I refuse to wear sneakers on my commute. In a city like DC, you never know who you are going to meet. And when I just *happen* to run into the First Lady I intend to look my best. So, in a move that goes against practicality I never, never wear sneakers on the commute to work. Instead I wear the heels I intend to wear that day, despite my solid 15 minute walk to work, or at the very least flats that match my outfit. My girlfriends know this about me and think its funny, which it is.
So one night this week one of my girlfriends thinks she sees me ahead of her, getting out of the subway. The hair looks like me and the outfit looks like something I would wear. My friend walks closer, following her out of the subway. And then something stops her cold in her tracks: the girl has tennis shoes on. Alter Ego friend turned around right then and there, thinking to herself “Well, that can’t be JayGirl because I know she would never wear tennis shoes on her commute.” To which we all had a good laugh about later because really it's charming she knows me so well.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Ambiguity
Recently, I went to an event with lots of other Peace Corps nominees and invitees. It was great to meet people going through the same goofy stage of life I am, of not knowing what country they will spend two years of their life in, or when they will find out. Despite this craziness, they were remarkably cool, normal people. My sense is normal, cool people are who I am going to want to have with me on this adventure.
But it got me thinking, for all the ambiguity now, it may even be more crazy when this is real, when there is a date and a country attached to it, a plane ticket to somewhere on a specific date, and the goodbyes become real.
But it got me thinking, for all the ambiguity now, it may even be more crazy when this is real, when there is a date and a country attached to it, a plane ticket to somewhere on a specific date, and the goodbyes become real.
Gorgeous
I regularly volunteer with kids and they never leave me without a cute story to pass on. Tonight was no exception. I befriended a three year old boy and we had a great hour or so together before his mom picked him up. She said to him "I see you've made a new friend. What's her name?" He thought for a minute and then said "Gorgeous. Her name's gorgeous." His mom questioned him for a minute, unconvinced (as she should have been) that my name really was Gorgeous. But she let it go and as he waved goodbye to me he said "Goodnight, Gorgeous!"
Sunday, April 11, 2010
The Gentlemen Callers
A while back, a girlfriend of mine who lives in Arlington ventured into my gentrifying neighborhood. For those not from DC, Arlington is a pretty, clean, safe and mostly white suburban area right outside the majority minority DC. So needless to say, she was outside her comfort zone. Describing the experience to me a few days later, she talked of how she felt unsafe thanks to the cat calls and comments made by the men on the street. "They cat called you?" I replied, incredulous. "They don't cat call at me any more."
See, living where I do I have come to regard the comments of these "gentleman callers" as an indication of how I look on a given day or evening. One night, the first - and only - night I tried to pull off the leggings look when going out, I knew it was a good look thanks to the multiple "Girl, you look good,"-s directed at me en route from my apartment to the dance floor. In a weird way, I missed these comments while on vacation in Barcelona, where people were surprisingly reserved, and of course in England.
But this week has been a particularly flattering one from my gentleman callers. My favorite comments from the week include:
-"Damn girl, you look good!" from a bus driver as I was on my way to the metro for work.
-"This street is beautiful women central tonight," said a guy to his friend as they walked out the door of an apartment building while my alter ego friend and I walked by.
-"I've been waiting for you. You were supposed to be here five minutes ago," a guy said to me as I was exploring my neighborhood.
Never a dull moment in the city!
See, living where I do I have come to regard the comments of these "gentleman callers" as an indication of how I look on a given day or evening. One night, the first - and only - night I tried to pull off the leggings look when going out, I knew it was a good look thanks to the multiple "Girl, you look good,"-s directed at me en route from my apartment to the dance floor. In a weird way, I missed these comments while on vacation in Barcelona, where people were surprisingly reserved, and of course in England.
But this week has been a particularly flattering one from my gentleman callers. My favorite comments from the week include:
-"Damn girl, you look good!" from a bus driver as I was on my way to the metro for work.
-"This street is beautiful women central tonight," said a guy to his friend as they walked out the door of an apartment building while my alter ego friend and I walked by.
-"I've been waiting for you. You were supposed to be here five minutes ago," a guy said to me as I was exploring my neighborhood.
