Goodbye for now, Signal Failures - New Blog Coming Soon!

So, I haven't done a blog post since June. That's not because nothing has happened. A lot has. When I started this blog, I initially conceived of it as a way to vent about the subway in NYC, and even hoped others would contribute. Since no one did, and since I got bored with that concept pretty fast, it evolved into something a bit more generalized. I had plans for awhile to do a long post about my crazy roommate that I had from 2011-2013. But I never quite made that happen, partly because when I tried to write about it, I got knots in my stomach. Yup. Still too soon. 

Here's a quick recap of what's happened with me: About eleven months ago, I went to the doctor and was told I had some health issues (lately, after seeing other doctors, realized that this doctor grossly exaggerated, but he had me really scared at the time). I had to give up caffeine, including chocolate, and a bunch of other things I liked. I took up running, because one of the health issues was supposed to be helped by aerobic exercise. A lot of other things were helped, too. I lost over fifty pounds. I still run five days a week and if I'm really trying, I can run a mile in seven-and-a-half minutes. Most days I average abount nine minutes/mile.  

What else ... my postdoc ended, and in spite of a few job interviews, nothing panned out. My little sister got married, which was wonderful if very strange. I had to move back to Pittsburgh and enter adjunct-land, which has been a bit depressing. I really miss NYC, every single day. And adjunct-land is terrible. It's really dehumanizing and demoralizing and bad for teachers and students alike. If I had to do it indefinitely, as many people do, I'm not sure how I would cope. I'm not here to write about adjuncting, though, in spite of having lots to say on the issue. 

Because, though I've had to completely rethink my career and move away from all my friends, things are not as bad as they could be. Last May, almost on a whim – a sort of "what-if" – I applied to the Peace Corps. It's something I'd thought about doing before, but the timing was never right, and I thought that I'd missed my chance, especially if I were to get a tenure-track job and become a successful academic. I also had to give them my whole medical history and go through a long medical clearance process, which I feared might end in rejection (I was completely honest about everything on my forms, because it's in no one's interest to hold stuff back that could cause problems later). But everything with PC seemed (knock-on-wood) to go really smoothly, and no tenure-track job came my way. I was called for an interview a week after I applied. I met with a recruiter at the Peace Corps offfices on Chambers Street in NYC, and it went exceptionally well. I got nominated in July and in August I was invited to serve in Indonesia as an English Teacher Trainer. And, I was given final medical clearance in November! I'm scheduled to leave in mid-March, about a week after my 35th birthday. It's insane, but I'm really excited. I started hoping this would work out as I researched in preparation for the interview. I'm really nervous, too, especially as the time draws nearer, but I do feel like it's the right choice. I'll be gone for twenty-seven months, providing all goes well. 

In many ways, I feel like a completely different person than I was a year ago, and I'm content with that. New adventures await. I'm sure what's ahead will not be easy, but it will be a different kind of challenge than I've ever faced, and I'm ready for that. 

So, because things are so different now, and I'm really moving on, I think "Signal Failures" should probably go on official hiatus. I'll be starting a new blog soon, and it will have a more positive/hopeful title (I'm open to suggestions). I'll post a link here once the new blog is up, and I'll try to post more often than I do now! For the moment: it's been fun, and thanks to those few people who actually read my posts! I hope you'll keep it up! 

How (and Why) I Became a Runner in Ten Weeks

Everyone who follows me on Facebook is probably very tired of seeing my posts about running. I’m sure my friends are tired of hearing me talk about it and trying to convert them – I realize when I talk about running I occasionally sound like I just found Jesus. It’s odd to think that I only started in the middle of March of this year, and I still have a lot to learn. I still consider myself a novice runner, though I just ran my longest distance – 6.5 miles – this past Friday.

I’ve always hated running. I love a good, long walk, and hiking is fantastic. My sister is the runner in our family, committed to doing it day after day, every day, for longer than I can remember. Walking was my thing. I love to walk everywhere, eschewing the subway when I'm not in a hurry, sometimes walking 40, 50, even 100 blocks at a time just because I can and I enjoy it. I even enjoy multi-day hikes and have gone on hiking vacations. But, just over a year ago, I sprained my ankle – badly. I’ve written about it on this blog, in fact. The ironic part of the whole thing was that I wasn’t out in the woods somewhere or on a mountain – I was taking a stroll in the New York Botanical Gardens on a beautiful spring day.

The sprain was nasty enough to have me on crutches for about two weeks and then in an aircast for another month. It could have been a lot worse, and the damage was not permanent, but my ankle wasn’t “right” for months even after that, and I couldn’t have run if I’d tried - and I certainly couldn't walk for 100 blocks straight. Around this time, a year-long relationship ended (my boyfriend left me for a Swiss hedgefund a month after he’d asked me to move in with him), and I also found out I had to finish my dissertation by the end of the summer. The latter was a very good thing, but it meant taking care of myself physically became subordinate to my writing and preparing for my dissertation defense.

Here’s the thing about writing dissertations: it requires a lot of motivation. As incentive to write, I would buy myself a thick slice of chocolate cake at Whole Foods and eat it as I wrote. I didn’t save it as a reward for after – but I wasn’t allowed to have it unless I was actually typing my chapter drafts at the same time. Weirdly, this worked. I finished my dissertation at least in part through the Chocolate Strategy. I knew I was probably gaining some weight, but I didn’t worry about it. I could deal with it later. I was never in a big hurry to lose weight, either – I was comfortable with how I looked, and I carried my weight fairly well, even when I gained a little more than I should have. Throughout the academic year, I taught my classes and applied for permanent jobs (another long story), but I didn’t think much about diet or exercise. I was just too busy and stressed.

