an auto-ethnographic memoir of the ways social media has changed (almost) absolutely nothing

In 2003, I graduated from college and moved to New York. Well, Jersey City, New Jersey to be exact. But I worked in Chelsea. For this small town girl, it was the illusion of “living the dream,” but I was too poor and too depressed that my top-10 University degree was not helping me do anything worthwhile with my life.

Yes, 2003, as you will recall, was pre-Facebook. When I moved from the Midwest to the East Coast that October, I had already begun to migrate away from Friendster and towards Myspace. It would not be until late 2005 when I would, under pressure from co-workers, open a Facebook account.

In 2003, I was employed as a librarian at a boutique architecture firm on 22^nd Street, right around the corner from a Barnes and Noble where people like Betty White and David Sedaris regularly did public readings. The only thing I liked about my job was that it sounded fancy and I once ran into Austin Scarlet (from Project Runway season 1) in the building’s elevator. But really being the “librarian” meant that I opened mail, filed catalogues, and eventually learned to master the art of using Excel as a payroll system. The “boutique” firm did not usually design cool restaurants or private homes. Most of our business came from the hospital sector.

I quickly found that the actual amount of work I needed to do in an eight hour day probably amounted to about 90 minutes. But I had the internet. I read the New York Times website cover to cover (or whatever the appropriate term would be), back in the days when there was no pay structure. I wrote on the billboard site for all of the Discovery Channel shows I watched with my roommate at night. I wrote emails back and forth to said roommate who worked downtown for a large credit card company. We usually averaged about 70 emails a day. Then we started using gchat instead and we lost count. I was obsessed with this website called Flavor Pill which essentially posted free and low-cost arts related events around the city. Every week they had a short 200 word essay contest to win tickets to some sort of film premiere or art opening. I won about every other month, which is a testament to the time I spent crafting these essays, rather than any innate writing talent. And by 3:00 when it seemed I had exhausted all other alternatives, I resigned myself to Myspace. I searched for new music there. I commented on friend’s latest picture uploads. Of course back in those days, people uploaded pictures at the tune of 5 a month. I even met new people. I don’t remember how exactly. Probably through groups one could join. I met a professor of anthropology from Florida who ended up guiding me through the graduate school admissions process a few years later. I also remember essentially planning a lunch date with a woman who worked a few blocks away, but I canceled at the last minute and just went to the Whole Foods salad bar 3 blocks away. I even started this here blog while working there.

Today, I read an NPR article that reminded me of those days. The days when my nokia phone worked just fine. When the internet was a waste of time, but I needed a way to waste time. When I lived a twelve hour car trip from my family and my best friend had just taken off to backpack in Australia for a year. I had no land line, so I called my mother using my cell phone, usually on Sunday afternoons. My roommate and I had internet at home, with Ethernet cables running between our bedrooms (Who needed wifi? Who needed internet in the living room or kitchen? I had my fill of internet at work). My boyfriend did not have internet at home, but he did have a giant television with 200 channels. The article laments, like so many, that “We Are Just Not HereAnymore.”

I offer my story here as an example of what the article gets wrong. In 2003, I spent at least 6½ hours of my eight hour work day, mentally not there. And social networking at it’s early stage was my last resort for ways to waste time at work. I’d then ride the train home, listening to my new mp3 player, reading a book, and barely making eye contact with anyone. Once home I would make dinner and watch tv with my roommate. We were physically in the same room, but our interaction was minimal. We found it so funny that this was our usual mode of existence that we hung a painting of us sitting on the futon staring at the TV (pictured above). On nights that I spent with my then boyfriend, I was often driven crazy by his obsession with television. He often spoke exclusively in quotes from whatever Bravo TV show was hip at the moment. In the morning, if we took the train to work together I was often deeply offended because rather than talk to me while we rode, he preferred to wear his headphones and listen to the news on his pocket radio (maybe I should have known it wouldn’t last). In those days, I paid rent on an apartment in Jersey City, and received paychecks from an architecture firm in Manhattan, but I didn’t live there. I lived through the phone calls to my mom and sister. I lived through the monthly emails sent by my best friend in Australia. And occasionally, when we’d all get together for a backyard barbeque, Sparks, and a rousing game of paper telephone, I lived with my friends. But we did not have rousing, meaningful conversation. We’d watch tv and comment, and generally drunkenly make fun of each other. The adventures would end up retold in my roommate’s livejournal. Photos would be shared via Photobucket or Snapfish. The stories might end up condensed into inside jokes about a hairy rock in the bathtub or what happens after bazooka, but they were not worthy of literary inscription.