Never a dull moment in the city!
Post-Vacation Blues
Lately I've been experiencing the post-vacation blues. I've realized I'm not in Western Europe, as pretty as some of the DC architecture is. That body of water outside my office is not the Mediterranean; it's the Potomac. Rather than sleeping in daily, followed by mindlessly wandering around exploring the city, art museums and galleries, I have to go to work. Cappuccino breaks every two hours are not exactly encouraged at my employer. The late-night lifestyle and midnight dinners of tapas does not exactly coincide with getting to work at 8:30 in the morning, either.
So what's a girl to do? Well, I am trying to infuse daily doses of "vacation" into my lifestyle and attempting to maintain that sense of complete relaxation one has upon returning from vacation. A few minor lifestyle changes have done me well. For starters, I've been getting to work earlier so I can leave earlier and have more of a life on week nights. My lunch time routine of eating a peanut butter sandwich while continuing to work at my desk (precious minutes saved multitasking!) has been replaced with a daily walk by the river during lunch (although the peanut butter sandwich remains). My increased vacation levels of coffee have been maintained, with a cup in the afternoon as well as the morning. And I do feel more relaxed, so... I guess that will hold me over until the next vacation!
So what's a girl to do? Well, I am trying to infuse daily doses of "vacation" into my lifestyle and attempting to maintain that sense of complete relaxation one has upon returning from vacation. A few minor lifestyle changes have done me well. For starters, I've been getting to work earlier so I can leave earlier and have more of a life on week nights. My lunch time routine of eating a peanut butter sandwich while continuing to work at my desk (precious minutes saved multitasking!) has been replaced with a daily walk by the river during lunch (although the peanut butter sandwich remains). My increased vacation levels of coffee have been maintained, with a cup in the afternoon as well as the morning. And I do feel more relaxed, so... I guess that will hold me over until the next vacation!
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Vacation
Just a quick note to say I'm on vacation ~ hence no posts! Yay for cappuccinos & European sunshine. Plus English pints... Cheers!
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Crazy Cab Rides
This week's crazy cab ride back from the Jay-Z concert reminded me of a far more serious crazy cab ride across international borders. Let me first pause to say the Jay-Z concert was *awesome*. In a weird coincidence, we ended up bumping into the guys we were sitting next to when we were searching for a cab downtown. They were heading to Georgetown and, though we were going in the opposite direction, the cabbie insisted on taking us both in the most nonsensical path possible.
Which prompted the memory of the cab ride from Nador, Morocco to the Spanish city of Melilla, a mere eight miles and two stops at passport control away from Nador. Would have been helpful if I had known there were two stops to begin with... During my sophomore year of college spring break I went with two girls to Spain and Morocco. I was about to turn twenty and had just declared my twenties as a decade I was giving to myself, to explore the world, my place in it, and learn about me. We began our journey in Morocco in Tangier and thought we may as well take a bus to Nador, see the countryside, and save money by taking the overnight ferry back to Spain, thus reducing our hotel costs. It was a decision fueled by youth, thriftiness, adventure, and a sense of invincibility.
The bus ride in itself was an adventure, one for another blog post. We were the only women on the bus, though I have to say a couple gracious men took good care of us. When we got to Nador one of them set us up with a cab to Melilla where the ferry was. We just had a couple hours to cross the border and catch it. Then we realized Melilla was on Spanish time, an hour ahead of Moroccan time. The couple hours became just one. Waiting to get our passports stamped to exit Morocco was nerve-wracking. First there was the issue of explaining why we were in this town far isolated from the cities in Morocco typically traveled to by Americans, insisting we did not have any drugs with us, explaining why our passports didn't all look alike (mine was issued after 9/11 and was different from the other girls'), getting searched to make sure we were telling the truth re: drugs, and all of it in languages we barely spoke to boot.
