squirmed uncomfortably - I've got no wish at all to see that spot, none at all. I do not want to go where so much blood was shed.
I told her something that was part truth and part lie: It feels like a very long time ago that it all happened. And I cannot remember what things were like before it. I can't remember that things weren't always like this.

Saturday Night Blues

2007-11-10T15:35:00.000-08:00

Walked for hours in MOMA. Smile when I recognize Picasso across the gallery. Wince at Monet. Wore the wrong shoes; blisters by 4 pm.
Walked for hours in Times Square. Remembered the van Gogh I loved, the starry night, the first piece of art i ever really liked, and then was made to feel foolish by art majors in college who called it pop.
Walked for hours from the post office by Madison Square Garden; shipped home a bunch of stuff I won't be needing anymore.
Seriously contemplating ditching the shoes that gave me blisters - if I believed in god, would that be a sin?
**********
Brunch in cafe. Blinking tears.
You thought you loved someone. You thought they loved you back. They didn't.
**********
Had a disturbing thought while walking down the street - I will never leave L.A. I won't move here. I couldn't leave my nephew.
I know that's bullshit - I know it's not true.
But for the moment I thought it, it was true.
**********
I go to a coffee shop and order a large coffee and a strange Spanish pastry. I notice someone sitting alone. He is about 40. He has sandy hair and he is scribbling in a notebook. A journal, it looks like. I beg him silently not to leave. I say in my head: Don't go, don't go, please stay right there, and look at me and love me love me love me.
By the time I sit down, he's already left.
**********
When I was a child, I told myself I would never become a girl who needed a boyfriend. When I was 14, I told my best friend I never wanted to get married.
Nobody tells you what it's like. I guess because they didn't know - who would I have known, at that age, to tell me what it's really like?
Who would have been able to tell me how to behave when one is the only single person at a party?
Who would have told me what to say when a colleague asks me, "Are you with someone?"
Or how to respond when a relative asks, "So when are you going to get married?"
Who was there to tell me not to take it personally when someone says, "Don't worry, you'll find someone?"
Or how happy people are for you when you're dating someone. How they think it's the magic potion that will make you normal?
**********
For instance, I remember writing to an old friend very briefly when I began dating my last boyfriend. All I wrote was that I was seeing someone and he was nice. And when she wrote back ... it was a strange letter that said, in part, "I'm glad you found someone to make you happy, he seems like he's really good for you."
And I thought, "What the fuck?"
**********
I hate that half the time, I believe so strongly in the concept of Self, that I dismiss completely the idea that anyone needs to be with another person. When I'm in this mood, I pity women who have never been on their own, feel sorry for women who have never traveled alone or lived alone or even gone to the movies alone.
And then there's the other half of the time.
That looks at couples holding hands and thinks so often that couples often look very much alike. They have the same color skin; they have complementary features. They dress similarly. They look like they belong together.
That's envy.
**********
I cringe inside when I think about meeting someone and falling into a routine because I've been in relationships, and here is what I know about them:
1. Relationships demand compromise.
2. You can't be selfish.
3. You can't expect the other person to be everything for you.
4. You have to accept the person as he is, even if parts of him are deeply flawed.
5. No matter how much someone loves you, they will hurt and disappoint you, and you have to live with that.
**********
So. Here I am, in New York. Supposed to be having the best time of my life, like I did last year. And who knows, maybe for a few hours at the Lenox Lounge a few nights ago, I was having the time of my life. Maybe I was this morning, looking at all the art. Maybe I was at the weird French restaurant, writing in my journal.
Here I am, living my dream - "living" in New York. Working on the East Coast. Taking the train every morning to Connecticut. Making my way back. Going to bars and clubs and Broadway shows and movies and cafes.
If I'm living my dream,
Then why do I feel so goddamned fucking lonely?

Harlem Nights

2007-11-08T12:14:00.001-08:00

One of my East Coast coworkers asked me if I was coming in tomorrow, and I said "Of course," and then realized what he was implying -- I should have taken some time off.
My job is stressful. It's not supposed to be, and my boss doesn't want it to be, and the basic fact is that I've re-invented the department to the delight of nearly everyone ... but another fact is that perks (like getting people to say yes to me working out of Connecticut for 2 weeks) are connected to characteristics that cause me much grief in the workplace. Even telecommuting.
**********
Spent the evening at the Lenox Lounge in Harlem. Beers, chicken wings and great music. A man named Ron asked me to dance, but I said no, because I couldn't.
I love Harlem. I love the grit and the dirt and the jazz and the diverse people - white, black, hispanic, asian -- they are all there, all at the same time, on the subway, on the streets, helping a clueless tourist find her way home.

Harlem Nights

2007-11-08T12:14:00.000-08:00

November in New York

2007-11-06T11:35:00.000-08:00

How do you measure desire when you identify it? I like to use scales of one to ten in life (how am I? on a scale of one to 10? oh, i'm a six today, thanks!).

I think maybe I saw desire today off the scale.

But there is the possibility of misunderstanding; we have all been there. You mistake friendliness for desire. You mistake kindness. You mistake happiness.

But I think I saw something today in someone's eyes, and then I knew for sure when his eyes scanned the front of my body a few times, and I held eye contact and waited for the scanning to end, and it did, and then we locked eyes and it has been a long ... long ... long time since anyone has looked at me like that.

Admittedly got off to a rocky start here in New York. My hostel is not really a hostel at all, but more like a glorified shared short-term co-op. It's nice. It's too nice for me. To reverse paraphrase Candace Bushnell - the address on 42nd Street and 8th Avenue sounds like it should be disreputable, but is actually extremely upper class. I share an elevator and breakfast room with rich people ... anyone who lives in this type of building is rich. Very new rich. Tiny dog rich.

I am moving downtown on Saturday.

Failure to find an apartment near work (two rental applications rejected, likely due to other applicants making more money than me) in Santa Monica led me to make an unusual request of my boss on October 25 - let me work out of the Connecticut office for a couple of weeks before my vacation. I'll pay my own way, stay in the city.

