Of course, right in step with the laws of the universe, my ipod died yesterday, only days before I leave for vacation. It wasn't unexpected, the thing has hardly been able to hold any battery charge these past few months. I plugged it into the computer to update it and...nothing. The computer didn't recognize the device and the device didn't responding to my incessant button-pushing. I tried plugging it into the power adapter charger thing, still nothing. In forecasting this event, I planned on just sending it in to get the battery replaced, since I'd rather just spend $65 and keep this ipod instead of spending $250 to get a new ipod. But I learned yesterday that the Apple folks don't actually replace your battery, they just send you a used or refurbished ipod. But my little guy and I have been through so much together. I mean, who was it that kept me company on those long boring metro rides or quick walks to class? I can't just turn my back on it only to let someone else's rejected ipod take its place.
In all seriousness, some people are so attached to their ipods that they are literally lost without the minuscule jukeboxes. They forget that other modes of entertainment actually exist. I mean, whatever happened to reading a book, having a conversation with someone, or God forbid, actually just spending some time alone with your own thoughts. Don't get me wrong,the ipod has been a nice thing to have, you know, to keep your mind somewhat occupied at the gym and whatnot. But in general, I don't spend enough time latched onto those earbuds to warrant buying another one.
Oh well, I'll give it one last revival attempt before I bury it away with all the old cellphones and digital cameras in the gadget graveyard.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Time to rewrite the textbooks - there's a 4th branch of the government?
Looks like all that stuff we learned in elementary school about the three branches of government was incorrect, at least according to Dick Cheney. After reading Dana Milbank's column in today's Washington Post, I can scratch "government spokesman" off my list of potential careers to consider.
Happy Birthday Derek Jeter!
Every girl has her famous future husband and if you hadn't already guessed, Derek Jeter is mine. Okay, he may be turning 33 and I'm about to turn something significantly less than that, but hey, it could still happen. I haven't lost hope yet (That'll happen when he hits his 40s and then it'll just be weird.)
I like to say that Derek Jeter got me into college. The essay question was about a conversation you would have with someone and my essay detailed my interview with him after winning the 2012 World Series. Even reading it today I think it's one of the best things I've written. (Don't roll your eyes, at least I didn't write about how being biology club president changed my life.)
But I bring up Jeter for a reason (besides the fact that it's his birthday.) I've always considered myself a huge Yankees fan, but when talking to others, there was always one small fact that stood in the way of their accepting me as a true fan. I've watched countless games on television and have seen the Yanks play at a couple of different ballparks. Except the most important one. Yes, it's true, I'd never actually seen a game at Yankee Stadium. Oh stop shaking your head in disbelief, I can explain. You see, I'm not exactly a hometown fan, and it's not as though I haven't tried. But every time I've traveled to New York City, the Yanks have been in Detroit playing the Tigers. Every single time.
So finally, my fellow fan and also Yankee-Stadium-deprived friend Megan and I got to talking and decided that no longer would we allow our support of the Yankees to be tainted by our lack of attendance at the ballpark in the Bronx. We hashed out a plan to go visit our friend Aley in New Jersey and then the three of us would head on over to the Bronx to catch some bomber action before they change stadiums. So, we bought tickets for the Yankees-Pirates game and boy what a game it was.
Looking back, that day was one of the best I've ever had. That morning, we packed a big red bag full of turkey sandwiches, pita chips and cherries, met up with some of Aley's friends and had a picnic in Central Park. A picnic in Central Park! It was a hot, sunny day and we were sitting in front of a playground. Somebody, presumably park maintenance had set up a sprinkler at the edge of the playground by the path, and, surprisingly, several minutes went by before one mischievous little boy discovered it. He picked it up and began aiming it in all directions, until he finally left it positioned so that the water sprayed right onto the walkway, soaking anyone in its path. Kids of all ages were everywhere, playing on the swings, the monkey bars, running after each other in fast paced games of tag. A group of kids in matching t-shirts was walking through the park on a field trip, and moms pushing strollers periodically went by. A group of kids began playing catch and frisbee near us, and there were more than a few close calls.
Quite a few other people had the same idea to lunch in the park. Some couples were sitting together, either on vacation or off work. Many people were on their lunch breaks, sleeves rolled up and suit jackets at their sides. Just looking around made me wish desperately that I could be one of those city dwellers who had the chance to lunch in Central Park each day.
