At some point during the third week of January, I get sick.
Two years ago, I was wrapping up a three-week long, four credit microeconomics course and starting my internship in the city when my body gave in. I had overambitiously thought that attending class from 9 a.m. to 12:20 p.m., commuting a hour and 15 minutes,then working for three hours, and then commuting back was a good idea.
I lasted three days doing that. The morning of my final exam, I awoke feeling miserable. My body ached and my head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. I could barely recall what an opportunity cost was; there was no way I could go to work.
Less than a week in and I'm already calling in sick, I thought. Boss is going to wonder what kind of a slacker did he intern did he just commit to. I sighed and dialed his number with trepidation. He didn't answer, so I left a message, apologizing at least five times in the process.
Fast forward one year. I was adjusting to life in Spain, and while details escape me, I do remember suffering from a nasty sore throat and cough that lasted a good two weeks. The pharmacy gave me some bitter orange-flavored powder that I mixed into water and forced down once a day. When that did nothing, Señora sent me back to the pharmacy, and when all they did was give me a worse tasting powder, she damned them and gave me her homemade remedy: a glass with the juice of one lemon, a tablespoon of honey and some water. Mmmm that stuff tasted so good. I sometimes drink it even when I'm not sick.
And now, dear reader, I am suffering for the third year in a row. I sensed it coming on Friday night when I crawled into bed. There was a tickle in my throat and a tingle in my nose that warned me to watch out. And sure enough, yesterday morning I awoke feeling like crap. I spent the entire day hunched over my computer working on the thesis with Aley. We ended up being extremely productive, and for that reason I didn't have time to think about my weakened state.
But once we wrapped for the day, it went straight downhill. Luckily there's no sore throat, just sneezing, coughing, body aches and a nose I've been blowing like a foghorn.
Final semester, here I come.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
An Asking of My Own
Since October, I've been following The Daily Asker, a blog documenting one woman's quest to, as the name suggests, ask for something every day for a year.
Last week I made an asking of my own. I'm not meek by character, but I'm surprisingly deferential to those with authority. I use the term authority loosely, because in this case, all it took to confer "authority" was a glass ticket window.
About two weeks ago, my friend Christin and I decided to get dinner and a movie. The parking lot was half-full, but the ticket area was empty save the two bored-looking high school girls manning the booth.
Christin walked up to the blonde on the left, I took the brunette on the right.
"One for the 6:45 showing of Benjamin Button," I said, handing her my credit card. As she slid me the receipt, Christin, who was still getting out her wallet, asked if there was a student discount. There was, $2 off.
"Oh, can I get the student discount too?" I asked, pulling out my college ID.
"Sorry, the transaction's already gone through. You have to ask for a discount first," she said monotonously.
Normally, I would have believed her and simply accepted the higher price to avoid causing a scene or looking like a cheapskate. After all, what do I know about credit card machines. But this time I decided to fight for my $2.
"Well, I didn't know there was a discount. Can't you just cancel the transaction and do it again?"
No, that would take the manager's approval, she said.
"Couldn't you just give me $2 cash? I mean, I am a student,"
No, then their cash drawer would be short.
I kept pressing, firmly but politely. They mentioned the manager again.
"OK, then may I speak to the manager?"
The two girls exchanged a look.
"You really want me to call the manager over $2?" the blonde asked incredulously.
"Yeah, I'd appreciate it if you could," I said.
She sighed and got the guy, who couldn't have been more than a year or two older than me.
"Oh yeah, we can do that for you," he said nonchalantly after I explained him what had happened.
I thanked him and the other two profusely and Christin and I went on to watch God's greatest creation (Brad Pitt, *sigh*) reverse age for the next two hours.
Gained: $2, the self-assurance not to believe everything I hear, and the self-confidence not to care what two bored high-schoolers who I will never see again thought of me.
Last week I made an asking of my own. I'm not meek by character, but I'm surprisingly deferential to those with authority. I use the term authority loosely, because in this case, all it took to confer "authority" was a glass ticket window.
About two weeks ago, my friend Christin and I decided to get dinner and a movie. The parking lot was half-full, but the ticket area was empty save the two bored-looking high school girls manning the booth.
Christin walked up to the blonde on the left, I took the brunette on the right.
"One for the 6:45 showing of Benjamin Button," I said, handing her my credit card. As she slid me the receipt, Christin, who was still getting out her wallet, asked if there was a student discount. There was, $2 off.
"Oh, can I get the student discount too?" I asked, pulling out my college ID.
"Sorry, the transaction's already gone through. You have to ask for a discount first," she said monotonously.
Normally, I would have believed her and simply accepted the higher price to avoid causing a scene or looking like a cheapskate. After all, what do I know about credit card machines. But this time I decided to fight for my $2.
"Well, I didn't know there was a discount. Can't you just cancel the transaction and do it again?"
No, that would take the manager's approval, she said.
"Couldn't you just give me $2 cash? I mean, I am a student,"
No, then their cash drawer would be short.
I kept pressing, firmly but politely. They mentioned the manager again.
"OK, then may I speak to the manager?"
The two girls exchanged a look.
"You really want me to call the manager over $2?" the blonde asked incredulously.
"Yeah, I'd appreciate it if you could," I said.
She sighed and got the guy, who couldn't have been more than a year or two older than me.
"Oh yeah, we can do that for you," he said nonchalantly after I explained him what had happened.
I thanked him and the other two profusely and Christin and I went on to watch God's greatest creation (Brad Pitt, *sigh*) reverse age for the next two hours.