He didn't think I was serious until I sent him an email with bullet points. Then he asked his boss, who asked her boss, who asked the VP in the Connecticut office and it was my birthday, so everyone said "Sure, why not?"

And here I am.

Finally hit my stride today - took the 7:39 train to Connecticut, walked to the office in the rain. South Norwalk is a beautiful little toy town, with toy bars and a huge toy police station. Our East Coast corporate office used to be the old city hall.

Left work at 5:10 pm, not wanting a repeat of what happened yesterday (I got sucked and guilt-tripped into working until after 7, which gave me the 7:40 pm train back to the city, which landed me pissed off and drunk by 11) and went to a business to business networking event just a few blocks away from the condo.

Met new and interesting people - I met a capitalist, a real estate agent, a writer, a headhunter, a financial advisor and a personal trainer. I ordered a $13 drink that was too strong (I could only take a couple of sips before giving up).

I walked back to the condo and sit here on the 15th floor overlooking 8th Avenue. The buildings so high and bright, the long lines of cabs, people heading out of the city, on their way home from the long-houred jobs that give them houses in the suburbs, lofts in the city.**********

The look of desire I hadn't seen in so long, the look of desire that only comes when you yourself feel attraction toward the person who feels it (if you don't feel attraction, then that look of desire is not desire at all, but just "gross") - the look of desire that some part of me thought I might never see, that look that took me by surprise, so shocked, it lasted no more than two minutes timed. Maybe three. I didn't even recognize the look for what it was to begin with, because I just had not seen it for so long.

The moments go by so fast, you want to bottle them. Put them in your pocket, so the next time you're cold and lonely and sad and wish you were dead, you could bring out that bottle like a bottle of drugs, and be dragged back to that one moment when a very beautiful man looked right at you and liked what he saw.

Last Day in Russia

2007-03-21T18:29:00.000-07:00

I spent my last day in Russia roaming the streets of downtown Moscow. I got lost twice in exactly the same way. Had coffee and eggs off of Red Square.

Visited the former State Department Store (GUM), which used to be a government building with small stores, each selling rations of something different -- one for bread, one for meat, and so forth. It was notorious for being consistently understocked.

Now, it's a big mall with Dior, Louis Vuitton, and more.

St. Basil's Cathedral was just as luminous as I imagined. Tower after tower, intricate painting in every color. Covered my head with my scarf upon entering, which is according to Russian Orthodox tradition, even though none of the other tourists did. The inside was freezing.

According to historical documents and legend, Ivan the Terrible commissioned the cathedral to be built, and then, after it was done, gouged out the architect's eyes so he would never be able to build something more beautiful.

Went to the ballet that night. Got dressed up in my sparkly blue dress. Found the Bolshoi theater, but my ticket, though issued through Bolshoi, was actually at a theater in the Kremlin. I was trying to communicate with a woman who spoke a bit of English when two Russian girls came up to her and they seemed to have the same problem as me -- they'd got the theater wrong.

It was somehow decided that they would take me with them, since I didn't know anything, and that is how I ended up running, in heels, after two Russian girls all the way from the theater to the Kremlin. They were pros, and kept looking back and motioning for me to hurry up.

The lit-up cathedrals and big red walls of the fortress were so beautiful that night. Moscow looked like a big fairy tale, castles mixed with electonic billboards, tiny bakeries in kiosks across the street from the Hard Rock Cafe.

Coming home, I had a layover in New York, and it was there that I called my sister-in-law to confess hysterically what had actually occurred in the banya in St. Petersburg. I couldn't keep it bottled up a secret anymore; it was too delicously, shamefully, wickedly shocking to keep to myself. Let's just say what happened there is totally legal in Russia.

Much to my dismay, I was unable to repeat my smuggling escapade (I managed to get a big bottle of Mexican shampoo and undeclared chocolate when I came back from Mexico City last month.) No, they were having none of that at the airport in Moscow. I went though three, count them, three metal detectors AND my bags were manually searched.

The man who searched my bags found a lighter, and looked at me like he was very disappointed in me. "No," he said.

"I'm sorry," I cringed.

"You are going to America," he said. "Please do not buy any alcohol in duty free."

"No alcohol?" I said loud enough that other people turned to stare.

He just shrugged.

In duty free, I attempted to buy vodka in two stores, only to be dismissed when they realized where I was going. In New York, I saw that it would have done no good; my bags went through another metal detector, and one of the guys saw something he didn't like. He fished out a tiny container of juice and gave me that same look.

"I forgot about that, really, I'm sorry," I said.

"There's one more thing we saw in there," he responded, unwrapping a souvenier flask I bought for my dad, and actually unscrewing it to make sure there was nothing inside.

Walking through customs, the guy I handed my card to pointed to my duty free bag. "What kind of food do you have in there?" he said, with meaning.

I clutched my bag to my chest. Oh no, they were not going to take my stuff. This is what actually came out of my mouth:

"Food? What food? I don't have any food."

"Don't lie to me!" the man bellowed with his New York accent.

My mind spun wildly. I might as well tell the truth.

"Chocolates," I said sadly.

"OK! You can go. Just don't lie to me," he reminded me.

He looked really amused. I hustled to the gate, still clutching the bag of chocolates.

The Train to St. Petersburg

2007-03-18T23:32:00.001-07:00

I took the overnight train on Friday night and was kind of scared. Nobody spoke English. All signs were in the Crylllic Russian language. Thank god for universal numbers.

I stopped a girl and asked in Russian, "Hello, can you help me?" She just stared at me. I whipped out my unintelligible ticket and she pointed toward the 3rd-class carriage.

I smoked a cigarette, anxious. There were military men idling about, intimidating in their dark green coats, brass buttons and big Russian hats.

Finally, I entered the carriage.

I sat down on the nearest bed and brought out my ticket again, trying to decipher where I was supposed to go. The woman in charge came over and said some things loudly that I of course didn't understand.

One thing that is very different about the Russian people is that they require significantly less personal space than Americans. That means they get right up close and talk in your face.

I have memorized the following phrase: Ya ni pani ma hyoo Parushki. Izviniti!

