First Encounter

2.

I think everyone fantasizes about who they will sit next to on a plane.  Of course, the ultimate fancy is to be seated next to a dashing young member of the opposite sex.  Venus version:  You begin a conversation and immediately realize that you have a million things in common.  You meet for dinner in the new exotic destination you are both going to.  You have a wild affair, which ultimately leads to true love.  Mars version:  Membership to the mile high club.  However, as sad as it may be, these fantasies are probably more up to movie standards than real life.  An average citizen usually sits next to another average citizen.  Still, everyone dreads being stuck next to the fat man eating potato chips until he falls asleep, snoring loudly.  Not only does he have greasy crumbs all over his shirt, he is also completely violating the little armrest barrier.  And of course, everyone loves a screaming baby.  Oh, the circumstances in reality.  Entitled mile high hell. 

On my flight to Europe, I found myself sitting next to an average looking guy, probably a few years older than me.  We awkwardly exchanged side glances, trying to decide if we should attempt a conversation or just spend the next six hours in silence, ignoring the occasional brush of arms.  However, at one point, we caught each others eyes and an introduction seemed necessary.  His name...was Robert Paulson.  Just kidding.  His name was Alan and he was traveling with a group of architects that were going to Germany for some type of mock project.  We began talking and although there was no temptation to make a sexy trip to the bathroom, Alan proved to be a very good travel companion. 

You know when you notice something about someone, and that little thing really makes you want to talk to them?  Okay, confusing sentence.  For instance, when you see someone reading a book, maybe one by your favorite author, you have an instinctual desire to say something like, “That’s a great book.”  Maybe it’s a type of camaraderie amongst human beings.  Sharing knowledge is sharing power.  A sense of community, a sense of fitting in.  Or, in a more pessimistic, yet intrinsic view of people, maybe it’s a self conscious effort of establishing superiority in a competitive environment.  Not to get too Freudian or Darwinian.  

 Anyway, what attracted my attention to Alan was that he was reading the first book in The Chronicles of Narnia.  Now, I am an avid reader and I must say, that series is probably one of my favorites of all time.  There has been a lot of criticism for the heavy religious imagery throughout; however, I still think the writing of C.S. Lewis is impeccable.  I have always been a sucker for well written children’s books.  I feel they highlight genius through imagination, which transcends all ages (look at Harry Potter for god’s sake).  Sadly, many people are too embarrassed to read them, at least in public, and will never experience classics like The Phantom Tollbooth (if they haven’t read it by sixth grade).  So when I saw Alan reading The Magician’s Nephew I first thought, “I love that book!” And then, “Wow, it’s cool he’s reading that.”  To make a long story long, I was glad introductions were made.

After he mistook my Les Miserables (yes, I read the whole thing and yes, it took absolutely forever) for The Count of Monte Cristo, we got to talking about books.  He told me an urban legend about an old man who worked as a flight attendant.  He loved the classics and was perturbed by a lack of interest from the younger generation.  So, to fight this indifference, whenever the attendant saw a person reading The Scarlet Pimpernel, Frankenstein, or some other goody, he would move them up to first class.  I personally think that is a lovely little tale.  Can’t you picture a little white haired man with twinkling eyes, just waiting to see who his next favorite will be?  The quick little spring in his step when he spots his new friend?  Note: I picture him to be very similar to the main character in the infamous episode Twilight Zone, where the quirky yet lovable protagonist breaks his glasses - when he finally has all the time in the world to read.

As the flight progressed, I realized I had established a nice relationship with Alan.  We had that perfect balance in which we didn’t feel forced to talk to one another; however, if one of us turned and said something, it wouldn’t feel strange or out of place.  After one considerable period of silence, Alan turned to me and stated, “If someone throws you a baby, don’t catch it.”  As I stared at him, completely dumbfounded, half of me started to laugh as his ludicrous opening statement, while the other half of me seriously questioned his sanity.  He chuckled and explained this new scam circulating Europe.  One thief will have a “baby” in their arms.  That person will pretend to slip and lose their balance, accidentally relinquish their grip, and allow the “baby” to go flying towards you.  While your attention is frantically directed towards the human missile, another thief will calmly pick your pocket.  However, looking back on this story, I do have a question that arises.  What happens when you catch the baby and realize that its fake?  I would think people would chase after the thief that was masquerading as a parental figure.  And even if the thieves did get away - wouldn’t they have to buy a lot of plastic babies just to make a living?  Would that be worth the effort?  The scam just seems a little absurd.  Maybe Alan was actually a pathological liar disguised as a normal person.  Maybe he just happened to have a good ear for fantastic urban legends.  Whatever the case, my first human encounter (the German speaking attendant didn’t count since I didn’t understand what she said) was certainly interesting.  And I have to say, I did maintain a fairly rigorous lookout for flying babies during my trip.

