Heartbreak hotel
There's nothing quite like a good old country song to wreak havoc on your heartstrings. And while it may seem slightly ridiculous to imagine a city girl shedding sentimental tears over lyrics about cornfields and open country when her only experience with cornfields has been watching them pass outside her window on roadtrips, I can't help it. I'm a sucker through and through. The dusty image of salvation as a shotgun wedding in a pickup truck sung with a nasal twang and a fatalistic devil-may-care grin makes my heart beat faster and my eyes close, prickling with the plaintive crying of the guitar and some ancient undeniable Jungian Sehnen . . . perhaps I'm cheesy and outdated and pretty uncool, yes, but at least I take comfort in being passionately so. My current semi-country mix, which is so saccharine it stands in as a punishment, but I don't apologize:
Desperado -Eagles
It matters to me -Faith Hill
This is the night -Clay Aiken
Let's go to Vegas -Faith Hill
Carrying your love with me -George Strait
You had me from hello -Kenny Chesney
Everywhere -Tim McGraw
Come crying to me -Lonestar
Amazed -Lonestar
Forever and ever, Amen -Randy Travis
She don't know she's beautiful -Sammy Kershaw
Where the green grass grows -Tim McGraw
And now you know more about me than you'd think.
Friday, July 30, 2004
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
on a quotidien existence
I still wonder at my own capacity to settle down into the comfort of a schedule. Ah, what a seductive mistress is Habit, eh? Not the most beautiful companion, she nonetheless has small white hands and an easy way of putting food in front of your face that makes her indispensable to the lazy, such that you don't even realize until it's too late that Passion and Inspiration have rolled their eyes and left your side, tired of your capricious wants and indecisive ways.
I am back in NYC, and loving the whole English-speaking country deal. Ah, the obnoxious accents that only here do not seem out of place! Not being gainfully employed for the summer, I am whiling away my hours by laying on my back on the zebra-print carpet with warm cat on my stomach, talking to Lulu (the cat) about existentialism, my future, and what to eat for dinner (which if you think about it, are different versions of the same thing). My exotic travels to Barcelona, Cote d'Azur, Florence, Rome, Bombay and Delhi seem like some crazy technicolor slideshow that I sat through in a dark theater while drunk on absinthe as I lie here in this tiny living room flipping through bad daytime TV stations (oh, whether 'tis better to watch E! True Hollywood entertainment stories of Arnold Schwartzenegger and Maria Shriver or yet another episode of Law&Order? The indecision! The agony!), and searching the internet for signs and symptoms of Malaria to feed my hypochondria (I took tablets, but like a bad girl I stopped as soon as I got back).
Have been lunching with friends (this is what they'd call "networking" in b-school except that I have the unfortunate habit of only liking non-schmoozy types) and lazily picking up a few books, but my resolution to study some French has long gone out la fenêtre. Recently hopped up to Boston for a quick weekend reunion with college roomies, which has reinforced my impression that all memories and activities seem to revolve around food. We ate at our favorite haunts . . . and that was about it. This weekend I go home to California, and am looking forward to food, once again.
Okay, all this food is making me hungry, and I think the sweet potatoes in the oven are ready now.
Ta!
I still wonder at my own capacity to settle down into the comfort of a schedule. Ah, what a seductive mistress is Habit, eh? Not the most beautiful companion, she nonetheless has small white hands and an easy way of putting food in front of your face that makes her indispensable to the lazy, such that you don't even realize until it's too late that Passion and Inspiration have rolled their eyes and left your side, tired of your capricious wants and indecisive ways.
I am back in NYC, and loving the whole English-speaking country deal. Ah, the obnoxious accents that only here do not seem out of place! Not being gainfully employed for the summer, I am whiling away my hours by laying on my back on the zebra-print carpet with warm cat on my stomach, talking to Lulu (the cat) about existentialism, my future, and what to eat for dinner (which if you think about it, are different versions of the same thing). My exotic travels to Barcelona, Cote d'Azur, Florence, Rome, Bombay and Delhi seem like some crazy technicolor slideshow that I sat through in a dark theater while drunk on absinthe as I lie here in this tiny living room flipping through bad daytime TV stations (oh, whether 'tis better to watch E! True Hollywood entertainment stories of Arnold Schwartzenegger and Maria Shriver or yet another episode of Law&Order? The indecision! The agony!), and searching the internet for signs and symptoms of Malaria to feed my hypochondria (I took tablets, but like a bad girl I stopped as soon as I got back).