"I do not understand Russian. Sorry!"

She grabbed my coat sleeve and pulled me toward my bed. Pointed at the number and at my ticket.

The three people sharing my car looked at me with interest. I just stood there and said "Good evening. Hello. Good evening." Seeing that I was clearly clueless, they took charge. One of the men grabbed my backpack and hoisted it into the space above my head. One of the ladies helped me purchase sheets to rent and actually made my bed for me. I felt very very foolish but also very grateful. I said "Spasiba! Bolshoye Spasiba!" (Thank you! Thank you very much!")

One of the other men pointed at me and said something. "Ya ni pani ma hyoo. Ya ni pani ma hyoo. Izviniti," I said, because that is almost all I know how to say.

He pointed at me and said "India? India?"

Ah, now I understood. "Nyet," I responded. "Amerikanski." (I doubt this is the right way to say it).

The man's face registered complete surprise. "American?" he said, like he couldn't believe it.
"Dah, dah, American," I said in a whisper. But of course it was no good. I could hear whispers of "Americanski! Americanski!" up and down the beds of the train carriage.

The next morning, the ladies gave me tea and the man gave me cigarettes. Using my phrase book, pointing to some words and making several gestures of linking arms and pointing to my finger, to the amusement of everyone in the room, he asked me to marry him and take him home to America.

The Russian Banya

2007-03-18T23:32:00.000-07:00

Visited the Kazan Cathedral this afternoon and lighted some candles for good luck. Saw great modern art in the Russian Museum and could not find the "Soviet Art" because my Lonely Planet from the library is hopelessly out of date.
The Hermitage Museum was overwhelming; I have never been in a museum that big. It is housed in what they call the Winter Palace, and it takes up an entire square block, lining the streets with huge white ivory decorations and mint green paint.
Last night, after the college kids from the volunteer program (who I met up with on Saturday) left to go back to Yaroslevl, I finally cut loose a bit. We did celebrate St. Patty's Day over pints in an Irish bar, but of course I have been dying for vodka and found some good stuff at a local cafe.
After that, I wanted to go to a banya. Hopped in a taxi and when we got there it was closed. Of course the taxi driver had a friend who had a banya.
Stripped down, wrapped myself in a sheet, wondered why I was not given branches to beat myself with (that is the traditional banya experience) and was grateful when the man in charge offered use of the lukewarm pool instead of the ice cold one that is traditional.
The steam room was not unbearable and dipping into the pool was really nice.
He offered a massage, which I accepted, which was very unexpected, a bit more personal than I might have originally planned for, and which doubled the price. (My only complaint about St. Petersburg -- the prices can inflate up to 10 times the normal amount once the merchant realizes you're a tourist. They basically rise up to Western prices, which accounts for the 500 ruble taxi drive I took from the train station that I later learned should have cost only 100 rubles.) Of course he offered a ride home, playing taxi, and spoke with sadness about his hometown of Lebanon and how he wants a wife and cannot find a "nice girl" here in Russia. He spoke decent English and said, "They only want money."
"In America, too," I said.
"Dah, everywhere girls want money," he said, looking very tired.
Then he asked me for my phone number.
Tonight, it's the overnight train to Moscow.

Last Days

2007-03-16T00:37:00.000-07:00

I am so sad to be leaving and the fear of being overcome with tears has been eating at me all day; I have succeeded in swallowing it down. Saying good-bye this morning was hard, though the children are accustomed to seeing us come and go. I got a nice picture of Luba leaning back in her chair.
Today's craft was, in our director Nadia's words, "a hit." We took Polaroid photographs of them and had them make little frames covered in glitter and sequins. They loved it; they love having their pictures taken, and it was especially important for me and one of the other volunteers to be able to "give back" a photo for all the ones they gave us by posing. As soon as someone spotted a camera, all the children began to pose like crazy. Dasha would always magically appear in my lens when I took a picture of other kids.
We finally got to play outside today. The kids were bundled up and we all got to hang out in the cold playground.
When we were leaving, I spotted a little boy on the third floor. Behind the bars on the old, white, crumbling building. He waved at me. And I waved back and choked up.
It was hard also to say good-bye to Richard, a volunteer with whom I fell a little bit in love this week, despite the fact that he is 49, has a thick Alabama accent, and is of course married with three kids. We felt like comrades, since the two of us were the only "short timers" on staff, and both sweated and fussed and panicked over our projects and a small problem we had with another volunteer. Yes, I will miss Richard, with his Bill Clinton accent and nose.
I will be forced to say "Dasvidanya" to the others tonight at dinner. I have already promised Paul and Ally that I will come back.
Tonight, I take the overnight train to St. Petersberg and walking through the streets this afternoon, buying postcards and snapping away like mad on the camera borrrowed from the office, I cannot help but feel a very deep and painful aching to stay.

Freezing in Yaroslavl

2007-03-15T03:18:00.000-07:00

There is a girl here at the organization who also keeps a blog, called "Freezing in Russia." http://debrasmith.blogspot.com/index.html
************