This past February, I went to the doctor for a physical for the first time in far too long. It was time to take advantage of temporarily having decent health insurance (as a grad student my insurance was pretty shoddy). I had the good fortune to be referred to what might be the most thorough internal medicine doctor in Manhattan. Dr. B. ordered All The Tests. But the main source of concern was a wildly irregular heartbeat, along with a heart murmur. I had an EKG, which confirmed the insanely irregular heartbeat and eventually had an echocardiogram (needless to say, all of this freaked me out quite considerably, and I was useless and distracted for several weeks). My doctor also did tests for just about every other condition known to man. I have in the other room about twenty pages of test results, most of which are just fine. What I did find out was that I had some allergies that were probably affecting my breathing (though I hadn’t noticed), low levels of certain vitamins, and maybe a low thyroid (from my tests, it looks to be on the low side of the normal range, and I declined to go on medication, which my doctor said was OK). I also do have a slight heart murmur, but it’s nothing to worry about. The irregular heartbeat seemed to improve with aerobic exercise, but it also seems to be nothing to worry about. I was told I had “very clean blood.” My doctor seemed quite impressed by that and actually said to me that “most New York women have something, but your blood is very clean. You must show these results to your next partner and insist on the same thing.” I wasn’t sure how to take that, but it was good news about my health, so I decided to enjoy it. So, I immediately started taking the vitamins, and they’re working – my levels of those are good now. I also take Clarinex daily, though I have no idea whether it helps or not. I’d read that a low thyroid might prevent me from losing weight, and I worried about this. My doctor offered me diet pills, but I declined. Mostly, I wanted my irregular heartbeat to go away, though. That’s why I started exercising.

I tried doing a workout video at home toward the end of winter, but I’ve never been able to stick with workout videos. I just get so bored with them after one or two times. Then, one day in early March, the weather was nice, and I decided I would try running, because I was that desperate to make the irregular heartbeat vanish, if even only for the time I was exercising. I could feel it happening, and it was driving me crazy. I ran .6 miles that first day, and then walked 2.4. That wasn’t so bad. If I only ran until I got tired and could walk the rest of the way, that was all right. I did walk/runs for a couple of weeks, three or four days a week. I didn’t notice any weight loss, but that wasn’t why I was doing it. I did notice that I felt amazing afterwards, and that amazing feeling lasted for the rest of the day in some cases. And I would see other people out running, and that was a nice feeling, too – like there was this camaraderie with strangers to whom I might never speak, just because we were all doing the same thing.

Every time I ran, I made myself go just a little bit further. Even one block further was acceptable to me, as long as I made progress. This was working out all right, until I went home to Pittsburgh for a week, and I did lots of hill walking and running. It was great! It kind of pushed me into shape, so that when I came back to NYC at the end of the week, I was able to run three miles without stopping. This was at the end of March. At the same time, I installed a running app to my phone to keep track of my progress and post my runs to Facebook (yes, I’m aware that it’s annoying. In fact, a friend made a passive-aggressive post saying as much. But – it helps keep me accountable to myself, so too bad). I started to set goals for myself – four miles, then five, then 6.2. My current goal is seven miles.

In the middle of April, when I was just shy of completing my first four-mile run, I suffered a setback. Yes. I sprained the other ankle. I wanted to scream. Fortunately, this sprain wasn’t as severe as the first one had been, but I did have to stop running for 2.5 weeks. I thought I would lose all my progress, and I found that extremely depressing. I had started watching my diet at the same time I’d started running – not actually dieting, but just trying to be more aware of my food choices. I let myself eat a few too many carbs while I was recuperating yet again. I had no idea when the pain was going to go away, and it seemed to be taking forever, no matter how much I iced and elevated. But one day, the pain just seemed to lift, and I felt considerably better. At last I was able to get back out there, and I was so happy to find that after a day or so, I was able to run at my old distance and speed. I got an ankle brace to wear while I ran (though I have since stopped wearing it), and while I’d been a bit cavalier about stretching before I got hurt, I began making sure I was doing the right stretches so I didn’t reinjure myself. I’ve been meeting my goals, and I’ve even signed up for a race in July (not a very competitive one, by all accounts).

I don’t know how my new hobby has affected my heart. I do know that the palpitations, while I still get them, are much milder than before, and far less frequent. That can only be a good thing. Per my doctor’s advice, I’ve given up caffeine, except for the occasional piece of chocolate cake, of course. I also lost weight! I wanted that more than I was willing to admit when I started out, so afraid I wouldn’t be able to do it. I lost fourteen pounds when I last checked (about a week and a half ago), and I am back in a size 8 in clothes (down from 10, pushing 12). I’d like to lose more, but even if I don’t, I’m comfortable where I am. Weight loss, though fantastic, wasn’t why I started in the first place.

