First Few Days in the City

In the past few days I've gone from the beautiful farms of Pennsylvania to the beautiful cityscape of New York City.  My mother and I drove into the city on Saturday morning via the George Washington Bridge and got a true tourist's welcome from the self-assured drivers of the upper west side.  After decompressing a bit, we went on a boat tour around the southern tip of Manhattan, watching the bridges emerge above us, listening to the history of the city and the rising and falling real estate markets on the various banks of the river, and seeing the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island.  Of course, the Statue of Liberty is one of the most iconic figures around the world, but there is still something incredible about seeing it before me.  It's quite large and quite grand.  An incredible gift from the French, indeed.

The tour ended fairly close to the entrance of the High Line and so we joined hundreds of other tourists walking above the city on this green elevated converted train track filled with art sculptures and vantage points.  We descended when our hunger rose and found a beautiful and delicious restaurant called The Park nearby.  We walked along 6th Avenue until we found a subway line to take us home.

On Sunday, we went down to Rockefeller Center and the MSNBC Studios to watch the Melissa Harris Perry Show from the control room where my friend is a producer.  It was cool to see the complexity of putting together a live news show, and also cool to see this show in particular which tries to give greater attention to some of the issues affecting minorities.

We then went to the top of Rockefeller Center to see an incredible view of the city.  Yes, it's big.  It's really big.  What does that even mean?  Many people, many buildings, many parks, many sounds and smells, many ideas and ways of living, all crammed together in this tiny island.  It feels quite privileged and impossible to see it all at once.

We descended, found lunch, walked along a street market to the Public Library.  We saw the lions, but it was closed for the day, so we walked around Bryant Park and discovered all the cool programs, classes, games, and reading spaces that were possible.  Then to Grand Central Station and a bus ride along the park with a fellow passenger offering a small diatribe on the mayor and his inaction in helping the poor carriage horses of Central Park, a beginning among others to becoming local, to having local concerns.

And yesterday into today continued the local transitioning with a trip on the subway and through the streets in interview (decidedly non-tourist) clothing, neglected by the pamphleteers, the offering of a part-time job (teaching cello in an after school program in Harlem), and the obtainment of a New York City Library card.  At the end of the day, I have a job, I have a library card, and I've walked the streets as a resident.

But tomorrow, back to the prolongation of tourism, holding off the quotidian perception of living where I live, in this incredible city.  My mother and I will venture to the tip of Manhattan to see the financial district, the oldest areas of the city, perhaps the Brooklyn Bridge and the water memorial for 9/11.

It's exciting to be here.  The moving-in is finally happening.  The transition is underway.

farmland in Pennsylvania

Entering Manhattan via the toll at George Washington Bridge; merging ahead!

Peace fountain in the garden of St. John the Divine

headed down the Hudson River

there she is

Brooklyn Bridge

Brooklyn Bridge

from the Hudson River

Cranes along the High Line

stacked cars, seen from the High Line near/in Chelsea

Southern view of Manhattan from Rockefeller 

Northern view from Rockefeller 

Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania

A day of traveling through Pennsylvania farmlands and hills and we are only about 2 hours outside of New York City.  Tomorrow morning will be the final move into the city and the beginning of residency there.  And for now, I'm digesting the food from the family diner around the corner and thinking of the sights to be seen beyond the rolling cornfields and cow pastures.  City life is around the corner.  

Is there an assumption that as we grow older we learn to love?  Or that we are born knowing how?  Sometimes I unravel whatever anxiety I find in myself to a fear that I might not know how to love.  A fear that I will offend, a fear that I cannot truly perceive the love that others extend to me, a fear that I cannot truly express the love that I feel to others.  And how does one?  In words, in thoughts, in gifts, in music?  What is the sincerity of love?  What is sincere love?  How does one feel it, how does one give it?  Is it important that it is explicitly expressed, or does its existence negate any need for superficial display?  When a person says "I love you," what are they saying?  And why are they speaking those words?  If it is true, if it is not true, what is the need for them?

But I say them to my family and I believe them.  And even though I can hear certain strains of uncertainty in love, there seems to be an underlying truth to its presence, perhaps only compromised by the distractions of living to which we all have to attend.  Perhaps love can only live in death, where there is nothing to distract from it. Perhaps we can touch it in this world in the gaze of another person, in a moment of music, in laughter, in extreme sorrow, in nostalgia.  Maybe it can saturate more and more of our world until our insecurities dissolve and we can trust in its presence, and need little else but it and our breath and perhaps then, not even that.