But before long, lunch was finished and the three of us were off to explore. Aley's friends left to run some other errands, so we proceeded to stroll on through the park. We saw a movie shoot and a large pond where people were boating. There was also a big fountain, and this one woman was getting her picture taken while standing inside the fountain, under the falling water, and holding an umbrella, off of which the water was bouncing away from her and leaving her perfectly dry. After sufficient meandering, we decided to head over to the Met, where neither Megan nor I had been.
Walking down the streets, the three of us garnered quite a few stares, as we were all decked out in our Jeter jerseys and Yankees caps. At least Megan and I were finally in a town where we weren't yelled at for showing our true colors.
The Met was really cool; my favorite part was definitely the roof. As we were up there, sipping lemonade and staring off at the skyline of this amazing city, I wondered what it would be like to attend a cocktail party for some exhibit opening up here. Can you just imagine putting a little black dress on, sipping a cosmo and looking out at the buildings outlined against the dusky sky? Yes, I really need to move to this city once I graduate.
But soon enough it was time for us to begin heading over to the stadium. As we walked down the streets toward the subway, I saw a sign on one of the lampposts that read "No honking, $300 fine." I really wanted to take a picture of it, since I wondered how often those instructions would be enforced, especially in this city.
Soon enough we reached the subway station and packed ourselves onto the standing-room-only train, with me awkwardly squished between the pole and three people. Of course, one or two stops later, we get stuck inside a tunnel. I'm used to trains stopping for a moment in the tunnel, the metro here does it all the time when there's another train ahead, so I didn't really worry at first. But the moments stretched into minutes, and a voice came onto the PA system and announced that we were stopped because of smoke in the station ahead. Everyone groaned, and I began to worry. Would we get there on time? It was about 4:30 or so; I had wanted to get to the stadium early to potentially try and get someone's autograph (I know I know....but I'm still a kid at heart :) Anyways, I start knocking the bill of my cap against the pole to keep myself busy, since I can't even talk to Aley or Megan because they were standing a couple people behind me and I had no room to turn around. I remember staring at one of the ads lining the car, about a brand new condo tower called something like The Oro opening up in Brooklyn and found myself wishing I could buy one.
Ten minutes went by, 15 minutes went by, and the smoke in the station up ahead turned into the fire in the station up ahead. We were told at the next station the train would go out of service and we had to empty the train. We got out and a there were people in Yanks gear everywhere. A Jamaican woman told us she knew how to get to the stadium and walked us to the nearest train station. But when she explained us how to get there, we didn't quite understand the route, so we asked a cop. He didn't know either, and recommended we wait out the train problems, which would probably clear up in half an hour. We said no thanks and decided to catch a cab. But of course, the hoards of fans outside had the same idea and the one cab we saw go by was quickly claimed by a group of guys. We found one guy who told us of another subway station a couple blocks ahead that would take us to the stadium, so we began the 8-block trek. As we were walking, I realized I was walking through Harlem, and if Mom knew that she would probably have a heart attack. We even walked by the Apollo Theatre, but I was too preoccupied with getting to the stadium to care. The sun was beating down on us, and I turned to Aley and said, "I wish the sun would just go dow...uhhh stay up," almost forgetting where we were and how screwed we'd be if I got my wish.
Finally, after finding the right train, we reached our destination and entered the stadium. I can't even begin to tell you what it felt like to step out into the ballpark and see that Yankees logo freshly painted behind home plate. We found our seats out in left field and took in the sights around us.
The stadium looked smaller in real life, but it was still an incredible feeling to look out at the sea of blue seats around us, the bullpen and Monument Park, which we unfortunately didn't have enough time to see, on our left. Seeing the white grandstand fencing above the bleachers and the flags waving in the wind, it made me feel right at home. A couple of Pirates fans were seated on one side of us, and a family of four, with two young boys were on the other side. I looked at them and hoped that eventually I’d be taking my family to see some Friday night baseball in only the best stadium in the league.
Soon enough the game started and I couldn’t have asked for a better one to attend. The first couple innings were slow; I was really hoping we’d at least score, so I could justify the cost of the trip to Mom. But I had a feeling the Yanks wouldn’t let us down. And of course, when Matsui sent that ball flying, the roar of the crowd was music to my ears. The 7th inning though, that’s when the fun began. The energy in that stadium was electric. The crowd was yelling, screaming, pumping its fists. We were coming back strong after the crazy inside-the-park-homer the Pirates had. The game was tied, and I noticed the family beside us had left, since their younger son had fallen asleep. Now that’s something I hope I won’t have to do in the future – leave in the middle of such a great game.
