A Very Good Year

"When I was 21
It was a very good year
It was a very good year for
City girls who lived up the stair
With all that perfumed hair
And it came undone
When I was 21"

2008 was a very good year. Contrary to what the morose headlines in the news suggest, this year was, in fact, the best, at least for me.

While my year contained none of the bygone romances Sinatra so wistfully recounts, yours truly finally became a city girl, exploring her way through Spain's capital city. And last March I did get the best haircut ever, an 11-euro deal whose layers and bangs curled in just the right way around my oval-shaped face. But on to the important stuff.

The first half of this year was all about travel. I logged close to 25,000 miles by air (unfortunately I only just registered for a frequent-flier program two weeks ago) and another 6,000 by bus, train and car across Western Europe and the eastern United States. That adds up to about 59 hours by air and 117 hours on the ground, for a grand total of 176 hours, or the equivalent of one entire week spent sitting in a chair waiting to be a tourist.

Exhausting? You bet. And the days sandwiched between those travels typically offered no break as I constantly searched for things to do and see in Madrid. More times than I care to remember I asked myself, why is it that I'm walking through [insert city name here] but all I really want to do is crawl into my own bed and sleep.

But outnumbering those instances were the ones where I looked around and thought simply, Wow. I thanked God every night, not just for the chance to travel, but for the loving Spanish family I joined, the engaging Spanish professors I had and the energetic Spanish language I spoke.

Come June, castellano was replaced with talk of cloture and voice votes as the Eurotripping gave way to my summer internship covering congressional hearings. Enter the second major theme of this year: my increasing love of journalism. A few weeks into the gig, once the politicians became just people and the wood-paneled hearing rooms lost their luster, I realized I really liked deciphering these complicated bill discussions and delving into the minutiae of policy.

Then my journalism-filled semester rolled around, and I was hooked. I fought it for three years, but the j-school won and I realized that maybe, just maybe, I could pull off writing for a living. I, of course, realized this after throwing myself into the grad school/law school process, thinking for sure that foreign policy was my future. And so here I am, ending the year with no definite plan but a smile still plastered on my face.

Of course, 2008 wasn't perfect.

In Madrid, it took almost eight weeks for me to settle into a close group of friends. And it took the same amount of time for me to get back in the groove with school friends once this semester started. The 15-pound weight gain I deftly evaded freshman year found its way to my butt, thighs and belly via La Mallorquina (damn you chocolate napolitanos). And in more ways than one, I realized that life is a hell of a lot more complicated than I ever could have imagined.

2008 was the most exciting year I have ever had. But I suspect it was just a preview, the appetizer to the glorious main course of change that is making its way out of the kitchen.

I hope that everyone out there is as excited as I am for whatever 2009 has in store. Happy New Year!

The Absence of Magic

For days I've been meaning to post about how magic-less this holiday season has felt. And then this quote from columnist Erma Bombeck popped up on my Gmail toolbar:

"There's nothing sadder in this world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child."

Yup, that just about sums up Christmas 2008. On Christmas Eve night I had no problem falling asleep and yesterday morning Mom had to drag me out of bed around 10 a.m. I plopped onto the living room sofa, busying myself with the Washington Post's A section. Only after scanning the headlines did I give the wrapped boxes beneath the tree a cursory glance. Absent any real sense of expectation or excitement (I didn't ask for anything specific), I buried my head in the throw pillow and closed my eyes as we waited for Neeraj to come down.

It's not that this year's was a particularly bad holiday; my family and I just never really found the spirit of the season.

Take the tree for example. Normally the white lights of our 7.5-foot artificial Christmas tree are shining by the first or second weekend in December. But as we drove down my street last Friday, the day I came home for winter break, one dark window stuck out like a missing tooth in a gleaming row of houses.

Papa finally put our tree up last Saturday night but it sat depressingly naked for an entire day. On Sunday evening, while a tired Mom and Papa watched TV and Neeraj studied for an econ exam, I pulled out the ornaments and began the chore of decorating. It was clear my heart wasn't in it once I was through; the lopsided pearl strands and haphazardly hung glass balls made the tree look sadder than it did pre-decor.

I convinced Mom to redo it on Wednesday and by the time Santa started wrapping gifts, the pearl strands were draped symmetrically and the glass balls glistened. This year, Santa got so lazy that he (re: Papa) wrapped all the gifts in plain sight as Neeraj and I sat surfing the Web in the family room.

The holiday wasn't totally devoid of surprises - everything was already boxed up so we didn't actually know what the gifts were. But, and here's the sad part, in the moments before gift-opening, I found myself anticipating that evening's Christmas meal more than what sat in those boxes.

And as for that magnificent Christmas dinner we had planned, well, by 7 p.m. no one was hungry so we postponed it to tonight and ate soup instead.

Erma's aforementioned quote brings to mind what one of my former high school teachers, who I'm fairly close to, told me in a recent email. Her son is almost 3 and though he didn't really understand the concept of Santa last year, "This year he gets it and can hardly contain himself!" she wrote.

So it looks like the magic-less Christmas is here to stay, since seeing anything through my own kid's eyes is still a waaaays away.

Cafe con Leche Part 2

My quest for the perfect cafe con leche continues.

Last time it was Starbucks, today it was the bagel and espresso place across from campus. I explained the barista exactly what I wanted and she suggested a custom-made espresso macchiato. Two minutes later, my hopes rested on a mug half-filled with one shot of espresso, four ounces of steamed skim milk and two inadequatily mixed sugar packets.

Based on color alone, it wasn't promising. My Spain coffee was a rich cross between butterscotch and caramel brown, served in a 6 oz. glass that was hot to the touch. This lukewarm concoction was a flat, murky brown-gray, devoid of shine and aroma. The taste also wasn't quite there, either because four ounces is too much milk, or more likely, because I went with skim instead of the half-skim-half-whole that Sasika got in her cappuccino.

The coffee conundrum remains unsolved.