The main thing for me is that running is now something I find enjoyable – I like setting goals and being able to work toward them and meet them in a quantifiable way. That’s something that was often elusive while I was in grad school. Though I’m sometimes weirdly competitive, I only tend to compete against myself when I run. I also find it a great way to cope with stress, of which I still have a lot, and it makes me feel good physically. I have also found that when I do any sort of intense exercise that I become more aware of my body than at any other time. I first noticed this in 2010 when I did my multi-day hike through the Scottish Highlands. Parts of my body hurt that I wasn’t even aware had existed up until that point. Running isn’t quite that painful – I’ve never felt like I was seriously suffering at the end – but I am much more aware of my body and what it can and can’t do.

So I realize I sound like a missionary from the Religion of Running to some of my friends now, and they probably are tired of it. I’ll just say here – I’m sorry. I can’t help it. Though it feels like longer in some ways, I did my first three-mile run ten weeks ago, and I am still euphoric about what this has done for me physically and psychologically. I'm definitely still learning, but I'm loving it. I want everyone else to feel that good, too, but I know it isn’t for everyone.

I promise my next post will be about my awful former roommate, and you will be entertained. :-) 

Finding Nimo, Remembering Giuseppe: Italian Dating and Me

Last summer, I returned to Rome for a brief, six day visit, which I’ve mentioned elsewhere on this blog. There are stereotypes about how Italian men react to American women, and while these stereotypes are far from universally true, they exist for a reason. There was one day when my traveling companion S and I did everything touristy. She had never been to Rome, and seeing the Coliseum, the Forum, the Trevi Fountain, and the Spanish Steps is almost mandatory for a first-time visitor. It wasn't exactly taxing for me to see these things again, either. This also happened to be the day when it seemed like All The Men came out of the woodwork. Of course we were obviously American tourists. We weren’t pretending to be otherwise – that never works anyway. We had lunch right off of Piazza di Spagna, which is Tourist Central. That’s where we met Nimo (pronounced just like that rascally little fish in the Disney movie Finding Nemo). Nimo was our waiter. He was pretty cute, I have to admit. And I had forgotten just how little encouragement is necessary sometimes to cause one to be perceived as flirting. I had spent the past two weeks in France and Switzerland, where I didn’t speak the language, and I was just so happy to be somewhere I could speak the language a bit, that I was eager to use my long-dormant Italian skills, and use them I did. My vocabulary is limited, but my pronunciation, thanks to my undergraduate Italian professor drilling it into us, is impeccable even more than a decade later. The happiness my linguistic abilities seemed to provoke in Italian waiters seemed really out of proportion to any actual achievement on my part. Nimo seemed especially susceptible. 

So Nimo asked me to go on a date that night. He offered to bring a friend for S. I was seeing someone at the time and turned him down on those grounds.  Nimo didn’t give up. He kept coming back and asking several times as we were eating our spaghetti pomodoro, and even sent a friend to act as his emissary at one point. In America this would be considered harassment. In Italy, I remembered, it was to be expected and taken in stride. We continued to say “thanks but no thanks,” and Nimo seemed crushed when we left. I’m absolutely certain he got over it minutes, if not seconds, after we departed, and probably found a date for the evening before too long. Part of me felt a little bad for turning him down, but when I expressed as much to S, she responded: “Do you want to go find Nimo? We can go find Nimo if you want to.” I think I gave her an evil glare and that was the end of it. 

There were other, similar experiences on that particular trip – I had an almost-date with a man named Stefano, whom I met while wandering around the Aventine Hill by myself while S braved the summer crowds at the Vatican. Stefano and I explored some churches together. He showed me around, and I pretended I didn't know where I was going, since he seemed so pleased to show me. Stefano had a girlfriend from Japan, but proposed that it would do no one any harm if we made out for awhile. Again, faithful girlfriend that I was, I turned him down, but we parted on good terms. 

 One of the reasons I turned Nimo down, besides the fact that I was in theory at least seeing someone, was that the whole scenario had a “been there, done that” feeling to it. When I was studying in Rome in 1999, at the age of nineteen, I dated a 22-year-old Italian man named Giuseppe, who was doing his mandatory military service in Rome. Giuseppe and I met at a club. The first night we met, we ended up dancing – he had a lot of energy. Before I left, he told me he loved me, in English. I think it was the only English that he knew. Even at nineteen, I knew better than to believe it. But I didn’t quite know not to give him my contact information. So he would come to the Hotel Tiziano where I was living with my classmates, and he'd phone my room. Italian law, in its great wisdom, prevented him from coming upstairs, not being a registered guest at the hotel. So I would come down instead. Giuseppe didn’t speak a word of English, and my Italian was a work-in-progress, to put it mildly. Cue clichés about the language of love, etc. In actuality, most of our dates consisted in taking very long walks around Rome, occasionally stopping for coffee or hot chocolate, and making out by monuments. We would try to understand each other, but more often than not, kissing was more expedient. It was fun. Rome itself is intoxicatingly beautiful at night, the ruins silent and mysterious, the cobblestone streets reflecting the streetlamps, the smell of roasted corn and chestnuts in the autumn air. The whole thing felt like a wonderful adventure, and though some of my friends made disapproving remarks, I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong, and I still don’t. I think it was also the first time I saw myself as dating someone just for the fun of it, and knew it wouldn’t go anywhere – I’m sure he saw it the same way. In fact it died a natural, painless death when I left Rome for a month over the Christmas holidays to travel around Italy and visit London. My one regret is that I lost the only photo I had of him, taken of the two of us in a bar in Trastevere by a man who was selling flowers. I do sometimes wonder what Giuseppe is like now – if he’s still in Rome or if he went back to his town in Campania – if he is married – has kids – etc. I hope he’s doing well, whatever it is. 