Anyways, by the 8th inning or so, Megan and I were getting really excited at the prospect of extra innings. Free baseball, we kept thinking, free baseball. And what a show we got. Mariano Rivera had come out to pitch, the Pirates were changing pitchers every second batter, and it was none other than Jeter himself who hit the game-winning single. Seriously, Megan and I could not have asked for anything better. I even got her to scream “We love you Derek Jeter,” with me. Yeah, Aley pretended she didn’t know us.
But now this post has gotten waaaaaaay longer than I meant it to be, so I think it’s time for me to go do something productive...
I like to say that Derek Jeter got me into college. The essay question was about a conversation you would have with someone and my essay detailed my interview with him after winning the 2012 World Series. Even reading it today I think it's one of the best things I've written. (Don't roll your eyes, at least I didn't write about how being biology club president changed my life.)
But I bring up Jeter for a reason (besides the fact that it's his birthday.) I've always considered myself a huge Yankees fan, but when talking to others, there was always one small fact that stood in the way of their accepting me as a true fan. I've watched countless games on television and have seen the Yanks play at a couple of different ballparks. Except the most important one. Yes, it's true, I'd never actually seen a game at Yankee Stadium. Oh stop shaking your head in disbelief, I can explain. You see, I'm not exactly a hometown fan, and it's not as though I haven't tried. But every time I've traveled to New York City, the Yanks have been in Detroit playing the Tigers. Every single time.
So finally, my fellow fan and also Yankee-Stadium-deprived friend Megan and I got to talking and decided that no longer would we allow our support of the Yankees to be tainted by our lack of attendance at the ballpark in the Bronx. We hashed out a plan to go visit our friend Aley in New Jersey and then the three of us would head on over to the Bronx to catch some bomber action before they change stadiums. So, we bought tickets for the Yankees-Pirates game and boy what a game it was.
Looking back, that day was one of the best I've ever had. That morning, we packed a big red bag full of turkey sandwiches, pita chips and cherries, met up with some of Aley's friends and had a picnic in Central Park. A picnic in Central Park! It was a hot, sunny day and we were sitting in front of a playground. Somebody, presumably park maintenance had set up a sprinkler at the edge of the playground by the path, and, surprisingly, several minutes went by before one mischievous little boy discovered it. He picked it up and began aiming it in all directions, until he finally left it positioned so that the water sprayed right onto the walkway, soaking anyone in its path. Kids of all ages were everywhere, playing on the swings, the monkey bars, running after each other in fast paced games of tag. A group of kids in matching t-shirts was walking through the park on a field trip, and moms pushing strollers periodically went by. A group of kids began playing catch and frisbee near us, and there were more than a few close calls.
Quite a few other people had the same idea to lunch in the park. Some couples were sitting together, either on vacation or off work. Many people were on their lunch breaks, sleeves rolled up and suit jackets at their sides. Just looking around made me wish desperately that I could be one of those city dwellers who had the chance to lunch in Central Park each day.
But before long, lunch was finished and the three of us were off to explore. Aley's friends left to run some other errands, so we proceeded to stroll on through the park. We saw a movie shoot and a large pond where people were boating. There was also a big fountain, and this one woman was getting her picture taken while standing inside the fountain, under the falling water, and holding an umbrella, off of which the water was bouncing away from her and leaving her perfectly dry. After sufficient meandering, we decided to head over to the Met, where neither Megan nor I had been.
Walking down the streets, the three of us garnered quite a few stares, as we were all decked out in our Jeter jerseys and Yankees caps. At least Megan and I were finally in a town where we weren't yelled at for showing our true colors.
The Met was really cool; my favorite part was definitely the roof. As we were up there, sipping lemonade and staring off at the skyline of this amazing city, I wondered what it would be like to attend a cocktail party for some exhibit opening up here. Can you just imagine putting a little black dress on, sipping a cosmo and looking out at the buildings outlined against the dusky sky? Yes, I really need to move to this city once I graduate.
But soon enough it was time for us to begin heading over to the stadium. As we walked down the streets toward the subway, I saw a sign on one of the lampposts that read "No honking, $300 fine." I really wanted to take a picture of it, since I wondered how often those instructions would be enforced, especially in this city.