On the upside, Sasika and I had an engrossing conversation about hitting it big at age 27 (with one particular speechwriter in mind), post-graduation possibilities and how we secretly just want to be novelists. Invigorated by the shot of caffeine, Sasika and I left with a pact to a) make this our new study spot and b) submit a piece of creative writing for publication next semester.

Finished

Five minutes ago I e-mailed my last final exam, meaning, I'm done!

The finals rundown was this: One take-home final on libel, one final feature story, two extra credit book reports, one opinion piece and three opinion blog posts. Eight pieces of writing in all, the first four due on Tuesday, the latter four today.

In order to remove the temptation of snacking that overcame me whenever I sat down to work, I holed myself in the library study room for five hours on Sunday and Monday. Saturday and Sunday I went to bed at 4 a.m. and woke up five hours later. Monday I was up researching libel cases until 7 a.m., only to wake up less than two hours later and return to the case hunt.

It's strange how the less sleep I get, the more productive I seem to be. Thinking I'd fall right asleep right after getting in bed around 11 p.m. Tuesday, I instead lay awake thinking about how much I wanted to write write write for a living.

That's the best part of this finals week and this whole semester, which comprised only of journalism classes. Writing 24 double spaced pages in five days has only bolstered my desire to keep writing. Good thing I've got this blog to dump those desires onto!

Holiday Cookie Potluck

In theory it's a good idea. After all, what better way to get in the Christmas spirit than turn a secret Santa gift exchange into an all out holiday bake-fest?

But as I learned last night, the only way to throw such a party is with a side order of Alka-Seltzer tablets and enough pillows for everyone to lay in their laps and double themselves over. Yes, there really is such a thing as holiday cookie overload (gasp!)

Anita and Sasika took on this year's event knowing that even their laid-back selves could outdo last year's un-festive precedent: a ten-minute swap outside a crowded Starbucks on study day.

Their Facebook event promised gifts, cookies and "hot chocolate with a twist." As if that wasn't enticing enough, a picture of the lovable Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer gazed back at guests. We busied ourselves hunting for recipes, of the cookie and cocktail variety, and wrapping gifts.

At first I wanted to make carrot cupcakes because I've been craving them for about a month. But after perusing Vicki's Christmas cookie book, I settled on the more festive hot chocolate cookie. And in a sudden bout of inspiration triggered by a Rice Krispies commercial I saw yesterday afternoon, I threw Rice Krispie treats into my contribution.

An afternoon of baking yielded this heavenly sight.

Moving left from my marshmallow-topped hot chocolate cookies we had peanut butter Hershey kiss cookies, butter cookies, sugar cookies, peppermint candy cane cookies, Vicki's Norweigan Christmas cookies whose name escapes me, Rice Krispie treats, gingerbread cookies and mini chocolate chip cookies.

Finally the moment came to dig in. A few of us, myself included, had skipped dinner to get the full cookie experience. We made the rounds, most trying at least one of each. Ten minutes and six or seven cookies later, all I (and everyone else) wanted was a glass of milk. Silence befell the food coma'd group. The T.V. went on. Forget a sugar high, this was a sugar crash.

The gift exchange brought a little levity. We had drawn names at our Thanksgiving dinner, the same night Nancy and I had to duck out early to attend the last home football game of the year. Funnily enough I drew Nancy and she drew me. But alas, even the magic of gift giving couldn't fully overcome a sugar-butter-egg overdose. Even though everyone was done, the table of goodies looked untouched.

Sumegha, already battling a cold, left early. I passed on the hot chocolate, my stomach not wanting anything but for me to curl into a ball. Fifteen minutes later I left. After the party Anita and Sasika came over and poor Sasika was suffering the same saccharine-induced malady.

Today at around noon I walked out of my room in my PJs and hoodie and collapsed head-first onto the couch.

"Cookie hangover, Priya?" Molly asked as I buried my head in a blanket.

"I'm never eating cookies again," I mumbled.

My sweet tooth might finally be taking the long-desired hiatus the scale has wished upon it since I returned from Spain.

Cafe con Leche Replacement

I finally made some progress today in my quest to find the perfect stateside version of the morning cafe con leche from my Madrid university cafeteria.

I've been deconstructing Starbucks' Web site to figure out exactly what they call a shot of espresso, four ounces of hot milk and one packet of sugar. I narrowed it down to either a caffe latte, cappuccino or espresso macchiato. I'm not getting my hopes up too high, considering the Spanish don't fuss with foam in coffee and always take more than a dollop of milk, but I'm willing to give it a try.

Two hours of sleep last night made for a very long day of meetings and classes. After a short nap I had an urge to venture down to Starbucks for a caffeine jolt and a change of scenery. Sumegha accompanied me and I decided my first attempt would be the cappuccino.

Before we get into the drink, since when has Starbucks had a short (8 oz.) size? I first saw it for on the Web site and it's exactly what I've been looking for. The heaviness of a tall anything but house coffee from Starbucks is enough to replace one, potentially two meals. But with a short I might actually be able to indulge without sacrificing my appetite.

Once I got beyond the unnecessary layer of foam under the cappuccino lid, the rich flavor of milky espresso filled my mouth and I accepted that Europe has forever spoiled any chance I have of becoming an American coffee addict. I hadn't even put the sugar in and the drink still blew regular coffee out of the water. The espresso and milk didn't blend exactly the way my Spanish cup did, but I think that perfect ratio will forever elude me. I even warmed up to the foam after slurping the last dregs of it from my diminutive yet stimulating cup of cappuccino.

Verdict: Not quite there, but getting closer.

A Lazy Weekend

Lethargy. Languor. Torpor. We four bonded this weekend.

The last academic thing I accomplished was a story memo submitted Wednesday. Since then the energy and desire to be productive has been on a slow, steady deceleration that has left me feeling, well, like my three aforementioned buddies.

Despite triggering a sea-change in my perspective on a lot of things, the semester looks to be making a relatively quiet departure. This last week demands only two assignment from me and then just three take-home final assignments separate me from the end.

