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.

Fake Thanksgiving

How many strikes does a person get before he's out? Well, in baseball, the answer is a simple three. But in real life, it's not so cut and dry.

You may have noticed that it's been a while since I mentioned the Yankees. Yes October maybe over with, but my silence here doesn't mean I haven't been following what's going on. The manager deal, the trade talks, A-Rod; I know it's all happening, but it's the news of Jeter's "tarnished image" that is compelling me to write today. After I read the I read Friday's New York Times story on how Jeter may have lied about his residency status to avoid paying city and states taxes, the cynic in me immediately came out. Ah ha, it cried, I told you, nobody is perfect.

I thought back to this book I read when I was younger, Sean Covey's "7 Rules of Highly Effective Teens." One of the early chapters explained how you should base your life around principles instead of things like material possessions or famous people. What happens when the famous people screw up, Covey asked? Where does that leave you? Even a seemingly flawless star is bound to have some skeletons that emerge from their closet. And while I've never thought of myself as wrapped up with the star shortstop, it did strike me a little odd that I didn't feel anything really, when I read the article. I didn't feel sad or angry or betrayed, and we're talking about the guy who got me into college here, remember.

I don't feel bad for him, that's for sure. I mean, the guy makes $14 million a year; he isn't exactly struggling to pay the rent. And the impression that I got was that he is a pretty frugal guy, not too much of a big spender. Then why in the world would he fudge around with taxes. I guess more than anything, the news left me curious. Mom said that at least it wasn't like he'd done anything bad on the field. But to me, cheating is cheating, and while I'll be looking out for more information on all this, I'm not exactly shedding any tears. That said, is he still my favorite player? Well yes, though I may not admire him as much as I used to if the allegations are true. But once again, none of us is perfect, and while I blame him for getting into the whole situation, I do give him (and most other famous people) credit for having to deal with every bad thing that happens to them in a very public way (though you'd think the millions of dollars they make is at least somewhat of a consolation to life in the public eye).

We had a similar discussion in journalism class today. Recently, the Post's classical music critic Tim Page sent a vicious e-mail to Marion Barry's office that was meant to request that Page's e-mail address be removed from a listserv, but ended up calling the councilman a "useless...crack-addict," We discussed to what level should journalists restrict themselves and debated what action should be taken against Page. All of us agreed that it was a stupid move on Page's part to send such a message over the internet and through his Post account, but almost all of us also agreed that Pulitzer Prize-winning Page doesn't deserve to be fired over such a thing. Obviously, some action should be taken, but seeing as the guy writes about classical music and not D.C. politics, perhaps firing him would be taking it too far. Prof said that increasingly nowadays, people's mistakes create a storm of controversy and you get hell for it for about a week, and then the brouhaha disappears and things go back to normal.

I don't think that's necessarily reserved for nowadays. Hasn't it always been like that, at least in terms of personal relationships. Sure, the technology makes it worse to make a mistake nowadays because the whole world can hear about it before you have a chance to wipe your hands off, but we've always had to deal with the shortcomings of friends and family and accept them for the flawed people they are.

This Saturday my friends planned a "Fake Thanksgiving" potluck, and I had intended on partaking in the festivities. But as the day went on, my mood soured until I got to the point where I had no desire to leave my room or speak to anyone for fear that I'd snap back. I couldn't even tell where the anger and frustration were coming from; true, earlier my roommates had tried to force me to see a movie I didn't want to, but I knew that wasn't the only thing that was bothering me. Needless to say I spend the evening in my room drifting in and out of sleep while they enjoyed the feast outside.

By Sunday I'd recovered and was back to my regular self. Around dinner time I opened the fridge, where, to my surprise, I found an aluminum-foil covered plate of food with my name and last night's menu printed on it. I smiled and popped into the microwave. Three minutes later I enjoyed the absolutely delicious (and I genuinely mean that - one day these girls are going to make some husbands very happy at dinnertime) meal they'd kindly set aside for me. It wasn't until later, when I told Mom about it, and she pointed out that they'd done that for me despite the fact that I hadn't asked them to and even though I'd maintained quite the frosty attitude throughout the day.

And then I realized, no matter what stupid things you do, whether you cheat on taxes, blow a fuse at someone, or just plain ignore the people around you, most of the time, they aren't just going to write you off. Boy it's nice to know that people will stick around even when you're not at your best. So thanks girls for making my evening last night!

Just a Message, Short and Sweet

It's funny how the littlest things sometimes make the biggest difference in your day. It was just a quick message from a friend, but it had me walking to class with a smile. It's not that I was even having a bad day, (the day ended up getting worse later on,) but it was definitely a welcome surprise when opening my inbox.

On Sunday, I saw a car with South Carolina tags and I thought of a friend of mine who lives there. She went to my university freshman year, but this school wasn't really a good fit for her, so she transferred to a school closer to home. We became pretty close that year, and I hadn't talked to her in a while, so I left her a message asking how everything was going and to tell her I missed her.

Around noon today, I read her reply, in which she told me how well everything was going. She ended the message with, "I miss you and I love ya always. You were one of the only things that got me through freshman year - and I will always be grateful for you."

Now I know it's a tad sappy, but she's one of those people who you know genuinely cares about you and means things when she says them. Imagine what a better place the world would be if we spent more time telling people how much they mean to us instead of constantly criticizing and accusing them.

This girl is one of the sweetest girls I've ever met and I'm genuinely happy that things are going so well for her. She's found a major and a career path that she's really passionate about, she's planning on graduating early and things are going really well with her boyfriend. It's funny, while I'm always happy for friends when good things happen, I'm usually also a teeny bit jealous at their success. (Oh come on, you know you do it too). But with her, I'm just genuinely happy. It's not that she doesn't have things to be envious of - I'm not having the success she is in the boy department, that's for sure. But there's something about her that makes you think, gosh she just deserves it all.

It's really nice to know that even if you live far away or don't talk to each other too often, there's someone out there who cares for you, and they aren't afraid to show it. We need more people like that in the world.

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...