Frozen Honey

I have a bear-shaped honey jar on top of my desk. Since the honey crystallized I had to put the jar upside down, but still a quarter of it is too solid and definitely not coming down. If this bear-shaped honey jar was as an hourglass, the countdown would have stopped on Monday, freezing a precise moment in time. It might also mean that the honey is slowly dripping, extending my perception of time (at least during office hours). I read a good explanation on why every new year feels shorter than the previous one. When you are six years old, a year is actually a sixth of your entire life. A sixth of my life now is represented by 5 years, so one year is just a tiny fraction that promises to get smaller as years go by. I suddenly remember my 3th grade Math teacher saying “You can eternally divide fractions into smaller fractions.”

I haven't decided on my 2010 resolutions. I guess I'll just wait until the Chinese New Year's celebration to come with a thoughtful list of resolutions and the roadmap on how to achieve them. I used to be too faithful that things will be completed just by naming them. Now, as experience starts to settle, I know magic is not enough. Of course it doesn't mean that I lost my appetite to wish for wonderful and unrealistic things to happen (like Victor finding a great job in New York).

I´m at home by myself waiting for the clay facemask to dry. Today is the first day of a new decade which feels as yesterday, with the difference that I´m trying really hard to make-believe that indeed a new era is staring just now, as the clay is sucking all impurity from my skin. An indecisive new year´s eve marked the celebration, just the precise reflection of the last years. This was the first year we had no plans, so we just decided to go with the flow. We started the evening having a late lunch/early dinner with friends from my childhood at a Thai place, later making a stop at Veneiros for a taste of their famous cheesecake, and we ended at Café Frida playing DJ with my iPhone and talking to Margarita Pracatan, an underground celebrity and personal friend of Boy George. After a long night, an unexpected call from my cousins in Mexico and realizing that Victor is my family made the new beginning worth.

Shadows in the clouds

As I was telling Diego yesterday during our live broadcast on radio global, only in New York I've seen the buildings project shadows into the sky. It's not usual, you need the right combination of fog density, light and tall buildings. I took this picture last summer, one night after Oscar and I left our favorite wine bar in Midtown Manhattan. We haven't been there in a while, as we haven't had our usual long conversations. Things are different now. The year is almost over and I don't have my new year's resolutions. Last year I painted my house, and changed the layout of my room entirely. This year I want to throw things away, I just want to keep the basics and leave room for breathing (and new ideas!). I also want to go back to my old habits of finding beauty on almost everything, like enjoying the sight of the fog covering the buildings.

while you read...

Victor is reading his book about Mexican caudillo and revolutionary Pancho Villa. He laughs, stops reading and mention that he is comparing this book to Sun Tzu's Art of War. I oppose war, but I have to admit that Master Tzu's teachings are amazingly useful. While he reads I play with my iPod shuffle, hoping the variety in music will provide me with enough ideas and inspiration to write. As I do so, Oscar arrives. We take a minute to discuss his day, Argentinean food and good news from Carlos, someone he dated last year. Dating for gay men seems as complicated as it is for heterosexual women. It's not hard to hook-up with someone, but it's hard to keep it going, not to mention to transform dating into a real relationship. My iPod jumps to a Coldcut podcast that uses Black Uhuru's dub as a sample. The last time I heard this track Capuchi and I were driving from San Diego to Tijuana on his family's purple van. This was about four years ago, and the only time I've crossed the US-Mexico border. I was surprised about how you can actually travel to Mexico without getting questioned. By definition, crossing a border on a purple passenger van without showing my passport makes me feel suspicious, and dub, as a perfect soundtrack, reinforced the feeling. Victor continues to laugh to his book, and TV sounds come from Oscar's bedroom. I'm cold, so I'm wearing a colorful Peruvian hat I brought from my last trip to Machu Picchu. I'm 31, and I feel glad that I can still afford to enjoy weekday nights listening to music, drinking Riesling and having a lover/boyfriend without having to look glamourous.

My Mom will meet her grandchildren for the first time today; as a matter of fact she might just be doing so as I write. The story of most families is not linear, nor is it easy to tell. There are so many reasons on why things go wrong and ties are broken, so many words unspoken, pride, fear and love; and suddenly there comes the need to get the pieces back together. Today will become her happiest Christmas story.

For me, this will be a forced New York Christmas vacation. My visa renovation is in process, so it’s not possible to leave the country at this time. Nevertheless, I’m happy as I've never got the chance to enjoy the city as a tourist with Victor. Also, I need some time for myself, to write this year’s recount, and start drafting ideas for the coming one. “2010 will be a great year,” Neil, the building manager told me today as I was stepping in the elevator. In the meantime, it’s just 4:30 pm and already getting dark, and I still got lots of pending tasks before heading home.