Have been lunching with friends (this is what they'd call "networking" in b-school except that I have the unfortunate habit of only liking non-schmoozy types) and lazily picking up a few books, but my resolution to study some French has long gone out la fenêtre. Recently hopped up to Boston for a quick weekend reunion with college roomies, which has reinforced my impression that all memories and activities seem to revolve around food. We ate at our favorite haunts . . . and that was about it. This weekend I go home to California, and am looking forward to food, once again.
Okay, all this food is making me hungry, and I think the sweet potatoes in the oven are ready now.
Ta!
Friday, July 23, 2004
Monday, July 12, 2004
My god, what has happened to me?
The last few weeks since school ended have been . . . well, there's no one word that I know which will capture it. There has been too much since then to write, and neither you nor I have the patience to read, so I'll keep it at snippets, in haphazardly chronological order.
. . . lying on my back and staring at the stars before the sun comes up as I realize that P3 is over, that the next day we are all leaving on our summer break, that INSEAD is more than half done, and that I am exhausted in every, every, every sense of the word . . .
. . . munching on a picnic of bread and cheese from the supermarket at a rest stop bench on the way between Fontainebleau and Barcelona with two buddies, smelling the summer heat and remembering car trips when I was a kid . . .
. . . screaming at the top of my lungs as a HUGE cockroach scrambled up the bathroom wall an inch from my face in our youth hostel in Barcelona . . .
. . . the sangria and tapas, fried cheese and bacon-wrapped dates at Ciudad Condal on Ramblas . . .
. . . sleeping, sticky from the car ride, with my feet sticking out of the car and watching the leaves and sunlight flash by my toes . . .
. . . staring out over the Cote d'Azur and feeling as if there ought to be a soundtrack for the view, with its red rooftops and white walls, its perfect Mediterranean and its heartbreaking hills . . .
. . . sipping Malibu and watching the slick dark waves in Juan les Pins and talking about God and growing up . . .
. . . sunbathing in Monaco on a rock, pretending that I don't care about the intense class distinctions I feel in this place. As I stare at the contrast between sandal and shorts-clad tourists and the designer-clad slickers coming out of the unspeakably expensive cars in front of the Monaco Casino, I feel that my world is very, very far away. . .
. . . A house painted all burgundy red with bright yellow trim in the setting sun on the road by the beach from Florence to Rome . . .
. . . the most beautiful coat in one of the Italian storefronts, a camel-colored thing with mandarin collars and multicolored buttons and sequins dancing across its hem . . .
. . . the houses on the bridge in Florence. What a lovely idea, to live suspended above flowing water, as if you are constantly on a journey . . .
. . . the obscene devotion and wealth and care and detail that is the Vatican, the lives that have grown, flamed, and faded with the centuries, now only grand empty ruins baking under the sun . . .
. . . taking shot after shot after shot (after awhile, we could only identify the color, not the liquor) and dancing deliriously, crazy on the tonic of seeing people I realized I truly counted as my friends . . .
. . . the dogs on the streets in Mumbai, sleeping or lounging or walking about, the beggars and the trash and the wear of the buildings, the cars and trains passing with listless but hungry eyes staring out . . .
. . . the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life, in the most beautiful dresses I have ever seen in my life, at the poshest wedding I have ever been to in my life . . .
. . . dancing like a rock star in the VIP section of a club and being told I was lucky I had fallen sick the first day in India and could not smell anything anymore, because the place was rank the the odor of crowd and humidity . . .
. . . realizing that Bollywood is a a reflection of life here, and not the other way around . . .
. . . staring at my toes in the swimming pool at our hotel as the monsoon rains come sweeping down, crashing toward me in endless, inevitable waves, closing my eyes and still seeing the steamy morning light . . .
