history’s lessons

This morning I came across some of my writing from what seems like a long long time ago. Before Dx crashed, and in a rare moment of foresight, I downloaded my entire journal. Unfortunately however, I only performed this once – and had at least another six months’ worth of writing that is completely lost.

I began writing at Dx during my gap year before college. It was among one of the many web projects I undertook during that time, and the first time that I had actually gone back and looked at my writing. It was a little amazing to see how much my writing has changed. It went from off-beat, first-person speech littered with actions in asterisks to a strange blend of what my freshmen year writing professor calls “prose-poetry.” I also noticed the gradual shift of what I thought was important or memorable. My far too innocent freshmen year self, who found bongo-playing in the dorms remarkable, and was scandalized at the thought of weed being smoked two doors down. I read over my experiences in Italy, and how amazingly new and fresh everything felt. The first time I took a train alone in a foreign country. My amazement at the kindness of strangers, and a time before I became ever suspicious and wry of men who looked at me (or my friends) longer than what was comfortable. I didn’t notice because the thought simply never occurred to me, and when it did – I dismissed it as weird or unhealthy interest in young girls.

Skipping through the months – trips to Pisa, Rome and Venice. Fights with my mom – the beginning of the blow out. Leaving Italy and the interim summer back in Jetsonville. And then, the entries about RG. At eighteen, fresh from a year in college abroad. I have never been able to sort out what role I played in the whole fiasco. And it is only now, with a few more years under my belt (and a BA to boot) I realize that my two mistakes were in believing I was older or wiser than I really was, and in believing that just because someone uses the l word, they truly mean it. Reading between the lines of history that I myself had penned, I heard my own naivete echo back at me with every sentence. What chance did a girl so young and inexperienced stand against someone so much older, especially when convinced of his good intentions? My writing is not an excuse for my not knowing, or evidence of lack of choice. I am not entirely innocent, but neither am I to be blamed for what happened. Perhaps this echoes the irony in this world. No one is ever perfectly innocent.

I have spent a lot of time and heartache trying to pick apart my wrongs and rarely have I thought to think about my luck and good fortune at escaping relatively unscathed. In the same token, letting the memory of RG burden me is also a choice. Every day, I choose to pick up this burden and dwell on it. I choose to beat myself over the head, anguish over the loss and violation of trust. I choose to keep his memory alive by dwelling on it.

And even then, it seems I have a selective memory. In reading what I had written, I realize how much of what I dwell on is lopsided – as if to allow the blame to slide squarely in my lap. Coming across a couple of old e-mails I had copied and pasted into my journal, I was almost shocked by the exchange of words. His – angry, manipulative, even chauvinistic. Mine – calm, measured, and diplomatic. Until the end – where I seem to have lost my nerve at the thought of the ending of the relationship and being left.

It was not until I read the words he himself chose, that I remembered his anger which frightened me, and his cruelty which I always found an excuse for at the time.

In the four years since those initial incidents passed, I have spent a lot of time trying to dissect the decisions that were made. I have tried to understand myself, and also spent a lot of time trying to understand him. Something a friend once told me was not to try to do just that. “You don’t want to be inside his head.”

Its occurred to me before that I have an immense capacity to forgive. For the longest time, what I wanted most desperately from RG was a simple apology, and an acknowledgment of his share in the fault. One of the hardest things to swallow was the realization that this was never going to happen. If I sought closure, it would have to come independent of him. The realization of this was at once a burden but also liberating. For one, I don’t have the slightest idea of how to begin to obtain this illusive “closure.” But on the other hand, the thing I never thought would happen on my end finally did. I had finally given up on him. My greatest fear was that he would walk away, and yet in practice, I have almost always had the last word. Albeit at the time, it felt like I was sulking off in defeat. But the truth is, you can’t fight with someone who’s just not there.

I confess, I still wonder what he thinks. I wonder if he feels regret, loss, or even longing. But I’m looking forward to the day when someone mentions his name, and his image is fuzzy in my mind. He will never be gone entirely, but he doesn’t have to be important. He doesn’t have to be this dark shadow over the end of my adolescence seeping into adulthood. He doesn’t have to be this burden, this terrible dark secret. I have the freedom to choose not to care what he thinks, for the rest of my life.

resolve

About two hours ago, the boxes I had shipped from New York finally arrived. The entire hassle was such a headache with additional costs and was such a logistical nightmare that I doubt I would have gone through with the shipment had I had known in advance.