Soon enough we reached the subway station and packed ourselves onto the standing-room-only train, with me awkwardly squished between the pole and three people. Of course, one or two stops later, we get stuck inside a tunnel. I'm used to trains stopping for a moment in the tunnel, the metro here does it all the time when there's another train ahead, so I didn't really worry at first. But the moments stretched into minutes, and a voice came onto the PA system and announced that we were stopped because of smoke in the station ahead. Everyone groaned, and I began to worry. Would we get there on time? It was about 4:30 or so; I had wanted to get to the stadium early to potentially try and get someone's autograph (I know I know....but I'm still a kid at heart :) Anyways, I start knocking the bill of my cap against the pole to keep myself busy, since I can't even talk to Aley or Megan because they were standing a couple people behind me and I had no room to turn around. I remember staring at one of the ads lining the car, about a brand new condo tower called something like The Oro opening up in Brooklyn and found myself wishing I could buy one.
Ten minutes went by, 15 minutes went by, and the smoke in the station up ahead turned into the fire in the station up ahead. We were told at the next station the train would go out of service and we had to empty the train. We got out and a there were people in Yanks gear everywhere. A Jamaican woman told us she knew how to get to the stadium and walked us to the nearest train station. But when she explained us how to get there, we didn't quite understand the route, so we asked a cop. He didn't know either, and recommended we wait out the train problems, which would probably clear up in half an hour. We said no thanks and decided to catch a cab. But of course, the hoards of fans outside had the same idea and the one cab we saw go by was quickly claimed by a group of guys. We found one guy who told us of another subway station a couple blocks ahead that would take us to the stadium, so we began the 8-block trek. As we were walking, I realized I was walking through Harlem, and if Mom knew that she would probably have a heart attack. We even walked by the Apollo Theatre, but I was too preoccupied with getting to the stadium to care. The sun was beating down on us, and I turned to Aley and said, "I wish the sun would just go dow...uhhh stay up," almost forgetting where we were and how screwed we'd be if I got my wish.
Finally, after finding the right train, we reached our destination and entered the stadium. I can't even begin to tell you what it felt like to step out into the ballpark and see that Yankees logo freshly painted behind home plate. We found our seats out in left field and took in the sights around us.
The stadium looked smaller in real life, but it was still an incredible feeling to look out at the sea of blue seats around us, the bullpen and Monument Park, which we unfortunately didn't have enough time to see, on our left. Seeing the white grandstand fencing above the bleachers and the flags waving in the wind, it made me feel right at home. A couple of Pirates fans were seated on one side of us, and a family of four, with two young boys were on the other side. I looked at them and hoped that eventually I’d be taking my family to see some Friday night baseball in only the best stadium in the league.
Soon enough the game started and I couldn’t have asked for a better one to attend. The first couple innings were slow; I was really hoping we’d at least score, so I could justify the cost of the trip to Mom. But I had a feeling the Yanks wouldn’t let us down. And of course, when Matsui sent that ball flying, the roar of the crowd was music to my ears. The 7th inning though, that’s when the fun began. The energy in that stadium was electric. The crowd was yelling, screaming, pumping its fists. We were coming back strong after the crazy inside-the-park-homer the Pirates had. The game was tied, and I noticed the family beside us had left, since their younger son had fallen asleep. Now that’s something I hope I won’t have to do in the future – leave in the middle of such a great game.
Anyways, by the 8th inning or so, Megan and I were getting really excited at the prospect of extra innings. Free baseball, we kept thinking, free baseball. And what a show we got. Mariano Rivera had come out to pitch, the Pirates were changing pitchers every second batter, and it was none other than Jeter himself who hit the game-winning single. Seriously, Megan and I could not have asked for anything better. I even got her to scream “We love you Derek Jeter,” with me. Yeah, Aley pretended she didn’t know us.
But now this post has gotten waaaaaaay longer than I meant it to be, so I think it’s time for me to go do something productive...
The Big Cheese and The Godfather
Last night I did not sleep well. First, I couldn't fall asleep (But you already knew that judging from the random previous post. I mean, it was written in Spanish.) But finally, sometime after 4 am I did finally drift off to dreamland, only to have my sleep continuously interrupted by...cheese. Yeah, cheese. It was a totally restless sleep, and every time I tossed and turned, I saw the words "Camembert (only for some reason in my dream it was spelled with two ms. (Yes I see words in my dreams...I'm a journalism major, what do you expect.)) and Roquefort, both of which I don't like. (I had a piece of camembert cheese with my dinner on the flight to Paris over spring break, and well, let's just say you'll never see me eating that kind of cheese again.) I blame that salt book I'm reading, since one of the last things I read about was how to make Roquefort cheese. Not that I really plan on ever doing so. But since I love cheese so much and don't really have anything better to do, I'm going to list my favorite kinds. This way, if I ever get old and crazy, I can at least remember something that made me happy. But anyways, here goes: port salut, havarti, fontina, gruyere, feta, goat cheese, parmigiano-reggiano, colby jack, and lorraine. I think that's all of them.
