Two Weeks, Two Weddings: The Soiree

I have a confession to make: I love weddings. When else can you get hundreds of people in one room with no other purpose than to enjoy the happiness of two people in love? If weddings were paid events, I'm pretty sure that I'd be a season ticket holder, front row, just beside the head table. So, imagine my delight when I found out that I'd been invited to two weddings in two weeks. To compound my excitement, both weddings had a little something extra to offer that made each unique and memorable. In one of them I got to travel to New York and reunite with a side of the family that I don't see too often. In the other, I got to have the Full Wedding Experience as I was given the great honour of being the best man. Now if that's not worthy of multiple extensively detailed, yet entertaining blog posts, I'm not sure what is.

The Preamble

In general, it seems to me that weddings are like a microcosm of a couple's combined personality, a venue to demonstrate their interests, sensibilities, tastes, priorities and the way that they navigate a mutual decision making process. It makes sense then to say a little bit about what I've observed about the couple to place the wedding in proper context.

First, there's my cousin Emilie. She's a people person, all smiles and grace and hospitality. I've known Em ever since I was little and she's always been that elegant, cool, yet completely approachable older cousin, who did awesome things like perform in the NYC ballet and buy funky stuff from H&M (back when H&M was exotic). I could always count on her to show me around and be a cheerful tour guide through the loving wackiness that was, and is, the Schlegel household. She was always one of my favourite cousins. On this trip, I learned that Emilie is very organized and detail oriented, such that her seating arrangements were colour coded based on gender, and her master list of to-do items was not only impeccably hand printed, but also crossed-out with a ruler. No surprise, she plans events for a living. Then there's Jamie, who I happened to meet for the first time. Jamie does this thing where he'll look away, consider carefully what you've just said, and then look you straight in the eye and give you a thoughtful and often generous response. I learned that he is a gentleman of exquisite taste, in wine, food, clothing, golf and pretty much everything. I also learned that he is prone to dancing on tables, but we'll save that for later.

Day 1: Extended Family Time

Upon arriving in NYC I realize again how great of a host my cousin Em is. Not only does she offer her apartment to me for the night, but she comes to pick me up from the subway station, pay for my subway pass and introduce me to the delightful refreshment of coconut water. Em's apartment is the epitome of urban chic, complete with modern furnishings, interesting book arrangements and a wine rack that can be set to two different temperatures. Other fun features include the ability to use the bathroom and the fridge simultaneously, a lock that requires an instruction manual to open, and the subtle dance beat that permeates everything, emanating from the bar downstairs. After this experience, I highly recommend that you try showering to synthetic dance beats at least once in your life. You'll never go back.

The next day Em offers to be my morning tour guide, which is pretty great considering that her wedding is only three days away and there are surely more pressing matters at hand.  We do some Chelsea things, drink excellent and highly caffeinated iced coffees, stroll through Chelsea Market with bagels oozing cream cheese and take totally normal, completely unstaged pictures on the High Line. It's great to have a local to show you around because you get to learn interesting tidbits as you walk. It's kind of like a mix between an Architectural Digest/US Weekly audio tour. This is near where Katie Holmes bought a massive condo, but she only goes to the Whole Foods downstairs. There's a hotel that was designed to look like a ship, complete with portholes and nautical themed furniture. I'm not a fan. And neither am I.

Eventually, we meet up with the rest of my nuclear and extended family for lunch at Carnegie Deli because my Aunt Irene says it's an Authentic New York Experience. There are pictures of celebrities stacked together on the walls, I'm assuming because they've dined there. We order sandwiches that are really just large piles of meat with a bread garnish. One of our fellow diners orders a sandwiches which features at least four different animals and is roughly the size of a cat. He finishes it and his stomach looks like he just ate a cat. My beef tongue is excellent, but the roast beef gives many of my aunts indigestion. Oddly enough, the waiters are all Asian, although perhaps they are practicing Jews as well. I'm not judging.

After lunch I entice my Mom to sight see with promises of kayaking, which is pretty challenging considering we are in downtown Manhattan. Kayaking to my Mom has the same effect as offering chocolate to most other women, it is an irresistible force. We head over to Hudson River Park and learn that kayaking only happens weeknights from 5 pm to 7 pm, so we walk a bit, see some warships, get some awesome waterfront views and learn that Hudson River Park is really long and not that interesting.

You know what always makes things interesting? TANDEM BICYCLES. On a tandem bicycle, life shifts to a skewed, fun perspective because now there's this disembodied voice commenting on things from somewhere over your left shoulder, and there's a subtle resistance to every action you try. I imagine it's the closest I'll ever come to feeling like a two-headed dragon.

Later that night the entire Tan + Schlegel sides of the family decide to have dinner together at an Italian restaurant somewhere near White Plains. The restaurant itself is homey and the service is impeccable, which is good, considering we are 90% of the patrons this evening. One thing that stands out is the setup of our table. For some reason, instead of a traditional long rectangle or even a circle, we are arranged in a U-shape such that I am forced volunteered to sit in the middle. By myself. I guess this is what happens when you are neither Tan nor Schlegel. Thanks guys.

Note: I am an awesome photographer. Em's hands (and Auntie Irene's face) have always looked like that

Also, the portions of this particular restaurant are huge. I order some sort of seafood medley with linguine and it looks like an ocean graveyard on my plate. I am proud to say that I am personally responsible for the deaths of at least six different species of aquatic life this evening. Cousin Abiel chickens out and only gets the two lobster special (actually I don't think there was even an option for one lobster), we're all a little embarrassed. Even uncle Henry is surprised.

What's also surprising is the inability of our collective group to figure out how much calamari we've ordered because suddenly a whole plate of it is on my table. You know, after I finished an entire plate of calamari. What's not surprising is the lengths to which we will go to entertain ourselves. Uncle Henry gives a heartwarming speech thanking everyone for coming. Aunt Hedi impresses everyone by dusting off her Italian and complementing the wait staff. I think Auntie Irene is just inherently entertaining and so we decide to discuss how she makes fun of kids on the Autism spectrum. For some reason she also decides to demonstrate that she has a Justin Bieber haircut. Eventually, I am hired as her therapist. It seems like a big job. Also, we realize that we are celebrating lots of birthdays tonight, so eventually all the people who have birthdays within the month are told to lineup from earliest to latest. And then shortest to tallest. Coincidentally, they are the same and everyone laughs. Then Arnie makes gang signs.

Day 2: Steak with Uncle Christie

The next day I'll go over a little more quickly, mostly because I've been writing this blog post for over a month now and also because I don't have many pictures to prove that this day actually occurred. You'll just have to trust me. Steph and I meet some of the cousins for lunch. Abiel does a good job of refusing cupcakes. We go to Uniqlo and try on polos that all look exactly the same. I buy a t-shirt that is extremely "slim fit" and also has odor reducing technology. Steph and I walk around high park and then the High Line. I realize that High Park is massive and a lot more undulating than I previously assumed. I creep on old chess players.