Exhaustion isn't the cause of my slowdown. This semester doesn't touch the academic rigors last fall brought. It's me tiring of the monotonous routine of school yet wanting desperately to hold on to it forever.

It's the frustration at seeing my field of study go through such the degeneration, upheaval and change.

It's the impatience of waiting for responses to the various applications I've sent out.

It's the uncertainty that follows May 22, 2009.

It's the gluttony of a weekend spent eating snacks instead of meals.

Clad in my beige velveteen sweatpants and oversized navy blue Yale sweatshirt, I feel like a bear on the verge of hibernation. The bitter cold and blustery wind don't help either.

I found one source of frustration officially shared via this NYTimes column by Timothy Egan, which sums up the rant I dumped on poor Nancy last night about how irritating it is that everyone suddenly thinks they can be a journalist.

When Good Girls Stay Good

In an age where The Real Housewives of Atlanta is considered must-see TV, it's refreshing (and reassuring) to see wit and politics catapult a woman to the dizzying heights of stardom.

Tina Fey graces the cover of this month's issue of Vanity Fair and the Maureen Dowd profile reveals a simple yet steadfast woman seeking not success but satisfaction.

Though she talks about her past weight issues and drab dating life (Hooray for not losing your virginity before you can vote), the Annie Leibovitz photos are smoking with red stilettos, some naughty nibbling of glasses (Thank you Tina for showing the world that there is something sexy about a four-eyed brunette) and what looks to me like a near-wardrobe malfunction.

In Broadsheet's view, this can either be construed as "depressing (a brilliant comic mind inevitably reduced to shaking her cleavage)" or "empowering (a brilliant comic mind finally shaking her cleavage!)" I'm leaning toward the latter. Let's face it, sex is part of society. So why not sell it tastefully, with brains and principle to back it up?

I'll admit, I didn't know a lot about Fey before reading this piece and the her 2003 New Yorker profile. I've seen an episode or two of 30 Rock, but am not an avid follower (then again my TV watching has all but died since high school). But she's now rapidly ascending the list of people I want to be.

In an age where it's so easy to be wild, she sticks to her guns. She didn't drink in college but freely writes sketches about whores and dropped the f-bomb in both articles.

Yes, I'm a good girl, but I'd be lying if I said I've never wanted to just completely let loose. Fey said it beautifully: “I only have two speeds— either matronly or a little too slutty."

But who cares what you are as long as you're happy with it? Confidence is the most attractive quality in a person. And while other people may say I'm confident, too often I agonize over what other people think of my actions more than what I think of them. Peer pressure is hard to handle, but then it's people like Fey who remind me that being who you are will all pay off some day.

Losing My Touch?

For the past two weeks I've been scheduled to give a presentation on Fareed Zakaria in my commentary and editorial writing class. Today I finally did. And I was nervous.

Correction. I presented as if I was nervous.

Big deal, you say. No one likes giving presentations.

Wrong. I do. I love it. And I do not get nervous. Sure if it's a big one the flipping stomach and pounding heart make an appearance. A brief appearance. Because once the room has gone silent, the eyes are facing me, I'm right where I belong - at the center of attention.

But today I didn't take the split-second before opening my mind to mentally orient myself and consequently did just what I said I wouldn't do. I began reading from my handout.

The first few words wobbled out of my mouth and I felt like someone who was walking with the wrong shoes on each foot. I began with who Zakaria is - Newsweek editor, Post columnist, CNN host. Someone made a joke - I missed my chance to fire back, bumbling right on through where he's from, who his parents are, where he went to college etc.

It got worse. I noticed a typo in the handout. According to me, the Newsweek cover story "Why They Hate Us," which turned Zakaria into a foreign policy rock star, has 6,8000 words. They must really hate us.

Get away from the sheet that voice inside said through gritted teeth. I regained some composure when I finally tore myself away from the sheet to my notes, only to get lost again. Note to self: NEVER write your notes in cursive.

It got a little better. The class took my honesty with a laugh when I said I chose to present Zakaria because I want to be him.

Time to read an excerpt of Zakaria's writing. I chose a column from last December, "The Power of Personality," which I read on New Year's Eve while sitting in the dentist's office. This short column told me Zakaria was a man to pay attention to.

The copy in front of me not being my original, I didn't have the highlighted road signs directing me where to begin reading. I chose the fourth one, realizing halfway through I should have started at the third. Even worse, I knew I was doing exactly what I hold against almost every other student presenter I've encountered. I was reading way. too. fast.

SLOW DOWN, the mental voice screamed. I did, but stumbled over words. Sentences were repeated. Words were skipped.

Am I losing my touch?

The inner voice was not happy.

In the end, I made my point. That it's time for America to pay attention to the rest of the world and we need more people like Zakaria to be telling us that. One student remarked to me after class that she'd actually learned something from my presentation. There were smiles and "Good jobs." I knew the audience wasn't judging me nearly half as harshly as I was judging myself.

Actually, as I'm writing this, I just got a g-chat message from another classmate saying, "GREAT PRESENTATION."

So why am I still beating myself up? Honestly this presentation is probably worth like one half of a percent of my grade.

Perfectionism, don't you ever take a day off?

Senioritis?

I have turned into such a slacker. Dare I say I'm becoming one of those people I used to hate, the ones who seemingly do no work and still pull off a stellar academic performance. After all, grades looking good and clear skies abound the horizon straight through finals.

It's not that assignments ceased after October. Could I actually-gasp-be enjoying my schoolwork? By senior year you theoretically should be taking the most interesting, most relevant classes and I have finally embraced my journalism love. It also can't be a coincidence that this period of calm began immediately after submitting my grad school application. Or maybe it's just my new let-it-be, wait-and-see attitude toward life.

Can it really be happening? Is this what payoff feels like? I mean, after three long years of ass-busting I'm entitled to a little bit of coasting, wouldn't you say? And to think, I was under the impression that it took retirement to reap the fruits of your labor.