But, thankfully, we got to the port, bought our tickets, and walked up to board the ferry. That is, if they would let us on, which they would not because we had not gone through Spanish customs yet. In fact, the cab driver hadn't even gone through a border crossing when we entered Melilla. Huh? We thought before realizing we had to act - and fast. We rushed back down the ramp to board the ferry, explained to a cab driver what we needed to do in faltering Spanish, and then were quickly driven to the border so long as we could promise to pay the negotiated price of thirty dollars. I don't know if getting our passports stamped at that Spanish customs office took as long as it felt it took - when we got there, we first had to wake the officer up; he was dozing off - but it felt like eons.
Stamped passports in hand, we were quickly driven back to the port. But not before the cabbie tried to get more money off of us. This began a back-and-forth in Spanish (which I barely speak) on how much we would pay him. When he liked what we were saying, he drove faster. But when he didn't, he slowed down, eventually stopping the car and demanding we pay him sixty dollars, not thirty. At this point we didn't have much cash between us all. The other debate with our friendly cab driver was what currency to pay him in. Moroccan dirhams, his country's own currency, were unacceptable to him as were British pounds. Only euros and US dollars were acceptable. Nevertheless, we pulled the various currencies we had to come close to sixty dollars, which I am sure was waaay more than the average cab ride in Melilla.
But, though we were the last ones to board the ferry just minutes before it departed, we made it. And I too made it back to my cozy apartment after the Jay-Z concert. Maybe the bigger point is what matters is that you get where you intended to go, regardless of the path taken.
Which prompted the memory of the cab ride from Nador, Morocco to the Spanish city of Melilla, a mere eight miles and two stops at passport control away from Nador. Would have been helpful if I had known there were two stops to begin with... During my sophomore year of college spring break I went with two girls to Spain and Morocco. I was about to turn twenty and had just declared my twenties as a decade I was giving to myself, to explore the world, my place in it, and learn about me. We began our journey in Morocco in Tangier and thought we may as well take a bus to Nador, see the countryside, and save money by taking the overnight ferry back to Spain, thus reducing our hotel costs. It was a decision fueled by youth, thriftiness, adventure, and a sense of invincibility.
The bus ride in itself was an adventure, one for another blog post. We were the only women on the bus, though I have to say a couple gracious men took good care of us. When we got to Nador one of them set us up with a cab to Melilla where the ferry was. We just had a couple hours to cross the border and catch it. Then we realized Melilla was on Spanish time, an hour ahead of Moroccan time. The couple hours became just one. Waiting to get our passports stamped to exit Morocco was nerve-wracking. First there was the issue of explaining why we were in this town far isolated from the cities in Morocco typically traveled to by Americans, insisting we did not have any drugs with us, explaining why our passports didn't all look alike (mine was issued after 9/11 and was different from the other girls'), getting searched to make sure we were telling the truth re: drugs, and all of it in languages we barely spoke to boot.
But, thankfully, we got to the port, bought our tickets, and walked up to board the ferry. That is, if they would let us on, which they would not because we had not gone through Spanish customs yet. In fact, the cab driver hadn't even gone through a border crossing when we entered Melilla. Huh? We thought before realizing we had to act - and fast. We rushed back down the ramp to board the ferry, explained to a cab driver what we needed to do in faltering Spanish, and then were quickly driven to the border so long as we could promise to pay the negotiated price of thirty dollars. I don't know if getting our passports stamped at that Spanish customs office took as long as it felt it took - when we got there, we first had to wake the officer up; he was dozing off - but it felt like eons.
Stamped passports in hand, we were quickly driven back to the port. But not before the cabbie tried to get more money off of us. This began a back-and-forth in Spanish (which I barely speak) on how much we would pay him. When he liked what we were saying, he drove faster. But when he didn't, he slowed down, eventually stopping the car and demanding we pay him sixty dollars, not thirty. At this point we didn't have much cash between us all. The other debate with our friendly cab driver was what currency to pay him in. Moroccan dirhams, his country's own currency, were unacceptable to him as were British pounds. Only euros and US dollars were acceptable. Nevertheless, we pulled the various currencies we had to come close to sixty dollars, which I am sure was waaay more than the average cab ride in Melilla.
But, though we were the last ones to board the ferry just minutes before it departed, we made it. And I too made it back to my cozy apartment after the Jay-Z concert. Maybe the bigger point is what matters is that you get where you intended to go, regardless of the path taken.