Asians in America

The girl in front of me at the coffee shop paid with a one hundred dollar bill for her sandwich.  She had to ask the cashier to repeat his question about whether it was "for here" or "to go."  And she wasn't sure if she should wait at the coffee station or at the register until he told her she could sit down and they would call her up when her order was ready.  I would guess that she is from China and that perhaps she arrived in America not too long ago to begin a graduate program at UW this fall.  I felt my actions around her become softer.  I wanted to give her the space she needed to put the bills back in her billfold before rushing to place my order, to give her space to find a seat in front of me as I walked toward the door with my tea and plans for the day.  Any action that I could do to make her life less crowded with all the confusions that are already there, I wanted to grant to her.  I would imagine that in a few weeks she will get more used to using a credit card to pay for two dollar purchases and will better intuit the way the counter flows for ordered sandwiches.  She'll be a little more American in a few weeks.

And a few hours later as I was practing in a classroom at the music school in Madison, the door opened.  I expected there must be some summer session and that I would need to leave but instead the two girls just kept looking at me and sort of saying hello, until one of them finally asked if I was a new student and said she just wanted to welcome me.  She was also a cellist.  We chatted for a bit, I asked her name and then she introduced her friend, a Japanese girl.  And I said in Japanese that I had lived in Japan for three years.  Her face was confused and excited with the surprise.  Luckily she had very good English so I got to leave the exchange with the impression that I can actually speak some Japanese, though of course I humbly denied it when she praised my skills.  Three years in a Japan and I have a cool party trick that can make people a little more comfortable.  

Asians in America.  I wonder what it is like for them.  I think people here are pretty nice and I hope that is actually true.  I have a desire to shelter them a little.  I understand why one would pay for such a small thing with a large bill, why the way of certain things can't be assumed.  I can imagine there are many things to which one must become accustomed.  There are many things that I learned in Japan, and one of them, I believe, is a greater sensitivity to these differences and how much energy they can take.  Good luck my friends.  

The Stars Are Watching

I realized that in the month of August I will have slept in ten different beds and two different modes of transportation.  It is truly a month of transition.  On the road, in cars, in buses, in the air on planes.  I'm taking this opportunity of "between employment" to see people I haven't seen in a long time, to catch up on some things that have been on hold for a long time while I've been in Japan.  No, I'm not yet in New York.  In some ways, yes, that is my new address, but I have not moved there yet.  I don't really belong anywhere but where I am.  And where I currently am is in the home of one of the members of my Tae Kwon Do club in Verona, Wisconsin.

I got to Wisconsin two days ago.  And after an awakening at how much more committed I would like to be in Tae Kwon Do (class number 1 of 4), I stayed in this Madison suburb, learned some stretching techniques and nutritional tips from my super health-oriented hosts and slept for one night.

The next morning (yesterday), I went into Madison to meet with some friends I know from Japan, a couple and her 16-year-old Japanese cousin who is visiting America for the first time to get a dose of our culture and language.  So I thought a Wisconsin diner for lunch would be appropriate.  Mickey's Dairy Bar has huge servings of scramblers, french toast, omelets, grilled cheese sandwiches and sweet potato fries, griddle cakes, and of course milk shakes, and after this heavy start we hit the road towards House on the Rock.  Partly a museum of random artifacts, time capsule, 70's kitsch, sculptural wonder, residential home, gardens, architectural marvel, and twisted dark dream, House on the Rock is one of the strangest places I've ever visited.  There is a giant whale, the largest carousel in the world, room of organs, dozens of mechanical musical ensembles, a tiled car, hundreds of carved ivory pieces, doll houses, circus tents, angel mannequins, stained glass windows, model ships and on and on.  It took three hours to walk through the whole thing, and that was a quick visit, inside the strange brain of Alex Jordan, it's creator.

We welcomed the sanity of the sun afterwards, and got back in the car to head to a cabin near North Freedom, Wisconsin.  We pulled into the driveway of a farm house claiming to sell corn and after getting the attention of a woman mowing the lawn in the back, asked if it would be possible to buy some.  She called to her husband and after they realized we only wanted 5 (not 5 dozen) ears of corn, said to go around to the corn field on the other side to pick some.  As we tried to figure out his instructions as to which corn to pick, he trotted down the hill from his house wearing only a bathrobe and walked straight into the stalks, pulling ear after ear of corn.  "This is great, we only need the 5."  "Oh I'll just give ya a dozen."  Oh, oh, ok. And then we had a dozen ears of corn, but instead of charging us the $2.50 he normally would have, he just gave them to us for free, saying it was a favor for us to take them from him.  The dogs barked as we left and we thanked him as he disappeared into his American flag-bedecked home to continue his Sci-Fi TV special.   There are so many different people in America.