Dinner is one highlight from Day 2 that cannot be forgotten. After much discussion about the relative merits of using $10 coupons on $150 meals, as well as the simultaneous use of two different GPS systems, we decide to eat at Morton's The Steakhouse. For those of you who are unfamiliar, Morton's is a relatively upscale establishment that strives to maintain its opulent Chicago-based chutzpah. The decor harkens back to an era where dark wood panelling, crisp white linens and heavily shaded lamps were the norm. Now the elderly Asian segment, of which our group was primarily composed, is not generally known for its fashion consciousness. In fact, I think one of the main benefits of growing old as an Asian is to get to that sweet spot where you say to the world I'm wearing my floral coloured blouse with my purple track pants, and then I'm rocking my welding mask visor and my bright white New Balance shoes. Maybe I'll even open my oversized umbrella when it's not even raining! You got a problem with that? Apparently, the waiters in this establishment did have a problem with this eccentric fashion approach, because I am approached by an elderly gentleman with a white dress shirt in hand. He tells me to covertly pass this garment to my Uncle Christie, who happens to be resplendent in a sleeveless, form fitting, dry-fit number.

He is I think, too sexy for this restaurant.

After Uncle Christie demurs, and complies with the decidedly old fashioned dress code, the rest of the dinner goes smoothly. I eat a steak that's roughly the size of a welding mask visor, and we share an abundance of sides, like sauteed mushrooms and brussel sprouts. The latter contains bacon so I am satisfied. We decide afterwards that eating a cow is not enough, so we complete our bovine experience by dining on its sweetened by-products. Cheescake Factory! I learn that there is only one actual factory that produces cheesecake and it ships its precious frozen confections nationwide. Yet one more reason to visit California.

To Be Continued...

(Ed note: this is a new level of ridiculousness. An entire blog post purportedly about a wedding and no actual direct mention of the wedding yet.)

(I don't like editors)

Psam Dates Quickly

Modern dating as a young, urban professional is like one of those compound Olympic sports, the ones where athletes are really good at lots of things, but not really spectacular at any one thing. You know, like the biathlon, where in all likelihood some Scandinavian fellow became intoxicated one evening and decided that not only would he repeatedly cross-country ski in a giant circle but he would shoot stuff with a rifle too. I assume to make the spandex unitard seem a little more manly. In terms of dating, there are just so many options out there within the Date-thlon, that it takes a special social athlete to master the intricacies. I am training to become that athlete. Within the last few months, I have literally tried 9 different ways to date, with varying degrees of success. There's the Standard Friend Set-up, the Parent-Based Set-up, the Co-worker Set-up, the Daytime Pick-Up,  the One Night Stand, the Blind Date, the Internet Dating Site, the Date Auction, and now, the focus of this blog post: The Speed Date(s). Before we go any further, let's look at some of the skills underlying these efforts and the degree of difficulty it takes to master them all. The first 3 categories require you to have enough social skill to maintain positive relationships amongst very disparate social groups. The next 2 require enough panache (i.e., "game") to meet a complete stranger, build enough rapport for them to trust you with personally identifying information and/or their bodies, and at the same time not come off as a giant creeper. The Internet Dating Site involves one being able to take photos of oneself that A) appear totally natural and not the result of fiddling with a self-timer for half an hour B) do not include a friend that is more attractive than you C) includes just the right amount of cleavage/bicep to be suggestive, yet not slutty.  The Date Auction necessitates that you have enough cash to pay a woman for her time and company, and enough scruples to not use the same funds on other methods of obtaining the same services. etc. To summarize, dating well is hard.

The Speed Date(s) is no exception to the dating world. It also requires a unique set of skills and abilities for success. Here's my breakdown of this event:

The Preamble

This particular event was put on by speedtorontodating.com, which is affiliated with speedladating.com and various other metropolis-based speed dating websites. It was held at the Stirling Room, which is a chic lounge located in the distillery district. The lounge is an interesting mix of exposed brick and modern furniture, with unisex bathrooms (Ed note: somehow communal bathrooms have become a symbol of modern trendiness: peeing with your own gender is so 2000s) and upscale bartenders. When you enter, you are assigned a number (7 for me) and are told to "mingle" before the event actually begins. The organizers also give you a scorecard, where you rank your top five ladies and rate each lady on a 5-point scale (1= definitely, 2 = could have a cup of coffee with, 3 = not really my type, don't really remember 4, 5 = Not in a million years (which is really mean)). If you rank a lady highly and they rank you highly in return then boom, you're in business, the organizers will give you mutual contact information. There's a table with somewhat low-end snacks (e.g., sausage rolls), a bar, and a few booths to either side of the main entrance, dimly lit with lamps.

I am incredibly nervous. It seems that I am not the only one feeling this way because there are several young men sitting together in a group, trying their best to look confident and busy, but really just kind of looking anxious and miserable. It's like that first elementary school dance where the girls and the guys sit on opposite ends of the gym and stare longingly at each other. I try and lighten the mood by starting a conversation. It dies quickly. I wander a bit, eat some unappetizing appetizers and strike up a conversation with male number 6. Turns out he's originally from somewhere in South-East Asia, does IT consultation and support, seems like a really nice guy, and is quite short. We decide to head over the female side of the room and approach two ladies chatting comfortably on a bench. This it seems, is a vital strategy, considering you only have a limited time with each lady during the event, it makes sense to build as much of a connection as you can before and after the main portion. I meet Lady 12, and she is easy to talk to and easier to look at. The night seems very promising. We are waist-deep in a comparative analysis of The Hunger Games movie vs. book (book always wins) when a Petite Woman in a black cocktail dress informs us that we need to take our stations for the main event.

The Speed Date(s)

I approach table number 7 and find that it is already occupied by guy Number 13. Apparently, the Speed-Date concept is a little too challenging for some. The Petite Woman intervenes on my behalf.

Lady Number 7: The Asian Teleporter

Seeing as how I am a speed-date virgin, I am a little nervous about my first time. Luckily, Number 7 is really gentle with me, as she is easy to talk to and average in appearance. After a few basic pleasantries I decide to turn on the playfulness and ask about her favourite superpower. She wishes she could teleport, as a means to travel on the cheap and thus explore the world. I point out that in some iterations, teleportation does not include one's clothes. We discuss ways of getting around this potential obstacle (e.g., teleporting into exotic Salvation Armys as a waypoint). She points out that my choice of time control may result in accelerated aging if used too frequently. Naturally, the conversation turns to Star Trek: TNG. I am in shock at how easily I can converse about extremely nerdy things. If only she were more attractive...

Lady Number 8: Nutritionist Social Worker

The second woman I am physically attracted to that night. She's a brunette and really relaxed and friendly. We talk about her dream to work as a social worker, which is a little different from her current job of being a nutritionist. For the first of many times, I try to explain what a psychometrist is (i.e., basically a psychologist in training). The Petite Woman cuts us off a little too quickly. Lady Number 8 gets a 1.

