Thursday, March 18, 2010
Age is just a number
But alas, this number discourages me from going out on a school night. I like my six hours of sleep. And season 3 of Heroes.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Ode to Ireland
It was the first day of 2009 and I was drinking far more than my body could handle. I had been waking up past noon and going to bed at sunrise for the past four days, feeding myself oily plates of fish and chips in order to sustain myself. I was in Ireland, and there was no other way to experience it.
I was staying with the family of a boy that I had met in a pub in Germany. The night we met, he drunkenly offered an invitation to Ireland, and I drunkenly accepted. Days later, tickets were bought and by New Years eve, I was banging pots and pans in the streets of Arklow, "chasing away the faeries." The memories of that trip have been fogged over by alcohol, but the most important facts remain.
1) Small town living is creepy, though novel if you're a visitor. I stayed in an offbeat village called Arklow, where everyone knew everyone and who everyone knew. My first night was spent in a pub and moments after my arrival, a man drunkenly swaggered past my booth, stared obtrusively, pointed directly at my face and slurred, "HEEEEEeeyeyyyeeey," which I assumed to directly translate as, "Well good gracious, you're new in these parts, aren't you?" By the end of the night, he had written me a poem and the entire pub had introduced themselves to me. I'm pretty sure I didn't pay for any beer either.
2) The Irish breakfast - generally comprised of Irish sausage, Irish bacon, black pudding, white pudding, eggs, tomatoes, potatoes, Irish beans, Irish butter and Dubliner cheese - is somehow disgusting when sober, and yet has miraculous healing powers when hung over.
3) And lastly, Guinness is the most delicious beer ever invented, and nothing other than what streams forth from the frothy nozzle of an Irish keg will ever do it justice. The chilled glass pints, the bubbly foam head, the shot of raspberry currant and the sounds of two-dozen drunk Irish patrons will make that first sip forever memorable. It helps if there's someone in the background playing a fiddle, and when you're in Ireland, there's usually someone in the background playing a fiddle.
Though I'm not celebrating St. Patrick's Day this year, I hope every one else is having a grand time. For now, I'll just have to revisit the Irish on my own.
I was staying with the family of a boy that I had met in a pub in Germany. The night we met, he drunkenly offered an invitation to Ireland, and I drunkenly accepted. Days later, tickets were bought and by New Years eve, I was banging pots and pans in the streets of Arklow, "chasing away the faeries." The memories of that trip have been fogged over by alcohol, but the most important facts remain.
1) Small town living is creepy, though novel if you're a visitor. I stayed in an offbeat village called Arklow, where everyone knew everyone and who everyone knew. My first night was spent in a pub and moments after my arrival, a man drunkenly swaggered past my booth, stared obtrusively, pointed directly at my face and slurred, "HEEEEEeeyeyyyeeey," which I assumed to directly translate as, "Well good gracious, you're new in these parts, aren't you?" By the end of the night, he had written me a poem and the entire pub had introduced themselves to me. I'm pretty sure I didn't pay for any beer either.
2) The Irish breakfast - generally comprised of Irish sausage, Irish bacon, black pudding, white pudding, eggs, tomatoes, potatoes, Irish beans, Irish butter and Dubliner cheese - is somehow disgusting when sober, and yet has miraculous healing powers when hung over.
3) And lastly, Guinness is the most delicious beer ever invented, and nothing other than what streams forth from the frothy nozzle of an Irish keg will ever do it justice. The chilled glass pints, the bubbly foam head, the shot of raspberry currant and the sounds of two-dozen drunk Irish patrons will make that first sip forever memorable. It helps if there's someone in the background playing a fiddle, and when you're in Ireland, there's usually someone in the background playing a fiddle.
Though I'm not celebrating St. Patrick's Day this year, I hope every one else is having a grand time. For now, I'll just have to revisit the Irish on my own.
Me, Guinness, Ireland; December 2009.
Grimm Magic
(Circa December 2009, Germany. A notebook excerpt).
It's been a year since I ran through these woods, a regular afternoon pastime to ingest fresh air and stay fit. My old route was instinctive and it seemed to run under me instead of the other way around. The woods were exactly as I remembered them, populated with naked giants, their black bones reaching up to shake their fists at the cold. Their roots were hidden under forgotten leaves, piling and piling and piling up. I jogged around a tree and dragged my gloved fingers across its bark, continuing an old habit from 2008 and conveying the same secret message, "Hello again, tree."
The same mud patches were patched in mud and I laughed as usual as I gracelessly hopped around the worst of it. The halfway-hill was just as steep and I adopted the same restrained job to keep myself from flying forward.
But the thin streams that ran along the last leg home were dry and I wondered what became of the school of freshwater mermaids that would swim alongside me as my heart thumped my feet forward. I was the only half-breed in the woods that day, but the magic of the German forest was in infinite supply.
I dared not spit near the trees as I still believed that they had the power to absorb my DNA and transform into my duplicate. It's the way these trees moved on to their second life, and they wait in earnest for one of us to give them the opportunity.
Every path had a story and every run created more. The woods were no longer a conglomeration of flora, but instead, a living storybook where each corner was synonymous with the turning of pages. As I neared the end of my route, I already knew that running would never get any better than this.