Speaking of lorraine cheese, last night, my insomniac self poked around at a couple other blogs, and I found this one of a French girl named Lorraine who was living in Sweden. This girl has written entries in both Swedish and French. There must have been English somewhere but I wasn't bored enough to hunt for them. But that reminds me once again of one of the many other topics I have been meaning to write about - how most other young people around the world are fluent in at least two languages, and here we are in the United States, hardly making a serious attempt at doing the same. I mean, I'm serious about learning Spanish, but can you imagine where I'd be now if I'd started learning Spanish in kindergarten instead of 7th grade? But I'll expand on that later, I had another point for this post besides just cheese.
Last evening, I did something momentous, something so ingrained in our culture that it's a wonder I was able to call myself an American before. I watched "The Godfather." It was all Neeraj's doing; I had no desire at all to watch a Mafia movie full of death and crime. But he had gotten Mom and Papa to watch it, and all his friends to also, so it was only a matter of time before he got to me too. And he did. So I watched. And yes, I admit, it wasn't as bad or confusing as I thought. I was worried that he would get overexcited and talk through the entire movie, explaining every little intricacy, seeing as he's seen it about 5 times in the past 2 months and gets. But he didn't and I am glad. And while the movie didn't revolutionize my life, I will say that it was a well-done, interesting story that makes it very clear you should always stick with family. So thanks Neeraj, now I'll be able to understand all the various pop culture references and be able to impress any guy I meet with my Godfather knowledge. But for now, the breakfast table is making me an offer my stomach can't refuse, so I'll be off.
Speaking of lorraine cheese, last night, my insomniac self poked around at a couple other blogs, and I found this one of a French girl named Lorraine who was living in Sweden. This girl has written entries in both Swedish and French. There must have been English somewhere but I wasn't bored enough to hunt for them. But that reminds me once again of one of the many other topics I have been meaning to write about - how most other young people around the world are fluent in at least two languages, and here we are in the United States, hardly making a serious attempt at doing the same. I mean, I'm serious about learning Spanish, but can you imagine where I'd be now if I'd started learning Spanish in kindergarten instead of 7th grade? But I'll expand on that later, I had another point for this post besides just cheese.
Last evening, I did something momentous, something so ingrained in our culture that it's a wonder I was able to call myself an American before. I watched "The Godfather." It was all Neeraj's doing; I had no desire at all to watch a Mafia movie full of death and crime. But he had gotten Mom and Papa to watch it, and all his friends to also, so it was only a matter of time before he got to me too. And he did. So I watched. And yes, I admit, it wasn't as bad or confusing as I thought. I was worried that he would get overexcited and talk through the entire movie, explaining every little intricacy, seeing as he's seen it about 5 times in the past 2 months and gets. But he didn't and I am glad. And while the movie didn't revolutionize my life, I will say that it was a well-done, interesting story that makes it very clear you should always stick with family. So thanks Neeraj, now I'll be able to understand all the various pop culture references and be able to impress any guy I meet with my Godfather knowledge. But for now, the breakfast table is making me an offer my stomach can't refuse, so I'll be off.
Pensamientos
Nota: Lo siento si hay errores gramaticales aqui; por favor, me dice si hay algos.
No es una buena cosa - no estar satisfecho con algo en la vida. Estoy leyendo un libro sobre la historia de la sal. Yo sé, ¿como hay un libro totalmente dedicada a un condimento? Pero lo hay y todavía lo leo. Anyways, cuando leo sobre algunos lugares en Europa donde la sal era producido, tengo un deseo a visitarlos. Si, es verdad que he visitado muchos paises como Inglaterra y Francía, pero no siento que yo realmente vé estes paises. Sólamente pasé dos o tres dias en las ciudades mejores: Londres y París. No creyo que sentí las culturas de estas lugares; no es posible cuando pase algunos dias en la lugar. Cada vez que vio los programas de viajar en la tele, quiero ir a estos lugares. En medio hora o una hora, el presentador descubre toda la cultura de el lugar. Yo tambíen quiero comer la comida auténtica, hablar con las ciudadanos en su lengua, aprender todo de la historia de la gente y el lugar, su gobierno, sus guerras, en unas palabras, quiero sentir la cultura.