Loose ideas

Victor talks to his mom while I listen to an old song from a Mark Farina's album. I remember Lalis doing her free-style dancing to this song, red curls shaking and all, which makes me think that my hair is so boring. I need to have a hair-do that makes a statement; that makes people think about something interesting. Is that even possible? What will be interesting for me? Learning the new mathematical theorems, or how to break historical vicious cycles. I guess my hair could never spark any of these questions in anyone, but there's nothing wrong in trying it. It's very cold outside, and so windy that our window panes are banging. I've been eating kettle corn popcorn while I slowly drink a glass of Shiraz. I'm addicted to salty-sweet flavors, it makes my life easier as I don't have to decide between salty or sweet. Victor is reading out loud the names of Latin American countries in Japanese, " Chile takes only four symbols!". Maybe that's because it's phonetic. As he admires his paper Globe he notices a little island near the South Pole, between Africa and Australia, really south. "Do you think someone lives here?" he asks, "It's so lost in the middle of nowhere." I guess that our planet is just lost in the middle of nowhere. So many questions remain unanswered. As I think this my iPod shuffle moves to French hip-hop, and I wonder what kind of hair-do French-African women are using these days.

Happy Birthday

Yesterday was my grandmother's birthday. She didn't celebrated; she lost all trace of memory a few years ago. I started documenting her life at the same time she started loosing her ability to communicate. I guess it's my way to feel connected.

The office is very cold today; it usually takes a while for the building managment to get the thermostate correct. In the meantime we debate if it's too much to wear a coat indoors. Some days just feel like bad luck days, small bad things that keep accumulating. Today it started with the burned and extremly sweet coffee from the new guy at the coffee stand; not to mention that the bag of chips I bought for lunch exploded as I was trying to open it, leaving small pieces of cheddar and salt all over my black velvet pants. Now at 6:01 pm I got an email from my lawyer saying the US immigration department needs extra documentation to approve my visa. Some days you wished you had stayed home to avoid all kind of small catastrophes. On the flip side, I got an email from Agatha with some good insights about how she sees my future. Promising.

My uncle Yemil, the last full-blooded Lebanese in my family, died last week. I never met my grandfather, but I spent some exceptional time with his brothers when I was a little girl. They migrated from Lebanon to Orizaba, Mexico, where they grew up to become Mexicans that never again pronounced a word in Arabic. We always talk about migration as a larger economic and sociopolitical process, but we rarely think ourselves as a result from it. It might help to read my grandmother's cookbook to tell the story of migration in my family. Some people get surprised that in my house no one cooks mole, not even enchiladas; sad enough, none of us knows how to make them. On the other hand, as a child I learned to prepare stuffed grape leaves, and cook rice with pine nuts. Most of my family's recipes come from Spain, although we eat plantain with almost every meal as my great-grandfather spent years in Cuba on his way to Mexico. Two days ago Javier, a Peruvian friend with Chinese, Italian and Spanish descent, asked me if I felt Lebanese to certain extent. Truth is I don't, as no one in my family tried to preserve that identity. I wish I could drink coffee at a coffee shop in Beirut, but also I'm much more fond to chiles verdes than any of my ancestors.

"You should write in your blog that she is pregnant," Victor said after spotting Amanda Peet at Bubby's in Tribeca this morning. We woke up earlier than usual because Victor needed to take a picture of the Wall Street bull. Maria came along; today is the first time that I make her leave the house without taking a shower. Our intention was to get to the bull statue before the hoards of tourists, but we were not successful. We waited for the right moment, but we got discouraged after a bus with a group of Japanese men parked across Broadway. We walked uptown by the river until we were too hungry to keep going. "This is the first time that I see a movie star in person," Maria said as Amanda Peet ate her omelet. She (Maria) and Victor talked for a long time about their families, proudly sharing the stories about their ancestors while I quietly stirred my coffee. In the late afternoon we devoured a chocolate cake on a bench by The Plaza before getting into the movies to watch Coco Before Chanel. "Women always have it harder," Maria said after leaving the movie theater, "they need to choose between love and a career." Truth is there is not an easy way to get either or both, but I agree with her, for women it seems always harder.

We are listening to Nina Simone, her strong voice fills the living room while I'm writing. At the same time Enrique, Oscar's friend, is taking a nap in the guest room and we can hear him snore; quite loud actually. It's 10:26 of a Saturday night, but it's cold outside and I rather stay home. I left the house early this morning and walked around Union Square's Farmer's Market before meeting Genoveva for brunch at the Blue Water Grill. It was a beautiful day; one of those crispy and sunny autumn days, perfect to walk around freshly cut basil, wild arugula and homemade rhubarb pie. I'm going back home where I was born sings Ms. Simone, First I planned to stay but I can't live this way. Victor is reading Crude World, a book about oil, and how it becomes a political and economical burden for developing countries. Enrique continues to snore. I'm sitting on a table by his bedroom so I'm keeping track of his sleeping pattern (he almost chuckles as I'm typing this). Try to understand, I think this city is grand. During brunch Genoveva and I had the usual girls' talk: men, love, work and other life dilemmas. Although she got married 7 months ago, we still share the eternal unsettlement feeling. But with all its charm, give me a little country farm. "It seems longer since you got married," I said, "I miss those days, before and after your wedding, and how that event bring all of us together." Things change and I'm an adventurous nostalgic; so I guess I'll be always missing something.