Ladies Number 9-11: The Beauty School Professionals

An interesting side note about Speed-Dating is how either gender approaches the concept in general. For men, myself included, the focus is solely on meeting attractive ladies and procuring second dates. The more dates, the more successful the endeavour. Women, on the other hand, use these events as much more of a social occasion, a fun way to spend an evening with a few girlfriends. Goals for women seem a little less defined, more an opportunity to "meet people," including other fun women. So, while the men tend to take a lone wolf approach, the women are more likely to Speed-Date in packs. This was the largest pack.

Ladies Number 9, 10, 11 are a bit of a blur, in fact I don't really even remember Number 9. What I do recall is that they were all friends, and therefore referenced each other liberally, again confusing them in my mind. Pro Tip: if group Speed-Dating, don't let others confuse yourself with your friends. Also, they were all somehow connected to a beauty school, one was a cosmetologist, one a professor, and this was ironic considering that they were not really that beautiful. Actually, they became progressively less beautiful (and more made-up).

Lady Number 12: The Tall One

Here's the advantage of putting in some effort pre-speed date, when you actually get to that lady again, things go smoother. Lady 12 and I continue where we left off, chatting amiably about her brother's Olympic aspirations, being a physiotherapy student and the discomfort of wearing heels. This last point is key because she reveals that she is 6' tall without heels. I am 6' tall and a non-believer. We get up to compare our heights and she is a full 4" taller than me, which non-coincidentally are the exact height of her heels. I secretly wonder if she could block my jump shot, which gets me inexplicably excited. She's also very attractive in those heels, because the distance from ankle to (high cut) dress hem is wonderfully long. Needless to say, Lady 12 is a solid 1, and very high on my list.

Lady Number 13: Low-cut Dress

That really says it all. There are other details that could be discussed (e.g., she is friends with Number 12, she enjoys sports, she is very beautiful) but the only thing I could focus on during our time together was that I needed to maintain eye contact at all times. A gentleman always does. I think that the dress itself garnered a 2.

Lady Number 14: The Croatian

Lady 14 had a unique name, which after some querying was revealed to be of Croatian heritage. Turns out that she doesn't really know much about Croatia though. We talk a bit about Dubrovnik. This is the first time I am bored during the evening. Also, she doesn't really smile that much, which is off-putting.

Lady Number 15: The Italian

I'm lukewarm about the Italian. On the one hand our conversation is pleasant enough, we talk about Italy and Cinque Terre, and the unfortunate Euro 2012 championship match. She's somewhat attractive, if a bit over-tanned and over-highlighted. To be completely accurate, I think she should get a  2.5 rating, although I'm not sure what kind of date would be less involved than a cup of coffee. Perhaps Skype.

Lady Number 16: The Veteran

Lady 16 is Asian, slender, and guarded. It turns out that she's been to a million Speed-Dating events and has obviously been jaded by her experiences. I try to gain some wisdom from this master, hoping that she will be the Yoda of Speed-Dating. She doesn't give me any useful tips (i.e., maintain good dental hygiene, don't be over-aggressive) and comes off as a bit condescending. I begin to understand her lack of success in this arena. The question remains: why come back?

Lady Number 17: The Reporter

If there was a draft of all the women in the room, Lady Number 17 would be my number one overall pick. She'd be the Lebron James of speedtorontodating.com, a once in a generation talent. Obviously, she's attractive, dark hair, large green (?) eyes, and petite frame. She has great eye contact. Clearly, she's also intelligent, articulate, and just damn fun. We have a tete-a-tete about the relative merits of panda bears. She tells me that she is going to the Olympics as a reporter for a local paper. As a bonus, I happen to love the Olympics. I explain the intricacies of standard distributions and IQ tests, facetiously offering to give her one. She is actually excited about taking an IQ test, setting the table for what could potentially be the weirdest first date in history. She gives me a "1" right in front of me and I reciprocate. We continue to talk half way into intermission. I think Steven A. Smith just gave me an "A" on his draft report card.

Intermission:

We get a 15 minute break to rest and/or mingle. Here another tip on Speed-Dating, use your breaks to continue to build rapport. As I leave the bathroom, Lady Number 12 approaches again and we continue our banter. I feel quite confident that I have this date locked down. Also, if you're a guy, sign up behind someone who is less attractive than you. As a male you rotate one spot counter-clockwise every 7 minutes, that means that the ladies that you meet will always be comparing you to the same guy that they have just seen. It make sense then, from a psychological perspective, to follow someone who is shorter/less funny/less attractive than you, so you can take advantage of what's known as Downward Social Comparisons. It also helps if the guy right after you is also less desirable, but that's out of your control. Unless you were to bring an ugly friend.

Lady Number 18: The Pilates Instructor

This conversation probably won for most informative of the evening. I learned about the pitfalls of reality dance competitions (i.e., dancers push themselves so hard that their careers are prematurely shortened via injury) and a more holistic approach to overall physical health, which takes into account physical posture and an analysis of body movements. Lady Number 18 is eloquent, engaging, and somewhat self-deprecating, all of which intrigues me. I'm willing to explore this further...

Lady Number 1: The Bartender

At this point I have to cross over to the other side of the room and I come across a blonde beauty in a corset -like blouse and mini-skirt. She is super chatty, slightly inebriated and fun to hang out with. We talk about the pitfalls of trying to pick up bartenders. Apparently the most effective strategy is to be a bit of an alcoholic, so you can build up a relationship over time. One-liners and drunken stupor do not work so well. It's a pleasant conversation but I don't sense it progressing much further. This is a prototypical "2," interested, but not excessively so.

Lady Number 2: The Hot Nurse

So, take Lady Number 1, make her brunette, tan her, give her one more glass of wine, turn her personality up a few notches, and you have Lady Number 2. Hot Nurse has a dazzling smile, which she uses liberally. She is also touchy and spunky. I decide to push our conversation in random directions and we somehow end up discussing adult diapers and whether they would look good in purple. Hot Nurse has this way of making everything seem hilarious and I'm a little disoriented by her. I am crossing every digit, and knocking on every wooden object within reach that we match.

Lady Number 3: Streetfighter

So, at this point, I had been talking and listening to ladies for about an hour and a half straight. I was exhausted. Pro tip: when Speed-Dating pace yourself, you don't have to be super energetic the whole night. Under this mental haze and just as a coincidence, things started to get really weird. Lady Number 3 was a small Asian with a loud personality. She gave especially firm handshakes and was exceedingly skilled at projecting her voice. We talked quite amicably about board games and other nerdy pursuits. It was enjoyable but she wasn't really my type. Fast-forward to the end of the night and as I'm filling out the rest of the scorecard I hear Number 3's voice call my name from across the room. I look up and as she pushes both palms towards me, she exclaims "Hadukan!" I just got fireballed. My mind momentarily goes blank as it struggles to comprehend what just happened. What the hell just happened? How do I respond? I panic and institute an E. Honda Thousand Hand Slap. On the one hand I know this will be ineffective in game, but on the other hand I am having an out-of-body experience. Did I just pantomime thousand hand slap a lady at a lounge? She attempts a fiery uppercut but I transform it into a fist bump. The weirdness has to stop.