The point is, maybe we’re not “here.” But if we are not now, we never were. People have been interacting with people in other places since the beginnings of modern humans’ existence. They have been preoccupied with what’s going on “over there” with “those people” for 200,000 years.  To think that new forms of technology are creating supposes there is some prior, “more authentic” form of communication we’ve left behind. But that simply did not exist. We are still human. We still communicate with other humans in the mode of our time…from cave painting to Snapchat, these modes help us share information with people close and far, for now or later. So let’s stop lamenting the social ills that everyone seems to want to find to be emerging from social media and get on with the usual business of being social with those in our immediate vicinity and those far outside of it.

papas fritas

there was a period of time when i constantly craved fries. these were the JC days, and options were abundant, though not always satisfying. there was the 24 hour mcdonalds, and plenty of drunken (usually crying) nights were accompanied by them. later i graduated to hollywood chicken, where the fries were tasty, but paled in comparison to the pizzarolls. but really, the crowning glory was white star, with their crispy steak 'n shake sized fries with just the right amount of seasoning. but even those couldn't compare to the pommes frites on second avenue.

in the years since, i've discovered the garlic fries at looking glass, and have drunkenly waxed on about how every bar with food should have a basket of fries for under $3. i've had district 2's disappointingly overpriced fries with truffle oil. and 4P's (still overpriced) sweetpotato fries opened up new possibilities. but when salon moved to cathedral ave. i started buying the $2.5o bags of frozen fries at giant and never shut up about how i'd beat the system. despite the rarity with which i eat "fast food" these days, i've even tried wendy's new natural cut, sea salt fries twice (conclusion: they are no better than wendy's previous fries, and in fact are worse than most fast food fries). though i wouldn't necessarily claim to be a connoisseur, i probably pay more attention to fried potatoes than your average fry eater.

salchipapas

and my first two weeks in la paz this time i had my fair share of fries. with sandwiches, in poutine, even with a hamburger. yes, i even tried salchipapas one fateful night (or 2). but they lacked something. is it possible i've grown out of my fry phase? i've moved on to mashed potatoes (pure de papas), and even the kinds that come out of a bag just seem so delicious these days. creamy, buttery, salt & peppery. utterly delicious. i still can't get enough ketchup, so the chips have their place, but in a way, i think fieldwork has brought on a new life phase. at least in my eating habbits. so, this place has changed me in a way more profound than perhaps even i realize. is 2am too late to go make my packet of kris pure de papas?

la isla playa larga

leaving scammellot (too) is always a bit painful. but truthfully, this time i went in not knowing what to expect. all of my previous scammellots have been parties. 10 kids filling the house. el capitán flowing liberally. people i've known for what feels like forever. half-nude, manual strobe-light dance parties, firecrackers aimed squarely as human flesh, bonfires ignited with rustoleum, bloody marys in the morning, beer in the afternoon, and tequila in the evening. and someone always wakes up where they're not supposed to.

but this was not that. just my best friend, JC, and i (not even el capitán made it this time). tits was busy, fiend visiting the lady, JC recently single, and the r___ living the [practically] married life. and so it was calm. sure we began the day with beer. we ran to the beach, jumped in the water, removed garments, and let the waves lap us around. we dug our feet into the sand and talked about blush-worthy topics. i extolled the virtues of the ring, and discussed the intricacies of NAMBLA. and it was just as magical as any other scammellot.

and so, as i dropped them in the municipal parking lot on route 9 and turned back south, i had a tear in my eye. not because i'd miss them, or because i'll have to wait at least 6 months before i can dig my feet in the sand again, but because i always fear i'll never find people like them again.

every year the distance between LBI and dc seems further. every year i plan more and take fewer trips to the city. every year it gets harder. and coming back always makes dc feel foreign and uninviting.

but then this evening i ran into my favorite st.louis/chicago/dc resident, and planned for catching up. i gossiped with raf at the conference. i had brief conversations with the jag about fieldwork. and though its no replacement, the people here are truly great. they'll just never live up to dancing in a thunderstorm to blind mellon.