And then we arrived at the cabin and rendezvoused with another friend from HPAC that I had yet to see in America.  We built a fired, warmed some sausages (including vegan), stuck the corn in the embers, and made s'mores, teaching our young Japanese friend about these various campfire traditions.  And as the coals got lower, we took a telescope and binoculars out to a field to look at the Milky Way.

I rarely saw a sky dark enough or big enough in Japan to see so many stars and it was new to our visitor.  And I remembered a feeling from high school of looking up at the night sky and taking in a foreign and distant comfort.  My eyes were the eyes of thousands and thousands of years ago, of blood that has travelled the generations to live in my body.  These stars have been companions to all my ancestors.  All of them lived below them.  Even those who might have been blind and could not see them, were "seen" by them, our celestial neighbors.  And even though it has been a long time since the sky has presented them to me in such glory, even though our modern skies put up a shield, one that will be very strong in Manhattan, they are still there.  There is no way to disappear their presence.  It is comforting and lonely to see them, a reminder of something bidden or unbidden.

The next day I sat zazen with one of my friends who practices regularly.  We sat on a the back deck of the cabin in the wind in the trees in the light in the cobwebs.  It's been a long time since I've sat zazen.  It too, is still there.

And then a wildcat rescue in the middle of Wisconsin.  And again, nature turned its head.  These beautiful faces, manes of fur, rescued from terrible conditions to come live in this place, when zoos have no more space.  And they seem to be well-cared for, fed and protected, and yet they are not living as tigers and lions and leopards and panthers live in the wild.  They are fed throughout the day, kept in enclosed areas.  Do they still have their run in them?  Behind the fur are they still what nature made them to be?

We then went to Devil's Lake and joined hundreds of others to enjoy the beach and sunny weather for an hour.  And then back to Madison and back to Verona via more time with my HPAC friends.

Do these things need to be renewed in order to exist–friendships, stars, zazen, nature's nature?  Or are they always there, no matter where we go, no matter how heavy the fog, the distance, the limitations on our time and expression?  But how wonderful it is to practice, to make something live and breathe.

Tae Kwon Do Class

Is it possible to grow without going outside one's comfort zone?  Wouldn't that be nice?  It's been almost 14 months since I've physically been in a Tae Kwon Do class and there was much to learn tonight.  And how does one take oneself outside their own comfort zone?  

Day Trip to Lexington, Kentucky

I drove down to Lexington, Kentucky this morning.  It's a relatively short drive, about 90 minutes or so, and it ends in the middle of the rolling green Kentucky hills and the white fences of horse farms.  And this morning was somewhat misty and cloudy, giving a mystique to the already idyllic scene.

I remember the first time I took this drive over 9 years ago.  I had just finished my undergraduate degree and had been planning to stay in Cincinnati playing with the undergraduate string quartet I enjoyed, working my dream job as a shelver in the Art and Music Department at the Cincinnati Public Library, and living with my boyfriend at the time and our three cats.  Life was good, perfect, and settled.  I had always lived in Cincinnati and always, especially with all my high school international friends, dreamed of living somewhere else.  And then one day in June, I responded to an opportunity to play in a string quartet at the University of Kentucky and as a section cellist at the Lexington Philharmonic as part of a graduate assistantship.  All it took was a few days of ennui at work and a questioning of life's direction to make me put together my application materials and send it in late June.

The recording, materials, and recommendations were good enough for acceptance.  And so one Saturday I found myself in a car with my father, heading down the highway to an exotic future in a foreign place–Kentucky!  I had a taste of it that day–the rolling green hills, the quiet campus, the unhurried southern attitude, the brick buildings from the 18th and early 19th centuries.  We looked at apartment yard signs, and a few weeks later, with my newly acquired driver's license, I was heading down the highway alone, in a packed car, moving into my first apartment and my first night living in a place that wasn't Cincinnati.

So much has happened since then.  There is nothing left of my life prior to moving to Lexington, or of the subsequent one that I discovered there, save of my memories and what it has built inside me.  I drove through today, feeling a different exoskeleton riding around me, one that I had shed years ago.  I saw the buildings of an exotic future from another side of time.  I remembered walking certain streets, remembered thoughts and decisions I had had at specific moments in time at certain traffic intersections.  And where had they taken me?