I really shouldn't be so cheery after getting just one hour of sleep last night. I woke up at 8:30 a.m. in a daze that didn't disappear until I reached the gym 30 minutes later. The sky this morning was gray and dreary and that combined with my foul mood promised a very crappy day. But four hours later the sun is shining directly onto my face and I'm filled with satisfaction. I really should be reading about photo stalking and wiretapping for media law. Or maybe I'll just continue continue to listen to Coldplay and surf e-Bay. Life is glorious.

Writing

I can't sleep. And that means you, lucky reader, get a second helping of moi. See, I'm already making up for the two-month hiatus.

God I love to write. Yet I feel like such a fraud saying that considering I've been MIA since September. Typically enjoying something means you actually engage in it every once in a while. Sure I write for class (especially this semester, where my entire courseload consists of journalism classes), but that's also class.

I've never been one to consistently keep a journal or diary. Documentation of my life comes in waves, most usually centered around when I take a big vacation. (Studying abroad wreaked havoc on this strategy.) I write when I'm frustrated or when my brain manages to put together an especially noteworthy sentence. My writings vary from pages of boring chronological recounts of events filling any of the half a dozen notebooks I have scattered around to a smattering of sentence fragments listing sights, smells, colors and emotions scrawled onto whatever notepad I had handy.

I keep willing my mind to just remember, to file away all the details so that once I get the time I can do that memory justice. But the real reason I let so many of those memories just slip away without a permanent paper anchor is because my writing style overwhelms me.

Ever since I was little, I've felt the need to document my life with the precision and thoroughness of a court stenographer. And after a day of sightseeing, the last thing my tired self wanted to do was wear out my hand documenting the day's every detail, including the food we ate, the stories our tour guide told us and the wrong turns we took. The concept that some details simply aren't important escaped me until I realized how cumbersome details can be.

This eye for detail permeates my verbal storytelling as well, a style I get from Mom. Everyone groans when she has a story to tell because we know it will meander like a lazy country river until an exasperated Papa will ask her what the point it. At which point she will have either forgotten or realizes that ninety percent of the details had nothing to do with that point.

I'm really no different though. I seem to have no concept of drama or suspense in verbal communication. I'm more focused in getting the entire story out in conversation than in making that story interesting to the listener. Ask me what happened in class today and I'll begin with something the professor said two months ago and then plod along from there. Flip the situation and I'll mmhmm my way through their story, hearing each word but listening to none.

But now we've veered into another branch of communication. This post is, after all, titled "Writing." For someone who proclaims she wants to be a journalist, or at least make writing a central part of her career, it's peculiar that I haven't actively sought forums to show off my writing. Typically people launch blogs to have some kind of accountability to writing. It's a lot easier to blow off that diary entry when there's no expectant audience. So I dipped my toe into the blogosphere and started this. But with what I think to be one devoted reader, that public accountability argument withers away.

For almost two years I've said I'd apply to be a columnist at my school newspaper, a daily with a circulation of 17,000. Something has always held me back though, primarily the fear of attack. Although I crave attention in almost every other sense, the idea that my thoughts, opinions and words would be completely open to discussion, ridicule and comment was just too much. I mean, some letter-to-the-editor writers are just plain harsh.

Yes, I know, in the words of "Hillary Clinton", I, as a future part of the media, need to just "grow a pair."

I'm Back

I know. I know. I'm the girl who says she wants to be a journalist but for two months shuts out the one place that welcomes her words with open arms.

Yes you heard that right. I have begrudgingly accepted what some may have known all along. I want to be a journalist. I figured the j-school would beat me down eventually and I'm finally willing to publicly acknowledge my love affair with this major. Now that's either extremely bold or extremely stupid, given that the rest of the economy has caught journalism's scent and is following its path - straight into the ground. But you must remember that I never seem to take the simple path in life.

Obviously my blogging absence hasn't been for a lack of material, that I can assure you.

In fact, as this semester winds down and 2008 enters its final month, I'm left wondering how so much could possibly happen in such a short period of time. I've already concluded that 2008 will have been my best year ever, but we'll ruminate on that when 2009 is closer.

That sweltering first day of school is yet another memory, gone like all the leaves on this tree-lined campus. October, the month of exams, papers and projects crept along while November has whizzed by like a skier headed down a slope of fresh powder. As much as my friends hate me for this, I've been taking it easy since Nov. 15, when I turned it my sole graduate school application. And it looks like the coasting will continue through the final two-week stretch. Finals are nonexistent for me, replaced with two final papers.

But the semester has comprised much more than schoolwork, and much more than I can recount right now. I've learned the value of honesty, candor and greeting the future with exhilaration instead of trepidation. I've learned that friends are best enjoyed when you don't shut them out. I've realized the person I think I am isn't always the one others see. And though I've come pretty far in the past three years, it's clear I've still got a whole lot left to learn.

My (Potentially) Last First Day

That sneaking suspicion that I'm actually a senior crept up unnoticed in the form of a determined freshman girl who asked me where a building was. Two hours later, a young man wondered how to get to the diner. The location stations were scattered around campus and once-deserted streets and sidewalks were now teeming with people. The day was steamy and sweaty, as the first day always seems to be, but I thankfully am not returning to an equally steamy dorm room, for we now rule the school.

While it's obviously been a year since I've seen a first day of school, it's my first time seeing the campus in action since December. As much as I've enjoyed my eight-month vacation, as Papa puts it, it sure does feel nice to be back, really back, to my regular life. I've got a new appreciation for it, living in my own place again, friends flitting in and out, and of course, the beautiful campus that surrounds it all. Yes, classes have begun, and while my course load is lighter, there's a lot more outside work (re: figuring out what comes next), it feels so nice to just dive back into the routine. No more traveling, no more tapas all the time, but I'm pretty satisfied just the same.