los diarios motocicleta

i watched the motorcycle diaries tonight for what i believe was the third time. its a gorgeous movie, haunting at times, and appeals to my leanings (however one would describe them). but its also the "intertextuality" of the film that makes me love it so much. for some reason its touched my life in strange ways.

to begin with, z-gil (the first of my anthro-gils) took me to see it in hopes of persuading me that latin america, not china, was a more fitting fieldwork location. the ploy worked. possibly too well. and here i am writing in a blog i started upon going off to perú.

secondly, most people know i have a soft spot for one gael garcía bernal. and seeing him always reminds me of that patrón party for cuarón where i hoped he'd be. alas, i had to settle for heather graham. and it was possibly the only time i "used" my NYRB credentials. but that was also the first time i met val. which is suppose is somehow significant. (note that despite a strong desire, i am not referring to her by the borat-inspired nickname)

its strange i suppose. the movie makes me remember places more than anything. lima and la paz (though i only noticed on this viewing that they never make it to bolivia-which is a shame, because 1952--the year they traveled--was also the year that land reform took place in bolivia). carbondale. jersey city. places that evoke strong nostalgia coupled with memories of unhappiness, at times. as the admiral wolye-holt would put it, the "kind of beaut[iful feeling] that hurts"

la musica del jc

i saw the black hollies saturday night. in planning to go, i worried that the six years that have passed would be enough to forget faces. that i'd be just another former neighbor like clint shoyman or a passerby like "jk's sidekick." my fears were confirmed when, though jong said he'd put me on the list, the doorman shook his head and looked at me as if to say "honey, i get that trick all the time, and i'm not falling for it." but after coughing up $10 and making my way inside, i was greeted with profuse apologies, and a shocked looking justin angelo yelling "nells bells!"

dj dusty shadows circa 2003

and thus began my nostalgic daydream in which i began to fall in love as we sat listening to a fuzzy ella fitzgerald eminate from the turntable while drinking wine and eating jong's eggplant rolatini. in which i awoke after a night at Guillo's to the sounds of Two Tough Guys, and arose to fully embrace my unemployment. in which the bridge & i would walk to the bar later known as el camino and consume 5 free rail cosmos in an hour, later drawing pictures of our stomachs with crayons depicting two doritos swimming in a pink sea. in which we all developed a strange attraction to biography channel programs on serial killers. in which i didn't have to worry about my name being on the list at maxwell's.

but these warm memories of brisk fall nights fail to capture my true feelings of those times. rhino has philosophized on the hegemony of memory, and this is certain a case for study. those were the worst of times. unemployment and then practically dehumanizing employment, academic disappointment, disagreements that should have indicated failure long before i acknowledged it. but at the same time, perhaps that is what made the good times so good, and the experience as a whole so intense.

those years in the jc were awful years, peppered with close friendships, crazy antics, belonging in unlikely places, sleepless nights, flaming bars, silly notebooks forever lost to the white star gods, and the feeling of truly being in a neighborhood. i suppose that's the last time i really felt like i was home. i haven't been back in almost 2 years, and i'm sure things have changed. i suppose the condos at the end of pavonia are complete, and PJ's somehow functions without the guz. but it still feels like i could defy frost and return home there. like i could walk by 7s and strike up a conversation with any of the smokers. like the high scores on the photohunt machine at uncle joe's might still be dominated by those using the quadrant approach. like the guys at the 7th and erie liquor store would still make quips about knowing how often i'm there. like something called rye coalition still exists. like i could show up at hamilton park and play some ball or take a nice stroll down coles, pausing at 130. indeed, i still remember the first time i pulled up to that apartment, with jk & the fiend holding a parking spot for me. that was the beginning of something definitive in both its complete depravity and its utter transformative qualities.

130 coles

and looking back from here-where i am happy, and get to reminisce with old friends-makes it all worthwhile i suppose. as i said in "Beneath the Surface" (by former JC resident, Scammell) memory is how we cut up the long runon sentence of our lives to derive meaning. it tells us who we were and thus, who we are. it is the way in which we define ourselves. i am no longer that same nells bells that moved onto the futon on coles street, but that will always be part of who i've become.

hablando sobre genero en nueva york

jster was in bklyn for a conference this weekend, so ee & i decided to take a little road trip. friday night, we had dinner with fiend, the r___, his relatively new ladyfriend, and scamz. of course, during dinner ee mentioned his research, followed by scamz engaging in a curious, interested conversation on the topic. but of course, others had to jump in with "biological" reasoning. now, this might be interesting in a case in which present at the table would be say, a biologist who studies the hormonal differences between men and women. but listening to a law student and a formerly radically libertarian anthro student defend the "naturalness" of the sex/gender system was rather unfortunate and uninformed.