From the moment the children ran up to me and the other volunteers on Monday morning, I have been dreading leaving Yaroslavl. And tomorrow is my last day. I will be honest here; I do not want to leave. In fact, I will be plain and say that I would give almost anything to be able to stay just a few weeks more. I want to say, Please, Time, for God's sake, slow down. Please. Just a little more time is all I want. Just a little more time.
************
The volunteer organization I am with (Cross Cultural Solutions) visits children in the orphanages here in Yaroslavl, and plays games with them, teaches them how to make crafts and gives them as many "happy memories" as they can.
There is a couple here from England, Paul and Ally. They came here last February for three weeks, went back to England and promptly quit their jobs, sold their house, and moved here to volunteer for a year.
That is the kind of effect the children here have on you.
Even though Paul and Ally told me what to expect, I was still so stunned when the little ones came up to me, not knowing me at all, and were all smiles and cuddly hugs, and kept saying, "Zavoot? Zavoot?" ("Name?")
There is Dasha, the tiny elfin star of the group -- at about 5-years-old, she is the youngest and fussed over by the other children.
There is Lula, a little girl that up until today, I thought was a boy. She loves Dolphins.
And then there is Luba.
************
Luba was the first person to come up and hug me and greet me on Monday, and even now, remembering that moment, I choke up.
The children are in the hospital because they are either mentally ill or have run away from other orphanages. Yes, some of the kids look like they are emotionally messed up. One of them sadly sports a black eye. Luba is over medicated but still has a shining smile.
I expected them to be impatient with us, because we don't speak Russian and they don't speak a bit of English except for the stray word or two they've picked up from other American and UK volunteers (Hi, Mine.)
But they're not impatient at all. Rather, they are the most patient people I have ever met. They wait their turn. They explain games to me over and over again. They teach me how to do the craft and the language barrier does not throw them into fits of anger and rage like I imagine I might if I were in their shoes. Instead, they mime and call for the interpreter to communicate.
Why are they so patient and sweet? Who taught them to be so patient in the face of our ignorance? The hospital looks leftover from a turn-of-the-century asylum. Crumbling walls, drafty rooms, creaking floors. And still the children bounce up to us, hug us and tell us "Dobriy Utra!" (Good morning)
************
On Tuesday, I came to work prepared with a whole 48 hours worth of phrases on crib sheets in my pocket. Shortly after we arrived, we heard a terrible screaming and weeping from a child in another room and the children working on the craft project, studiously paid attention to the paper butterflies. The energy of the room took a dive.
Luba wasn't there, and I wondered if it was her, and I ached and hoped it was not. I was relieved to see Luba waltz in later (and even later, the girl who had been screaming came in and was eventually coaxed into playing a game with another volunteer).
Luba flashed me her smile. Same light brown sweater from the previous day; I would come to know and look forward to seeing that light brown sweater the following days as well.
I caught her eye and she smiled at me and gave me a little wave.
We're not supposed to pick favorites, of course, though we are all human and it is perhaps not possible. I played with the other children, but from the corners of my eyes, I watched her and was most likely visibly pleased when she and an older girl named Nadia came down on the floor with me to play jacks.
Luba showed me how to toss the ball and grab a jack. I never played jacks when I was a kid, and I just didn't get it. Luba showed me again. And again. I tried and missed. Uncoordinated. Finally, I got the ball in the hair, touched the floor and grabbed the jack.
Luba looked so pleased for me. Though so medicated, her eyes clearly shone as they met mine with deliberation, and she nodded at me and smiled her approval and said, gently, "Dah. Dah."

Culture Shocked in Russia

2007-03-10T23:13:00.000-08:00

Today is my second day in Yaroslavl. And things are very different.

Nobody smiles. If you smile, people think you are crazy or retarded.

People also do not hold open doors for each other. It is seen as a sign of weakness. Therefore, doors will slam in your face if you let them.

Much like I was laughed at in Mexico a few weeks ago, I was also laughed at last night at the market as I tried helplessly to buy three packs of Marlboros, since I stupidly neglected to buy any at the duty-free shop in Atlanta. I was shocked to find that they only cost 28 rubles here, the equivalent of a dollar. But the cost of humiliation is immeasureable.

There are rather strict rules from the volunteer organization: One, no alcohol during the work week. Since I am here in Yaroslavl for only one work week, that effectively means no drinking the entire time I'm here. This is because the orphans we will be working with are oftentimes the victims of abuse and neglect by parents with alcoholism.

Two, no drugs.

Three, no sex.

Well, it's "no sex with hotel staff or workplace staff," but basically, they want us to be on good behavior and not fuck up the six years of good faith efforts they've made in this community.
This city alone has 13 orphanages. I have been assigned to a children's psychiatric ward.

Tomorrow is my first day.

The snow is melting off the sidewalks near the kremlin in Yaroslavl. Boots clickety-clack on the street. Every car is dark with mud. The tram is leftover from Soviet days and everyone who rides the tram seems leftover from Soviet days as well.

The men really do wear those big hats.

I'm blinking away jet lag and trying to remember how I cope with new situations sober, find that my brain is simply not working right.

In the car on the way from Moscow yesterday, I kept dozing off, and while I slept, I found myself stubbornly dreaming of my life in Los Angeles. And every time the car would hit a bump or jerk me awake, the sites of snow outside the windows and the Russian chatter on the radio hit me like a slap across the mouth, and I kept looking around me in a state of total and complete shock.

Adios, Mexico

2007-02-25T15:16:00.000-08:00

Internet service was not at the tip of my fingers due to unforseen circumstances involving the work schedule of my hosts. Snippets from my journal:

Basilica de Guadalupe - Feb. 21 - Very peaceful inside the antiqua Basilica. Some people were walking on their knees toward the front of the new church. Some people were crying. People crossed themselves right and left. I felt the place was obviously very magical, but I felt "more" at the pyramid site at Cuilcuilco. I think the people here really believe.

Chapultepec - Feb. 22 - Museum of Modern Art (pretty disappointing), the Zocolo (impressve). Tacos. Coffee. Street merchants everywhere. Downtown very European.

Zactepec - Feb. 23 - Hard to get a moment alone. The price one pays for company. Have to admit I am grateful to be visiting someone. People who know the ropes and are usually available for translation. Tonight we leave for the weekend.

Cualta - Feb. 24 - I will be sorry to leave the Hotel Espana, with its bright orange and white paint, deep orange ceramic tiles, plants everywhere and the refrigerator of juices, sodas and cervezas by the front desk. I love it here. . .walking through the streets last night, past the old church and children were begging on the streets; I didn't feel any overwhelming sense of sadness, though, and I don't know why. I usually do these days.