Suffice to say however, I am glad to have everything here and in one piece. My new apartment (now full of my “stuff”) feels actually like home. I have plans to install shelves and maybe get another chair, but other than that, I have everything that I need. Especially my Ralph Lauren shoes which I have been pining over (as superficial and girly as that sounds.)

Since moving back to Jetsonville, I’ve had a bit of a culture shock. On one hand, it’s the people. This place where I grew up, where I’m not Asian enough for the locals and too Asian for the Westerners. Most of the time, it’s a real joy to be part of the Third Culture community, and other times it’s a bit of a frustration (like during interviews in a language where I can converse but am not wildly fluent in.) More than anything else, the greatest shock I have experienced is the slowing down of my life. I am used to everything going at mach 10. I’m not used to waking up and not being expected somewhere. I have learned to keep myself occupied, but feel like all this free time is more of a burden than relaxation.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve also realized that my biggest enemy is myself. I keep getting interviews and offers, but at firms that I don’t want to be at or positions where I know I am over qualified. The firms that I do want, I am too paralyzed to apply for (or rather, just don’t) for whatever excuse I happen to be giving myself that particular day.

I have two upcoming prospects – both top tier management consulting firms (via referral, which I think is the only reason why they’re bothering to look at my CV.) If I get either of these positions, I will be spending the next year and a half jet-setting across Asia, meeting with senior managements of firms across various industries. If I get either of these firms (and manage a good LSAT), Harvard might as well throw open the doors for me right now – because these firms are just that well respected.

When I look at myself versus my friends from high school, the ones that did best were not the ones with the best plan, the best background but they were just persistent. I am a terrific planner. The Chinese government may as well hire me to set the next 5-year plan. But the truth is, I seem to be lacking in the follow-through phase. Sometimes the potential that everyone keeps telling you that you have is more intimidating than the challenges that you actually face. I am in my early twenties. This is supposed to be the make-or-break period in my life. Whether I actually live up to what everyone says I have (and could do with) is a fear that I struggle with.

So this entry is my somewhat (timid) resolution to claim all the things that I want for myself in the next year. Namely, a job that I love. And more importantly bright future.

the red duvet

Somewhere in a city of 7 million, I sit in my small studio apartment. The surroundings are simple and spare, but comfortable. High up over the valley in an airy and well-lit apartment I could not have asked for a better beginning. My little home is creamy and clean. My few belongings are tucked neatly away (for the most part) and my surroundings reflect my simple style and quiet femininity.

There isn’t a whole lot inside this studio. But in the middle, a comfortable sized bed for two. Fluffy pillows and an equally fluffy duvet, encased in a deep red, off set by the creamy white sheets. This quiet boldness that takes up majority of my apartment and is unapologizing in its enticement to come and lie within its sheets.

Muffled in the warmth at night, I take up only half of the bed, subconsciously leaving room for you to crawl in after me. I roll over and imagine your eyes looking back at me on the next pillow and wonder that my sheets and blankets never quite provide the warmth that you do. Into the dark, I want to whisper to you, and sometimes I do regardless that you’re not there.

The longing for you is so achingly sweet and so gently painful that I wonder when its going to swallow me whole. If it is, then maybe this is the way I want to go.

I wonder if on some nights, you think of me when I think of you. And the two of us, we are joined by a cosmic connection without even knowing it. I also wonder how long these connections will go on for, before I am the only one on the line.

Most of all, I wonder in the folds of my red duvet, why you are not there and if all of this is just one giant mistake.

untitled.

This side of graduation, things look very different.

Tomorrow evening, my high school is holding a networking event. There are grads from over 10 years ago, including some CEOs as well. Additionally, this is the first year that all of  my fellow classmates are all working. Inevitably, this is going to turn into what my friend Dave calls “a dick measuring contest.” Rather apt, though perhaps not the most polite of phrases.

They say that in life, you really only wind up competing with those you graduated from high school with. And now on the eve of this auspicious reunion, I can see that there is a certain amount of truth in that. Those you graduate with have the same relative socio-economic background as you. The first hoop is getting into college. But let’s face it – even getting into the best of schools is only a temporary label. It’s what you do with the label afterwards that counts.

In truth, I’m a little scared about meeting up with everyone. Or rather, see how far they’ve gone past me. This side of graduation, things look very different. I’m not jet-setting around the world, or starting a glamorous job. The ceremony itself was a huge disappointment, with my mom flying across the world only to scream at me. I’m used to leading the pack and somehow, I’ve fallen behind in well.. everything?