Lady Number 4: The Platypus

It doesn't stop, it just changes directions. To be fair, I am just as much to blame by asking a silly question like, if you were an animal, what animal would you be? So perhaps I should not have been surprised by the response: a platypus. Why a platypus? Because it's blind, an egg laying mammal, and poisons other beings with its hind legs. Wait, what? Yeah, that makes them really cool. Awkward pause. We recover a bit by talking about our grandparents and she tells a rather endearing story about her grandma keying some jerk's car. I still can't get over the platypus thing.

Lady Number 5: The Circus Student

Number 5 is Caucasian, and a bit on the heavy side. She's not really my type so I decide to have some fun with it. I challenge her to differentiate herself from the other 16 girls I've talked to so far. She says that she went to a small circus school and that she was an acrobat. I am struggling to imagine this particular lady in tight spandex doing acrobat-like things. All I want to do now is not talk for the next 5 minutes but I tell myself to Man Up! and gamely soldier through. I tell her that I was a movie star in high school. Technically true, if you have very liberal interpretations of the words "movie" and "star."

Lady Number 6: The Debater

I've reached the end! Not a moment too soon because I'm about to collapse. Turns out that the finale is a feisty, intelligent Asian woman, probably in her late 20s to early 30s. When I say my name, she says that she's been waiting for me. Huh? Apparently she has talked to some of the other ladies and I have received positive reviews. A solid ego boost. She decides to have an in-depth discussion about the field of psychology and it's application in the world of human resources. In other circumstances this would be fascinating to discuss, but I'm drained and work stuff is the last thing on my mind. We do end up having a pretty great conversation though that lasts well beyond the 7 minute mark.

Two hours later I leave the Stirling Room, exhausted and smiling, beginning the long trek back to Union Station. I've just had 15 dates! Such value! My expectations are really not that high. If I get one follow-up date with one of my top 3 then I would consider it a successful evening. After all, I only ranked 6. Thanks Speed-Dating for one crazy, weird and fun night.

(2 days later, I find out I have 3 dates, 2 of which were in the top 3. There's only one appropriate response to that: Hadukan!)

How to tell if someone's your friend.

I've gone through a bit of a rough patch this last week or so. Nothing life shattering, but still pretty uncomfortable emotionally. As someone who has some experience with helping people through rough patches, there seem to be certain methods which are common in alleviating distress. Some people choose to escape, through drinking, partying, playing video games etc. Some people become overwhelmed and become incapacitated. I choose to overdose on friendship. Luckily for me, I seem to have an abundance of caring, thoughtful, silly, awesome people in my life, who are willing to provide me with my drug of choice. So, as a small token of my appreciation to them--because there's no way any blog post could ever convey the depth of my gratitude--here are some ways that I can identify my true friends...

True Friends...

...will offer a hug before you even know you need one.

...have heard you say, and have said to you, "I cried it out"

...have seen you cry

...will make you laugh, despite your best efforts to be miserable

...will "plank" on command

...have sung/danced to at least one boyband song with you

...have listened to 5 consecutive hours of Backstreet Boys with you to determine the best and worst songs of all time

...are not ashamed to admit this

...will meet you for a coffee and a video game session from 11 pm to 2 am on a weeknight, just because you need it.

...will be angrier about you being wronged than you are

...will offer to taze or punch someone in the face on reputation alone

...will make you uncomfortable that this might actually happen

...will tell you, gently, that you're being an asshole

...will tell you, as often as is necessary, that you're worthy of the best...especially when you feel the worst

...can cross reference events that occurred in the past decade that relate directly to your current predicament

...will spontaneously develop a "how to know if you're a douchebag list" with you

...will encourage you to blog about this list (upcoming)

...can make insights about you that seem clairvoyant

...will let you be in relationships, even if they don't agree

...refuse to say "I told you so"

...have an extremely high tolerance for your ridiculousness

...are equally ridiculous

...somehow find the same joke hilarious on the 72nd retelling

...have an infinite variety of ways of hilariously finishing the sentence stem "remember that time when..."

...insult you regularly without ever offending

...if prompted, will rate the relative hotness of deceased celebrities

...have had at least one bro-date where the two of you have done activities that what would otherwise be characterized as a romantic if done with a potential dating partner (e.g., watching a movie together on Valentine's day)

...were completely comfortable during said activity. Well, pretty comfortable anyways

...have had others' accurately describe your relationship as an ongoing bromance

...have weekly Skype chats

...have other friends/significant others that know not to schedule activities on Wednesday evenings so they won't interfere with your weekly Skype chats

...know you better than anyone else. period.

...enter through the side door in your house

...have parents that give you dating advice

...have parents who use you as a role model for their own child (Stephen! Why you don't study hard like Sam?!)


...inspire you to write blog posts about them

...have seen sides of you that you have not shown anyone else

...feel more like family than much of your family

Seriously guys. Gratitude is too small of a word for the feelings I have to all of you who I consider to be my friends. Know that the best parts of me are the parts that you have developed, and the worst parts of me are the ones you have accepted. I am me, because of you.

(Ed note: So much sappiness! Why are your blog posts so sappy!!)

Joy in 3 Parts: Reflected Joy

I promised myself that I would use this space for honesty and bravery, a venue for sharing and releasing my experiences into the greater consciousness, especially if those experiences grew beyond my emotional capacity for containment. For the most part I've done that, although the most truthful of my articles have come from the darker places (see here and here). It was partly the feelings of the moment, and partly a proving to myself that the other side of life, the one that isn't fluffy and entertaining, can be delved into without a loss of self.

But now, I am in a different place, and it is time to be honest with other, lighter, but equally powerful feelings. This is a little easier.

Joy. Happiness. Elation. Thesaurus it to death and I'm not sure you'd ever get to this emotion's essence. On some level it is to be felt, lived and breathed, run through and dived into, an immersive experience. Putting into words, this feeling, is doing a great injustice to its spontaneity and its great energy, but, that's all I have. So I'm going to use some examples from my life to portray Joy as I've known it, and hopefully you can recognize a little of it in you, through me.

Reflected Joy: Ed and Jen in Brief

There are certain people that are open and honest with their feelings, that share their experiences freely with others and bask in others' feelings in return. My friend Ed is not really one of those guys. I've known Ed now for about 15 years so that, over the course of my life, I've known him longer than I haven't known him. And it's familiar and good. He's the guy who's great to have on road trips, who calmly accepts life circumstances, who never gets mad, who is the calm base upon which I loft my creative flags. Ed is pretty much imperturbable. The keel of equanimity that is always present, which I rely on for steadying through his presence more than his words. Now take all that I have just said, and imagine this man leading up to, and on one of the happiest days of his life. The day he proposed to his girlfriend.