. . . feeling an intense hole in the pit of my stomach, because I don't think my life is the same anymore . . .
. . . swishing about in my gold bangles, with mendhi snaking over my palms and fingers and a rich red sari licking its way across my body, I don't think a dress has ever made me feel so lovely . . .
. . . missing the good old US of A, and not being able to wait to get home. The problem is just that after having been to so many places and lived for so long away, I don't know what home is anymore. Is it New York? California? Insead? My heart is in all three, and we'll see how it all shakes out.
The last few weeks since school ended have been . . . well, there's no one word that I know which will capture it. There has been too much since then to write, and neither you nor I have the patience to read, so I'll keep it at snippets, in haphazardly chronological order.
. . . lying on my back and staring at the stars before the sun comes up as I realize that P3 is over, that the next day we are all leaving on our summer break, that INSEAD is more than half done, and that I am exhausted in every, every, every sense of the word . . .
. . . munching on a picnic of bread and cheese from the supermarket at a rest stop bench on the way between Fontainebleau and Barcelona with two buddies, smelling the summer heat and remembering car trips when I was a kid . . .
. . . screaming at the top of my lungs as a HUGE cockroach scrambled up the bathroom wall an inch from my face in our youth hostel in Barcelona . . .
. . . the sangria and tapas, fried cheese and bacon-wrapped dates at Ciudad Condal on Ramblas . . .
. . . sleeping, sticky from the car ride, with my feet sticking out of the car and watching the leaves and sunlight flash by my toes . . .
. . . staring out over the Cote d'Azur and feeling as if there ought to be a soundtrack for the view, with its red rooftops and white walls, its perfect Mediterranean and its heartbreaking hills . . .
. . . sipping Malibu and watching the slick dark waves in Juan les Pins and talking about God and growing up . . .
. . . sunbathing in Monaco on a rock, pretending that I don't care about the intense class distinctions I feel in this place. As I stare at the contrast between sandal and shorts-clad tourists and the designer-clad slickers coming out of the unspeakably expensive cars in front of the Monaco Casino, I feel that my world is very, very far away. . .
. . . A house painted all burgundy red with bright yellow trim in the setting sun on the road by the beach from Florence to Rome . . .
. . . the most beautiful coat in one of the Italian storefronts, a camel-colored thing with mandarin collars and multicolored buttons and sequins dancing across its hem . . .
. . . the houses on the bridge in Florence. What a lovely idea, to live suspended above flowing water, as if you are constantly on a journey . . .
. . . the obscene devotion and wealth and care and detail that is the Vatican, the lives that have grown, flamed, and faded with the centuries, now only grand empty ruins baking under the sun . . .
. . . taking shot after shot after shot (after awhile, we could only identify the color, not the liquor) and dancing deliriously, crazy on the tonic of seeing people I realized I truly counted as my friends . . .
. . . the dogs on the streets in Mumbai, sleeping or lounging or walking about, the beggars and the trash and the wear of the buildings, the cars and trains passing with listless but hungry eyes staring out . . .
. . . the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life, in the most beautiful dresses I have ever seen in my life, at the poshest wedding I have ever been to in my life . . .
. . . dancing like a rock star in the VIP section of a club and being told I was lucky I had fallen sick the first day in India and could not smell anything anymore, because the place was rank the the odor of crowd and humidity . . .
. . . realizing that Bollywood is a a reflection of life here, and not the other way around . . .
. . . staring at my toes in the swimming pool at our hotel as the monsoon rains come sweeping down, crashing toward me in endless, inevitable waves, closing my eyes and still seeing the steamy morning light . . .
. . . feeling an intense hole in the pit of my stomach, because I don't think my life is the same anymore . . .
. . . swishing about in my gold bangles, with mendhi snaking over my palms and fingers and a rich red sari licking its way across my body, I don't think a dress has ever made me feel so lovely . . .
. . . missing the good old US of A, and not being able to wait to get home. The problem is just that after having been to so many places and lived for so long away, I don't know what home is anymore. Is it New York? California? Insead? My heart is in all three, and we'll see how it all shakes out.
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