Temo que este concepto de viajar es un imágen, un imágen romántica. Temo que es una experiencia muy profounda en mi mente, pero no en la vida actual. Muchos de los lugares del mundo no son muy diferentes de mi propio lugar. Todavía hay la gente, personas que hacen las mismas actividades como yo, ellos van al supermercado, cocinan, estudian, trabajan, disfrutan.
Cuando manejamos con mi tío y tía en el norte de Luxemburgo, o con mi tía en Alemania, o cuando fui al trén a París, la paisaje afuera de mi ventana parecía más o menos la misma de la paisaje americana. Traté mucho observer una diferencía, y si, los árboles son más delgados de los aqui, y la hierba un poco mas verde, pero la tierra es la tierra, si en los EEUU o en Europa. Pienso que quiero que mi vida es como una película, llena de emoción. Temo que yo siempre creyo algo cuando todavía no hay nada.
Yo no sé cuando voy a pedir este idealismo. En mi mente, quiero hacer todo, saber todo, sentir todo, aprender todo. Quiero saber la historia de todos paises, de Europa, de Asia, de Sudamerica. Quiero hablar todas lenguas, catalán, italiano, árabe, chino, sueco. Cuando me dare cuenta que esto no es posible. Ahora no soy una niña, yo se que el mundo es muy, muy, grande, diferente y diverso, mucho mas grande de yo o mi cerebro. O, posiblemente este idealismo es una característica, un parte central de mi personalidad. Es lo que me distingue de la gente. Nunca estaré satisfecha, y nunca pararé a soñar.
No es una buena cosa - no estar satisfecho con algo en la vida. Estoy leyendo un libro sobre la historia de la sal. Yo sé, ¿como hay un libro totalmente dedicada a un condimento? Pero lo hay y todavía lo leo. Anyways, cuando leo sobre algunos lugares en Europa donde la sal era producido, tengo un deseo a visitarlos. Si, es verdad que he visitado muchos paises como Inglaterra y Francía, pero no siento que yo realmente vé estes paises. Sólamente pasé dos o tres dias en las ciudades mejores: Londres y París. No creyo que sentí las culturas de estas lugares; no es posible cuando pase algunos dias en la lugar. Cada vez que vio los programas de viajar en la tele, quiero ir a estos lugares. En medio hora o una hora, el presentador descubre toda la cultura de el lugar. Yo tambíen quiero comer la comida auténtica, hablar con las ciudadanos en su lengua, aprender todo de la historia de la gente y el lugar, su gobierno, sus guerras, en unas palabras, quiero sentir la cultura.
Temo que este concepto de viajar es un imágen, un imágen romántica. Temo que es una experiencia muy profounda en mi mente, pero no en la vida actual. Muchos de los lugares del mundo no son muy diferentes de mi propio lugar. Todavía hay la gente, personas que hacen las mismas actividades como yo, ellos van al supermercado, cocinan, estudian, trabajan, disfrutan.
Cuando manejamos con mi tío y tía en el norte de Luxemburgo, o con mi tía en Alemania, o cuando fui al trén a París, la paisaje afuera de mi ventana parecía más o menos la misma de la paisaje americana. Traté mucho observer una diferencía, y si, los árboles son más delgados de los aqui, y la hierba un poco mas verde, pero la tierra es la tierra, si en los EEUU o en Europa. Pienso que quiero que mi vida es como una película, llena de emoción. Temo que yo siempre creyo algo cuando todavía no hay nada.
Yo no sé cuando voy a pedir este idealismo. En mi mente, quiero hacer todo, saber todo, sentir todo, aprender todo. Quiero saber la historia de todos paises, de Europa, de Asia, de Sudamerica. Quiero hablar todas lenguas, catalán, italiano, árabe, chino, sueco. Cuando me dare cuenta que esto no es posible. Ahora no soy una niña, yo se que el mundo es muy, muy, grande, diferente y diverso, mucho mas grande de yo o mi cerebro. O, posiblemente este idealismo es una característica, un parte central de mi personalidad. Es lo que me distingue de la gente. Nunca estaré satisfecha, y nunca pararé a soñar.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Don't hate on my school
Okay, I know I go to the state university that everyone from high school goes to, but hey, this school actually was my first choice. Yeah, it may be good 'ol State U, but I absolutely love it there and wouldn't have picked any other college. It's so frustrating sometimes, seeing old friends and having them constantly rag on your school. Okay, I understand, not everyone loves my school, and hey I can joke around as much as the next guy. But when that's all everyone can talk about - how supposedly horrible my school is - it gets pretty irritating sometimes. Do you see me ragging on your schools? I don't sit there and preach to you about why you should have come to my school instead. I understand, different colleges suit different people. But that doesn't mean it's okay for you to act like my school is a piece of shit. Don't forget - where is everyone going to take summer classes? If it's really that bad, go somewhere else. And trust me, the school isn't as easy to get into as you think it is. And come on, it's not as if you guys are all going to some ivy league private university. You're at state schools too, don't forget it.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Trips on the metro
I had a couple errands to run over at school today and on the way back, there was this family, presumably from out of town. The father was staring at the metro map trying to figure out at what stop their hotel was at - not an unusual sight for this time of year in my neck of the woods. The mother was sitting, staring off blankly, and the two young girls were twirling around the poles enjoying themselves. I was trying to imagine what the mom was thinking. Whenever I'm in another city, I always find myself looking at the people around me and wondering where they're going, what their lives are like in this place that is so new and different to me.