Somehow here.  Seeing "60 miles to...." on a highway sign has such a different feeling after seeing "3, 545 miles to...." on an airplane monitor.  What once was such an adventure, a daring embarkation to a new life, now seems like just a step to being where I've been and where I am.  And yet there is something so uniquely special about Lexington which no other life I've had or will have can ever touch.  There is something very special to me about the space and the way that time moves there, and something very special to me about the people that I knew, and the people that I still know that live there.  And it remains as exotic and untouchable, unknowable as the future, as it ever was.  It's not something I can wrap my arms around, it's not something I can take with me, or even something of which I can take an accurate picture.  And so it's very special to be able to take a day to reopen it, even for just a lunch with friends, just a drive through the streets that once held a different connotation, just to hold it again before letting go, again.

Family Ties

I think my life is an improvisation on the lives of my parents and grandparents and even great-great-great-grandparents.  There is no way for me to know from what I spin.  But I'm very curious about the beginnings of motivations, of values, of traditions and practices.  What brings discipline into a family, what brings honesty?  What brings cutting corners, and frugality?  It would seem that anyone's environment might press upon them and that these fears and confidences might be taught to one's children in one's tone of voice, in their gait, in the space between their words.  There are things that we can consciously see be given to us from our parents, or which we can more consciously rebel against–religion, politics, car brand loyalty.  But in addition to these things, I think there is a texture to human interaction that we can unknowingly learn.  I'm curious as to where it begins.  I'm curious as to how much we must live it and how much we can find ourselves the product of our own environment.  In every generation, there are so many new factors.  There are new ways of communicating, new ways of traveling, new ways of eating and exercising.  We come in to contact with new parts of the world, new ideas.  And the environment presses upon us.  The past is there, but so is the present and the future.  How much do we take in from these various sources?  From where do I learn to be the person that I am?  

It is interesting for me to listen to my parents and grandparents speak of themselves and the way they became, the life they lived.  There is something there for me to understand myself.  And perhaps with that I can understand how I make sense of the world in a more objective way, in a way that can be of better service to the people around me.  Family is such an interesting thing.  Society is such an interesting thing.  There is no center to it, no beginning, and no ending.  Just transitions and riffs on what came before.  

Cincinnati Downtown

Cincinnati admittedly looks smaller than New York and the gentrification of the downtown area is decidedly less diverse.  But there are so many beautiful things in this city and it is changing so quickly.  Certainly I notice it more having been so far away and returning less frequently, but even my family is amazed at the changes that are taking place.  Areas which used to be deemed unsafe to walk through now have outdoor yoga.  There are bars and boutiques galore and colorful murals on buildings that used to have broken windows and chained doors.  And the riverfront is full of fountains and fun activities, beautiful walkways, swings, a carousel.  This is not the Cincinnati downtown that I grew up in, but it is one that now has a lot more pride, at least among certain sectors of the population.  The issues of race and class are everywhere, a clear line drawn between one block and the next, the past and the inevitable developing future, between dimes of marijuana and $10 microbrews.

I realize how much of my sensitivities to privilege were formed with this backdrop of guilt.  I can see people living differently than I do and to drive through neighborhoods with the two disparities so close together really augments the irony and injustice of it.  And I'm still unsure what I should do about it, other than be sensitive, to question consumption, to question entitlement, to think of ways that I can act to bridge the gap.  I cannot give the privilege that I have.  There is no way to repay hundreds of years of wrong-doing or even a life of different upbringing.  What does one do?  It's wonderful to see the vitality of the downtown area, the beautiful buildings, the culture, the nature.  But what is it supplanting and how is it doing so?  There seems to be something in the nature of wanting that needs reexamination.  What do we want?  How does that effect others?

Home

I made it home.  I saw my parents and my aunt and brother, and my other brother and his wife are on the way.  I heard my grandmother's voice, excited and relieved for my safe arrival.  I've made appointments to see other family and friends and get around the various places I need to go.  I'm tired, really tired, but the novelty and excitement of each moment are pulling me through.  I'm home.  What does that mean?  I don't know, but it feels so good to be here, to have a feeling of arrival here in the Midwest of America, in a home so familiar to me with voices that are the backdrop of my character.  Home, I made it home. 