Now, consider Jen and the effect that she has had on Ed, a transformation that will henceforth be known as JEd. Jen is the kind of lady who makes nice people feel like they could be a little nicer. On a scale of nicety, she'd be right up there with Mary Poppins or Captain Planet. I have never been to her apartment without being offered a least two types of fruit/baked goods/candy. She's sneaky nice, in that you'll politely refuse and then suddenly there is freshly washed produce in front of you, glistening so enticingly that you subconsciously accept her hospitality. Resisting her niceness is ultimately futile. Jen is also sunny, and kind of fills the space around her with constant rays of warmth and smiles. Ed is frequently in that space and the object of her glad-beams. Watching Ed and Jen is like watching two mirrors, reflecting each other's affection back and forth, until you can't help but smile in their loving presence. JEd is different from regular Ed because JEd is much more animated. He laughs more, goofs off more, melts a little more, encircles Jen more. Ed the rock becomes JEd the plexiglass, pliable to her presence, yet still retaining its sturdiness. It is no exaggeration to say that I have never seen Ed more happy than when he is JEd. There is a smile he has that is for her alone. It is adorable.

I was recently given the honor of helping Ed and Jen out with their proposal. It was a very detailed process involving 5 boxes of christmas lights, a portable battery, 5 tropicana cardboard boxes, two types of tape, fireworks, mathematical calculations, an 11 story apartment balcony, multiple angry dog owners, two types of cameras and me. Without meaning to sound egotistical (and surely failing), the whole proposal hinged on my ability to ensure there were no technical glitches with the electronics and the pyrotechnics, and that the moment was captured with enough grace to avoid a lifetime of embarrassing memories. But, in exchange, I got to be the first one to see them in one of the happiest moments of their lives. Ground zero for the blast radius of their joy. The moments after the proposal (which was flawless by the way) will be forever engrained in my consciousness. Receiving a call from Ed and hearing a voice that was almost unrecognizable in its excitement, "SHE SAID YES!" and I felt like the night suddenly grew 10 degrees warmer and my body 10% lighter. Then the two of them bursting out their apartment complex, grinning without any sort of self-consciousness, just kind of gliding across the street and into my congratulatory embraces. Jen admiring our sign work, Ed laughing at the recounting of my firework escapades, taking pictures of the newly fianceed, in their serendipitously matching outfits. And the feeling, the feeling was like lying in the sand, on a warm afternoon, every molecule of your body relaxed and tingling, suffused with the rightness of everything. I didn't know I could feel this happy for other people until that very moment. There was Ed though, one of my truest and deepest friends, and there was Jen, his perfect foil. And there was this moment. Their joy and my happiness met somewhere inside me, made friends, had a party, and became so rowdy that I had no idea who started it, nor did I care. This was joy unfiltered from another source and I was just a receptacle, happily floating in the moment.

So, to the happy couple. Congratulations again. And thank you for sharing your joy with me.

Psam's Guide to Writing a Dissertation

Let's say you're bored on a Friday night, and you feel like writing a 132 page, 1,227 paragraph, 3,386 line, 30,415 word (still incomplete) document. Let's say you want to call this document a "dissertation" and devote large chunks of the next 5 years to this project, until you can no longer reference it without a healthy cortisol high, or a little bit of vomiting. For kicks, let's say that, without any exaggeration, your entire academic and professional future is contingent upon you researching, proposing, running, statistically analyzing, writing, and defending this document in front of a panel of your closest advisors. Let's say you want my help to accomplish this task. Why I'd love to aid you in this purely hypothetical endeavour, that is not based in any way on my personal failings...

1) Don't be ambitious. Stupid.

When considering a topic for their dissertation, some people think to themselves, I would really like my project to be meaningful, significant, and imminently publishable. Some people are stupid. A dissertation should be like a colonoscopy; while it's inevitably uncomfortable, invasive, and slightly embarrassing, it should be completed as quickly and painlessly as possible. Also, if you don't get one done, you may end up with severe constipation, gastrointestinal hemmorhage, and various symptoms of inflammatory bowel disease (e.g., vomiting, diarrhea, weight loss, internal muscle spasms), which, coincidentally, also occur during every future dissertation meeting. The message: get it done before the anal bleeding (A.K.A. sixth year).

There is one more parallel to be drawn here. Have you ever met someone who had a meaningful colonoscopy? Does a discussion of this procedure, as frequently as this occurs, include the phrase man, I contributed so much to society by mapping the inside of my colon? No sir, that does not happen. At best there are vague references to the necessity and the awkwardness of the ordeal, as well as a pleading look that says, let's just never talk about this again. It's the same with your dissertation. Trust me, no one I know is proud of what they've done, apart from the fact that they've done it. Every conversation about the big D is always slightly embarrassing, full of qualifiers (I mean, if only my sample wasn't drunk) and disparaging remarks (about half way through I realized my life has no purpose). Therefore, seeing as how you will inevitably regret it all later, pick something easy and banal, that has little to no practical use to anyone. Develop a questionnaire about taking questionnaires. Study the emotional fallout of times new roman versus arial fonts. The simplistic beauty of this approach is that the less societal impact a study has, the less effects there will actually be, and the easier the write up! Remember, h.u.b.r.i.s stands for Honestly, Undertaking Brilliant Research Is Stupid.   

2) Be like Frodo: choose your Fellowship wisely.

Writing a dissertation is like a mystical quest to rid the world of an all powerful ring that threatens to enslave all living beings under its baleful countenance. With the usual caveats that the only way to destroy it is via a long and torturous route through enemy territory, encountering vast hordes of misshapen minions, braving the volcanic hellfires of the ring's origin, blah, blah, blah, watch the movies. The point here is that in order to have any hope of accomplishing this foolhardy mission, you will need good and dependable friends. Think of your committee as if your life depends on them. They need to be able to work together and complement one another, whether that involves dwarves for melee and elves for long range support, or a statistician for data analysis and a content specialist for a detailed literature review. For you chair, you need someone wise and thoughtful, as generous with their time as they are prompt with their suggestions. In other words, they need to be Gandalf the Grey. A person whose experience allows them to foresee obstacles, chart a path through difficult times, and provide reassurance, as well as a firm but gentle, corrective hand. Someone who has a vested interest in your personal growth as a hobbit, not just as a means to world salvation.

A word of caution here, you will have no use for Gandalf the White. First of all, he's too old. True fact, dissertations take time. You need your chair to survive at least four years without succumbing to various ailments and maladies. He needs to be strong enough to withstand goblins, Uruk-Hai, and academic reviews. The same goes for your committee members, I mean you wouldn't choose an elf (no matter how good looking) if he was too old to string a bow? (So technically elves are immortal which makes for a bad example, but you get my point). Also, Gandalf the White was never actually around. He had a habit of abandoning his companions to pursue selfish interests (e.g., engaging in mortal combat with a fire-spitting demon) during their time of greatest need, only to show up at the last possible moment with massive cavalry reinforcements. For dissertations, this "white wizard" strategy sucks. It means that your chair will be unreliable and unavailable, and will eventually avoid all of your emails and carrier pigeons. Remember, when choosing a chair:

Gandalf the Grey lights the way,
Gandalf the White will take flight
(and deepen your plight)  

3) Try to live in the same state as your project. Or at least the same country.