So I could have said yes to Nimo and had a pleasant but ultimately meaningless date for the evening, and it would have been fine, and probably enjoyable. I like to think I’m now older and wiser. But in some ways, I think maybe my younger self had the better instinct. There is something to be said for being open to things, and to people. For dating being as easy as asking someone out in the joy of the moment, just because you want to. That doesn’t happen to me here. And I'd find it weird if I ran into a guy out of the blue and he offered to give me a tour of St. Patrick's. This kind of thing might happen to some people, but I am not one of them. Maybe I'm just a different, more relaxed person in general when I'm traveling, and hence more attuned to such opportunities. But I don't think that's all of it. For spontaneity and the absence of the anxiety, expectations, and pressure that seem to cling to the dating scene in NYC, maybe the Italian way is better.

Belle & Sebastian Concert: A Magical Evening in Prospect Park

The first time I ever heard Belle & Sebastian was in this scene from High Fidelity:

 

"Seymour Stein" is not the song that made me a fan. But neither is B&S "sad bastard music" as Barry (Jack Black) proclaims. Much of it is genuinely catchy, upbeat, smart pop music. I'm someone who needs songs to have good lyrics. It's odd that this realization only came to me in the last half-decade or so. I think it's because so much popular music is just so bland lyrically that clever lyrics always just seemed like a nice bonus if a song was otherwise pleasant to listen to. 

I hadn't been exposed to B&S's early work, growing up in Pittsburgh and attending college in Indiana in the days before iTunes. But somehow, gradually, from around 2003 onward, I started hearing them more. It's a bit sad to say, but the iTunes "genius" feature probably helped. "Piazza, New York Catcher" was the first B&S song I really got hooked on - in around 2005. I didn't know anything about the band at the time - just that this clever, lovely song had somehow found its way into my iPod and I really liked listening to it. It took until around 2009 for B&S to become one of my absolute favorite bands ever. It had to do, I think, with moving to Manhattan from the Bronx. I started making a habit of taking long walks around the Central Park Reservoir, and the soundtrack to those walks almost immediately became 2006's The Life Pursuit. It's still my favorite B&S album, followed by Dear Catastrophe Waitress and Write About Love, though I love the earlier records, too. I just got so drawn into the songs - I found the lyrics so engrossing and the music so beautiful that listening became addictive. Soon I had acquired quite a collection of B&S albums (now I'm working on acquiring the vinyl versions). And what is it about Stuart Murdoch? His voice is lovely and delicate, but there are stronger singers out there. I read his book, The Celestial Cafe recently, which was actually just a collection of blog posts from 2003-2006 (The Dear Catastrophe Waitress and Life Pursuit eras). I didn't think it would be the type of thing I'd find unputdownable, but somehow it really drew me in. He seems like such a down-to-earth guy - one with whom it would be fun to talk about music and politics and whatever else over a cup of tea.  Actually, I'd be way out of my depth talking about music with him. But he seems the type of guy to be interested in talking about pretty much anything.

On stage Stuart is a wonderfully energetic and charismatic performer (I've heard that wasn't always the case, but of course I never went to see B&S in the early days). Last night, I saw Belle & Sebastian perform in Brooklyn for the second time. The first was a fantastic show in Williamsburg in 2010, when they were promoting Write About Love. Last night's sold-out concert was at the Prospect Park Band Shell, and if I didn't have the same crazy-excitement of seeing them perform for the first time, this time I knew what to expect, and I knew it would be a great show. The opening act was Yo La Tengo, who came on at 7:00. I had arrived at a little after 6 and got a spot pretty close to the stage. My sister would join me later, but I was not about to miss out on being able to see everything, right down to the band's facial expressions. I enjoyed Yo La Tengo, a band I don't know that much about, though I'd heard of and I think I have some of their songs in my iTunes collection. They seemed pretty eclectic and fun, and got a great reception from the audience. That crowd had definitely come to see Belle & Sebastian, though.

At 8:30 on the dot, the main event began. The band came on stage. They started with the instrumental "Judy is a Dick Slap," and moved right into the lively and funny "I'm a Cuckoo." And they played so many of my favorites! "Funny Little Frog" was played. "Another Sunny Day," too. I must have played those songs hundreds of times over the past few years, but there is nothing like hearing them live. Between songs, Stuart, with his lovely Scottish accent, regaled the audience with his adventures on the High Line and with trying out Citi Bike and getting lost in Brooklyn (of course Stuart Murdoch would try Citi Bike. An of course he'd take it out of the area where Citi Bike is usually found). There was also banter with Stevie Jackson, and not just one but two forays into the audience. I was sooo sad that I didn't get to go on stage with a bunch of other people during "The Boy with the Arab Strap" and "Legal Man." I probably could have, but I'd have had to push past two rather large men to get over the railing separating audience from stage, and I didn't quite have that in me. But I enjoyed it anyway. They weren't promoting an album this time, and just played lots of stuff from all different eras of the band. Stuart did a lot of dancing. The whole audience had a great time, and sang along at various points - always a good sign. They played until a little after 10 PM, including an encore, but the whole evening just flew by. This is definitely one band I'll always make a point of going to see when they're in town, and if you can manage to get tickets for any of the shows left on this tour, I'd recommend it highly.