This is a new and unfamiliar feeling. I hadn’t thought about how returning to Jetsonville I would be a) quite so alone and b) feeling so anxious.

Christmas

The floor was icy cold when I crept over your sleeping form which quietly sighing every time you exhaled. You murmured and turned as I hovered precariously over you – I always demanded the inside of the bed – and I whispered, “I’m just going to the bathroom.” Content with my answer (or was it just that you wanted to get back to your dream?) I rolled back over as I maneuvered my remaining foot from the blankets. Quiet and lithe, like the kitten you say I really am, I tip toed out of our room, the only room in the house with heat it seemed and hurried down the stairs.

It was so cold I could see my own breath and felt my skin prickle in goosebumps as I ran down the stairs. I found all the things I had hidden in the house the night before and stood on my toes in front of the fireplace, wishing it had been lit. I found a large rubber band, just strong enough to hold up the stocking, and held it in place preciously with a pumpkin sitting on the mantle. Must have been left over from Halloween or Thanksgiving. Everything in place, I scrambled back up the stairs, leaving behind a trail of white cards, to jump back into bed and get warm under the covers.

What I love most about being in bed (with you in it) during winter is how you never complain that my feet are cold. You wrap yourself protectively around my small frame and tuck my icy-cold feet between your calves, and place my palms on your wide chest. Face to face, I can tuck myself in the various nook and crannies of your neck and shoulders, or just lie there, and lose myself watching you watch me. My hands and feet, they’re always cold. Even in summer. But never when you are around.

In bed, I turn my back to you so we can spoon, and I can sneak a peek outside the window. It is grey outside. The kind of grey that occurs only in winter nights, when the snow seems to muffle out the first rays of light, before cracking open to reveal the white, glistening light that reflects off the snow. It is grey out, and next to me the cat is purring. The three of us, in a row lying back to front. Spooning from smallest to largest like animals huddled for warmth in a cave thousands of years ago. I close my eyes and try to fall asleep, or at least try not to wake you, not for a few more hours anyway.

A few fruitless hours later and I can’t wait. I take the thin beam of light making its way through the makeshift curtain you have rigged up using a sheet and a computer cord (you were so proud of yourself) as permission to wake you up. I turn around and squeal-whisper “it’s morning!” and you hrrmph and go right on snoozing. I give you a little shake, and this time, you turn over taking most of the blanket with you. I try not to get impatient, but my eyebrows furrow a little – the beginning of a pout. So instead I turn back towards the window, grasping the little corner you’ve left me and try to re-claim some of my lost blanket.

I hear you get out of bed and for a moment wonder if you’re peeved with me for waking you up. But I hear the toilet flush somewhere down the hall and figure it’s just the morning grumps. Footsteps later, you’re back in the room and instead of climbing in, I feel a big furry thing near my abdomen. Too big to be the cat and looking down, I see an adorable brown bear and you hovering over us. “Merry Christmas” you say and I spring upright and throw my arms around you – the bear sandwiched somewhere in between. “Merry Christmas” I whisper back.

The presents – one for morning, all day, and night. The bear for the nights you can’t be with me. Perfume, so I’ll wear your scent in the morning and think of you.  I squeal through the wrapping, and you watch with this grin on your face. Unable to wait any longer, I ask you if you’re ready for yours. I tell you to put on your glasses and look. You look around the room, a little puzzled and finally notice a small card on the floor. I’m amazed you didn’t notice them before – a trail leading down the stairs.

We get up, and tramp down the stairs to the living room like children. It is Christmas morning, and so today we are. In the mantle hangs the two stockings I made. One for you, and the other for Dante, the cat. You start to peek in but I make you follow my silly little traditions and so we tramp back upstairs and sit on the bed, and you pull your presents out one by one.

Some are silly – the “coupon book of significant other privileges” various candies and a game for the X-box (which we play together and beat. This you brag about to your friends – your girlfriend who plays video games like a boy.) I give you your last present and watch with joy at the look on your face when you unwrap it. An elegant fountain pen, with your name engraved on it. “Promise me you’ll sign your first contract with this” I whisper. And you nod. So many of our dreams hinged upon those early plans.

