The other day, I was in NYC and asked a friend if I seemed at all different. “Have I changed at all in the past few months?” I asked, hoping he would remark on my amazing transformation since I quit my job in May.
“No,” he laughed. “You are EXACTLY the same. In fact, I think you complain even more now!” he boomed.
“Why is life so hard?!” I wailed mockingly (multiple times) in response while towing all my crazy luggage behind me.
Well, I feel different on the inside, OK?!
Thank you. Thank you to everyone who has supported me through this ecstatic and tumultuous period of my life, of me becoming something. Me becoming more me.
First night back – BFFs reunited
My sister working on the fire escape
Marky-Mark, my sister’s BF, going to work
Flopping and watching Olympics and Sheraton
Deep chats at Jivamukti Cafe with Sophie
RentHop Two Sigma, purveyor of snacks and space
Lindsey support on a hard night
Amazing chicken at Vinegar Hill House with DD
Kroberts, love you for the support
Ashish, thanks for helping me try to get out of my head
When I left my job in May, I was divided on what I wanted to do with my life, occupation-wise. Part of me wanted to jump into another full-time job (something that would look good on paper!), and part of me just wanted to do nothing. The part that wanted to do nothing but couldn’t really fully accept that reality decided to start a consulting firm.
I started learning guitar. I needed a (non-traumatic) way to return to my love of music and to distract myself from “thoughts.” My trauma is really associated with the piano and merciless Asian tiger parent monitoring. (Shivers!). Music just operates on a different plane. It’s a language, emotion, field. It has the power to transport and heal.
When I was younger, I played piano and sang classical/opera. The first instrument I learned was actually violin, but that abruptly ended when at the age of 4 or so, I took my tiny quarter size violin and bashed it over my babysitter’s head for interrupting me and talking too much while I was practicing. The bridge was solidly bashed in, and my parents apparently did not think it was a good idea to get a new one. I still remember that moment very well. Years later, we would apologize to the little Korean granny when we would run into her at the grocery store. Yes, I was kind of a little devil child. I’m trying to make up for it in my old age.
Now that I’m back in NYC, I have retrieved my guitar and plan to reengage. I’ve started to put together a list of songs to learn. Most of them are massively cheesy. This little rendition of “Collide” by Howie Day is a bit iffy with my cold and sharpness, but oh well. Next purchase, a capo. Next mission, finding a good website / online tutorial for guitar.
I think I’ve found my temporary new role model. Like him, I’m without a real home, but I currently have 2 suitcases, a duffel bag, yoga mat, and guitar I’m roaming with. Time to reduce.
“The No. 1 search phrase on Google that takes people to my blog is ‘I want to die,’” according to him. I suppose that’s more uplifting than the 3 people who read my blog. Thank you, my friends. You’re all that is not ephemeral for me right now.
The past week has been a bit funk-di-fied. One of the most self-enriching things to do when you’re feeling aimless or down is to give back. Yesterday, I spent the morning volunteering for an organization called Achilles International. They operate independently but also via sign-ups through NY Cares, which lists volunteer opportunities across NYC. The organization has a number of programs. One of them takes place every Saturday morning in Central Park. You are paired with kids with disabilities and run 1-2 laps around the bridle path (up to 3.5 miles).
This is a perfect opportunity for those who enjoy running and want to volunteer to enable and empower people with disabilities to achieve their athletic goals. Continue reading Giving back→
Sometimes I blame NYC for all my problems. There is truth to the idea that a city itself is a living being. A character unto itself. The composite all of its inhabitants, environmental features, and history. Different places and people draw out different sides and versions of yourself. For me, it has been a drinking city. A workaholic city and a drinking city. Time and funds are quickly drained with the carousing, socializing, rents, and the constant temptation to do and sample everything. You can make millions and still feel poor.
It was 2am. I was walking back slowly from a dinner at the Mexican restaurant Rosie’s in the East Village, which was followed by drinks and deep conversation at a tiny bar with opera singers and an offbeat crew of barmaids and patrons. It felt more like Bavaria than NYC.
My gait and facial expression were probably dead giveaways that I was deep in thought. I had written someone a monster-length text saying that I really didn’t want to go to the beach with him the next day. It was for a petty reason. He didn’t want to walk a few extra blocks to meet me at a subway stop that would have made more sense for both of us and for our ultimate destination. He was adamant and aggressive about it. I guess I was tired of lazy people, and I had decided earlier in the night to hold people to higher standards, particularly in how they treat people and their general attitude towards life. As someone who is often overly accommodating (I hadn’t even wanted to go to the beach anyway!), I felt bad about the prospect of upsetting him. But i still pressed send.
I started a meditation practice a few years ago, and it has been life-changing. In this transitional period of my life, especially when I’ve felt myself thrashing and resisting, I look to the practice and tenets of meditation to open up the mental space needed to find clarity and my own truths. I highly recommend the app Calm. It has tons of different programs and guided meditations focusing on themes like gratitude, creativity, sleep, etc. You can set the length of the meditation – anywhere from 2 minutes on up.
