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."