The latter claimed along the way "i've read the same literature you have"--obviously not, and the former suggested "well, then i can just say i'm black." Ok, interesting reasoning, and at least this takes into account the socially constructed essence of race (though i'm not sure that was part of his reasoning). But what i really think would be a better analogy would be someone born in New Jersey claiming to be a New Yorker. Or perhaps someone who liked to listen to jam bands in their youth now claiming to be part of indie music culture. i think the point is that gender, like other forms of identity, has nothing to do with the past. it is instantiated in the moment and solidified by repeated iteration. much like the way "being a new yorker" doesn't necessarily mean you had to have been born somewhere between van cortlandt park and coney island, but relies more on an intimate knowledge of the subway system, or ability to wear stupid hipster clothes while taking oneself completely seriously.

And while ee is usually the first to get aggressive in the face of such attacks, i was rather shocked at his composure. he also didn't bring up the personal nature of the conversation, and i can't help but wonder how the conversation would have gone if this had been part of the mix. in the end, i'm not sure much was accomplished, but i was heartened by the way scamz seemed genuinely curious, and open to questioning his perceptions, even if the other two were not.

interestingly enough, today i came across this article on gay marriage in mexico city. sidestepping the marriage argument as a whole (and you might guess how i fall on this one) what i find most interesting about the article is the thought that marriage be defined as a union between “two biologically distinct persons.” now, this may be a product of poor translation, but i'm not sure, even if we don't question the ideology behind science and "biology," what two people would not be biologically distinct. identical twins? a cloned person?

and then further assuming that there is something "biologically" similar about certain people, wouldn't this mean that a black man and a white man could be married? or someone who is xxy could marry someone who is either xy or xx? or perhaps, like we all did in 6th grade science we should be paying more attention to who can roll their tongue and who has loose vs. attached ear lobes (yes i can roll my tongue and yes my ear lobes are attached, for those who might be interested).

saturday at dinner, i joined a less heterosexual, but just as normative crowd. they had just been to see mr. russell's casting genius in wig out (based loosely on paris is burning and ball culture), and mr. rhodes greeted me with "the legendary!" when i walked in. apparently dwt had mentioned dinner would involve a mystery guest, but hadn't told them who. later in the dinner, rhodes mentioned jk, and the table erupted in laughter. russell defended his previous statements. though i certainly have my own opinions about what actually happened (and those opinions certainly grant little legitimacy to the words of a man who lied about visiting his sister for a year and a half), i think this is at least demonstrates how, even for some of the most bourgeoise, homonormative, fabulous, bitchy (and i use that word, not in degradation, but because they do) men i know, sexual identity and practice do not necessarily coincide at all times.

ok, so yes, sexuality is very different from gender, and i don't mean to conflate the two. in fact, i think one thing that this weekend really solidified in my mind is how completely divergent sexuality, desire, love, and compatibility really are. and all for the best.

un otro

another early summer writing about blo/no

Tonight I ate dinner across the street from the coffeehouse. I saw indie looking boys walk by, and yell to their friends, “hey man, I haven’t seen you in a while.”

It made me realize this place doesn’t feel like home anymore. No more sitting at the coffee kup recognizing people that come in. no run ins along the street. No gunshots outside of la bamaba.

Sure places change, and I’ve been away for almost 10 years. But gentrification is a different beast entirely. The cobbler’s been displaced. Along with other ports. You’ll still be the only one I’ll ever love, but this Uptown is bullshit.

I guess I’m feeling a bit disenchanted with this place in general. The small-town bars aren’t what they used to be. The IGA still holds untold wonders, but even my parents, the coolest in the world, are losing their usual luster. Not in a getting in arguments sort of way, but they’re just being a bit boring.