For me, this period in NYC is really about concretely planning some next steps and learning how to not be crazy in the craziest city in the world.
Sometimes you need to raze everything to the ground and build it all back up to know what is real. Creative destruction.
But I’m all happy and miserable, and I feel like there are loud echoes in my head. Too much noise. It’s so loud in my brain.
I’ve been drowning that out with alcohol. Maybe it’s all the ghosts of my past selves reappearing. Maybe it’s just habitual. It could just be the abundance of food and drink options.
I love NYC, but it’s hard to be back.
If I stay, I need to build something new and depart from the old ways of being. Become self-affirming rather than self-destructive. There are too many layers weighing me down.
My NYC life mostly consists of hanging out with friends eating and drinking, sitting by myself eating, or going to Classpass and eating afterwards.
My favorite spots since I’ve been back (2 days):
Little Branch (West Village): Beautiful and atmospheric 1920s style speakeasy with cozy booths and live (good!) jazz music. Go there to be transported.
Minetta Tavern (West Village): One of my all-time favorite NYC restaurants. Everything from the signage outside to the woodsy ambiance is perfection. It’s intimate yet bustling, and the food is amazing – so well done. Bone marrow! Black label burger. No bad choices. A historic place, it opened in 1937 and has been frequented by Ernest Hemingway, Ezra Pound, Eugene O’Neill, and all sorts of writers. Also one of those transporting places.
Favela Cubana (West Village): Delicious Brazilian-Cuban fusion on a tree-lined street. Not crowded – perfect for a mid-sized group. We got the Lechón (braised pulled pork shoulder, maduros, rice and beans), Feijoada (calabreza, pork, bacon, and skirt steak cooked in black beans with sauteed spinach, farfofa, and rice), and seafood paella. Also, gallons of yucca fries with green sauce. Yum.
Soho Tiffin Junction (West Village): LOVE this place for a casual lunch. It’s sort of like a healthy Indian Chipotle with options like cauliflower rice for low-carbing, choice of curry, and lots of fresh veggies and toppings. You can order a small portion or a regular portion. My lunch was <$7!
Blue Ribbon Downing Street Bar (West Village): I love all the Blue Ribbon restaurants, not just for the amazing food and ambiance, but they somehow hire the nicest people. They could tell we had had too much to drink, so the kitchen sent out a pizza on the house! Great late night spot for drinks and food (or anytime spot, really). I will be back when I’m in a state to remember it better.
Spotted Pig (West Village): A classic! Good bar scene and excellent gastropub food. We were there for the drinks this time.
Bad picture, but the BOMB ASS bone marrow at Minetta Tavern. Instructions – take the perfectly grilled and sliced piece of bread, apply onion marmalade generously, take a hunk of bone marrow, and enjoy. Party in yo mouth.
Nine-hour layovers can be pretty brutal. Three-hour flight delays on top of that can be maddening, especially when you’re sitting in the airport lounge next to piles of fried noodles and Chinese buffet food. (By sitting, I mean stuffing yo face like you’re in your PJs at home alone.) Yes, rich(ish) people problems.
Now if I had realized that a typhoon was on its way and that it ended up shutting down Guangzhou airport for the first time in history and that we only missed it by a hair, I would have felt extremely lucky. Yes, I won the lottery today! More dumplings from the buffet to celebrate! It’s all about perspective.
After a 15-hour flight and the rigamarole of deplaning, I was back in Manhattan. It was about 10:30pm. I picked up exactly where I had left off two months ago, minus the high heels. The air was crisp and breezy. My good friend and I went out in search of rooftop bars and cocktails. The first was a bit of a fail, but cocktails were being poured all around. Continue reading Good morning NYC, my insomniac city→
Bleary. Tired. I just got off an overnight flight from Bali to Guangzhou in China and will be heading back to NYC. Did not sleep. I thought the point of booking first class was to have a flatbed. For the past hour, I’ve been overindulging at the China Southern airport lounge. Many plates of eggs, bacon, and dumplings have been consumed. Also a giant bowl of wonton and noodle soup. No exaggeration. Giant.
Mostly, I’ve been wondering how I lost my head and my heart in Bali. It happened so quickly. Earlier this month, I had left the Bukit peninsula with hurt feelings and my poor battered heart in my hands. I had stayed with an American surfer / furniture maker who had been living between Bali, CA, and Hawaii for the past 20 years. We met 4 years ago during my first trip to Bali and spent 24 hours together. When I came back to Bali earlier this month, we spent seven days straight together. Intense. Things got a bit tense between us during this period. Much was left unsaid. I felt like he hated me but wanted me at the same time. It was a mix of emotions, but when I left him and the Bukit a few weeks ago, I needed a lot of solitude and alone time to recharge and heal. I didn’t want to look back. I at least promised myself that I wouldn’t return to the Bukit unless it was on my terms and turf.