I am cleaning up the wrapping paper, and you place a slender box in my hands. Just when I thought I could not be spoiled any more. “It’s not a ring.” You say, before I even notice what’s written on it. Zales. The Diamond Store. My jaw falls and I start to push it back towards you. But you insist, and I open it. Slender and delicate, it glistens back at me. I am at a loss for words, so picking it up, you supply them for me. Sapphire and white gold. For my birth month and for preciousness. You fasten the delicate chain around my wrist, and inwardly I know I will never take it off.

This was our first Christmas together. Three years later and in the middle of June, I can still remember every minute detail. The feel of the old, the warmth of the sheets and the taste of your kiss. How is it that we can be so far from those dreams, and still feel the call of them as strong as that first Christmas morning?

father’s day

I spent father’s day sharing someone else’s father. We went back to their home and mom, daughter, father and I piled into the kitchen to make one of Jamie Oliver’s concoctions. Over lunch, we told stories and laughed. I asked about work and colleagues, whom I had met, being his intern the summer before. And while they were entertaining me, I inevitably feel when I am with people that are older than me, I am entertaining them. Like a member of the court, singing for her supper.

The above is not intended to seem as harsh or bitter as it may be read. I am grateful that while I don’t have one father, I have several. Growing up in a church is like growing up in a village. There are always more mothers and fathers watching over you than just your own. I am grateful for the influences in my life that have not only kept me sane, but safe; and given me a home to come back to. The principles that kept me rooted are buried somewhere amongst these elders and their generosity.

I left lunch nearly seven hours later, with a collection of photography magazines, three lenses, a light meter, a photographer’s backpack for lenses, various filters, hookups for my job hunt, and an upcoming trip to Hanoi, Vietnam. Is it a wonder that on father’s day, I have so much to be thankful for?

family feud

I often get asked why I picked NYU. My response is usually, “well I put my finger on where my mom was on the globe, and spun it twelve hours and landed here.” When it comes to my mother, my instinct is to run. As far away as possible. But now that I’m (technically) grown up, and (will be) working it’s probably time I faced the demons of my past. Because as trite as the saying is, it’s true. When you run you’re running forever.

I can literally count the number of times my mother and I have talked while I was in college. She has the type of personality that vacillates wildly between “sincere” contrition (it probably is, for those five minutes anyway), raging fury, and boundless love. Talking to her is like trying to have a conversation with a five year old. Who is paranoid schizophrenic and has her finger on a nuclear bomb. The best you can hope for, is to come out of the ordeal still in one piece.

Having dealt with her for years, college was this golden freedom. For nine months out of the year, I didn’t have to see, think, or listen to her. As a teenager I had a good head on my shoulders and never had the desire to drink, do drugs or rebel in any form. I attribute it to my mother and the circumstances surrounding my brother and I when we were growing up. We had actual problems to deal with and didn’t care to create any more for ourselves. So when college came, I sort of just.. took off. Literally and figuratively. I struggled with moving to two different countries, finding housing as an inexperienced teenager in a foreign place, landing internships etc, and juggling my brother and my finances while abroad. It was a piece of cake compared to living at home.

Somewhere around junior year, I cut off contact with her all together. It had something to do with an incident involving a butcher knife, a contract, and my getting on a plane. It’s difficult to say whether things went downhill or no where at all, since she became virtually non-existent to me. While my life has become a lot easier since then, it’s placed an enormous strain on my brother. At times I want to shake him by the shoulders and tell him to wake up, and that our “family” is as good as it gets, and to grow a backbone. But in reality, I probably don’t give him the credit he deserves. Neither of us are cowards in our reactions to mom. I am the headstrong, come-hell-or-high-water type and he is the idealist who sees what is but hopes for what could be. There is need for both our roles and now probably time for me to shift gears to see things from his perspective.

As Sean says, there are two reasons why I shouldn’t continue my way after I have achieved a comfortable boundary with her. First, the strain it places on my brother and second, for my own sake given the culture we are in. Our culture does not take kindly to children who “abandon” their parents. Even as superficial as maintaining appearances may be, the cost of not doing so far out weighs the benefits. I care more for the former incentive rather than the second. The truth is, I have established comfortable boundaries with my mother, enough for me to achieve the things I need. Namely being able to function a normal life without too much drama and interference. Any further distancing is just.. icing.

The problem is when it comes to my mother, I fundamentally melt down. As much as I am frustrated or despise her, I have to admit that she knows what she’s doing. She knows what my buttons are, how to push them, and I keep letting her. There are two ways to deal with someone who has weapons. Either you take them away, or you get a bigger gun.  When it comes to my mother, I think I need to have a dual approach. I need to figure out how not to let her get to me, and second give her no excuses.