Amecameca - Feb. 25 - Our driver took us to the base of the mountains. El Paseo de Cortes. A man with a basket was selling sweets, and it was hot this morning, sun beating down, the volcano smoking so close, the white frost glowing. This man with a basket walked up to me and said something I didn't understand, and I shook my head. And as he walked away, I thought about him. I saw that he was going to spend the rest of the day walking up to tourists and asking them if they wanted to buy something. Everyone in Mexico seems to be wanting to sell you something, anything. The man walked away from me and hitched his backpack over his shoulders, and the basket was carried on his left arm, and he walked a few hundred feet away and set down the basket and scanned the parking lot.
All of a sudden, he broke my heart.
I ran toward him. "Senor, senor, por favor," I called in my poor Spanish. But I didn't really want anything, so I asked for one of the few things I could pronounce: "Tienes chocolate?" He fished out a Nestle bar, and then I saw some peanuts, and I took those instead. "Cuantos?" I asked, and he said, "Siete." Seven pesos, the equivalent of about 70 cents. I reached into my bag for a 10 peso piece, and handed it to him, waving my hand in protest as he looked for change. "No cambia, gracias, gracias, Senor," I said. I walked away from him so he would not see the tears begin to crawl and then run. I walked away toward the spot where the tourists like to get their pictures taken in front of the active volcano, and I sat down on the steps with my bag of seven-peso peanuts, and the tears would not stop.

La Ciudad de Mexico

2007-02-20T12:36:00.000-08:00

My fourth day in Mexico City. The city: very smoggy, somewhat dirty, spread out like Los Angeles, not compact. Cars and buses and taxis everywhere.

The neighborhoods: Coyocan, where I am staying, very earthy and cool. Tlaplan, very artsy and peaceful. San Angel, like the Beverly Hills of this city.

My hosts are, of course, going to steer me clear of the really bad parts.

Grafitti everywhere, even in "bueno" neighborhoods (but not in San Angel). Yes, grafitti everywhere and that can make one forget that one is in a middle class neighborhood.

Food and drink on almost every corner: agua fresca, corn, tamales, tacos. Everywhere. These people are serious about food. They are not messing around.

Beautiful haciendas. Very ugly streets.

Today, we visited a magical pyramid that lives in the city and climbed to the top. A view of the volcanos and mountains, but not a very good view; so much smog. It is choking the city.

We also visited two museums dedicated to Frieda, and I am sorry, but I don't like her art and cannot get past the unibrow. I know how that sounds, but I don't like it.

What I do like are the dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands of altars dedicated to the Virgen de Guadalupe. I have loved the Virgin and often will get a small rosary or postcard with her image. They are everywhere. They are all in homage to her. This is why: if something really really bad is happening to you or a loved one, and there is no hope of a cure -- let's say, for instance, you are in a car accident and the doctors say you're going to die -- someone, either you, or one of your loved ones will make a deal with the Virgin. You ask her to save you, and promise something in return. The most popular "promesas" seem to be either making a pilgrimage to her church, or creating a public altar for her.

I like this information, I like to keep it handy just in case.

Last Night in Belgium

2006-11-26T13:24:00.000-08:00

I stayed in Brussels on my last night because my plane left kind of early, and I met a fabulous girl traveling alone as well. Her name was Maria, she was from Mexico, and we drank several beers in a pub. I told her that on my trip, I had apologized to everyone for being American, and she laughed delightfully and told me that every American she met always apologized to her, as well, mostly because the U.S. government, in its infinite wisdom, has decided to erect a few hundred miles of fencing along the U.S./Mexico border. Maria said she understood that illegal immigration is a huge problem for the U.S., but in that we disagreed. I argued that if all illegal immigrants were deported from the U.S., the entire economy would crumble. The work illegal immigrants provide is invaluable, I told her. They are, especially in California, the backbone of the workforce.

She diplomatically remained neutral on that point, but she did say, "In any case, it won't work. That much I know."

"The Berlin Wall came down eventually," I said.

"Exactly!" Maria laughed. "You can buy pieces of it on eBay."

We shared stories of our trip -- she had visited Brugge, too, and although she too was enchanted by the town, she said that she, too, had an uncomfortable experience there. Upon ordering a hamburger at a stand, the guy behind the counter mistook her for an American because her English is so good, and said to her, "You Americans, that's all you want, hamburgers!"

Maria is lucky in that she speaks French, and in that language, responded, "If you don't want to serve American hamburgers, why don't you take it off your menu?"

Speaking French to the Flemish is an extra slap in the face, because of a long political history that makes Flanders, in North Belgium, Dutch speaking, and French in the South.

The guy began apologizing to her immediately, and I laughed at the story, telling her that I wish I'd had the guts to say something similar to the guy at the tavern who refused to serve me food.

We exchanged our wild stories of Amsterdam, although hers, admittedly, were much wilder than mine. I did drive by the Red Light District, and I did spend some time in a local "coffee shop," though, and will say no more. :)

Now I'm home, jet lagged again, although this time, the dizzy spun feeling is a bit more tolerable. I have been awake since 7 a.m. this morning Belgium time, and I really can't figure out how many hours I've been awake because the time keeps changing since I had a layover once again in Atlanta, GA ... it's back to work and the daily grind starting tomorrow.

And my Thanksgiving week adventure is officially over.

Goodbye, Holland

2006-11-25T06:11:00.000-08:00

Long walk in Vondel Park, the dusk turning the low-hanging trees into fairy tales. Leaves in ponds like lilies.
Smiles of beautiful girls who give me menus in English and hot strong coffee. Flower markets, canals, blue sky, gray sky.
Friendly directions given to me from people with accents in British, Dutch, from Muslim girls wrapped in scarves and Jamaican men who run coffee shops. They whip out pieces of paper and begin writing and circling the proper spots on my map.
Lavender blouse with matching pashima. Hours in the van Gogh museum, dozens of self-portraits; some make him look sad, some make him look crazy.
I need more than just a few days; this city deserves a week.
Next time.

Beer in Brugge

2006-11-22T17:27:00.000-08:00

My mood improved dramatically upon leaving Brussels. I took the train to Ghent, and despite being seemingly the only tourist out on Veldstraat, a shopping area close to the university, I met the nicest people while I bought an oversized pair of pajamas and walked in the rain.

In a tavern near the train station, I ordered a Leffe beer, had my pronunciation corrected by the bartender, and my beer bought by a very drunk Belgian postman who introduced himself as Mauricio, but whom the bartender said was named Willy. "Now or never," he said, leering at my chest. "That's the only thing he knows in English," the bartender chortled.