Some people I see are obviously going home. Their droopy eyes and weary faces make them appear as if in some sort of exhausted trance, all their energy spent at work, with barely enough fuel to get them home and into their beds, only to face the same drudgery the next day. It's so weird to me that this is something these people do daily, ride this bus or train around this strange city every day, so often it has become their second nature, while to me, everything around is so new and exciting and different.
But it's the people I see in the evening who I'm jealous of. Those are the ones heading out for a night on the town. You can tell they've gotten all dressed up, brought out the nice perfume and metallic eyeshadow. Some are with a group of their friends, and they're all telling stories and laughing like they haven't a care in the world. Sometimes they're with a date, doing nothing but whisper and hold hands. And sometimes, like the woman sitting next to me today, they are alone, off to meet up with everyone or that special someone.
There's something enchanting about being young and living in the city, something I've never experienced, but dearly wish to. I'm not even sure if I'm that type of person anymore, the type I thought I was. I thought I could be that urban chic, cosmopolitan woman, confidently striding about the city, knowing all the hotspots and always meeting up for lunch dates, bar nights and dance parties. I still have that romantic vision of what my life will be like in the next two or three years, but slowly its starting to hit me that things just may not work out that way. I've got a sinking feeling I'm going to reach the city, get ready to embark on my dream life, and realize that's not actually what I want. Cities are tough. Surrounded by 8 million people, you can feel like the loneliest soul on the planet.
But sitting on the metro this afternoon, I realized (yet again) that it's all really about image. That mom could have looked at me and thought the same thing, that I was on my way out to meet friends or I was just coming from some excursion through the city. But no, I was going back home after spending a day in meetings and interviews at school.
It's a sad feeling, realizing that so much of life is image and not substance. As long as I look like I'm living that urban chic lifestyle, strangers on the train or tourists walking the street don't actually have to know the truth - that I"m just simple old me.
Some people I see are obviously going home. Their droopy eyes and weary faces make them appear as if in some sort of exhausted trance, all their energy spent at work, with barely enough fuel to get them home and into their beds, only to face the same drudgery the next day. It's so weird to me that this is something these people do daily, ride this bus or train around this strange city every day, so often it has become their second nature, while to me, everything around is so new and exciting and different.
But it's the people I see in the evening who I'm jealous of. Those are the ones heading out for a night on the town. You can tell they've gotten all dressed up, brought out the nice perfume and metallic eyeshadow. Some are with a group of their friends, and they're all telling stories and laughing like they haven't a care in the world. Sometimes they're with a date, doing nothing but whisper and hold hands. And sometimes, like the woman sitting next to me today, they are alone, off to meet up with everyone or that special someone.
There's something enchanting about being young and living in the city, something I've never experienced, but dearly wish to. I'm not even sure if I'm that type of person anymore, the type I thought I was. I thought I could be that urban chic, cosmopolitan woman, confidently striding about the city, knowing all the hotspots and always meeting up for lunch dates, bar nights and dance parties. I still have that romantic vision of what my life will be like in the next two or three years, but slowly its starting to hit me that things just may not work out that way. I've got a sinking feeling I'm going to reach the city, get ready to embark on my dream life, and realize that's not actually what I want. Cities are tough. Surrounded by 8 million people, you can feel like the loneliest soul on the planet.
But sitting on the metro this afternoon, I realized (yet again) that it's all really about image. That mom could have looked at me and thought the same thing, that I was on my way out to meet friends or I was just coming from some excursion through the city. But no, I was going back home after spending a day in meetings and interviews at school.