This helps encourage your research to actually get accomplished. Otherwise you might end up with half of your originally intended sample size. Hypothetically.

4) Avoid avoiding your dissertation for long amounts of time. Think weeks, not months.

There will come a time when you will be absolutely unable to look at your dissertation. No amount of sticker charts, junk food or personalized threats will motivate you. Even contemplating the big D will send tentacles of fear coiling around your heart and mind. You will seek to escape, negatively reinforcing your denial of the substance of your terror. But the beast will remain, patient, growing in strength and stature as it feasts on your fear. Your one true defence is to face the D. Take heart, you don't need to subdue it all at once, in fact it must meet a slow, agonizing end, death by a thousand cuts. Even if all you are doing is adding a reference, that still counts, you are still standing firm, still hacking away! At its heart, the beast is a coward, relying on distorted cognitions, pessimism, and misery to enslave its victims. It cannot bear to repeatedly face the intrepid warrior, and will shrink in your presence until it reveals its true self: tiny, powerless, and waiting to be defeated.

When this dark time comes, it is imperative that you...

5) Do not consistently read books or watch TV.


Anything and everything will seem more interesting than the D. Somehow, you will feel the urge to check your tire pressure, take up knitting, watch Jersey Shore marathons, and blog about dissertations. YOU MUST RESIST. This is only a defence mechanism, as your mind struggles to contemplate the vastness of the task at hand. Trust me, hours and days can pass you by if you succumb to the temptations of reality television and George R.R. Martin. And you will feel dead inside.

Instead it is far healthier to...


6) Scream. Cry. Curse. A lot.


This is common, you are not developing Bipolar Disorder if you seem to have the emotional regulation of a five-year-old. Curse the world. Scream at inanimate objects. Inundate your significant other with the torrent of your grief. Punch kittens. Whatever helps externalize your frustration, thereby releasing some of the pressure on yourself. Think of it as grad school PMS. When tantruming, it's great to have friends who understand and friends who do not. The ones who are going through it with you can commiserate with the details of your plight, but the ones who are not are equally important. They will help balance your life and help you avoid the quicksand of mutual despair. Speaking of friends, you should...

7) Have a friend who is an overachiever relative to you.

Preferably, a friend who is slightly more organized and hard-working. This friend will prove invaluable when reminding you of deadlines, administrative details, and formatting issues. Like a good jogging partner, she will set a pace that is slightly faster than you are currently running, and you will be motivated to keep up. Heed my advice here, do not pick a friend who is as lazy as you, because they are likely to normalize your sloth, which in the end, benefits no one. Also, do not choose a friend who over-achieves to the extreme. You will quickly dismiss her as an unattainable standard and feel even worse about yourself. Not what friends are for.

8) Choose coffee shops wisely. With lots of plugs.

You will get to know barristas around town intimately. They will be a welcome source of conversation and distraction. Try not to come on to them too much, things could get awkward.

9) Save compulsively. Like every 5 minutes. In different formats.

Let me tell you my nightmare. It starts off wonderfully. I have just completed the final draft of my document. There it is on my computer screen, glowing softly in the warm haze of triumph as my smile threatens to break my face. And then it happens. What exactly, I'm not sure. There is a blinding flash of light and whirring noises and suddenly everything fades to black. All the lights go out and my computer sits there, crippled, mocking me. After the disorientation, I try to turn my computer back on. Nothing happens. I try pressing the power button a few more times, with varying degrees of pressure and frequency. Still nothing. Then the true horror dawns, like an eclipse slowly blotting out the sun. I didn't save it. 4 years and now nothing. My mind shatters instantly, as a blood chilling screams signifies my descent into insanity.

(Now that I think about it, it was definitely a massive alien EMP shockwave. Duh.)

10) Try not think existentially. It will drive you crazy.

When writing a dissertation it is best not to ask open-ended questions of yourself. Avoid the Whs and the Hows, because they lead nowhere (ex: why am I doing this? What is the meaning of this project? Where is my life going? How can I ever get it done?). Instead, close ended, forced choice questions (ex: do I want to graduate? Can I read one more abstract? Does my chair hate me?) lead to better results. You need to focus on what you can achieve, not what you believe. Inspirational, I know.

To conclude, a dissertation is like a colonoscopy, a descent into the fires of Mordor, a fear consuming mental beast, Bipolar Disorder, PMS, and an electronic armaggedon. Whew. No wonder it's so hard. Gotta get back to work.

New Years in NY Part 2: The Days That Did Not End

Try here for Part 1.

December 30th 2011: New Year's Eve Eve

I wake up disoriented. My senses are under attack. Its incredibly bright in my Aunt and Uncle's house and there is an incessant knocking on my door, followed by a gentle reminder that it is time to rise and meet the day. Although I know better, this form of reminder is as gentle as Chinese water torture, which, when left unanswered will softly coax you into insanity. I get up, try and put in my contact lenses, and am reminded of the inherent ickiness of touching my eyeball. I drop a contact lens and spend the next 30 minutes looking for it. I tell my Mom and she immediately launches into an organized and efficient search. Eventually my Aunt Irene comes in the bathroom and we enlist her help. Somehow a high powered flashlight appears, even though its broad daylight. I pretend that I'm flying a helicopter, and using a spotlight to ferret out an escapee. I almost start to make helicopter noises. Instead, I decide to not flush the toilet for the rest of the day.

It's hike time! Me, my mom and my aunt head out to Rockefeller State Park to enjoy the unseasonably warm afternoon, and to walk for 12 km. My mom is wearing three layers of clothing, is carrying hiking/snow shoeing poles, and is even equipped with toilet paper, for unscheduled "bio breaks." That's right, only hardcore hikers have alliterated bowel movements. I, on the other hand, am equipped with a book, a camera, and a sense of adventure. And if necessary, leaves. Like regular people. We take the scenic route to the park and mentally review our trail route. Apparently, my mom has spent considerable energy planning a epic tour of this state reserve, cutting across vast swaths of greenery, traversing rolling hills, ascending noble peaks, and spanning breathtaking valleys. If only she remembered to bring her map. No matter! Like true pioneers our resourcefulness knows no bounds, and I trailblaze a path to the nearest gift shop. Soon maps are procured and we set off on the first leg of our adventure, a jaunty trek around Swan Lake. Note the rare Asian swan, known for its stunning grey plumage and odd mating stances.

Look a fallen log. I must traverse it to prove my manhood. Man 1, Nature 0.

We're doing tree pose amongst the trees. LOL. Watch out hipsters, you're not the only ones who have mastered irony!

We climb the eagle's peak trail and are rewarded with breathtaking views of wooded vales, awash in the golden hues of the afternoon sun. I am transformed into Warrior (as well as Warrior 2), inspired by the gentle beauty of nature in all its forms. Mom is inspired to take a bio break.

It's a graffiti tree, where countless young lovers decide to commemorate their mutual affection by painfully torturing and scarring another living entity. Ooh birds. Pretty!