"You're from America?" he asked, and I admitted as much. "Het spijt me," I begged, which means, "I'm sorry." He laughed again and said, "It's OK, my sister lives in Louisiana."

I thought he was joking, but he said she works as an assistant to some type of government official, and I told him I visited there once, and we shared stories of the swamps and the craziness of the French Quarter.

The drunken Belgian insisted on buying me another beer, and the bartender, translating to me, said, "It's on him. Free Willy." I burst into laughter and the bartender was much amused at his joke. "He has no idea what we're saying," he laughed. At that point, Willy or Mauricio or whatever his name is, began to look put out, so the bartender mollified him by bringing him another beer.

When I woke up this morning in Brugge, the sky was an amazing blue. I looked out the window, beyond the tiny terrace in the room at the bed and breakfast I am staying at, and was grateful.

Last night I had five beers, at only 2.50 apiece. Finally tasted a framboise besides the one they sell at Safeway back home, and was blown away at the fresh and cool rasberry taste. I took long walks along the canals and bought my nephew some toys at a wooden toy shop.

In my misery of my first morning in Belgium, I was terribly mistaken -- it is not winter at all. It is the middle of autumn. Here, the leaves fall into the canals in patterns of gold and red and pale green, and in this tiny, preserved medieval town near the North Coast, I finally breathe and the dizzy and crazed jet lag is a million miles away, and I concentrate on the cobblestone streets, breathing in the cold air and I sip coffee in a cafe and watch the November afternoon.

After Antwerpen

2006-11-21T16:58:00.000-08:00

It hurt to leave Brugge this morning. I lingered over coffee and "kas" this morning at a cafe in the town square. The morning was too beautiful to describe. The multicolored leaves floating in the canals. The buildings that looked like castles. The smell of the waters, koffie and frites.

When I hear the sounds of a British accent, I find myself relieved, an opposite feeling of what I would feel back home.

In most shops in Brugge, my demeanor must scream American, and I don't know how. I don't carry my backpack, I only come in as myself (like, I'm not even white, I mean) and a few shopkeepers seem to size me up automatically. Once, though, in an Apoteek (one of the few Dutch words I have memorized -- it is "Drug Store," of course, it's always important to know where to find the drugs) a lady looked at my face and said carefully, "Do you speak English?" and I said, "Yes, yes," gratefully.

As beautiful and enchanting Brugge was, I had my moments. Was sexually harassed by a strange Frenchman. Now, I have heard of the European way of flirting, but had no idea it became physical -- the guy actually grabbed my shoulders and demanded a kiss, which I refused to give, as I had only one Kriek (cherry flavored) beer, and really wasn't up to making out with a Frenchman.

And once, I felt my American-ess work against me in a big way when I entered a tavern and asked for a plate of kas, only to be told they served nothing. I took it in stride, swallowed my pride, asked for a "koffie," and moved on. (PS - there was a big menu outside and menus on all the tables. It wasn't paranoia. They really didn't want to serve me. But, in retrospect, I realize it may have had nothing to do with me being American. Maybe they just didn't like psycho girls. Hmm.)

The woman who ran the bed and breakfast I stayed at in Brugge asked me if I had Spanish roots, and I said no, Mexican and Portuguese, and she told me she was taking a Spanish class, and I said, ""Fifty percent of Los Angeles speaks Spanish, but they do not teach it in school," and she said, "Such a pity. Such a beautiful language," and I agreed. Filled with remorse.

In Antwerpen, I had to buy tampons because -- of course! -- I started my period on Monday night, and was greeted most kindly and happily by the girl at the checkout line. Try finding tampons that are labeled in Dutch some time -- I swear, I was in there for 10 minutes, feeling my underwear dampen.

The "bier" is to die for. Kriek is my favorite. Leffe is wonderful. They actually sell Jupiler, the Dutch version of Budweiser, in vending machines with soda. No drinking minimum age here.
After a good lunch in Antwerpen, I arrive in Amsterdam. I say, "Goede Avant" to the taxi driver and I have gotten really good at saying that, and he takes me for a local.

I have to admit to him I am American.

"Et spakt mer," I say, and that is not how it is spelled, but it is how the tour guide book tells me to say it, and he does not understand, but I repeat it until he gets it.

"You are sorry? Why?" he asks, manuevering the streets.

"I am so sorry," I say in English.

He gets it. Right away.

"Because of what? President Bush?"
"Yes," I spit out, but not allowing myself to go any further. I am not ready to cross that line.

"You dislike Bush?" the taxi man guesses.

The word "hate" crosses my mind, but again, I am not willing to cross that line.

"Yes," I say. "Everyone I know. We all dislike Bush.""

The taxi man looks me in the eye and says, "It is no good feeling guilty about things you cannot control.

Grote Markt and Jet Lag in Brussels

2006-11-19T09:25:00.000-08:00

I am suffering from my first bout of jet lag, which feels like a low-grade case of coming down from crystal meth, sprinkled with sleep deprivation and a pinch of hangover.. Found myself feeling that weird "spun out" feeling I haven't had since the last time I had crystal meth, many years ago.

Wandered around the Grote Markt for most of the morning. On the flight from Atlanta, where I had a layover, I'd brushed up on my Dutch (Goede Morgen! Dank u wel.) only to learn that most everyone in Brussels speaks French. I quickly switched to "Bonjour, merci." Luckily, almost everyone in Brussels is also multilingual, and I've encountered only 2 people who didn't speak English and it was OK. They seemed to understand "Thank you," and I am just hoping correct change has been given at least most of the time.

It was bitterly cold when I stepped out of the Cetraal train station. The sun finally poked its head out of the stormy sky around 2 p.m. By that time, I was making myself comfortable in a tavern, drinking a wheat beer and smoking a cigarette.

Stupidly did not bring shampoo because I figured I'd be able to buy some here, only to discover that most everything is closed on Sundays. Oh, would give anything to be able to wash my hair right now.