On another note, I'm doing the journalism law readings I was assigned last week (yes, during summer break), and it's not going as well as I'd hoped. My professor's syllabus warns us that this may be the most difficult course we take in the journalism school since the reading and writing are so different from anything our reporter's minds have encountered. So this class is now my litmus test for finally putting that law school seed to rest. If I enjoy/don't find it too difficult, then law school may just be the thing for me. But if I struggle along with everyone else, I will once and for all settle this recurring battle my brain is waging with me. I'm secretly hoping to hate the class for the sole reason of solving this problem. But I unfortunately am finding myself fairly intrigued by the various types of law explained in chapter one. Now I may only be hitting the calm before the storm, but I've got another sneaking suspicion that this law school question won't die that easily after all.

Nani Ma

Summer afternoons in the kitchen with Grandma may be a familiar memory for some, but I experienced it for the first time today. Peeling potatoes, learning new recipes and hearing about my mother's childhood antics, all while practicing my Hindi - could a granddaughter ask for anything more? Yesterday I sat at Nani Ma's feet while she retold her experience fleeing Rawalpindi after the India-Pakistan Partition; the horrors she witnessed and the uncertainty that came with ever step. I'm continually amazed at how a woman her age so emphatically tells stories, how her piecemeal English and Susan Auntie's very limited Hindi don't stand in the way of their thoroughly enjoying each other's company. Yes, Nani Ma repeats stories sometimes and she can't walk very far without tiring, but her mind is agile as ever, and I suppose that's one of the most important things one could hope for at her stage in life.

I'm so glad that she has this opportunity to stay in Luxembourg for a few months, to take a break from the behr bahr, the hustle and bustle that cloaks New Delhi. Sitting around the kitchen table our first day here, Nani Ma first noticed the silence, the shanti, that pervades this corner of the world. The air is cool and the street's only interruption seems to the be the occasional car gliding quietly out of the neighborhood - a far cry from the humid, dusty Delhi air and the puttering, honking cars that fill the gulliya. This morning Susan Auntie said after less than a week Nani Ma seems to be looking less and less like the tired, frail woman that emerged from Brussels' airport. I only wish I had more than three days to spend reminiscing and learning from her.

More than I expected, this vacation is turning out to be just the break a student about to enter her last year of college needs. The past two weeks have been enjoyable in opposite ways - hectic, bhangra-filled wedding days in London followed by long conversation and lazing in the kitchen or along Luxembourg's countryside. While I didn't always know or understand what was going on at the wedding, I was far enough removed from it that I didn't have much responsibility, but was still in the thick of it all. The best place to be if you ask me. And now, here in Luxembourg, I'm surrounded by everything I like about European life - foreign languages, quiet countryside, and people who wear skirts and heels to go grocery shopping. But most importantly, I've got political commentary with Susan auntie, griping about school with Sara, joking around with Mamu, and Nani Ma's squeak of a laugh when she tells us she mistook Sara's hot pink slippers for some special Luxembourgish rabbit.

Why We Need the Olympics

Probably to the dismay of my parents and my things-to-do list, I've been doing nothing but watching the Olympics for the past weekend. And even if last night's 4-by-100 men's relay finish wasn't absolutely thrilling, I'd still be watching the Olympics tonight.

I won't gush about how stunning the Opening Ceremonies were, but I will say I'm pretty happy I stayed in Friday night to watch them. My favorite part was either the intimidatingly synchronized drumming that kicked it off - especially when the stage went dark and the percussionists were pounding with fiery glow-in-the-dark sticks - or the movable type pieces that moved in harmony to the music.

But the real point I'm getting at is that we need the Olympics to remember what makes us amazing. I'm not naive enough to ignore the performance enhancing drugs and hard-line Chinese security crackdown that lie beyond the world records and gold medals, but we need the Olympics nonetheless.

A diver twisting headfirst into a pool of water thirty feet below. A gymnast flinging his legs around and around a pommel horse. A cyclist battling the final uphill meters of a 78-mile course. A pole vaulter launching herself over a bar. It's utterly mind-boggling what the right amount of training can do to human capability.

Contrary to discouraging us from pursuing personal fitness, watching these athletes should inspire us. If they can push human performance boundaries, the least we can do is get little exercise into our own bodies.

The other thing about the Olympics is that, with the exception of superstars like Kobe Bryant, LeBron James and Michael Phelps, most of these competitors are relative unknowns. Yes there are high-profile sports like basketball, gymnastics, track and field and swimming, but the Olympics also give us the chance to get into more obscure ones like fencing, archery, and modern pentathlon. Sure, our interest will probably wane until four years from now at the next go around, but it's still fun.

And then of course there's the pride. As much as foreclosure rates, gas prices and campaign drama have been on our minds, show us the stars, the stripes, and the teary American eyes on the medal podium and we easily remember why we love our country. I realized in Europe that some people are put off by our patriotism, but it's something I fiercely guard. We cheer, yelp, shout, high five, hug, fist bump, chest bump, whatever it takes to celebrate. Some may see this as cockiness, flamboyance or ostentation, but I say there's nothing wrong with showing a little emotion once in a while.

The significance of these games to China have been dissected ad nauseam, so I won't go into any of that. What I have noticed, and I don't know if that's because I myself am an Eastern-Western mix, are the subtle cultural difference. It seems our athletes compete more for the love of sport and individual accomplishment while they compete more out of duty and national pride. Clearly, we too take national pride in winning, but I would guess that Phelps' quest for eight golds is first to get his name in the history books, with American pride second. Conversely, I think the Chinese gymnasts and divers want these golds almost more for their country than for themselves. I only wonder what they would go through after the cameras are turned off should they not complete the victorious duties they're charged with. Theirs is the pressure of an authoritarian government with something to prove, the pressure of 1.3 billion people. Phelps' pressure comes mostly from one man - himself.

And with that hot medal pursuit in mind, let me just say that while this isn't exactly the point of the Games, I fist-clenchingly hope that we come out with the most gold medals. I know, I know, that's bordering on arrogance, but what can I say, the idealist in me wants democracy to prevail.