Thanksgiving in Little Italy
We came to Pellegrino's in Little Italy for Thanksgiving dinner. Bulent worked here when he first moved from Turkey. "They are like my family, these guys, they looked after me" he said while holding Cristina in his arms. Anthony, the manager, has been working in this place for more than sixteen years. "I grew up in New York City, I lived in every neighborhood, from South Seaport to Bensonhurst in Brooklyn," he answered when asked about his background. I expected him to be Italian, but being from New York and having Italian descent seems more than enough. "Cristina, why you moved here, and what made you stay?" I inquired. "All my friends were getting married in my hometown as a way of getting out of their homes and gaining freedom," she replied, "but I always knew it was not for me." Cristina found a new family in the city, with Rosy and Nestor serving as moral pillars all these years. On the other side of the table Nestor relentlessly fights the short ribs on his dinner plate. At age 85 he has lost most of his body fat and appetite. He still got his acid humor and the smoking habit. "Do you think New York has changed for better?" I asked Anthony. "It's hard to tell," he replied, "it is certainly safer, but I miss the character of certain neighborhoods. Take for example Times Square, it used to be filled with prostitution and hustlers and now it's sort of a Disney consortium." Nestor suddenly decides he doesn't like his food and leaves half of it untouched, as he murmurs complaints to Victor and me that are hard to understand. As we wait for our glass of Averna and expresso I think how happy I feel and how everything seems in its place for a moment.

Sitcom victim
I stare outside the restaurant window, I take a sip of my drink, and a UPS truck parks across the street. In the background Sade’s No Ordinary Love is playing. “This is exactly how I imagined it,” I tell Victor, as I’m clearly relaxed after drinking half my glass. I was a little girl in Mexico City dreaming about my life as an adult in New York, while staring at the limitless city lights from the balcony. My mom played eighties music and Sade was included in her playlist. Her voice transports me to that time when I was hoping to be here; and here I am. “I’m just missing the loft,” I added. “How did you knew about lofts as a little girl?” Victor asked suspiciously. “From an old sitcom about a young woman that worked at a music record label. She also had a brick wall at her apartment, and since then I’ve been crazy about red brick walls.”

Lalis left on Sunday afternoon, leaving us without her high-pitched laughter and her reddish and uncontrollable curls. After she closed the door and waved goodbye from the gypsy cab I felt so tired and sad that I slept the day away. She is so in love with Mario that she brought some kind of sunshine into our house. "I'm afraid to say so, but this man is the love of my life," she said in confidence Sunday morning while we were drinking a latte at Martha's Bakery. This is a huge deal for her; she has never let herself go this deep. She is the kind of girl that has a strong personality, so men tend to feel threatened by her. Mario, on the contrary, loves her all the way; even more so when she is firm and even capricious.
We are going to the Metropolitan Opera House tonight to see Turandot; the second opera in a week; we saw La Damnation de Faust with Lalis and Mario on Saturday. Some of my friends think opera is artsy-fartsy, not recognizing all the pieces of hard work that are involved for every single production. Anyway, after the opera we celebrated Victor´s birthday at Pio-Pio, a Peruvian chicken restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen eating pollo with aji, maduros, and rice and beans.

I met Sarah at Union Square after work today. She looked beautiful with her long straight blonde hair; she was shining. I haven't seen her for a while. The last time I saw her was during her book signing in Chelsea, though we had no time to talk personal matters. She was truly my first American friend; I met her while she was waiting for the loan approval to go to the School of Journalism at NYU. Back then drinking coffee in her living room was the only thing that felt sane. New York was still a unmanageable place for us, and we were young, poor and single (well, I was actually married for a while, but I got divorced later). She got married a year ago and is now completing a fellowship at Columbia University to write her second book on the downside of desegregation in the public education system. Her diamond ring shines as she moves her hands while speaking. "I haven't stopped wearing it since I got it," she said, "it's small but it's still Tiffany's." We've come a long way. For her moving from Kentucky to New York for graduate school, having already published a book and a second one underway is not a small achievement. I still recall drinking Bourbon, listening to old country records and cooking fish risotto at her place while wondering how to get a real job and some kind of real love. "I've made up my mind," I said. "I'm more inclined to study management and marketing. I'm not dreaming about going to film school anymore; I'm not that talented." "Oh no, you are talented," she replied. But we both know things are quite harder than they seem when you can't miss paying the rent each month. There is still a long way to go. "No one knows what will happen to journalism," she said worried, "newspapers are getting out of print." "Why don't you write a blog?" I asked. "No, I feel my mom will be the only one reading it." she said while holding her breath. Still her book Gangs in Garden City is available at any Barnes and Noble across the country.