Though Belgium has an internet reputation of being super-friendly, I can't exactly say that's been my experience. However, it is alltogether possible I have been glaring at everyone due to the jet lag.

Funny, I never even used to really believe in jet lag. Like some people don't really believe in PMS or fibromyalgia. But here I am with that spun out feeling and a strange type of headache right above my eyes.

Plan to drink a lot of beer when the pub at the hostel I am staying at opens in 2 hours, and then shower and possibly wash my hair with the bar soap I brought, then get a long sleep before I head out tomorrow morning.

The truth is, early this afternoon, before the sun and beer came, I was cranky and beginning to feel a bit depressed. Why exactly am I in Brussels in the dead of winter?

I called Lisa, who is still in Italy. Her boyfriend said I should take the train to Italy, but no, I've got reservations set up. A plan. Lisa has perked up since the last time I spoke to her, told me that jet lag can last days and the best thing I can do is knock myself out tonight and sleep for as long as possible and get back on schedule starting tomorrow. "You're going to be fine," she chirped. "You're going to meet people tonight! You're going to have a great time." Her optimism made me feel like giving her a long-distance kick.

The truth is, I almost felt like crying as I was leaving the Grote Markt, which was sparsely populated with tourists and reminded me a bit of every open market I've ever been to.

Ouch, my head hurts. My back hurts from the 8 hour flight from Atlanta. I ate a weird sandwich at a nearby sandwich shop and took a couple of Xanax, which I am hoping will help settle the weird, spun feeling.

Bought a thick hat at the Markt and two postcards. Tomorrow, it's on to Brugge.

An Evening in the West Village

2006-10-07T17:03:00.000-07:00

You find yourself making your way down to the Village again. This time, to meet a friend of your good friend Randy in Seattle. The girl's name is Patti and you have never met her, but she returned your phone call and promptly invited you to dinner, which thrills you, because you were expecting to spend tonight alone.

Anyways, you get lost in the West Village streets bordering SoHo, and everywhere you see, there are people crossing streets, waiting in lines, entering and exiting bars and restaurants and tiny shops and some of them are chic and some of them are wearing sensible shoes, and some of them are wearing crazy stilettos, and you walk around in circles, 'cause it's a bit easy to lose your sense of direction down in the lower part of the Village, where it's not grid-like. It's a Saturday night and Jersey Boy is now, less than 20 hours later, an extremely funny anecdote you tell Patti when you meet her, and you make her laugh.

You put your name on the waiting list, and the two of you find each other immediately -- "I'll be wearing green glasses." "I'll be wearing all black." You hug like long-lost friends. She suggests a nearby bar while you wait for your table, and thrills you when she orders a pint of Sierra Nevada. You decide to stick with soft drinks.

An hour later, the two of you split a gluton-free pizza made of rice dough, with pesto and piled with feta, goat cheese, mozarella, zuchinni, sun-dried tomatoes.

The two of you share stories of Randy, of Seattle, of boys, and exchange contact info and again, it strikes you that this city feels so very much like a place where you could really belong.

