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TRAVEL BLOG ENTRY
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Instead of heading directly home to San Diego, I spent two weeks on the East Coast visiting college friends and family. I figured it would be my last chance in over a year to see everyone, since I have no plans whatsoever of heading back east anytime soon. (Can anyone say ‘avoiding the cold?’). Thus, my ‘farewell tour’ began.
First stop: New York.
After sprinting onto the A-train at JFK I took a good look at my surroundings. First word that popped into my mind: Whitie! (Again?!) I was the only white girl on the train. I felt white and rich and like I couldn't blend in and that was bad, because that made me a target. All a flashback to South Africa, where white = risk of getting mugged. So weird.
First emotion that popped into my mind: sadness. First, I came from Israel, which values your network of family and friends and loving your neighbor and taking perfect strangers into your home. Then I came from China, which felt like the safest place in the world. And then I arrived in New York, where once you leave Manhattan, urban grit greets you at every corner.
There was the very fact that signs are only in English. Occasionally you find signs and notices in Spanish, but otherwise? Only English. When you visit foreign countries, signs are nearly always in two languages, one of which is invariably English. And suddenly I'm in a country that assumes people speak and read the language. What about tourists who come with little knowledge of the language? Or immigrants? Granted, you can't please everyone, but a little effort to make others feel more welcomed would go a long way.
And then there were the people. There were the two Hispanic girls - one about 10 years old, the other about 6 - on their way to school; the six year old finished her homework proudly, while the older sister stared out her window. "Who's going to pick me up?" the little one asked. The older one shrugged tiredly. I couldn't help but think that perhaps she was taking a large role in raising her sister.
There was the African American man sleeping in the corner with holes in his shirt, probably on his way to work. Or perhaps from.
There was the Hispanic couple - both were around fifteen years of age - discussing bedroom details I'd rather not hear. I know children can’t stay innocent forever...but still, I felt sad.
I kept thinking, ‘why must people work so hard at their own survival? And in a city with so many people, why are so many left without care or help or love from others?’
While some of these impressions stuck throughout my time in New York, I began to see the beauty in the grit and came to understand why people love the City like I love fresh French baguettes or like some girls love chocolate cake. And since I mentioned chocolate cake, I am now craving Linda's Fudge Cake from the Cheesecake Factory, which I hadn’t thought about for three months but am currently salivating. Anyway.
In my previous trips to New York, I generally stayed in Midtown and never ventured into other parts of the city like Washington Heights, the East Village, or Queens. As a result, I continually felt surrounded by uppety, rich, busy, cranky New Yorkers who hated the weather, their neighbors, and more importantly, themselves - but masked it all by pretending their lives were better than mine, or yours, or your neighbors, because, you know, you must be happy if you're living in a busy city with a horribly dirty subway system an other miserable people who pretend to love their lives while sporting Gucci, Dolce, and Prada. Clearly. The minute I stepped outside of this environment, however, New York became real. Like Washington Heights, where signs were in Spanish and English, where people don't have the fortune to sport Gucci boots (or any fortune at all), and where you could buy yogurt and milk for under five dollars in places that accepted food stamps. Or the East Village, where wearing Converse was equally acceptable to wearing Nine West. How refreshing to be in environments where anything goes and where people aren't seeking to impress one another; they're simply trying to survive, just like the person sitting next to them.
There is also poetry and rhythm to urban environments that is easily misunderstood among upper-class, white, suburban Americans. There is a beauty in the roughness; an art to the grit, the harshness, the reality. Hearing rap or seeing graffiti or even listening to urban slang on the subways made me appreciate these forms of communication as common denominators and ties that bind; they aren't better or worse than how I grew up, they just are. And I think if we take the time to stop and listen and understand where they're coming from, we'll understand it as such. I don't mean to romanticize a picture that is often grim; I just don't think we should be so quick to judge how other people have been born and raised. People are people, and no matter what neighborhood you're in, there are a lot of good ones out there.
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I internalized these aspects of city life while visiting my many friends and family members in the area. My visits went something like this: DropoffmystuffatStella’s Catchupw ithmyaunt OHRamseycalledlet ’sgotoJerseyfortheevening andsayhello awesome. It’s great to be back with my dad’s cousins…I’m really jet lagged…maybe I could fit into the baby crib in the bedroom and sleep there? NyQuil is excelllllllenttttt…
Wake up go back into the City to havelunc hwithAlex andMattawesomeohNikki ’sherelet ’shangout fortheaft ernoonJam esKristinKellyDaveJangraw ! Sogoodtoseeyou LetseatMexicanfood! zzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Wake up head to Long Island City to dropoffmy stuffgobacktoTimes Square oh dude TOURISTS who find the need to wear fanny packs comeonpeoplewe ’reinAmerica…Kelly! Our lives are equally random and entertaining and what’s wrong with taking a couple years to do random stuff like work at a French sport chalet? Or, visit China or India? Because, why not? Let’s go to Tonga!
Breathe.
Big highlight of the trip: going to Bargemusic with Matt Piazza and Crista Kende. First we headed to Grimaldi’s pizza, which was all sorts of deliciousness, then headed to the Barge at the Brooklyn Bridge, where Nick Cords (viola teacher at Princeton) and his quartet gave an astounding concert. A Chinese woman playing an instrument whose name I cannot remember composed a piece for the entire group, then played solo, then they played a Brahms quartet, and then another work that one of the violinists composed…this crazy, off the wall Gypsy-influenced piece. Shock and awe. Especially since their techniques were ridiculous – so untraditional, I don’t understand how they produced such perfect sounds. But they did, and Crista, Matt, and I practically drooled the entire time. Just like I am currently drooling because I still want Linda’s Fudge Cake.
I spent my final day picnicking in Central Park and spending time with Tatiana Josephy, a close friend from Princeton with whom I traveled in South Africa and Kenya, and who later visited me for a week in Israel. Truly awesome to crash her place and catch up with her; we’ve seen each other at our best and worst moments (and there have been many bad moments for both of us), which has brought about a degree of comfort rare among friends.
Also – in Tatiana’s case and all of my graduated Princeton friends, for that matter – I must say that post-graduation life suits everyone very well!!! It’s amazing to see Princeton friends together when nobody is sleep-deprived and everybody is relatively relaxed, happy, and stress-free. Even comparing pictures of friends during and after school is incredible. Picture 1: Wow, look at those bags under those eyes. Wow, look at that pale skin. Wow, look at that person trying to party during Deans Date but sleeping and drooling on their beer instead. Picture two: Smiles! Tans! Relaxation! Wow! Let's have a drink!
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My trip to New York, though hectic and crazy, made me realize how many wonderful people I’ve met and become friends with over the past four years. Sure, it took nearly that long to find good friends: Princeton can be cruel socially, a fact of my undergraduate life of which I was reminded all too frequently. But once you find your people – whether it takes a year or four years – you find good people; the kind of people you can be out of touch with for ten years, and then call them and say ‘I’m here!’ and you’ll reconnect and hang out like nothing has changed.
So, thank you to everyone who made me feel loved. I love you too! And maybe one day I’ll come to love the City just as muc
previous travel blog entry
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