I'm making such great headway on my paper here on the sixth floor of Geisel. I staked out my corner of sequestration, fittingly picked out some more books on breakout violence, suppressed nearly uncontrollable giggles for about twenty minutes over G's email delineating the perils of running out of toilet paper, opened the blank Word document that will become my 15-page masterpiece on the armed conflict in Colombia, and then promptly took a one hour nap. I was woken up, drooling and still drowsy, by the screamo blaring from the headphones of some dude next to me and since then have gone through my entire blogroll of To Read's...twice. Upon such completion, I figured it only appropriate that I now write a dribble of my own.
These days, I feel like I have been missing Spain quite a bit. Although to be honest, I don't know if it's so much that I miss Spain or that I just want to be somewhere else (or if it's that I suck at school and thus am only longing for Europe's faux academia).
Some evenings, visions of the street night lights in Rome, Venice, and Paris just will not leave me. Some mornings, the sunrise in Malta is the only way to begin the day. Some days, it's Portugal that I desperately miss. Other weekends, it's Switzerland. Then there are weeks when I simply cannot stop lusting after the unknown and dreaming of all the countries and cities and sites I have never been. Brazil, Cuba, Haiti, India, Turkey, Egypt, Greece...and you know it's bad when even Asia starts creeping in too. I suppose it doesn't help either that I read the New York Times Travel section more often than I check my email (note to reader: when I start checking more than Facebook, that is when you stage an intervention).
Oh, the drab life of being stricken with severe wanderlust and stuck in San Diego (I know, I know, I live a life of such utter hardship). My primary symptom of itching to move on every five months into any given geographical venture has me ants-in-my-pants ready for the next adventure.
But of course, I've come to realize that the restlessness is tempered by just wanting to travel the world with the right people. Lone rangering in the Lands of Fantastic doesn't quite allow the full development of the anticipated amazing. I remember going places last year and wishing for so and so and he and she to be there to experience and take in that particular everything with me.
So I suppose after all that what San Diego lacks in novelty, it makes up in company. While I'm here facing the 'mundane;' being forced to be a good student (and failing...), being forced to be serious about growing up, and being forced to remain somewhat stationary for the present, I revel in the joy and close proximity of relationships more blessed than any could ever hope for.
In the midst of reminiscing and pining away to be anywhere but here, I ultimately came to conclude that regardless of my current geographic location and its debatable merits of excitement, I really am thankful for those here in sunny Southern California.
...but really, traveling, anyone?
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
Me llamo Lorenita Leticia.
I have not stopped eating since I got home Wednesday night. And I don't mean crappy junk food snacking. I have been up to some serious gourmet gastronomic consumption. Such are the glorious perks of coming from a family in the food business. (And yet how did I still end up a cooking dud? Eh, I digress.)
So far, I have been devouring my mom's hand-fried carnitas tacos with tomatillo sauce, platano frito con crema, pupusas with the requisite pickled vegetables, fried yuca with jalapeno sauce made from scratch, tortilla soup with the freshest fixings, pan con frijol, grilled carne asada tri-tip, chismol, pina y mango, espresso with condensed milk...oh yeah, and I paused for one small Thanksgiving luncheon of typical white American food (plus white rice, of which I naturally did not partake). You can imagine the lackluster response put forth by my tastebuds to the latter meal.
Why in the world would God pretend to make me Asian? And then stick me in the United States? Meh.
Really now, I'm too dark and chub to be true Chinese, mathematics have always eluded me to the most embarrassing degree, I'm clearly not going to be a doctor or engineer, and my Chinese is crap compared to my Spanish (okay, okay, my Chinese is crap, bar none). I have never set foot in Asia, I don't glow when I drink, I have eyelid creases and a nose bridge, and I'm even simultaneously writing a paper on guerrilla groups in Colombia and Peru right now (30 pages of papers due? Bring on the blogs, baby!). My family also consists of the strangest mix of culture ever.
Wahhhh. Latin America, OPEN SESAME.
Porfa. Porque você é onde quero estar...
So far, I have been devouring my mom's hand-fried carnitas tacos with tomatillo sauce, platano frito con crema, pupusas with the requisite pickled vegetables, fried yuca with jalapeno sauce made from scratch, tortilla soup with the freshest fixings, pan con frijol, grilled carne asada tri-tip, chismol, pina y mango, espresso with condensed milk...oh yeah, and I paused for one small Thanksgiving luncheon of typical white American food (plus white rice, of which I naturally did not partake). You can imagine the lackluster response put forth by my tastebuds to the latter meal.
Why in the world would God pretend to make me Asian? And then stick me in the United States? Meh.
Really now, I'm too dark and chub to be true Chinese, mathematics have always eluded me to the most embarrassing degree, I'm clearly not going to be a doctor or engineer, and my Chinese is crap compared to my Spanish (okay, okay, my Chinese is crap, bar none). I have never set foot in Asia, I don't glow when I drink, I have eyelid creases and a nose bridge, and I'm even simultaneously writing a paper on guerrilla groups in Colombia and Peru right now (30 pages of papers due? Bring on the blogs, baby!). My family also consists of the strangest mix of culture ever.