It's been a year since I ran through these woods, a regular afternoon pastime to ingest fresh air and stay fit. My old route was instinctive and it seemed to run under me instead of the other way around. The woods were exactly as I remembered them, populated with naked giants, their black bones reaching up to shake their fists at the cold. Their roots were hidden under forgotten leaves, piling and piling and piling up. I jogged around a tree and dragged my gloved fingers across its bark, continuing an old habit from 2008 and conveying the same secret message, "Hello again, tree."
The same mud patches were patched in mud and I laughed as usual as I gracelessly hopped around the worst of it. The halfway-hill was just as steep and I adopted the same restrained job to keep myself from flying forward.
But the thin streams that ran along the last leg home were dry and I wondered what became of the school of freshwater mermaids that would swim alongside me as my heart thumped my feet forward. I was the only half-breed in the woods that day, but the magic of the German forest was in infinite supply.
I dared not spit near the trees as I still believed that they had the power to absorb my DNA and transform into my duplicate. It's the way these trees moved on to their second life, and they wait in earnest for one of us to give them the opportunity.
Every path had a story and every run created more. The woods were no longer a conglomeration of flora, but instead, a living storybook where each corner was synonymous with the turning of pages. As I neared the end of my route, I already knew that running would never get any better than this.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Notebook ingenuity.
I carry around a little notebook to record my thoughts during moments of ingenuity or inspiration. Most of the time, however, I end up with useless scribbles that mean little to me once I forget their context. The last three entries, for example, are testament to my inability to appear intelligent at all times:
3) A list entitled, "AN IDEAL USE OF TIME," followed by 11 ridiculous sub-points. Ladyfy thyself, and, Have a lovely breakfast with tea, makes me wonder if I was abducted by a Debutante.
2) A series of one-lined questions addressed to no one.
* Is the force within you?
* What shape does your patronus take?
* In which activity did you win your gold medal?
1) And two haikus about tofu that were created when I enthusiastically declared a class-wide tofu haiku showdown. I managed to coerce the boy behind me into participating, and after convincing another boy to be the judge, I somehow lost the competition. The proof is in my Moleskine.
3) A list entitled, "AN IDEAL USE OF TIME," followed by 11 ridiculous sub-points. Ladyfy thyself, and, Have a lovely breakfast with tea, makes me wonder if I was abducted by a Debutante.
2) A series of one-lined questions addressed to no one.
* Is the force within you?
* What shape does your patronus take?
* In which activity did you win your gold medal?
1) And two haikus about tofu that were created when I enthusiastically declared a class-wide tofu haiku showdown. I managed to coerce the boy behind me into participating, and after convincing another boy to be the judge, I somehow lost the competition. The proof is in my Moleskine.
Healthy little cubes
Jiggly wobbly slippery
As I swallow it
Asian creation
Coagulated soy milk
Suddenly tofu!
(Ps. I'm not saying the judgement was sexually biased, but there's no other explanation for my loss. Tofu isn't Jiggly).
Despite these nonsensical scribbles, I do sometimes come across an entry that is worthwhile. Writing, in all its forms, has given me a solid history, residually allowing my life to be captured within these pages. No matter how many repetitive To-Do lists I create or unfinished thoughts I jot down, it'll all be worth a revisit when I'm 50, not retired and fed up with raising my dirty children. One day the ingenuity will show itself, but until then, five fail-proof ways on how to dominate a 10-year-old in Monopoly will have to do.
Don't ask.
Monday, March 15, 2010
The woes of ex-ex-patriotism
My life has become significantly less interesting since I’ve become an ex-expat. I try to supplement my blog with little excursions that I do around the island, but going to Ala Moana Beach Park for a BBQ just isn’t the same as going to Venice for the weekend. Remember when I got lost by myself in Paris where I later learned the fundamentals of travel the hard way? Well, I recently got lost while looking for Friday-night parking in downtown Honolulu and only walked away with the steadfast conviction that one-way roads should be outlawed. The later doesn’t quite have the same appeal.
But I refuse to settle into the belief that home has to be synonymous with boring. I am extraordinarily fortunate to call this tropical island my place of residence. People frequently travel to Hawaii and their experiences are usually filled with exoticism, lush beaches and smoking hot local boys*, all of which are at my daily disposal! Do I have a desire to take advantage of it? Yes. Am I successful? Rarely, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.
So a little goal has birthed itself. You’ll be hearing from me in excess over the next week just so I can prove to you that a story can be found regardless of where you’re looking for it. In many cases, adventure is just disguised as something we’ve already seen before. Sometimes, all it takes are new eyes.
*By “smoking hot local boys,” I actually mean “underaged Asians.”
But I refuse to settle into the belief that home has to be synonymous with boring. I am extraordinarily fortunate to call this tropical island my place of residence. People frequently travel to Hawaii and their experiences are usually filled with exoticism, lush beaches and smoking hot local boys*, all of which are at my daily disposal! Do I have a desire to take advantage of it? Yes. Am I successful? Rarely, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.
So a little goal has birthed itself. You’ll be hearing from me in excess over the next week just so I can prove to you that a story can be found regardless of where you’re looking for it. In many cases, adventure is just disguised as something we’ve already seen before. Sometimes, all it takes are new eyes.
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