It's a sad feeling, realizing that so much of life is image and not substance. As long as I look like I'm living that urban chic lifestyle, strangers on the train or tourists walking the street don't actually have to know the truth - that I"m just simple old me.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Time is running out for the watch
So, way back on May 20, the Washington Post published an article on how text messaging is killing the cell phone bills of families with teenagers. The story cited a study by Teenage Research Unlimited that said "texting is the second most popular use for cellphones, right after using them to check the time." Funny, I always thought a phone's purpose was, you know, to call up other people. I hate to break it to you, but I'm pretty sure we already have fancy gadgets designed to tell us the time. You know, oh what are they called? That's right, it's called a WATCH.
Call me old-fashioned, but I can't go anywhere without wearing a watch. Inside the house it doesn't matter, but literally, the moment I step outside, even if just to grab the mail, I feel its absence. Without the narrow metal band hugging my wrist, I feel naked and exposed. Yesterday, I got in the car to go to work and as soon as I sat down I realized I had forgotten my trusty timepiece inside. But I was running late and had to leave it behind. Seriously, I don't know how I made it through the day. I had to find a wall clock to monitor and at times even had to resort to using (gasp) my cell phone to figure out how long it was til I got to go home. I tell you, I barely made it through the day.
For as long as I can remember, I've worn a watch, though I graduated from the flowery blue and yellow bubble watch to the leather-strapped, gold-faced, Winnie the Pooh watch given to me one Christmas by one of my best friends. My current watch, which I've had since high school, has a metal link strap with a two-toned face. I still remember, a few weeks before Christmas one year, Mom asked me if I had liked any of the multicolored watches advertised in that week's department store circular, to which I replied not at all. Yet, Christmas morning, I unwrapped a small box and found a brand new green-and-blue-faced watch. I assured her that I truly liked this one, and to this day, I can't even tell you the number of compliments I've received on it.
Anyways, I got off topic. When I set out to write this post, I didn't actually intend to give you my entire watch-wearing history. I meant to point out how all this crazy technology is changing everything. Maybe that's how you know you're getting old - when you start to say, when I was a kid, things were done differently, and you're actually right. Seriously, when I was a kid, we actually played outside on real playgrounds and climbed real trees. None of this virtual reality, let's rot my mind by staring at a computer screen for 65 hours in a row crap. But a couple months ago, I realized just how intertwined my life has become with this computer, meaning I'm no exception to this tech craze, but that's another rant for another post.
Oh, and one last thing. Two days ago, I was sitting in my room on the computer, zoned out with the ipod headphones on, when I got a call on my cell phone. It was Papa calling from downstairs telling me that dinner was ready.
Call me old-fashioned, but I can't go anywhere without wearing a watch. Inside the house it doesn't matter, but literally, the moment I step outside, even if just to grab the mail, I feel its absence. Without the narrow metal band hugging my wrist, I feel naked and exposed. Yesterday, I got in the car to go to work and as soon as I sat down I realized I had forgotten my trusty timepiece inside. But I was running late and had to leave it behind. Seriously, I don't know how I made it through the day. I had to find a wall clock to monitor and at times even had to resort to using (gasp) my cell phone to figure out how long it was til I got to go home. I tell you, I barely made it through the day.
For as long as I can remember, I've worn a watch, though I graduated from the flowery blue and yellow bubble watch to the leather-strapped, gold-faced, Winnie the Pooh watch given to me one Christmas by one of my best friends. My current watch, which I've had since high school, has a metal link strap with a two-toned face. I still remember, a few weeks before Christmas one year, Mom asked me if I had liked any of the multicolored watches advertised in that week's department store circular, to which I replied not at all. Yet, Christmas morning, I unwrapped a small box and found a brand new green-and-blue-faced watch. I assured her that I truly liked this one, and to this day, I can't even tell you the number of compliments I've received on it.
Anyways, I got off topic. When I set out to write this post, I didn't actually intend to give you my entire watch-wearing history. I meant to point out how all this crazy technology is changing everything. Maybe that's how you know you're getting old - when you start to say, when I was a kid, things were done differently, and you're actually right. Seriously, when I was a kid, we actually played outside on real playgrounds and climbed real trees. None of this virtual reality, let's rot my mind by staring at a computer screen for 65 hours in a row crap. But a couple months ago, I realized just how intertwined my life has become with this computer, meaning I'm no exception to this tech craze, but that's another rant for another post.
Oh, and one last thing. Two days ago, I was sitting in my room on the computer, zoned out with the ipod headphones on, when I got a call on my cell phone. It was Papa calling from downstairs telling me that dinner was ready.
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