Wahhhh. Latin America, OPEN SESAME.
Porfa. Porque você é onde quero estar...
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Today I Miss Spain.
This morning the sky was clear blue despite the forceful rainstorm that flurried La Jolla last night. The air was crisp, my favorite purple scarf was snuggled around my neck, and I was fresh off a full night of sleep. All was well with the world. Thanksgiving break tantalized me as I strode across the deserted campus with two classes still on the day's docket (apparently, everyone else had already headstarted their vacation ::shakes fist::). Ahh, long weekends. I miss those. In Spain we had long weekends, oh, about every other day.
Woah. Spain.
As James Morrison came crooning on my iPod, the replay of familiar melodies that were on continuous play all last year swung open the floodgates of Barcelona memories. A strange pang stuck my stomach with a prod of unfamiliar nostalgia. I've been reveling in the Land of Heaven for about four months now without hint of Spanish longing. Spain was a crazy, very full year. A good chapter in life that I mostly look fondly on, but one that has closed and given way to whatever I'm currently entrenched in now (which, don't get me wrong, is proving equally full and memorable). But right now, I'm taking a break from the present. While I realize S is about the only person for whom the following will tener sentido, here is my amble down memory lane...
Being here, a million miles from Spanish life removed, I find that all the grievances that plagued us become significantly understated and even laughable.
Living in a dim, lightless room for six whole months. The horror that was Miggity Migs and Chinca. The physically painful awkwardness of sitting near Patty at any given time. Long lonely friendless days at la Autonoma. Laia's bratty but expert manipulative skills. Aggressive creepers galore and the damn phrase "Hola, guapa." My first night at Catwalk. Starving to the point of eating crusty baguettes off a dirty kitchen floor. A migraine and the epitome of a bad "date." Getting kicked off at the end every bus line. Stewing about horse stampedes and missed flights. Rotting shower curtains, broken washing machines, and faulty front door handles. Condis employees and terrible customer service in general. My laptop being out of commission for a torturous eternity. Malodorous armpits touching my face on too many sweltering summer metro rides. Siesta business hours. Cooking with the brownish-yellow spatula and hacking at canned goods with a potholder-wrapped cleaver. Dow Jones, Club Mojito, and the week of trashy white American boys. The eery Ramblas "artists." Catalan pride. Accordion Sundays and repetitively redundant repetoires. Sitting at my desk missing B and aching to be home on a regular basis. Jamon.
And then the memories that were already succulent retrospective fodder become even more sweet.
Early Saturday mornings of fresh croissants and lounging on the blue couch. Walking down Carrer de Sants by myself late late at night. Changing from the metro to the train at Diagonal to get to school. Staking out in the hallways of la Autonoma to secretly smile at letters and care packages in between classes. Chocolate banana milkshakes at Clandestina, passionfruit tea at Bliss, cappuccinos at White Cafe. Huddling under an umbrella to watch the lightshow at Monjuic in the pouring rain. Traversing Born and spontaneously wandering into the caipirinha and popcorn bar. Crowded sweaty smokiness of Harlem, salsa, and a live Cuban band. Walking briskly through the chum park to get to work every morning. Assailing Jon and Nico's receipt log with the broomball picture. Kitchen nook chuckles. Admiring every variation of alstroemerias on Las Ramblas. 1 euro fresh fruit smoothies from the Boqueria after school on humid days. Dangling my legs over the jetty at the end of Barceloneta. Downing overpriced Fanta de Naranja at the chiringuito in Sitges. Getting candy chucked at us by a passing parade on Kelby's birthday. The drunken madness that was New Year's. Ceaseless stupid laughing and visions of trucks on the beach during La Merce. Snooping around the Frenchies' room and bolting the hell out when Jort came home. Suppressing giggle fits while Skyping Si during strictly solemn moments. Chupito bar with Ellie and speaking Chinese all the way home. Reflecting at Port Vell. The singing Brazilians at Patagonia gelato. The glee of discovering Jamboree for the first time. Our BFF's at the neighborhood falafel joint. The joy of Parc Ciutadella in the springtime. The white rag that stuck out of David's couch one night at celula. Journaling the shit out of Barce every. single. day.
Mm, that was fun. Oh, life...I could go on forever, pero suficiente por mientras. Adeu.
Woah. Spain.
As James Morrison came crooning on my iPod, the replay of familiar melodies that were on continuous play all last year swung open the floodgates of Barcelona memories. A strange pang stuck my stomach with a prod of unfamiliar nostalgia. I've been reveling in the Land of Heaven for about four months now without hint of Spanish longing. Spain was a crazy, very full year. A good chapter in life that I mostly look fondly on, but one that has closed and given way to whatever I'm currently entrenched in now (which, don't get me wrong, is proving equally full and memorable). But right now, I'm taking a break from the present. While I realize S is about the only person for whom the following will tener sentido, here is my amble down memory lane...