Somewhere in Pennsylvania

In my single day touchdown in New York--the east coast mediator between San Diego and Cincinnati-- I undertook an adventure to the grocery store.  Strange that a grocery store in my own country could prove to be an adventure, but even with warnings about its eccentric character and evasive entrance, I was still unprepared.  

Past Grant's Tomb, I should have turned down into the park to get to the proper street level, but had to back track (alas, never again).  Once there I circled one building bearing the "Fairway Market" mural, then walked past a parking lot to do the same to another, until I covered 3 of the 4 sides of a third building before finding its entrance.  Or exit rather.  The entrance was on the far corner.  Once inside I was confronted with walls and walls of fruits and vegetables, whole nuts, cheeses and then more cheeses and more, olives, crackers, spices (I chose the "hot" rather than the "sweet" Hungarian paprika) more nuts and nut mixes, nut butters of many varieties, simmering sauces from around the world, teas, coffee, and a huge "cold room" with beers, more (and more) cheeses, meats, different milks (soy, almond, hemp), and it went on and on. 

How can I ever appreciate all the possibilities?  There appeared to be foods and ingredients to make an endless world of wonders, but it isn't endless and that makes it even more desirable.  With effort, and a certain amount of time, I could conquer the delicious mysteries and rarities within.  So much of it is even vegetarian friendly, another a teaser.  Try me.  Play with me.  Find out what I am while you still can.  I think there might be a lot of comfort in a completely boring and inaccessible world.  

From the wonders of the typical Japanese grocery store to the wonders of this New York one, I know it will become common and the paths I walk in the aisles well worn.  Broccoli, carrots, komatsuna, somen, soy milk, yogurt, tofu, eggs, kinako, and a few others.  I never ate that seaweed paste.  I threw it out when I cleaned my refrigerator two weeks ago.  What will be the kinako here?  What will be the seaweed paste?  And how can I put as many things in between as possible?  Perhaps the preferences and tendencies of another person will help make cohabitation an ally in this as well as many other ventures.

And indeed we had a dinner I've never made before: stuffed peppers with farro (apparently an en vogue grain in America) with walnuts, smoked cheese, tomatoes and that hot Hungarian paprika, with a side of sautéed kale, mushrooms, garlic, and feta.  And homemade cookies and hot chocolate.  It was great.  And there are so many more greats to explore.  

I passed Grant's Tomb again this morning and did some Tae Kwon Do on a beautiful hill behind it, stopping afterward to get a briefing on the national landmark, remembering a different time in our country's history.  And then I peaked into Riverside Church.  There are so many things in my backyard to take in, including all the people who speak languages I don't know, walk their dogs, sit in their cars writing music, play basketball at 7am.  Who are all these people?  

I'm sitting on a Megabus, headed towards Cleveland, towards Cincinnati.  To my left are two Indian people that have been eating curry-scented trays of food and pocket samosas; in front of me are two Chinese people who ignored my attempts to get their attention to offer a courtesy (a common Chinese interaction, I've been learning) and two Hispanic people behind me.  I'm one of many minorities.  And I still don't speak a language of the people around me.  By legal status, by location, by this land around me, I am not the foreigner, but that does not mean that I understand more.  Who are all these people?  What is their story, how did they get to be here, what have they lived through?  They understand something to which I am foreign.  

There is so much more to learn from this city.  Again, I am overwhelmed by the diversity and possibility of this new home.  I am generally finding that an internet search of "New York" + anything yields positive results a few blocks from my apartment.  I'm taking advantage of my between-employment freedom to head home for a bit and to Madison before settling permanently in New York.  And then I will really face the questions that all this possibility brings.  It would seem that anything can be here.  And what do I want that to be?  

Somewhere in Pennsylvania

In my single day touchdown in New York--the east coast mediator between San Diego and Cincinnati-- I undertook an adventure to the grocery store.  Strange that a grocery store in my own country could prove to be an adventure, but even with warnings about its eccentric character and evasive entrance, I was still unprepared.  

Past Grant's Tomb, I should have turned down into the park to get to the proper street level, but had to back track (alas, never again).  Once there I circled one building bearing the "Fairway Market" mural, then walked past a parking lot to do the same to another, until I covered 3 of the 4 sides of a third building before finding its entrance.  Or exit rather.  The entrance was on the far corner.  Once inside I was confronted with walls and walls of fruits and vegetables, whole nuts, cheeses and then more cheeses and more, olives, crackers, spices (I chose the "hot" rather than the "sweet" Hungarian paprika) more nuts and nut mixes, nut butters of many varieties, simmering sauces from around the world, teas, coffee, and a huge "cold room" with beers, more (and more) cheeses, meats, different milks (soy, almond, hemp), and it went on and on. 