But I also wonder how much this has to do with my current state of affairs. Usually, it seems, there’s something to keep me grounded here. Or rather, keep my feet from totally touching the ground. A friend around. A boy’s calls to keep me occupied. And lou. But this has been just me and the ‘rents. Which is nice, but it lacks that Sweet Home Alabama feeling I always associate with these parts.

And I want to write about this in a Klosterman-esque sort of way. But its not coming to me at the moment. No lofty poetry about the open spaces of the center. Or the way the center centers me. Perhaps I’ve grown out of this. Or perhaps it’s the comparisons I’m making. The last two weekends were filled with former friends and the sort of comfort one expects to find only at home. And not to say that comfort isn’t here, but the camaraderie I’ve had recently is missing. No antics. No late nights, flaming beaches, or wine-drinking roof talks. It is simply home. In a very adult sort of way. And maybe what it comes down to is that I want this place to restore the child in me. To make me feel as young and free as I want to be. But now, my friends here have children and own houses. They’ve all settled into that sub-suburban lifestyle, and aren’t hanging out at the circle anymore. So I’ve just got the Hs and the Ks around. And as much as I adore them all, they don’t have the spark of 20-something life that I’ve enmeshed myself among in recent weeks. By comparison to DC this is the life. By comparison to the nj/ny contingent, this is lame.

But now, I await my train to Chicago, and I hope more antics shall be found there. Of course, the usual suspects are all out of town, but chuckles will be a good time, along with the moyer, and of course my one true love, lou.

I also wonder if the crazy, unrequited things running through my head lately are putting me in a funk that’s not letting me fully enjoy my surroundings. I feel like I spend all year waiting for these moments, and then when they arrive, they are disappointing. And that’s no way to live life. I need to make them worth the wait. So here we go…

scammellot!!!

i had the most perfect weekend

it was spent at scammellot, with plenty of captain pabst, capitán, horseshoes, meat, black beans, fireworks, sand, and love. not to mention an overabundance of r___s. here are some notable moments

both nights i slept in a twin bed next to the r___ in his own twin bed. waking up in the mornings was so nice. we had short little discussions, and then i could fall back asleep. it was like all the joys of morning pillow talk, only without the uncomfortable aspects of sharing a bed with someone you don't sleep well with. though we did get some good vertical spooning in.

i also gave scamz his birthday present and he seemed rather pleased with it. which of course pleases me.

saturday, during my second round of horseshoes, i was having some problems. really all weekend, i was having major issues with my release. most of the time too early. sometimes too late and the shoe would fly up into the air as if i was throwing a softball in order to get some solo deep fielding practice. but the r___ kept telling me he could hear tom petty, and all that implied. i eventually obliged the requests, throwing my tank top to the ground, and immediately landing a ringer. unfortunately, that was only met with requests for me to remove my pants.

after dinner we were sitting around, and someone took the ben & jerry's out of the freezer. i simply passed it to the person to my left, who happened to be the birthday boy. he then exclaimed "the world is so full of love and happiness and then someone hands me heath bar crunch!"

and then, last night, after the strip show to lights & music, after the poker chips and batteries were cashed in, after good's goodies, after the fiend was out of commission, the r____ had headed to his twin bed, and the capitán had only a thin layer of liquid covering the bottom of the bottle, we took some candles to the beach, and cowered against the wind. i tried to lean on scamz to give a little head-to-shoulder nuzzle, but instead gave a soft, loving head-but. in many ways, that describes our relationship to a T.

so, i had a nice uneventful drive home, and a peaceful day all around.

then the republican emailed me. basically chastising me for not responding in a while. which is true, and probably not the nicest thing ever, but its totally killed my post-scammellot glow (well, not literally, the cheeks are still quite pink) and i just want to say look dude. its shit like this that makes me not respond. but i'm too nice and i'll write something apologetic shortly, and hope that no one hates me. but really, what's so bad about being hated? dwt once told me i'm too benign for anyone to hate. which i took as a compliment. mostly because that backhanded sort of compliment is the only way dwt gives them. but now i wish i had a bit more fire in me. a bit more spunk. oh well. i'll deal with it in the morning.

noticias desde el fin de semana

warning: explicit conversations recounted below

i rolled into the jc around 3pm, and since the sky was gray, i decided to forgo hamilton park, and went to basic instead. i had a hot chocolate and read some of loyal soldiers... rhino called around 5:30 and i met him at 221. we watched some john adams on the dvr, noting that fiend would look especially nice in a thomas jefferson as secretary of state outfit.