I managed to get some photos with my iPhone:

 

The stage before the show ...I was destined to peer around this guy's "Texas Tech" hat all night. 

Yo La Tengo

                           Yo La Tengo

                                                      Waiting for B&S to come on ...

    Stuart on the keyboard...he didn't keep that long-sleeved shirt very long. It was a muggy night.

                                               Stevie Jackson being awesome. 

                                              I love this shot, except for the guy's hand in front of me!

                

Money, Amnesia, and Responsibility: Or -some of what I learned from dating a finance guy

It's a cliche that money doesn't buy happiness. But I'm starting with a cliche. Too bad. I chose a career that means I'll never make a lot of money. That's OK. That's my choice, and I don't regret it. I still have a happy, fulfilled life with friends, travel, great books, and my necessities more than met. Of course a bit more money would make some things easier, but that's always the case. And I don't think anyone, anywhere should have to live in abject poverty, unable to obtain food, health care, or a roof over their head. There's no real reason that should be the case given how much wealth exists in the world - in New York City alone. There is also the fact that really wealthy people just tend to be less interesting overall. Yes, that's a generalization. But it's my experience. That's right. I'm saying too much money makes people boring. Just read the travel section of the New York Times for an example. There is a disproportionate emphasis on luxury travel. Some of it is to really cool destinations. But why would anyone want to go to Myanmar, for example, just to hang out on a private yacht the whole time? It sounds dull (and possibly exploitative, which is another issue). I had tons of fun in Europe last year staying in hostels and locally owned hotels, eating local cuisine, and seeing cultural and geographical sites.

For about a year, I dated a guy who could afford to do pretty much whatever he wanted. He would fly to another city or even country for a weekend just for a rock concert. He owned most of the products Apple put out (and when I mentioned needing a new battery for my 2006 MacBook, his response was "why don't you just get a new computer?"). He would take me out to dinners that cost approximately my monthly rent. We went to restaurants where they just brought foie gras to the table as an in-between-course snack. A trip to Las Vegas involved a 1200 dollar (for two people) helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon. The views were fabulous. I got motion sickness and threw up.  I never asked to go to any of these places, and I certainly couldn't pay for them. It wasn't that I didn't have qualms about the lifestyle I got to enjoy when I was with him, and it wasn't why I was dating him (that would be because we had a great first date where it turned out we read the same SF novels, to our mutual surprise and delight). I just pushed all my qualms aside. I didn't really realize the league I was playing in until a few dates in, when I got a glimpse of how much the wine he ordered cost at the restaurant where we were eating. But I liked him, and I felt it wasn't my place to critique - and I was enjoying myself, in spite of feeling like a bit of a fraud when waiters behaved like the servants on Downton Abbey and acted as though we were the upstairs folks. I always, deep down, knew there was something wrong about it. That I couldn't drink 300 dollar wine one day and walk past the homeless guy in my neighborhood the next and really be OK with that. Every year I assign my students to read Peter Singer's controversial New York Times piece, The Singer Solution to World Poverty, in which Singer passionately, and controversially argues that not donating a significant percentage of one's income to charity renders one culpable for the millions of children dying of easily treatable diseases in the developing world. There are problems with Singer's rhetoric that I and the students discuss, but over the years I've come to agree with the nugget of his argument. And it nagged at me as I ate those beautiful, luxurious dinners and drank that ridiculously expensive wine. And then there was the simple fact that I always had just as much fun, if not more, going to a movie and hitting a diner or pub afterwards. Eventually, it became clearer to me that we didn't share all of the same values, though I don't think he was a bad person. We had our first fight about the Chicago teachers' strike. I'll not go into the details - it's probably easy to infer the positions we had on it. And even as I realized this stuff, I still liked him - and maybe I was getting a little hooked on the lifestyle.

But he really had no concept of certain things, and I think that's partly due to not really comprehending a need to worry about money or a need to budget and plan. And this seeped into other aspects of his character - a general carelessness or neglect about a need to take responsibility for things he'd said or offered to do. He offered to give me his old MacBook a couple of times (it was newer than mine). After refusing a few times, I eventually accepted, but it never happened. Not a huge deal, really. He didn't owe it to me. But why offer? And what if I'd counted on it? (I eventually learned never to count on offers like that - he'd make them frequently.) And then he'd just forget when we had plans, which was a bigger deal. Or he'd forget to tell me he couldn't make our date after all, and I'd be stuck home on Saturday night, unable to find new plans at the last minute because he didn't tell me in time. Eventually, he moved away for a better job and I didn't think long distance would be a good idea. I think in some ways I had a lucky escape. Because I don't want to start to value things like 300 dollar wine. And the other thing - we never seemed to talk about those SF novels or any of the cool stuff we had seemed to have in common. It was always about the food or the wine or ... I don't even recall really. He was always saying how money wasn't really important. And I don't think he'd always had it (he was a bit cagey about his childhood), but he certainly didn't seem to know how to live without it when I knew him.