Right now, her main grievances are that I’m “running wild” mostly because I refuse to let her “in” or keep her posted on my whereabouts and plans. Sean thinks the best course of action is for me not to give her any to complain. It is like employing a silent method to deal with someone who is determined to argue with you. Sooner or later, they run out of steam. In order to do so, I must appear well dressed, have a respectable job, and have all the veneer of respectability and ambition befitting a young woman my age. It may well be the most powerful way I can win this battle.

But how to go about figuring out what my buttons are? And more importantly, how to become immune to them? In confronting someone who knows and exploits all your weaknesses, you must know yourself better than they know you. Something I am fast beginning to realize in my demeanor with others (mother or otherwise) is that I have only two modes. Open, or closed. In or out. I have no layers, and wear my emotions on my sleeve. You can read my face like an open book.

Last night, at dinner with Sean and his friend, I began to realize this about myself. I am open about my family history, my personal life.. etc. Sean had been wanting to introduce me to his friend, who in his words,  we are exactly alike. And as I conversed with her, it was eerily like looking in the mirror. We are both bubbly, like meeting new people, and probably far too open for our own good. And it occurred to me (finally) what someone meeting me might think, and to be honest, I didn’t like what I saw. Someone far too interested about spewing the details of their life rather than asking about others. Far too ready to give their opinions whether it’s wanted or not, and had little sense of when to stop talking. For the first time last night, I was asked a direct question about my relationship past and didn’t bother going into the whole story about Veer, and in fact avoided the whole thing all together. It felt a little weird, but at the same time I think I felt another “layer” grow on me.

pit stop

An internet quiz:

“You are a wanderer. You constantly long for a new adventure, challenge, or eve a completely different life. You are a grounded person, but you also leave room for imagination and dreams. You feet may be on the ground, but you’re head is in the clouds. Your near future is in a very different place (both physically and mentally) from where you are right now.”

Not that I’m pretending that I take internet quizzes any more serious than I do fortune cookies, but it does coincide with my thoughts lately. For the fifth time this week, I had someone tell me that Jetsonville is just a pit stop, and that I was always meant for something.. bigger.

I wonder whether it was because I was younger, that this city seemed so huge to me. It is just as busy as I remember, but smaller in so many ways. It seems there are only the old haunts to revisit, and no more to discover. In Manhattan, there was always the outer boroughs,  and if not that, then New England and the rest of America. And with friends scattered in most of the major cities, I was never left wanting for a temporary change of scenery. But here, there are only malls. Lovely and air conditioned, but at the same time fueling the same needy, grabby, wanting culture. Every nook and cranny is crammed with trinkets, which are never enough to sate one’s sense of wanting.

In New York, I was anxious and restless for change. Maybe it was the break up, or the disappointment in senior year (trying to do too much in too little time.) The world seemed so big, and I was so anxious to be a part of it.

Things in Jetsonville are starting to take off a little. I spent several hours apartment hunting yesterday and have a few prospects. It also helps that my budget is nearly twice what I had initially expected and hence, am taking the time to find a place that I can call home, and not just a place to go back to at night. I am gearing up for all the work for interviews, etc, and going about the business of re-starting life.

But all the while, I can’t shake the feeling that this place only holds so much for me. And while I could stay here for a year, maybe two.. sooner or later I would outgrow it and so I’m starting to figure out where I want to go and how to get there.

It’s funny because I guess I had the impression that once college was over, things just sort of fall into place. But this business of being an adult, the thing that separates the ones that go far and the ones that don’t are those who keep dreaming, keep planning, and keep wanting to explore.

lost

Somewhere over the pacific, I lost myself. Whether it’s because I finally left behind too many pieces of myself in too many places, or because the aimless wandering has finally stripped my sense of direction, I woke up to find myself in a city of seven million and utterly lost.

Perhaps it is just Jetsonville. It is the Bermuda Triangle for all who are young, or like placing a magnet on even the most infallible of compasses. I don’t remember why I decided to come here. Whether it was a well thought out plan, a long-term dream or a whim. Maybe a little of all three. I’m not sure. This city is like a cyclone. Whirling activity and chaos, but the same rubbish and debris spun over and over.

I had forgotten the visceral effects of this place. The humidity that seeps in through the walls, and the smell and taste of it when you breathe. Everything seems so much smaller and crowded. There is so much of everything, and yet everyone looks the same.