How can I ever appreciate all the possibilities?  There appeared to be foods and ingredients to make an endless world of wonders, but it isn't endless and that makes it even more desirable.  With effort, and a certain amount of time, I could conquer the delicious mysteries and rarities within.  So much of it is even vegetarian friendly, another a teaser.  Try me.  Play with me.  Find out what I am while you still can.  I think there might be a lot of comfort in a completely boring and inaccessible world.  

From the wonders of the typical Japanese grocery store to the wonders of this New York one, I know it will become common and the paths I walk in the aisles well worn.  Broccoli, carrots, komatsuna, somen, soy milk, yogurt, tofu, eggs, kinako, and a few others.  I never ate that seaweed paste.  I threw it out when I cleaned my refrigerator two weeks ago.  What will be the kinako here?  What will be the seaweed paste?  And how can I put as many things in between as possible?  Perhaps the preferences and tendencies of another person will help make cohabitation an ally in this as well as many other ventures.

And indeed we had a dinner I've never made before: stuffed peppers with farro (apparently an en vogue grain in America) with walnuts, smoked cheese, tomatoes and that hot Hungarian paprika, with a side of sautéed kale, mushrooms, garlic, and feta.  And homemade cookies and hot chocolate.  It was great.  And there are so many more greats to explore.  

I passed Grant's Tomb again this morning and did some Tae Kwon Do on a beautiful hill behind it, stopping afterward to get a briefing on the national landmark, remembering a different time in our country's history.  And then I peaked into Riverside Church.  There are so many things in my backyard to take in, including all the people who speak languages I don't know, walk their dogs, sit in their cars writing music, play basketball at 7am.  Who are all these people?  

I'm sitting on a Megabus, headed towards Cleveland, towards Cincinnati.  To my left are two Indian people that have been eating curry-scented trays of food and pocket samosas; in front of me are two Chinese people who ignored my attempts to get their attention to offer a courtesy (a common Chinese interaction, I've been learning) and two Hispanic people behind me.  I'm one of many minorities.  And I still don't speak a language of the people around me.  By legal status, by location, by this land around me, I am not the foreigner, but that does not mean that I understand more.  Who are all these people?  What is their story, how did they get to be here, what have they lived through?  They understand something to which I am foreign.  

There is so much more to learn from this city.  Again, I am overwhelmed by the diversity and possibility of this new home.  I am generally finding that an internet search of "New York" + anything yields positive results a few blocks from my apartment.  I'm taking advantage of my between-employment freedom to head home for a bit and to Madison before settling permanently in New York.  And then I will really face the questions that all this possibility brings.  It would seem that anything can be here.  And what do I want that to be?  

Descent to New York

New York City.  A week ago I approached it from the tomorrow of Japan and this evening from the morning of the west coast.  There are so many ways to divide the globe and the world.  Days and nights and mornings.  Easts and wests and norths and souths.  Waking could be in any place.  I'm living in some extended interstice.  San Diego seemed so foreign from New York and from my Midwestern upbringing and I wonder what makes it so.  What creates the fabric of a culture?  How far and wide is it?  What does it contain?  The clothes are different, the accent, the smiles, the sun, and the air.  And their composite makes it unique.  I find myself remembering Japan in the kanji on chopstick wrappers, in Japanese names, and fusion culinary influences.  But there is little else to bring me back to it.  It is a nostalgia that is growing distant without even whispering goodbye.

And as the people around me are thoroughly embedded in the lives that they have been living the past three years, the past ten, or twenty, I find myself somewhat amnesiac.  Where was I these past three years?  It is a though I have just awakened and feel a need to be like those around me, a part of this world, with a purpose, with an explanation.  But I'm still nowhere.  The part of me that is seeking ground is doing so in projections of the future, in possible opportunities, resources, and planning.  There is little of me that is looking back to a time and place which now seems irrelevant, though beautiful and irreplaceable.

We flew over Manhattan during our descent to Laguardia, the fire of this city merely glowing embers from above, so soft and peaceful.  All the streets were clear and visible at once, something impossible to witness when walking the pavement or riding the tracks.  All the people in eye's view and yet nothing of them available until landing, until boarding the bus, walking home, stepping into the upcoming years of exploring the various boroughs and alleys that comprise this magnificent jungle.  Each ember is a fire waiting to explode, a story waiting to explore, an endless world of possibilities.