The Right Set of Ears

Be careful what you say because you never know who's listening.

I don't say that to be menacing, in fact, something decidedly positive happened when the right person heard the right words this evening on the Metro.

Fellow intern Hannah and I were chatting on our way home from a dinner at the city's Top Chef- created burger joint when she asked me if I knew a certain professor. Turns out, the man who taught her internship program's class this summer was also the one who pushed me through the journalism class from hell I told you all about last fall.

"You're kidding me," I told Hannah. "He was one of my favorite teachers ever!" I went on to tell her how Megan (who's also interning at this office) and I were in his class together and how we absolutely loved him and he loved us, going on and on. Soon enough Hannah's stop came and after bidding her good bye, I pulled out my book to occupy the rest of the ride.

Shortly before my station, the lady sitting across from me slides over and hands me her card.

"I overheard you talking about Mr. Journalism earlier," she told me. "Well, I'm the one who hired him to teach for this internship program."

Say what?

She told me she was so happy to hear how much we liked him, and wanted to pass the praise on.

"Too often teachers only hear from the bad students and I wanted to let him know what I heard today," she said before we parted ways.

I just sent her an e-mail telling her who Hannah and I are, and how I'd be more than happy for her to let Professor know how much we appreciate his teaching us.

I'm sure Hannah will get a kick out of this coincidence when I tell her tomorrow. What a small world after all.

Oh, and remind me, I must write about the new possible career option I discovered yesterday evening :)

Long-Distance Friendships

I know how the saying goes; it's better to have loved than lost than to have never loved at all. But that doesn't make dealing with the loss part any easier.

I've been home from Spain for two months now, and it hasn't really set in that that chapter of my life is over. The people from my Madrid life are now all over the world, back to their daily routines just like I am. Yes, today's technology means it's not terribly difficult to keep in touch. But that still doesn't change the fact that things will never be the same as they were just a few short months ago.

Granted, nothing is ever the same as it was just a few months ago, and the only reason why I'm making this a bigger deal is because it's a more obvious difference. But sophomore year was still different than freshman year, and people will always float in and out of our lives like dandelion seeds in the wind. On the flip side, putting an ocean between friends doesn't mean the friendship has to stop, which is another thing I'm realizing.

Sure, a long-distance friendship takes more work to maintain, but as one Facebook bumper sticker I've seen says, "True friendship isn't being inseparable; it's being separated and nothing changes." That's why my dad can go to India after twenty-something years and still joke around with his buddies as if they were still in high school. He once told me that the during one night we spent with his friends and their families last summer, he felt as if no time had passed since their bachelor days; that his years here in the U.S. were just a blink, a minor hiatus from their carefree youths.

I want that. I want to be able to get together, ten years down the road, with the friends I have now and be able to chat, laugh and reminisce over our times together, without feeling guilty for not keeping in touch after graduation. Sure, ideally I'd love to stay in touch with everyone. But no one has the time and energy for that, and everyone knows it. That's why I'm able to bump into a high school friend on the Metro to work and chat for the entire 40-minute commute, without the question of "why haven't you called me," coming up. That guilt is the one thing I have to get over. I'm not miffed that people haven't kept in touch with me, consequently I shouldn't feel guilty for not necessarily keeping in touch with them.

I'm going to see Jenna tomorrow for the last time before she goes back to school. After that, I don't know when I'll see her next. But right now, I don't want to think about that. I'm just taking comfort in the fact that I have many fond memories of our times in Madrid to look back upon, and that if I ever venture out to Memphis or Indianapolis, I'll have a friend to pass some time with.

Rain, Rain, [Don't?] Go Away

Rain. It's what every bride fears but resolutely accepts it's the one thing she can't control. And while a wedding may not warrant intervening in what may be the last undomesticated act of nature remaining, apparently hosting the Olympics does. As Beijing prepares for next week's Opening Ceremonies, it needs the rain to clear the pollution but also doesn't need it to mess up the fireworks. So, here's what they've done about it, according to a Washington Post article:

"The [New China News A]gency reported that since 2001, when Beijing was awarded the Games, meteorologists have been experimenting with "cloud seeding" -- shooting dry ice into clouds to make the water droplets heavier. That allows meteorologists to squeeze rain out of the clouds early, before they drift over the Bird's Nest [the National Stadium], although the technology is said to work only with light cloud cover."

China really is willing to do just about anything to impress the world.

"Verbose"

I have the feeling only Karen, Nancy or Supraja will appreciate this.

As I was sitting on the metro going through the GRE vocab flashcards on my way home, I came across the word "verbose." Finally, I thought, one that I know. The definition that immediately ran through my head was, "Using too many words."

I turn it over and see one word on the definition line: "wordy."

The irony left me smiling until we pulled up to the next station.

The Taste of Success

I just had one of the best dinners ever.

Since the fam is out to a baseball game, I had the evening to myself. I had planned on taking a practice GRE (I know, how boring) since having this place silent is quite a rarity. But by the time I reached home it was a little past seven, and I figured I should think about dinner.

This Monday I read the book "In Defense of Food: An Eater's Manifesto" by Michael Pollan (a book I'd recommend to everyone; it's got diet advice and government gone wrong.) I won't go into the book now, but I will say in a nutshell it confirms that eating healthy (and no, things labeled "low-fat" do not constitute healthy,) is the only way to actually be healthy.

Anyways, I opened the fridge to take stock of what's available. I though of making burji, or spicy scrambled eggs with veggies. But all we had were tomatoes, scallions, garlic and basil. Not enough for burji, but those seem to be the key ingredients for pasta sauce, I thought. I pulled out some pasta and decided I was going to experiment today. Fast forward about twenty minutes and you've got a budding chef with pasta boiling on one side of the stove and the beginnings of some homemade pasta sauce simmering on the other. The thought of looking up a a recipe online crossed my mind, until I realized that would take the fun out of things.