Psycho Girl, Jersey Boy and Hell's Kitchen

2006-10-07T07:26:00.000-07:00

Psycho Girl was in New York City exactly four nights before someone called her "psycho," and let's just say, it's really only funny when Psycho Girl says it first.
Remember that boy I made out with on Tuesday night?
**********
Friday, October 6, 2006 was poised to be the best night ever in my entire life. I left the Village around noon and checked in too early at the too-chic Midtown hotel I was staying at for just one night. While I waited, I read a Zadie Smith book, since I'm going to see her give a discussion on failure tomorrow.
I bought a beautiful black scarf from one of the street vendors in Times Square. It was rush hour by then and the streets were just flooded with cars and taxis and people.
**********
I couldn't decide what to wear for my big night out, a night I've had planned for weeks. The black wrap-around dress was too tight and the blue dress didn't seem right.
The silvery-blue-flowery low-cut blouse with peasant sleeves and a black skirt is what I eventually chose, and eye makeup I rarely wear.
5:40 p.m. and I was ready.
**********
Walked exactly two blocks and it was windy, crazy windy and crazy fucking cold. I had no jacket. In a city of infinite resources, I located the street vendor I bought the scarf from earlier. He had hauled out long poncho-type things. I could hear his partner telling a tourist that they were cashmere and from Scotland, which accounted for their $30 asking price. The vendor looked at my handbag and with his trained eye understood that I knew very well they were not cashmere, and that the "Made in Scotland" tag had most likely been sewn on by an immigrant in a nearby sweatshop, and so he made his pitch differently and honestly: "It's very warm," he said, wrapping it around my shoulders and showing me how to throw one end of it over my left shoulder.
As I walked up Seventh Avenue, warm in the piles of black fabric and fringe, amid the glow of the lights, I began to feel a bit like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Either that, or I was hearing the tinkling melody of the Sex and the City theme song in my head.
It felt wonderful.
**********
When I got to the restaurant, I didn't recognize it, because it didn't look anything like it did in a recent movie I saw. The doorman opened the door for me and I walked in, just a little excited. The maitre' di greeted me and asked if I was expecting someone. I said, "No." "Reservations?" he said. "Yes," I replied. He directed me to the man with the book.
I was escorted to my table, and fawned over for the next 90 minutes. More water, Miss? Ëxcellent choice, Miss! Very good, miss.
I savored that meal like I can't remember ever doing so before. Every bite was like this heavenly pleasure, an explosion on every taste bud.
Before I got through my second course, the waiter was offering me champagne on the house. I was so stunned, I had to ask him to repeat it.
The dessert and coffee came out with a flourish and different plates and saucers for all the creams and sugars and pastries.
Before I left, I took a book of matches with the "21" insignia and lit my cigarette outside the restaurant.
**********
The theater was just a few blocks away. My seat was amazing and the production itself was fucking spectacular. The show's called "Wicked," and during intermission, after my cigarette, snuggled into a plush seat in the lobby, I saw myself at my very best.
Can I describe the feeling? I cannot.
**********
When the show was over, I lingered over every sidewalk. Blinked and choked back tears. Because I was so goddamned happy, happy like I feel every time I hug my nephew, happy like I felt a long time ago, or happy like I never thought I'd feel.
And that's when I got the text message from the guy I made out with on Tuesday at the Beauty Bar.
**********
He's originally from Long Island, but now is in Jersey City, and he and his hot friend both have those weird accents that us West Coasters just think of as "New York," and they actually use terms like, "I'm just busting his balls," and you laugh because you cannot believe people actually talk like this, and because you can't believe you actually took the subway down to the Village to meet them. They have two girls with them, a lithesome blonde who the hot friend is almost certainly hooking up with tonight, and a pretty brunette with their same accent, who has been friends with Jersey Boy for years because they grew up together.
Jersey Boy tells you that the girl is married now, and indeed, she does leave at 2 a.m. and hugs you and kisses you on your cheek.
At that point, there's just the four of you, and Jersey Boy's been drinking for several hours while you're only on your third beer and he's getting way closer than you would like, and the only reason why you don't kick yourself for not going after his hot friend is knowing from the way he is looking at the blonde that it wouldn't have mattered.
You tell them where you are staying that night, and they groan because like true New Yorkers, they despise the "touristy area," that made you nearly weep with so much love before. You think about how even at home, in Santa Monica, you love the Third Street Promenade even though all Westsiders claim to dislike the throngs of tourists who find themselves there year-round.
Nonetheless, when you explain that as much as you would like to, you cannot go to the Beauty Bar because it's simply too far away, the three of them immediately offer to accompany you uptown and suggest a bar they know.
The girl pays for the cab over the hot guy's protests.
Jersey Boy insists on holding your hand and even after he helps you out of the cab, his hand remains linked with yours.
Hot guy tells you a funny story about the bar you all are about to enter.
Once you're all inside, the girl shows you where the bathroom is.
You can't believe how nice everyone is.
You can't believe that the myth of the rudeness of New Yorkers is just that -- a myth.
Despite Jersey Boy's hands and lips going where you really don't want them to go, you're having a great time, until you step outside for a cigarette and promptly fall on the sidewalk due to a step you didn't see, and you feel a frightening, painful twist in your left ankle, and that's when you immediately begin to freak out, a zillion thoughts going through your head and some making their way out of your mouth: Oh shit, oh god, oh no, did I break it? I'm fucked if it's broken, did I bring my insurance card? Oh no, oh fuck, I don't even want to move because if I do, and it's broken, I'm fucked, hell, I'm fucked if it's sprained!
And that's when Jersey Boy, his eyes completely bloodshot, his hair askew, his accent now just a bit nauseating, says the words that slam those coffin nails into whatever it was you were having or were going to have with him:
"Calm down. You're acting a little psycho."
**********
It's 4:30 a.m. and I'm alone, on the rooftop of my hotel and my ankle is not broken but I am more than a little humiliated and pissed off and the argument that ensued with Jersey Boy's comment and ended with me storming off, is replayed over and over again in my head. I'm crying. I'm kind of hysterical.
Because I love it here, and Jersey Boy ruined it!!!
**********
And this morning, in the cab on the way to the next hostel in Hell's Kitchen, you are cursing yourself for ever giving Jersey Boy the time of day, you're mad, you're hurt, your ankle is fine to walk on, as long as you don't lean to the left, and you cannot fucking believe the breakdown in communication the previous night that left you weeping with sadness and frusteration at the end of what was beginning to be the best night of your life ...
and that's when Jersey Boy text messages you, asks you how your ankle is, and asks you if you want to have drinks later on tonight.
**********
You laugh.
The sound of your own throaty laughter sounds good to your ears.
Today is windy and sunny and beautiful. You walk around the neighborhood and the edge of the Upper West Side.
You drink a diet Coke in the stairwell and smoke a cigarette and watch the cars and taxis and people going past.

New York, New York!

2006-10-04T14:27:00.000-07:00

This is my second night in New York, and even though this morning I was hungover, wearing the same clothes I'd been wearing since I got dressed Tuesday morning because my airline "misplaced" my baggage in Chicago, even though I was trying to find a brunch spot and the one I wanted to go to was closed and I ended up eating a weird omelette at a hole in the wall instead, and even though since I had no change of clothes nor shoes, I was stuck wearing the ridiculous high wedge sandals I'd worn on my flight(s), and since I was not just normal hungover but still-kinda-drunk hungover, I tripped and fell on the sidewalk on Second Avenue ... I felt very comfortable. It was warm this morning and I was sweaty and I felt very comfortable.

I don't want to use a loaded word like "home," but what I can say is that as soon as the cab made its dramatic lurch on 14th St. Tuesday night, I looked around at the brownstones and bars and bright lights, and dozens, hundreds of people out and about at midnight, and I felt something very similar to what I felt when I visited Seattle for the first time.

Not "home," but a feeling of comfort.

Checked in, and upon the advice of the front-desk girl, beelined down the street to the Beauty Bar, where I had two pints of Octoberfest before a really good-looking guy started buying me drinks. Unfortunately, his good looks intimidated me, which is why I ended up talking to his friend most of the time and then later ended up making out with him in a doorway.

The good-looking guy gave me his card and it was maybe a sign -- the guy's a literary agent and told me to send him my manuscript, while I told him that if he thinks it sucks, I want to hear that it fucking sucks, and he was delighted and called me a masochist.

Went to a farmer's market in Union Square. Finally got my luggage delivered. Had dinner at a place called Gotham, which I found in a book called "Table for One," a series of good places to eat alone in different cities. Thumbs up for sure -- great food, excellent service, and then I went to a place I found under 24-hour coffeehouses, only to find that it is actually a sweet little bistro. Had coffee and read the Village Voice. While I was in there, it began to storm, crazy with lightening flashing against the tall buildings. I had an umbrella and walked in the rain. I stopped in a doorway to have a cigarette as I watched people rush by, and I felt a little warm from the coffee and the soft music at the bistro, and I was soaked when I got back to my room and it all felt very romantic.