The last trail is entitled 13 bridges. There are actually 13 bridges that span a small stream as it winds itself under the forest canopy. Seems pretty impractical to me, why wouldn't you just build one bridge and stay on one side of the stream? Mom and I also generate synonyms of streams to maintain morale. I'm pretty impressed with creeks, brooks, rivers, and tributaries. This helps to distract me from impending starvation and exhaustion.

On our way back we decide to stop for lunch near Tarrytown/Sleepy Hollow. There are headless horsemen icons on every street sign. There is a bar called the Horseman. It's fairly depressing that in the 400 odd years of this town's existence, its crowning achievement is a decapitated ghost. Lunch is really delicious, full of beefy goodness. As a bonus, we get to be the only Asians in Sleepy Hollow.

Onto Manhattan, where my cousin Arn has promised an evening of frivolity and merrymaking. First we meet two of his friends at a bar that is, according to Arn, "frequented by dock workers." His friends sadly, are not dockworkers, but are pretty fun nonetheless. I find out that there is a fine line between flirtatious and friendly, and that no matter where you go there will always be someone who likes nerdy fantasy books (Yeah, Katniss!). I make a new Facebook friend, Jessica, who repeatedly invites me out dancing. Too bad I have a hot date with Arn. The bar is incredibly loud and very Irish. Well, except for the black couple at the bar who are grinding to Bon Jovi, and my Uncle Henry, who shows up a little later. Uncle Henry whips out his i-phone and shows us all pictures of his pet hedgehog, aptly named Henry, and a picture of the derriere of a very large Marilyn Monroe statue. Arn shows us pictures of his friend naked, sitting on a windowsill. Like father, like son.

Uncle Henry, cousin Arn, and tourist Sam decide to be pretentious and eat at Anthony Bourdain's restaurant, Les Halles. The menu features several varieties of meat prepared in French, and everything comes with frites. I get the pepper steak. Amazing. Although we have to wait 45 minutes for a table, turns out that the table that we are seated beside features four Swiss tourists, one of whom actually designed the shirt that Arn was wearing. No joke. After this revelation, we talk a bit about how everything the Swiss make is somehow better than if anyone else makes it. Chocolate, watches, fondue, banking etc. I realize that we are three dudes having a romantic candle-lit dinner, in a corner booth of a French bistro, on a Friday night. Not the least bit perturbed.

We say goodbye to my good uncle, and watch admiringly as he stumbles towards Grand Central, feeling the effects of multiple adult beverages. Arn and I take a cab ride to a club somewhere in Soho, I think. On the way he tells me that Manhattan is 55% female, which I totally believe, given that the restaurant in which we dined featured at least 3 tables of 6 women. We arrive at a wine bar and I meet several more of Arn's friends. One of them, Radu, greets Arn by casually squeezing his butt. I quickly realize that they have a special relationship. We start to head to an electronic club nearby, except that Radu really wants pizza, so we find him some. He doesn't even wait for it to be warmed, so it looks and smells like congealed butter. We wait in line at the club and miraculously a parking spot appears just outside the main entrance. Arn and Radu decide to literally sit and occupy this spot for another friend who is quickly approaching by car. Several cars pass and drivers give looks ranging from bemusement to outrage, but our intrepid squatters hold fast, and in the end the situation is too absurd for any lasting ill will. We dance a lot to music that I would never be able to identify. At one point, high pitched screaming is somehow incorporated. Arn's dancing is a cross between a shuffle and slow motion glide. I dance like I was born to.

Dec 31 2011: The Day That Had No Beginning and No End.

At some point my friend Evelyn shows up, which is pretty impressive considering she had just flown home that night, and there was a $30 cover. Actually, she didn't know about the last part, so she's pretty exasperated with me. I give her a 20 and pay for a drink (sprite and beer?!), which soothes her rage. We dance some more, I lose track of time, someone spills a beer on my arm. We decide to eat Korean wings at 5 am, because apparently Korean people don't sleep. They are so spicy that I need one cup of water per wing. Delicious.

I wake up in Ev's apartment around 10 am. It's a nice surprise, all clean and feminine, and tastefully decorated. There is just too much sun for less than four hours of sleep. I am also stiff from sleeping on a (good looking) lawn chair.

We meet up with Arn and take a train ride back to Scarsdale for an epic lunch of Korean-style grilling and Swiss fondue. One of my goals for the trip was to learn the secret ways of Swiss fondue making, to augment my culinary repertoire and my level of pretentiousness. I learn the secret. Go to Trader Joe's, buy packet, insert packet into pot, put pot onto fancy warming tray, surround with delicious condiments. Sigh. We teach Evelyn how to play Rumikub. She's pretty good. Mom still schools all of us.

Evelyn scores us cheap tickets to a New Years celebration in an Asian bar/club near her house. It's only $20 because we're not drinking! Never have I appreciated my Asianness more than at that moment. We train back down to Manhattan and take a nap. Ev complains vociferously about the unfairness of having to look as good as the other women who will be dressing up that evening. She tries at least four different permutations of outfits, her voice dripping with accusations leveled at the shallowness of my gender. I am defenceless. I decide to distract myself by observing the residents of the apartment complexes just across the street. It's like reality television, except, you know, it's reality. Two ladies decide it is an excellent idea to change in front of their windows. I do not dissuade them.

While Ev finishes her preparations, we decide that I would be most useful by picking up a pizza. As I'm walking through Manhattan on New Year's Eve I can feel my body beginning to resonate with the energy of the city, like I'm some sort of human tuning fork. Manhattan on this night is really like no other place in the world, practically crackling with anticipation. You can see it on the faces of the residents and hear it, a gradual crescendo of buzzing, a symphony of horns and shrieks and laughter. It's going to be a good night. I hurry back with the pizza, fresh from a wood burning oven, crunchy and soft, and luxurious with large strips of prosciutto and great handfuls of torn basil. We finish it between the two of us. For all her complaining Ev looks great, especially with a killer set of heels.

We arrive at the club and wait for the restaurant to clear out before the New Year's party can begin. I meet some of Ev's friends and they seem pretty interesting, if older. When we finally get in, the place is incredibly crowded. There are three floors, with a bar on the lower floor, a loft on the top floor that is reserved for a private party, and a dance floor sandwiched between. The crowd is oddly enough, a mix of largely white and brown peoples, who try their best to avoid intermingling. There are also two main age groups represented: 30-somethings and very young. You can tell who the younger ones are by their difficulty walking when inebriated and their general disorientation with life. There is a live DJ and a projection of Times Square on the back wall of the dancefloor. We all receive some crazy party favors and countdown with great enthusiasm. I get my New Year's kiss. 2012!!!! It starts much like 2011 ended, with fevered dancing and tipsy smiles. Eventually Ev's feet begin to ache from her stunning heels, and my endurance is shot after the 12 km hike/5 am clubbing the day/night before. We trudge back to Ev's place, content in the after-glow of a New Year's lived to the utmost.

January 1st 2012: The Day of 5 Naps.