Being here, a million miles from Spanish life removed, I find that all the grievances that plagued us become significantly understated and even laughable.
Living in a dim, lightless room for six whole months. The horror that was Miggity Migs and Chinca. The physically painful awkwardness of sitting near Patty at any given time. Long lonely friendless days at la Autonoma. Laia's bratty but expert manipulative skills. Aggressive creepers galore and the damn phrase "Hola, guapa." My first night at Catwalk. Starving to the point of eating crusty baguettes off a dirty kitchen floor. A migraine and the epitome of a bad "date." Getting kicked off at the end every bus line. Stewing about horse stampedes and missed flights. Rotting shower curtains, broken washing machines, and faulty front door handles. Condis employees and terrible customer service in general. My laptop being out of commission for a torturous eternity. Malodorous armpits touching my face on too many sweltering summer metro rides. Siesta business hours. Cooking with the brownish-yellow spatula and hacking at canned goods with a potholder-wrapped cleaver. Dow Jones, Club Mojito, and the week of trashy white American boys. The eery Ramblas "artists." Catalan pride. Accordion Sundays and repetitively redundant repetoires. Sitting at my desk missing B and aching to be home on a regular basis. Jamon.
And then the memories that were already succulent retrospective fodder become even more sweet.
Early Saturday mornings of fresh croissants and lounging on the blue couch. Walking down Carrer de Sants by myself late late at night. Changing from the metro to the train at Diagonal to get to school. Staking out in the hallways of la Autonoma to secretly smile at letters and care packages in between classes. Chocolate banana milkshakes at Clandestina, passionfruit tea at Bliss, cappuccinos at White Cafe. Huddling under an umbrella to watch the lightshow at Monjuic in the pouring rain. Traversing Born and spontaneously wandering into the caipirinha and popcorn bar. Crowded sweaty smokiness of Harlem, salsa, and a live Cuban band. Walking briskly through the chum park to get to work every morning. Assailing Jon and Nico's receipt log with the broomball picture. Kitchen nook chuckles. Admiring every variation of alstroemerias on Las Ramblas. 1 euro fresh fruit smoothies from the Boqueria after school on humid days. Dangling my legs over the jetty at the end of Barceloneta. Downing overpriced Fanta de Naranja at the chiringuito in Sitges. Getting candy chucked at us by a passing parade on Kelby's birthday. The drunken madness that was New Year's. Ceaseless stupid laughing and visions of trucks on the beach during La Merce. Snooping around the Frenchies' room and bolting the hell out when Jort came home. Suppressing giggle fits while Skyping Si during strictly solemn moments. Chupito bar with Ellie and speaking Chinese all the way home. Reflecting at Port Vell. The singing Brazilians at Patagonia gelato. The glee of discovering Jamboree for the first time. Our BFF's at the neighborhood falafel joint. The joy of Parc Ciutadella in the springtime. The white rag that stuck out of David's couch one night at celula. Journaling the shit out of Barce every. single. day.
Mm, that was fun. Oh, life...I could go on forever, pero suficiente por mientras. Adeu.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Muerto completo de mi alma
Okay. So I'm being way dramatic. Channeling the more simplistic emotions of M, I am so sad.
No but seriously.
Mi piercing de ceja, despite the lacking longevity of its run as my one overt token to badass-dom (or so I liked to think), has officially become obsolete. Infection-induced efforts to take the ring out for cleaning led to a disturbing explosion in my eyebrow and immediate closure of the piercing in a matter of minutes very much to my dismay.
Call me superficial, but I feel like half of me just died. Funny how I absolutely loathe solely being associated as B's girlfriend, but wrap my identity up in a minute metal curve and I couldn't be happier. In between gouging out the remainder of my ocular region while reading the worst book in the world (Just and Unjust Wars by Walzer; don't do it, people, you will surely die!), I've been soberly contemplating the meaning of life and other such deep profundities in the wake of my eyebrow piercing's tragic demise.
Who am I [left to be]?! What am I doing with my life?! How will I ever move on?! Where do I go from here?!
Well. At least I still have my good looks and biting wit, right? Just kidding.
Now is about the time when a weekend jetset to Portugal would be nice. Maybe then all the pondering would bring to fruition... some quaint word fruit baskets nicely wrapped in gauzy rhetorical eloquence. I have the urgings to draw out myriad lines of thought these days, but alas, natural written cohesiveness eludes me. The constipation may actually kill me before does the heartache of my recent loss.
Spelling it out, inspiration (or lack thereof) is my excuse for dearthly updating as of late. My freshly induced season of mourning may put things off even further. But stay tuned because clearly, my life is so scintillating and the events so monumental, you can't help but rivet yourself to the seat and bite your nails in anxious anticipation of my next installment. I know.
Good [read: bad] day to you.
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