Gained: $2, the self-assurance not to believe everything I hear, and the self-confidence not to care what two bored high-schoolers who I will never see again thought of me.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Inauguration
What an incredible day.
When we left campus at 5:45 a.m., a crescent moon was shining in the deep navy blue sky. By the time we made it out of Metro's L'fEnfant Plaza station almost 75 minutes later, an indigo sky and the artificial orange glow of street lights bathed the river of people on Seventh Street. One name graced many of their hats, scarves, shirts and sweatshirts. Shouts of "Good Morning," and "Welcome to the Inauguration," came from red-hat clad volunteers.
By 7:30 the six of us were rooted to a spot of the National Mall's cold packed dirt between Seventh and Fourth Streets. We stood, we (well, I,) dozed, we waited. The sky went from lavender to to cerulean and the sun's pointed rays did nothing to keep the 20-degree air from seeping through the multiple layers of socks, gloves, leggings, and sweatshirts, numbing our fingers and toes.
While we waited, we sang along to "American Pie" and "This Land is Your Land" replayed from Sunday's concert. We stamped our feet and marched in place to jumpstart blood flow. We craned our necks around the 6-foot-4 guys in front of us for fleeting glimpses at the jumbotron. We waved the American flags the Boy Scouts of America gave us. The occasional pushy spectator jostled through, but despite everything, a celebratory air permeated the jovial crowd.
Four-and-a-half hours later, our 43rd president was introduced for the last time. Many booed; we didn't. Our country's leaders deserve respect, whether or not their policies are agreeable. Then our 44th president stepped up to take his oath. The jumbotron came into view and I captured the botched swearing-in on video.
Finally the moment arrived. Ever since I missed the Obama rally on campus during the 2006 midterm elections, I'd been waiting to hear the Great One speak. Sure, the best view might come from sitting at home, but the enraptured silence of the audience, the echo of his voice off the city's marble monuments telling us how we will succeed, nothing, absolutely nothing can top that.
Officially, Obama's constituency resides in the United States. But the entire world seems to be pinning everything on this man's shoulders. I don't think anyone has ever faced such pressure. Yet in this speech, Barack Obama reminded us that and that we will rise above these rough times not because we as Americans are entitled to, but because we owe it to the rest of the world to. It's no longer us vs. them, it's us and them.
No, charisma isn't everything and talk only gets us so far. But there is something in this man, a seed of passion, an innate determination that says, trust me. Things won't change tomorrow, but they will soon enough.
So was it worth it? Braving the cold for more than four hours, weaving through intense crowds for in search of food for another hour, standing in a stuffy hallway for two more hours while waiting for the Metro back to campus- a total of 13 hours, sore legs and an aching back just to hear an 18-minute speech? Yes, it was worth every bone-chilling moment, made even the better because each was spent with friends new and old.
Incredible, indeed.
When we left campus at 5:45 a.m., a crescent moon was shining in the deep navy blue sky. By the time we made it out of Metro's L'fEnfant Plaza station almost 75 minutes later, an indigo sky and the artificial orange glow of street lights bathed the river of people on Seventh Street. One name graced many of their hats, scarves, shirts and sweatshirts. Shouts of "Good Morning," and "Welcome to the Inauguration," came from red-hat clad volunteers.
By 7:30 the six of us were rooted to a spot of the National Mall's cold packed dirt between Seventh and Fourth Streets. We stood, we (well, I,) dozed, we waited. The sky went from lavender to to cerulean and the sun's pointed rays did nothing to keep the 20-degree air from seeping through the multiple layers of socks, gloves, leggings, and sweatshirts, numbing our fingers and toes.
While we waited, we sang along to "American Pie" and "This Land is Your Land" replayed from Sunday's concert. We stamped our feet and marched in place to jumpstart blood flow. We craned our necks around the 6-foot-4 guys in front of us for fleeting glimpses at the jumbotron. We waved the American flags the Boy Scouts of America gave us. The occasional pushy spectator jostled through, but despite everything, a celebratory air permeated the jovial crowd.
Four-and-a-half hours later, our 43rd president was introduced for the last time. Many booed; we didn't. Our country's leaders deserve respect, whether or not their policies are agreeable. Then our 44th president stepped up to take his oath. The jumbotron came into view and I captured the botched swearing-in on video.
Finally the moment arrived. Ever since I missed the Obama rally on campus during the 2006 midterm elections, I'd been waiting to hear the Great One speak. Sure, the best view might come from sitting at home, but the enraptured silence of the audience, the echo of his voice off the city's marble monuments telling us how we will succeed, nothing, absolutely nothing can top that.
Officially, Obama's constituency resides in the United States. But the entire world seems to be pinning everything on this man's shoulders. I don't think anyone has ever faced such pressure. Yet in this speech, Barack Obama reminded us that and that we will rise above these rough times not because we as Americans are entitled to, but because we owe it to the rest of the world to. It's no longer us vs. them, it's us and them.
No, charisma isn't everything and talk only gets us so far. But there is something in this man, a seed of passion, an innate determination that says, trust me. Things won't change tomorrow, but they will soon enough.
So was it worth it? Braving the cold for more than four hours, weaving through intense crowds for in search of food for another hour, standing in a stuffy hallway for two more hours while waiting for the Metro back to campus- a total of 13 hours, sore legs and an aching back just to hear an 18-minute speech? Yes, it was worth every bone-chilling moment, made even the better because each was spent with friends new and old.
Incredible, indeed.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
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"
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!
Friday, December 26, 2008
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.
"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.
Friday, December 19, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
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!
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!
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