And maybe it's not really so much that money makes people boring, but that it causes amnesia. Because it's so easy to turn a blind eye to those who have nothing when one is eating a $200 dollar five course tasting menu and getting drunk on champagne and lighting and being treated like royalty. I certainly was in some danger of forgetting, though I always returned to the real world at the end of the evening. I also told myself if I ended up with this guy, I would do some good with whatever I gained from it. But it's never really enough, is it? Giving to charity and forgetting about it? That doesn't make anyone a better person. It just eases a prickling conscience a bit, or serves as a nice tax write-off. But it also helps the amnesia along. I have respect for those people with means who actually go out into the world and do things hands on. When there are homeless people sitting outside when I'm on the way home from the Michelin star restaurant, it makes it hard to forget. And I'm not saying I have the solution to this dilemma, but I think some redistribution of wealth is probably necessary for us to live in a moral world (I can say that. I'm not running for office).

On a less extreme level, I've even noticed my friends who are making comfortable salaries of their own for the first time in their lives starting to forget. I had a friend suggest that my lifestyle was less than grown-up because I couldn't afford to do certain things - I can't splurge on Broadway tickets or trips to Hawaii. Not right now at least. A couple of years ago, this person couldn't either. Amnesia.

Finally - I really don't resent anyone for living a comfortable life, and I certainly enjoy buying things I don't need from time to time. I just think more people should be able to have the things they do need. And that it's easy to forget not only what it's like not to live that life, but that one also can get into a rut and become just a little bit dull as a result.

(I guess I have two theses here, which is not great writing, but hopefully my point was clear).

Why I love Hiking

I really miss hiking this summer. It drives me crazy that it's not an option for me right now. It's not that I'd call myself an expert hiker or even that I go all the time, but it's something I really like to do. I've gone on hiking vacations. I'm planning to go on more in the future. But this summer, because of the stupid sprained ankle (see elsewhere on this blog), I can't just take off and go to the Palisades or Ramapo Forest for a day, let alone plan anything further away. (The ankle is mostly better, but not totally yet, and it's just not worth the risk.) So for now I'm stuck not hiking.

I never thought of myself as remotely athletic until I discovered that I liked hiking. Team sports were never my thing. In elementary school, I played softball for three years, mostly because my friends were all doing it - which is usually the worst reason to do anything, but softball is a relatively innocent pastime. I was terrible, as I was at most sports. I spent almost all of my time standing in the outfield, drawing pictures in the dirt with my shoe. So even when something occasionally did come my way, I was usually unprepared. Once, I caught a fly ball because it landed in my glove. I didn't tell anyone that I hadn't been remotely expecting it! I wasn't great at hitting the ball, either. I would hit occasionally, probably by pure accident. Once I hit it really hard. It went flying out over the field, and I went running, elated, toward first base. Halfway there, I promptly fell flat on my face into the dirt. I cried, and they let me stay on first base, though I think I was technically out. I think I was around 7 or 8 at the time. In spite of my dragging them down, my team came in first place in our little league division the first year I played, and I still have the big trophy they gave to everyone, but I assure you it was not earned on my part.

They say that playing sports is supposed to be good for girls - that it helps them build confidence and practice things like cooperation and teamwork, and healthy competition. I would say that is true for some girls. For those not naturally athletic, who actually dread participating in team sports, being part of a team can be a nightmare. My first year playing softball was OK, despite my lack of natural ability. A bunch of my friends were on the team, and no one was seriously competitive yet. I did have moments of fun sitting on the bench with my schoolmates and going to Dairy Queen for ice cream after the game, or hitting the candy stand right before. But after that, my experiences on team sports were almost entirely negative. I was *always* picked last for things in gym class. Even things I didn't necessarily suck at, like kickball. It hurt. And I think now, if I'd been signed up for extracurricular things I may have done well at, like drawing or writing or language classes, I would have gotten that confidence boost that they say playing sports gives kids, and girls especially. As it was, team sports made an already shy kid even more self-conscious. It also didn't help that my gym teacher didn't like me. But - once we were told to run and walk a bunch of laps around the gym, and though I wasn't the fastest, I was one of the only students to complete the task. It was one of the only times I remember that teacher complimenting me on anything. But I didn't know walking was a viable sport back then.

In middle school, though, something good happened. I finally overcame my fear of deep water and learned to be a half-decent swimmer. I was so excited to pass my deep water test in seventh grade.  My gym teachers - two women who team-taught - didn't emphasize competition so much as developing fitness skills and learning proper techniques for whatever athletic pursuit we were trying. It's not a coincidence that I actually got good at certain things during those years. We did things like aerobics and jump-rope and climbing exercises. We learned how to stretch and breathe properly. I don't think we ever played a team sport. It was great! I still didn't love gym class, but I didn't mind it and sometimes I even enjoyed it. I even got involved in a temporary program that aimed to get girls interested in golf. I didn't especially excel at it, but it wasn't traumatizing, and I still know how to at least hold a golf club.

In high school, though, things regressed. My gym teacher was older than dirt. He had taught my dad at the same school decades before. He would have us do things that meant he didn't have to do much of anything but stand around and watch. I remember being forced to play volleyball, and classmates actually getting angry because I (admittedly) sucked at it. Fortunately, subsequent gym teachers were even less interested. My friend and I would go into the weight room and play Connect Four. Occasionally we played table tennis, which I kind of enjoyed. As long as we were doing something and stayed out of their way, we got A's. My senior year, I rather stupidly joined the team for the girl's "powder puff" football game (I can't even believe how offensive that name is, but we didn't think much about it at the time). We played one game, juniors versus seniors, during homecoming week. I probably shouldn't even count this as athletic involvement. It wasn't, really. It was a lot of running around, and once I fell during practice and got the wind completely knocked out of me. Our "coach," who was a social studies teacher, was angry when we lost and said he wasn't going to coach the following year because he didn't like losing. Nice.