So, I used my common sense and despite some initial reservations, ended up with a frying pan full of a bubbling red liquid. I wasn't expecting my concoction to taste like its thick, bottled, commercialized equivalent, but it was actually pretty good, with a pronounced sweetness I've never tasted in bottled sauces.

I figured, I was so far along, I might as well go all out on this dinner. I set myself a place in the formal dining room with the Thanksgiving plateware and put on the Godfather soundtrack, fitting in with my pseudo-Italian theme. I poured myself a glass of Merlot (which, let's be honest, is part of the reason why I'm so exceptionally happy with this meal right now), and began my meal with a toast to myself. I haven't exactly been feeling well the past two days,
so this self-satisfying evening was just what I needed.

Now for the most important part - the eating. A few bites in and I was pretty satisfied with myself. I think I finally understand the allure of cooking. Not only is the whole process of thinking, washing, chopping, sauteeing and ultimately setting out on the table, entertaining, but a taste of success doesn't get more delicious than this.

Punjabi Pride

I am so happy to be Pubjabi. I only wish I was more in touch with it.

Yesterday I watched the Hindi movie "Jab We Met" with Kareena Kapoor and Shahid Kapoor (who is cuuuute), and my new it song of the moment is the movie's "Nagada Nagada," not just for its crazy upbeat-ness, but because the swirling colors, thumping dohl and energetic bhangra encompass just what I love about my culture.

Every time I see a Punjabi song or Punjabi wedding scene, my face lights up with excitement that my wedding (hopefully) will get to be just like that. Granted a lot has to happen before that day will ever come, but that's a very different topic for a whole 'nother post.

While Kanika didi's wedding had its own hiccups, I still remember when the barat came, banging dohls, dancing family and all. Look at the wedding video and you'll see the smile never left my face. I know I might not be the most in-touch with my culture; the one time I attempted to perform an Indian dance I ended up in the hospital. But that doesn't stop me from having some fierce pride in being part of the loudest, brashest, most fun-loving Indian cultural sub-group there is. Yes I may speak more Hindi than Pubjabi (which doesn't actually mean much, given how broken my Hindi actually is, especially after five months of straight Spanish), but there isn't any other culture I'd want to be a part of. Which is why I'm over-the-moon excited for Rishi bhaiya's wedding in August. (Well, that and the prospect of meeting all his British-accented Punjabi friends :-P).

मेरा दील है पउका पंजाबी

Now that's what I call customer service

Dell may not make the best computers (or so says my brother), but what they possibly lack in construction, they more than make up for in customer service. And for that reason I'll probably always remain a Dell girl. Now, I've encountered more than my fair share of problems in the three years I've owned this laptop, but each time a Dell customer service rep has patiently walked me through how to fix it, whether it took thirty minutes or two hours.

A Dell contractor just left my house after replacing my monitor, whose left speaker hasn't been working for the past few months. While those five minutes were nothing but routine for him, my eyes were wide with trepidation at the way he was ripping out parts and yanking out wires. It was kind of like watching your child undergo surgery. I mean, both are treasured, indispensable and store a lot of memories, right? Anyways, for someone as computer hardware illiterate as I am, the speed and precision at which he was moving left me pretty amazed. Of course, the only thought going through my head while he actually was at work was "Please God please let that not have been the wrong...ooh I didn't know my keyboard was that floppy."

But, I'll assure you the ending was indeed a happy one, and now my volume meter can sit comfortably lower on the scale, instead of permanently at the top as it used to. Plus I now have a brand new, fingerprint-free monitor. Let's see how long it actually stays that way though. Too bad Dell doesn't also have a special home cleaning service.

Holiday Weekend

For someone who claims to enjoy writing so much, I sure as heck don't do enough of it, as evidenced by my failure in updating this blog. I promise you, it's not because of a lack of topics; I've got a list about two miles long of cosas...er, things, to write about (one of which is how it feels to leave Spain behind.) But, I figure, enough with coming up with excuses, because my thoughts aren't going to write themselves, and just about every vacation's memories have been lost due to my laziness.

For the first time in two weeks, I am faced with a day sans obligations. Last weekend we were on vacation on Chicago, and this week has been full of work and socializing in the city. Not that I'm complaining, of course. It's just that I've learned to appreciate much more the prospect of sleeping past 10 a.m. that is greeting me once I finish this entry.

My birthday was just amazing. Our office treated me to lunch, and as I bit into my half-pound sirloin burger, I realized I hadn't done that in quite some time. The interns got off around 2:15, so Megan and I were touristy and just walked around snapping photos of the Capitol and the Supreme Court before meeting up with the office for happy hour, where I underwent the rite of passage of being carded (and passing, obviously.)

That evening brought us to a tapas restaurant where me and 12 friends snacked and sangria'd the night away. Not only was I so happy to see and celebrate with the friends I hadn't seen in half a year, but two of my newer friends, one from Spain and the other intern in my office got along swimmingly with everyone else.

The next day brought us to America's birthday, and this year some friends and I finally decided to ring it in in the heart of it all - the nation's capital. So we wandered the city until we finally made our way down and secured a spot on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, three hours before the show was to begin. And although I knew the whole time that I was doing this mostly just to say I had, there were moments when I was seriously questioning my sanity (right around when my butt went numb from sitting on a ten-inch wide marble step with my back and legs getting soaked from the water droplets dripping off our umbrellas.) And after some near flare-ups with angry people around us yelling at the crowds to move out of the way, the fireworks began and any resentment was pushed aside.

Despite the fact that a huge cloud or smoke plume was blocking half the fireworks, they were still pretty impressive. I never knew fireworks could be that humongous or that loud. I do think the entire thing would be more worth it if the weather weren't so wet and you came with a picnic meal, and gave yourself more than three square feet of space in which to spread four people, but hey, I did come out with a story to tell.

Today Jenna and I met up with our friend Mary from Spain. After lunch it was back to the Mall, where we saw the Vietnam, WWII, Jefferson, FDR and Lincoln Memorials. (Just a friendly reminder: When walking around D.C. in the humid summer months, no matter what, keep a water bottle handy.) After Mary left, Jenna and I watched the pilot episode of West Wing, a show I can't believe I didn't watch before and am excited to dive into.