at some point, k called rhino, and was on his way to drop off some sort of softball payment at 7s. we went to meet him for a beer. jayne was working and drew was hanging out, but the bar was fairly empty.

scamz called on our way to the bar, and asked if we wanted to meet for some grub before tracking down the fearsome threesome that we'd meet later that night. rhino and i agreed, but K decided not to join us.

so after a blue moon, rhino and i headed in and after losing our direction near washington square park, we met scamz at peculiar pub, for some litres of beer. i had leffe. and here begins the string of totally inappropriate stories. because his stories were not my own, i will forgo the explicit detail of scamz's stories of his work trip to ft. lauderdale, and simply state that after a few imitations of the staples "easy" button and talk of bed jumping, he was then and there dubbed scam-bow. 

shortly thereafter, the crowd was rounded out with the fiend, warden, widowmaker, and eventually tits, who insisted on calling me dr. nell. after a rousing conversation involving republicans and strap-ons, with several ploys to get me to purchase one at the nearest open sex shop (and there were sure to be a variety at 9pm in the village), we finished our litres, and wandered off to kgb.

there i got to talking to the warden, well known in the past for but-sex, driving drunk, and pissing neighbors off with lines like "17, i mean 21, i mean 18," and the conversation ended up with shots of the turkey. as usual, that little bastard was ruffling his feathers from behind the bar.

we eventually ended up at big bar with more warden chatting, where i learned he is choosing between columbia and case western medical schools. apparently somewhere between drunken driving and exposing himself to the lovely folks on pratt street, he found time to actually study while in school. later,  brunjeses appeared with nyu friends. we ended up discussing the end of relationships, and he mentioned that no parking is showing at a few more festivals. at some point while all of this was going on, rhino got a warning message about possible encounters, which i should have known was a bad sign. we got back to the jc, and i took the futon without unfolding it, but slept pretty poorly. after the sun rose though, i managed to get some good hours in, and didn't really get up until 11.

saturday was less exciting with some eating, walking, and the tenement museum tour. republicanism baffles me...

sunday, scam-bow and i went to the biennial, and there were a few good things. he ended up touching something he wasn't supposed to and then was forced to endure a 15 minute conversation with a guard who could barely speak english. we saw the hair piece his friend designed and a few other good things. a good short film that basically involved blind people touching an elephant (but that doesn't really do it justice), some small pieces that he said reminded him of the picture blog...my favorite title for an art piece was "divine violence," shockingly. a good time, but really, i think my favorite moment was looking at the pollock. yet another one i'm convinced i could dance to. and it had amazing explosiveness.

from there, we got some soup and a drink, then headed downtown, and for me, across the river. i met rock, rhino & k at 7s, and had some cokes and a veggie burger. there was some interesting discussion about shape-shifters & flows, which devolved into r&r joking around with me and k making rude comments under his breath. though he did apologize later.

after 7s, i headed back down south, and got some good contemplation in. now, back to work. bolivian filicidio & the media luna's ploy for autonomy won't wait forever

hace dos anos

i am sitting on my couch watching the pre-oscar red carpet interviews.

i'm a little sickened by the way we glorify celebrity, and the utter extravagance (and wastefulness) of it all. but that's for another time...

i had a more important realization a few moments ago. two years ago, i went to devo's birthday party on a saturday night. i spent the evening talking to an NU geologist, and listening to devo tell me about when he and teddy had bedbugs. images of the mars star in full sweatsuit, socks, and stocking cap ready for bed were rather amusing.

the next night was the oscars. i watched with pabst and popcorn in hand and settled into a post-award show slumber on my mattress on the floor. in the morning i woke up with two small bites on my hand.

and so began the year of sleeping hell. the smell of that blue-capped raid bottle will forever turn my stomach. "sleep tight" will never quite have the same meaning for me, and I'll never say it to my possible future children. small dark flecks on the wall freak me out. everytime i wake up with an itch i get paranoid.

in the end, i'm just glad its over. though it certainly changed my stance on ddt. i guess my ecological idealism doesn't stand a chance en frente lived experience.