I feel like a giant. Vertically and horizontally. Whereas in New York, I would be considered petite and exotic, suddenly I am a giant, far too curvy and tanned for anyone’s taste. And it’s not the language, but I forgot how difficult it feels to communicate. Because when you’re raised in the west, and have the mannerisms of the east, they look at you with a visible apprehension.

There are reasons why I chose to come back, but I’m beginning to wonder if they were the right reasons. There are a few things Sean pointed out that make me think seriously. It’s not that coming back here was a “dream” per se. It was more a realization that this is my one opportunity to be here before carrying on with the rest of my life, which is much more likely to be in the west. In Sean’s words, it’s a pit stop and I’m restless for some action.

The more time I spend here, the more I wonder if I’ll wind up settling here, or anywhere in particular. I’m not sure if I’m adventurous or just inherently unable to settle down. I feel like a massive ball of confusion, unsure of what I want and therefore, unsure of my decisions.

And yet here I am. For better or worse.

Taking Off

I hadn’t given much thought to what my final moments in New York would be like, but it donned upon me as I stood in my apartment with the suitcases packed and my life crammed into boxes, that there could be no better scripted farewell or the turning of a new chapter. It went a little something like this: utter madness. In the last two hours, hoards of friends showed up to loot and pillage the remainder of things I couldn’t take (and some that my roommate had left behind). I watched as my neighbor and his friend heading out for dinner, take a detour into my kitchen and march out with my microwave, a floor to ceiling bookshelf, my shoe rack, random cups and glasses, etc. The boys that originally came for a small shelf somehow wound up with all the mirrors, a tv, the stand it sat on, and moving a full-sized futon to Queens. On the subway. I stood in this impromptu apartment-givaway/farewell gathering and laughed my head off, all the while waving my hands and gleefully telling them to get all that crap out of there.

The doorbell rang and my ride was here to take me to JFK. So we spilled out into the sidewalk, the boys lugging my suitcases and me being passed around like a hot-potato for final hugs and farewells. Far be it from me to end the looting and pillaging by leaving. I handed over my keys to Keith so they could carry on as I headed to the airport, and looked outside the window at my beloved West Village and the countless memories its streets contained.

My driver was a little Pakistani man from Lahore. He spoke as they do in old black and white movies depicting British colonialism, peppered me with questions and began every answer with “yes ma’am.” I loved him a little for it. There was something so wonderfully charming and old fashioned about him. It seemed fitting that I was met him while leaving New York City, the great melting pot of society.

As flights go, mine scored maybe a 7 on the hell scale. On the plane, I swapped places with a girl so she could be with her classmates on a school trip and got an aisle seat in the back of the plane. It wasn’t too bad, save for the two screaming babies in the row in front, and the woman next to me who spilled her drink all over both our seats. I was more peeved at her boyfriend who virtually shook me awake every time he needed to get out of the row. I briefly considered making a break for it at our stopover in Vancouver, partly to be free from being trapped in the flying tin can for another 12 hours, and to find the part of myself that I had left behind there. But alas, alack. I realized that even if I could enter Canada and stay with my friends, my luggage would still be sent to Jetsonville, and so I stayed.

On long haul-flights, I feel like you are only semi-alive. You half-sleep, read, eat and watch movies in dim light, are told when to sit, when to buckle up and what to do if we’re all going to die. But clearly everything went alright, and the rest of the trip went smoothly, except for a minor hiccup at the airport when I couldn’t find a piece of luggage. “It’s black, and sword-shaped” I told the man in the maroon vest, and five minutes later I was strolling out into the big marble expanse, looking for Sean’s grin in the crowd.

It is now a little under twenty four hours since I landed, and cliche as it sounds, it all seems so surreal. As much as I love this city, I’ve forgotten how crowded, how small it is. I am strangely homesick for I’m not sure where. Whether it’s the humidity or the concrete, I find myself longing for Costa Rica, the rolling hills of Monte Verde, and the bronzed faces of smiling Ticos. Sean is perhaps the only person who could have taken the edge of all this coming and going and has been wonderful to me. We spent the conscious part of my day re-visiting old haunts and shopping for SLR cameras and shoes, because amidst the chaos of moving I had lost my runners and shipped everything but a pair of heels and flip flops. And though I am still emotionally confused and a little daunted at the apartment and job search, I think I really am glad to be back.