That's enough of the "Dear Diary" business for now. Tomorrow I promise I'll have something more substantive to write about, but for now, all I can think about is finally closing my half-drooping eyes and not opening them for another twelve hours.

Birthday Wishes

Getting a phone call from family on your birthday isn't out of the ordinary. But when it's your younger cousins calling from a phone booth 7,300 miles away and 10 hours ahead, you realize how nice it is to have people who care.

Exactly one year ago, I was celebrating my 20th birthday with my relatives in India, who I hadn't seen in four years. My cousin Sumegha, whose birthday is two days after mine, and I had a joint celebration, and low-key as it was, I couldn't have wished for anything more. And even today is shaping up to be another pretty good birthday, that phone call has just made the birthday smile etched onto my face a little wider.

Tim Russert

The news of this legendary journalist shocked me to to the core today. Here is the succinct reflection I submitted to the Post Web site and the local news station.

As a D.C. area journalism and politics student, the news of Tim Russert's passing has shocked and saddened me deeply. Tim Russert represents the gold standard in the field, and his passion and thoroughness are what my classmates and I aspire to embody. My dad always says that Russert and his little white board are what demystified the American electoral system for him. What a shame to have lost him so young. I know he must be chewing God out right now for taking him before November 2008. My thoughts and prayers go out to his family.

Russert defined the field I want to go into, but it isn't just students and professionals that can learn from him. He made politics engaging and interesting to everyone in America. He will be missed sorely, especially in the wake of the most important presidential election cycle in recent American history.

Online Free-for-all

Didn´t I tell you I was skeptical of this whole blogging thing.

This is why I haven´t put up pictures on the blog so far, and now I probably won´t.

I heart Internet access

FINALLY! I have proper internet access again!!!!!!!!

In the past few days, I've realized that it´s not so much that we take the internet and cellphones for granted (although we do), but that we take having immediate access to them for granted. If nothing else, this is what I've learned in the past four days. How am I supposed to keep up with my life without immediate internet access?!?! I guess we'll find out, though now that I've started classes and the university´s library is open all day, I guess it'll be easier. And, luckily, there's an internet cafe right across the street from my apartment.

I'm in Spain now, (if you hadn't already guessed) and despite all my last minute jitters, the trip over was fine. I exchanged money before leaving the US, found my connecting gate without any problems, and the taxi ride went smoothly, and as was even cheaper than I thought. Strangely, the trip went by extremely quickly, which doesn't usually happen with me and plane rides. I don´t really know what I was feeling on my way over; "me da igual" is the only way I can think to put it, which basically translates to "I don't care."

I'm in the library of my university and I can't even begin to explain how good it feels to just be on a computer where I don´t have a time limit and I don't have to pay for access.

I've begun chronicling my actual time abroad on another blog - La Vida Madrileña, so I won't repeat everything here. Obviously, I'll be updating that as regularly as I can, and I´m not sure what I'm going to be putting here, but I don't plan on abandoning this one.

Bueno, vamos a ver...

Election Results and Last-Minute Jitters

Well, there you have it. More than a year of campaigning and the real thing has begun. Obama and Huckabee are rejoicing at passing their first tests, while Romney, Clinton and the others will have to figure out what they did wrong and how to fix it.

And just when things start to get interesting, just when I finally start getting really into the whole thing, I have to leave the country. Yup, the day has finally (almost) arrived. Twenty-four hours from now I will in the air headed for my Spanish adventure.

While I was glued to the T.V. watching CNN's coverage of the caucuses this evening, I realized that for all the other primaries, I'd have to resort to checking the Washington Post's home page when I wake up the next morning six time zones away. I'm going to be sleeping through our electoral process!

While I should be excited about this trip abroad finally beginning, I can't help but, well, not be. I was relieved to find that Supraja went through the exact same thing before she went to Paris last year. Every time I see a commercial about the People's Choice Awards airing later this month, or the movie 27 Dresses coming out in theaters, or even how the New Hampshire primaries are coming up on Tuesday, my first thought is Oh, I'm not going to be here for that. Not that I'd even watch the People's Choice Awards or go see 27 Dresses, but the idea that things are still going to be happening here while I'm gone is strange to me. I know that sounds like an arrogant thing to say, but it's true.

And I'm reverting back to my old habit (which I get completely from Mom) of worrying about things. Like, freak out type of worrying. Am I taking too many pairs of jeans? Will I have enough space to bring things back? Will I be able to find the gate for my connecting flight? Will I find some place to exchange my money? How will the cab ride to my host mother's house go?

I keep telling myself that things are always so much easier than you think they will be and I need to calm down and chill out. After all, didn't Supraja and Karen and Nancy survive abroad? Hell, didn't I myself survive going to Luxembourg alone last year?

But then it's also the same uncertainty of not knowing anyone and having to make friends all over again. Not that I even have a problem making friends or getting used to new things. It's strange, sometimes I think I operate in two very distinct mentalities. My mind constantly worries and analyzes and overanalyzes and tries to formulate a game plan for every situation, while my body just goes and does things. For example, when trying to talk to someone new, my mind will go over what to say initially to them, what their response might be, what I'll do if they say this and what I won't do if they say that, while my feet just walk over there, my mouth opens, and I introduce myself. As simple as that, I tell myself afterwards.

Finding my connecting flight in Paris last spring - I worried and worried about navigating an airport on my own, but once I got there, it was just as Papa said. You follow the signs and it's as easy as that. Seriously, no need to worry at all. Despite that, I still can't help but worry about everything. I know I shouldn't just wish time away and want it all to be over and for me to be settled in there, but I just can't help it.

Oh well, at least packing was a whole lot easier than I thought. I'd like to know how many points my blood pressure increased as I spent last semester worrying and worrying about how I'd pack for this adventure.