So that was my life in sports for a long time. My college didn't have a phys ed requirement, and I certainly didn't miss it. But slowly, over the next couple of years, I discovered walking. I didn't think of it as a sport. It started out, probably, in just going on long walks around campus with a friend or two. The following year, when I studied in Rome, I would find myself walking around the city, semi-aimlessly, for hours and hours at a time. And then in 2001, I spent a month on an island off the west coast of Ireland. I was doing archaeological field work (looong story), but part of the program I was on involved excursions to archaeological sites around the island. So that was the first time I did real hiking. I loved it. It didn't even matter where we were headed. The fresh air, the boggy ground, occasionally getting rained on, and feeling every step in my legs at the end of the day over a pint of cider (I hadn't yet developed a taste for Guinness) - it felt good. Not to mention, the scenery was beyond breathtaking. Even so, I didn't do much more hiking after that for a few years, other than taking long walks in the park and around NYC. That changed in 2008, when I ended up going to the English Lake District for a conference. I went on some of the hiking excursions, and even took myself on a solo one, where I got lost and caught in the rain, and had a fantastic time.

Two years later, I planned one of the best trips of my life. A college friend and I hiked Scotland's West Highland Way - 96 miles over six days. It was tough, and we spent one entire day getting rained on, but by the end we felt so proud of ourselves! Since then, I've taken up hiking locally, mostly to trails I can reach by public transportation. Last summer, I scaled my first real mountain, Switzerland's Mt. Pilatus, at 7,000 feet. It's not massive as mountains go, but it felt like an accomplishment for me!

So why hiking? I like it because it's not a competition, though it is possible to set goals and strive to meet them. (And I actually do have something of a competitive nature that only comes out on occasion - but because I'm so terrible at team sports, it doesn't do well there). When I do meet a goal, it really does feel like I've done something worthwhile. My body is sore but happy. My head is clear. I get the confidence boost I never got from playing softball. It's a nice way to spend a day with a friend or two as well, if they're into it. I also love taking pictures, and so I often  combine hiking and photography, though this only works when it's not raining (the Lake District killed my camera). It's also a great way to get to know new places. My memories of Switzerland, Scotland, Ireland, and the Côte d'Azur are all richer from having walked there and having dealt with the landscape for good or ill. I even feel I know NYC and the surrounding area better for having walked through it. There are moments when I'm hiking up a steep hill and I'm absolutely miserable. I ask myself why I do it. What sane person puts herself through such torment? But when I reach the summit, I know why. And I know I'll be back for more.

Nine Things I Love about My Neighborhood

I have lived in four of the five boroughs of New York City. When I came here in 2003, I lived in Brooklyn's Park Slope with three other roommates and taught high school. We were in a fourth-floor walk-up on 3rd Street between 6th and 7th Ave,  a short walk to Prospect Park and tons of cool restaurants and used book stores (most of the bookstores are now closed). It was a safe, charming place and probably a great NYC starter neighborhood for my 23 year old self. A year later, I found myself in graduate school and living in the Bronx, right on the Grand Concourse at 175th Street. I had one roommate, and a huge, gorgeous art-deco apartment in a crumbling building. We were the only white chicks around for probably a 20 block radius. Which was absolutely fine, and I think good for me. I stayed there five years. Then, I spent two years in a miniscule apartment in Manhattan's east 90s, which I shared with my sister. I grew very attached to the UES. I still go back and eat at the Midnight Express Diner and drink at Auction House on 89th Street. Both of these are quality places and I recommend them highly. I so liked living on the UES that I was really not excited to move to my fourth borough in Astoria, Queens in August of 2011. But one does get more for one's money in Queens.

It did take some adjusting. I had a random Craigslist roommate, and the less said about her, the better. My commute time to work doubled. I suddenly found myself far away from all my friends, and in case you didn't already know this, people do not like to travel to the outer boroughs for a visit. They expect you to meet them in Manhattan. Fortunately, I have some very dear friends who will sometimes make the trek for me, but this was still an adjustment. Cabs, also, do not like to go to Queens. I have had many of them argue with me, and I've had to invoke  the "you're legally obligated to take me" line more than I should have. To top it all off, I found my allergies acting up almost immediately upon arrival. I decided that I was allergic to Queens, though it turns out I am probably just allergic to the tree outside my bedroom window for part of the year.

Almost two years later, though, I love it here and I don't think I'd go back to Manhattan even if I could. (Well OK - maybe if money was no object and I could live on 5th Ave or CPW near the park, I'd do it). I have a new Craigslist roommate who is working out well, and I've been able to do nice things with the apartment. But best of all, the neighborhood itself has really grown on me. I live east of Steinway, which is a little quieter than much of Astoria. But I like that. And there are some places and neighborhood quirks that I'll really miss when I eventually leave (though I have no plans of doing so soon).