7:30 am. My aunt calls to remind me to head back uptown. It is again much too sunny in Ev's apartment. I'm so tired that I inadvertently fall unconscious, miss my stop and have to get picked up at the next one. This qualifies as a minor scandal.

Me and my mom pack up and begin the long drive home. I sleep well, more than I have in the past 48 hours. Here's to 2012, may it live up to the promise of it's beginning. Happy New Years friends!

New Years in New York Part 1

2012 promises to be a special year, full of leaps, Olympics, and 10 year high school reunions. I thought I'd start it off right with a four day visit to New York city, or more accurately, Manhattan (where my cousin and friend live) and Scarsdale (where my aunt and uncle live). Here are some highlights from my trip.

December 28th 2011: The day of Megabus.com.

The plan was for me to take a comfortable and scenic bus ride from Toronto to New York, beginning promptly at 12 pm and ending around 11 pm. Turns out that accurate scheduling is not one of Megabus' strengths. We left on time, but arrived 1.5 hours late. Probably something to do with abnormally long wait times at the border, extremely blustery weather conditions, and stopping to confirm that we left someone behind at a rest stop. That's right, our bus driver forgot a passenger. Which is weird considering that he had enough cognitive capacity to perform an entire comedic routine based on the required explanation of the bus' safety features. I'll admit, it was somewhat entertaining the first time I heard it (oh Mr. Windshield, you're a tricky fellow), but was far less so by the fourth time. To be fair, I was impressed by his ability to consistently deliver his punchlines with the exact same intonation and comedic timing. I found myself wondering if his entire life was similarly automated, like a pudgy white robot (Good morning wife, have you heard about Mr. Windshield?). And if so, why would its creator spend so much effort on a robot whose sole purpose is to inform passengers of safety features in a droll and repetitive manner? What a waste of a perfectly good robot. 

What of the bus itself? The passengers? Thanks for asking. The bus is quite comfortable for anyone shorter that 5'10". Which is not me. The seats recline approximately 15 degrees, which allows me to achieve a body position similar to a crudely drawn comma. The roof however is entirely made of glass, which is pretty cool. There is supposedly wifi, but it takes me 15 minutes to access Facebook. I give up quickly. Also, there is a toilet on the lower level of the bus, near the rear. Being a man of the world, it seems like a great idea to give it a shot, especially early in the trip before it became less "fresh." Have you ever tried to water a garden in a strong wind? That's what peeing in a moving bus is like. You have to compensate for the forward inertia of the bus, but it's not consistent, the road is not smooth and there's no window, so you can't even anticipate turbulence before it occurs. The only technique is to pray and spray. In the face of such obstacles, I'm proud to admit that I'm quite the marksman. Even so, if I were a bus manufacturer I would make windows mandatory in all lavatories. 

The passengers were an interesting mix. Most of them were young, attractive, female students. Actually, to be honest, I was only focusing on those passengers. I came to realize that it is quite an awkward thing to approach a stranger on a bus when you are not sitting directly beside them. This difficulty is compounded when you have already chosen your seat and there are plenty of other seats available (Is this seat taken? I feel much more comfortable sitting beside attractive females). Rest stops seem like better opportunities to approach others. I try it a couple of times. Not so effective at border crossings, due to constant interruptions (do you really have to ask for my passport now? I'm kinda in the middle of something). Also, after several numbing hours on a moving vehicle, my IQ probably dropped at least one standard deviation, resulting in such brilliant conversation starters as "This is gonna be the best whopper ever!" Surprisingly, this did not work well. Sometimes it's easier to just read a book.

December 29th 2011: Super Tourists!

The next day dawns bright and early, well earlier than I expected given the 2 am curfew the night before. Such is life with my mom, a human cyclone of a woman, who consistently walks more in one weekend than I do in two weeks. It's time to see the city! I can almost see her impatience, shimmering in the air around her, as I stumble to gain consciousness and look presentable. We take the train from White Plains to Grand Central and the subway from there. On the way we make a plan. Today we're going to see the World Trade Central memorial, walk the High Line, visit a museum, and perhaps catch a Broadway show. A worthy challenge!

First we head to the WTC and quickly realize that our schedule cannot be maintained. We arrive at 11 am, but the line up is around the block. They tell us to come back at 3 pm. What to do? How about a brisk walk down to battery park instead of a museum?

Look there's city hall, and a fountain in front of it! And there's a park that's being Occupied. Note the authentic protesters.

This is pretty interesting, a red sculpture of the roots of a tree that was upended during the 9/11 attacks. Apparently the tree survived. Also, the globe sculpture was originally in front of the twin towers but was moved to battery park as a memorial. You can see where it has been damaged. The other two artworks are from the 9/11 memorial shop. Actually, a lot of lower Manhattan has some sort of 9/11 legacy, either through commemorative plaques or faint scars in the buildings themselves.

After obtaining our ticket (for 5 pm) we decide to check out the High Line, which is an abandoned elevated railway that's been converted to an elevated garden/art exhibit/cool place for a jog. Note how close many of the condos are to the path itself. So close in fact, that you could, without any strain, have a conversation with the tenants as they lounged on their patio. Hopefully they'll invest in appropriate curtains. And soundproofing.

We return to the WTC site as darkness falls. There is a ton of security. We pass through four separate checkpoints where we are required to show our ticket. I think to myself, not sure how one would manage getting through the first 3 checkpoints without a ticket. There are security cameras every 5 feet and an airport-style scanner to navigate. I have to remove my belt and my sense of sarcasm.

It's totally worth it. The images below are stunning but don't quite capture the gravity of the memorial itself. There's just a void. In the middle of one of the most densely crowded metropolises in the world, there are two huge and gaping squares; a sense of emptiness further compounded by the nothingness of the inner sanctum. For all of its lit elegance, and understated execution, the eye is continually drawn to the center. To the open wound that can never be filled.

Another nice touch. There are touchscreens around the memorial that allow you to find the location of any of the names of the victims of the 9/11 attacks, on the borders of the two fountains. Here is a Canadian.

Onto Times Square and Broadway shows! For those of you who have not been to Times Square during the holiday season, the first thing that hits you is the press of the crowd, like some massive beast wending itself through a forest of lights. Not only are the crowds huge, but they move incredibly slowly. Everyone needs a picture of Times Square. No one really knows where they're going. It's a madhouse, but fun in a kaleidoscope kind of way. Sounds seem to come from all directions at once. Colors blur together, and also seem more distinct, depending on the angle that you choose to look up at the billboards. Your sense of humanity is oddly heightened and diminished as you realize that only your species could conceive and build on such an epic scale, and yet for all that ingenuity, you are just one tile amongst a massive mosaic.

We choose the show Chinglish, mostly because its 50% off. We have to run to get there because we buy the tickets 10 minutes before the show begins. Its about all the ways that White and Chinese people can screw up translations. It is hilarious. I am also starving, so we are forced to buy concessions.

So ended the day of super tourism. Part two will feature the Days That Never Ended.