Scammellot

we went down the shore this weekend, and everything was lovely. it truly lived up to its name like some mythical wonderland where all was right in the world. i guess there was a sense of returning to childhood, despite the fact that we were there to celebrate ryan officially becoming post-mid-twenties. i suppose one could say that there was quite a juxtaposion between the childlike activities of doing cartwheels on the beach & putting puzzles together and the adult-ness of doing laundry, washing dishes, and reading the New Yorker.

but i think the weekend succeeded on both accounts. it was fulfilling in all the right ways, relaxing, excapist, and quite frankly makes me want to (come across some large sum of capital,) open a bed & breakfast on LBI and spend my life at the beach. a girl can dream can't she?

so, now its back to city life. at least the weather is nice, sunny, bright. but its still wall street. fortunately, this weekend brings more travel, and i really only have a little over one month left in this place, which brings about simultaneous feelings of anxiety, anxiousness, excitement, and nostalgia. but this is a good move emotionally and intellectually. and there's definitely a huge part of me that can't wait!

soy una gringa de nuevo

friday night, jk & i went to a peruvian restaurant in harrison. it was called spondylus or something like that (something i couldn't translate/make sense of). it was way more authentic than mancora in manhattan (not all that shocking). i had chicha morada and papas huacallinas. muy bueno. jk had lomo saltado (chifa) and i tasted some of the veggie bits. muy bueno tambien. unfortunately they were out of both cristal and cusqueno beers. but it didn't really matter. i was going to ask for some pisco after my chicha, but they sort of ignored us blancos and never asked if we wanted more to drink. we had to actively hunt down the check for a good 10 minutes when we were ready to go too.

so some people might be deterred by this, but it just makes me want to go back. watch some futbol there and drink some cerveza at the bar. i'm not daring enough to do it alone, but maybe i can talk others into it sometime.

anyway, it really brought lima time back and made me miss it.

time and space

coming back was strange. not for the normal reverse-culture-shock reasons really, but because it feels like i've been gone for about a week. everything feels very normal. which maybe further confirms these thoughts i wrote my first few days in lima.

que tiene mas? claro que tiene mas!

I was thinking about the lack of existence of space in the terms we so often think of it, as I was saying goodbye to my family via the telephone on Saturday. There I was, misty eyed, saying goodbye to my parents and sister before leaving for 5 weeks. Except that I live more than 1000 miles away from them to begin with. We may be in the same country, but we do not occupy the same space. We do not really have intersecting lives, except on those occasions where one is visiting the other. But the invisible borders make all the difference. Mostly because it would be far more expensive to call them from here. So, it is the implications of differential space, not the space itself that makes all the difference.

I was also thinking about this as I was waiting for the PATH back to jersey after exchanging moneys. I was certain that if I tried hard enough, I would still be in bed that morning. And every time I drifted off to sleep on the plane, I was no longer mid flight to South America. And this is all corroborated by the existence of pizza hut and mcdonalds and bk, chilis and tgi Fridays, dunkin doughnuts, united colors of beneton, keneth cole new york, and payless shoes in lima. and even la bamba on the radio. Or Grey’s anatomy on tv. As much as I hate to admit it, diLeonard was right. When you’re standing in the middle of GAP and you can’t remember whether you’re in Des Moines or Calcutta space no longer has the meaning it once did and by extension, I wonder what this is doing to culture.

Not to say that culture has to be “traditional” (Traditional as mutton sandwiches at McDonalds, I say), but difference is the key to finding beauty in life. So, it worries me a little.

cosas ultimas

as i was walking to target for some last minute items today, i was thinking about something mccall once said to me. (no, not "as the british would say 'do something sexy."--though i guess i have taken that advice).

once, early in the year we were discussing thesis topics and i mentioned being interested in the gentrification of jersey city, as viewed through interactions with 111 1st street. anyway, he told me that often we do things because they are convenient due to our current circumstances (he even mentioned marriage as an example...forshadowing his own problems, perhaps?). he then advised that i do something because i really wanted to and was interested, not because it was easy, convenient or "made sense." and i have certainly taken that advice, though probably not in the way he intended.

so, mccall, not that i doubted it, but in addition to your wonderful words of wisdom ("where the edge is", "post-cadillac", "some would call me a postmodernist, but i would argue no such thing exists.") you give good advice too.

manana es mi dia ultimo en los estados unidos.
adios!