So here are some things that I absolutely love about my little section of Astoria:

1. Gian Piero Bakery 
This is the place to go for quality, authentic southern-Italian pastries. I developed a problematic cannoli habit when I first moved here. Adding to the atmosphere of authenticity is the crowd. In spite of my Irish surname and resemblance to my Polish grandma, I'm actually half-Italian (Italian on the inside, I like to say) and let's just say I recognized these people without ever having met them before. They're the immigrants and first-generation crowd that sits and talks in a mix of Italian and English and were a fixture at every communion party I attended as a kid. Gian Piero's is where they hang out, sometimes sitting on the benches outside if it's warm, or crowded at the tables inside if it's cold. For me, it feels familiar and also nostalgic - a bit like visiting a slice of NYC that doesn't really exist anymore except maybe here and other isolated pockets, like the Bronx's Arthur Avenue.

2. Off the Vine 
This wine store is small but very nice, and they have regular Saturday tastings! I always find something good here, and the owner is knowledgeable and friendly, and happy to make a recommendation. There is also a very sweet dog there sometimes. I've stopped into Off the Vine countless times on my way home from work and picked up a bottle and exchanged some friendly words with whoever was working.

3. Via Trenta
When I first moved to Astoria, the only Italian restaurant near my was called Cara Bella, and it was fairly old-school - chicken parm and penne alla vodka. Not that that's a bad thing. I would go there and eat alone occasionally, since I didn't know anyone nearby and my roommate and I were not friends. Then, just as I was feeling a bit like a regular, like I had found a comfortable spot to go and eat when I didn't want to stay home, Cara Bella closed without warning. So sad! Now, it's a German restaurant called Max, which I have yet to try, but people seem to like it. In November of 2011, though, Via Trenta opened! And all was right with the world again. It has more modern Italian food - you won't find all the old staples like chicken parm on the menu. But everything is fresh and delicious (I highly recommend the Burrata Pizza. It has truffle oil on it. That should be all anyone ever needs), and there's a great wine list. My sister and I are regulars there now, and the owner and staff are great. It's definitely become a part of my life in Astoria, and I'm so glad it's there!

4. Brooklyn Bagel 
Another staple for me. It's actually a local chain, but I go to the one closest to me. On the days I work from home, I often venture there with my laptop. On weekend mornings it's packed, and it's easy to see why. They have a bacon-scallion cream cheese. Need I say more?

5. Wholesale Furniture
So far, this list has been all food and wine. So you can see my priorities! But the first day I moved in, I discovered the wholesale furniture places on Steinway. I needed a new bed, and was planning to spend the first week on my air mattress. But, when I went into the mattress place on the corner of Steinway and 30th Ave, I found a bed I liked right away, and learned that not only was the price negotiable, but that they could deliver the bed that very day! There are a number of these stores on Steinway, and this past January I bought my new futon from one of them, negotiating the price and everything. It sounds a little sketchy, but the service is actually really good in the little experience I've had.

6. Trade Fair
Yeah, I'm back to food. I live more or less next door to a Trade Fair supermarket, and it's open 24 hours. If I want to make cookies at 3 AM and need to buy eggs, I can do that. This particular store felt a bit disorganized and limited at first, and I found myself venturing a few blocks west to Key Foods. But that was only because I didn't fully grasp how Trade Fair worked. There is actually a huge selection of specialized ingredients, but they're divided up according to ethnicity! Once I figured out that I had to go to the Italian section for Arborio rice for my risotto, rather than the general "rice" section, for example, I was all set. A lot of the products there are like that. Once I figured out the system, I felt liked I'd cracked a code. Trade Fair suddenly felt like a much larger and richer place! Now, I rarely venture to Key Foods.

7. People's front yards. 
Nowhere else that I've lived in NYC have the buildings had little front yards with grass and trees or just gardens. My landlady keeps a garden in front of the building I live in (a two-family house - I live on the 2nd floor). I love coming home and seeing the flowers and vegetables in the spring and summer. And people do really interesting things with their yards. Sometimes there are neat little shrines to the Virgin Mary; sometimes there are overflowing lilac bushes - the smell hits you as you walk past, and it's lovely (lilac is one of my favorite smells).

8. Saint Michael's Cemetery
This huge cemetery is a couple of blocks from me. I once read that Astoria is the most ethnically diverse neighborhood in the country, and Saint Michael's really highlights this diversity. I've gone there with my camera or just to take  a walk several times. It's a peaceful place, and has old mausoleums and headstones going back to the mid-nineteenth century all the way up to the present. It's an interesting way to see how the populations have changed, and also the different ways people honor their loved ones. One of the most poignant memorials there is a statue of a WWI soldier who was killed in action.

9. My Apartment
My apartment is such a happy place! Ever since my roommate moved out in January and the new roommate came, it really feels like home. Our living room and kitchen overlook the street, and have my comfy futon, and the Ikea chair I've had ever since the Brooklyn apartment. I've got my slow-cooker in the kitchen and my record player and book shelves in the living room, and my roommate's TV is here, too. Nothing unusual or special, maybe, but it's fun to be here! It's a nice place to come home to at the end of the day, hang out with a friend or two (the ones who will venture to Astoria!), or curl up with a book and play a record on a rainy Saturday. Whenever I eventually leave Astoria, this is probably the place I'll miss most of all.

So there's my list of things I love about Astoria. There are definitely more things that I love, but these are the ones I thought of immediately - the little things that make this neighborhood unique. Check them out if you visit! (Maybe not my apartment, unless I know you already).