Valentine's Day

Note: I wrote this a few days before February 14th, and unfortunately, due to the planning of a friend’s 30th birthday, was unable to edit it in a timely fashion.  However, I feel that I should still share my thoughts on the red and pink holiday.  Maybe people can keep my opinion in mind for next year...

I hate Valentine’s Day.  Not to start the happy holiday on a cynical note, but I really do hate February 14th and everything that is associated with it.  Now I know what you must be thinking.  Oh she is but a bitter “singleton” (in the vocabulary of Bridget Jones), that is just depressed because she doesn’t have a significant other.  On the contrary.  I think I have hated Valentine’s Day for my entire life.

Begin in grammar school.  Valentine’s Day wasn’t about mushy couples, instead, the holiday centered around construction paper cutouts that involved glitter or stickers of some sort.  I can remember making twenty-something valentines for each member of my class.   If you were to give a valentine, it had to be for all or none.  I understand and appreciate this theory of course.  It would quickly turn into a popularity contest, with only the pretty girls getting all of the valentines.  Completely fair and equal - like a mini Communist Valentine Society.  

Now, like Communism, there are obviously many flaws to the idea.  One: A whole class is a hell of a lot of valentine’s to make.  I loved arts and crafts when I was little.  However, I remember making all of those fucking valentines and I hated it after about fifteen minutes of manual labor.  I would cut out a heart in a piece of paper, then I would create two valentines out of it - the heart would be one and the piece of paper with the heart cutout would be the other (I thought the actual hearts were prettier so I would save those for people I actually liked).  Two:  No matter how good of a person you are, sometimes you just don’t like people.  As you mature, you establish that not all people share your tastes, morals, or certain personality traits.  As a child, the cause for ill will may be simpler in nature - maybe somebody called you a name, stuck their tongue out at you, pushed you on the playground.  However, I still sure as hell don’t want to give a valentine to the perpetrators of these crimes.  Three:  When you perform a smaller task you are thorough; therefore, you create a better, more detailed product.  When you spread the workload out, you essentially are sacrificing quality for quantity.  If I only had to make three valentines, I would have painstakingly decorated them so they were the most beautiful valentines to ever grace my grammar school.  However, when you make twenty-something valentines as a kid, you get tired.  The majority of kids would pass out the store bought kind, the cards with the candy hearts attached to them.  I prided myself that mine were home-made, as a valentine should be (in my opinion).  However, I admit, because of the rules and regulations of distribution, my valentines looked like some shit.

As I grew older and finally had boyfriends, I began receiving those stupid stuffed animals - the bear holding the heart that says “I love you.”  First of all (and this does not hold any judgement to grown women that still cherish their childhood stuffed animals), I do not sleep with a teddy bear anymore.  I never will sleep with a teddy bear again.  And I certainly won’t sleep with a teddy bear just because a boyfriend decides to give it to me.  I also refuse to put the bear on my dresser and lovingly look at it every day.  I do not want to have a corny dust collector to remind me of my boyfriend.  At this point in my life, get a hint.  Godiva I can appreciate.  Flowers I can also appreciate.  Skip the bears.

Of course, all of those happy couples out there will read this with skepticism and say, “The intention was there behind that bear!  No matter what the gift was, if the intention is sincere, then that’s all that matters!”  Now, if someone gives me a leaf, a rubber band, and a hair net as a gift I will expect them to pull a McGyver and save my life.  Or, he could explain that the leaf is from the tree where he first saw me, the rubber band is what he flicked at me to get my attention in work, and the hair net represents the lunch ladies of America (say an organization that receives monthly donations from me).  There is thought and sentiment in those three ordinary items.  The thought behind a bear involves a person walking into a drugstore, realizing, “Shit, I have nothing for Valentine’s Day.”  Unfortunately, girls melt over stuffed animals, thinking it is adorable.  Just give me the hairnet for Christ’s sake.

So far, this does sound awfully bitter.  However, on a positive note, I would absolutely consider myself a romantic.  I firmly believe in love, and that it is one of the rarest and most beautiful gifts a human being can ever acquire.  It is something to cherish and certainly celebrate.  I have had the fortune to be in love, and I feel blessed because of it.  That said, I don’t see the romance in the crammed, chaos of hell - also known as dinner for two on Valentine’s Day.  Sitting down, practically on top of the couples on either side of you, and being rushed by your frantic waiter (because there are four more couples that need the table after you) is ludicrous.  And then of course there is the PDA during dinner - inappropriate touching, batting eyes, shamelessly swapping saliva on a whim.  All of this makes me want to laugh and throw up simultaneously (and tell people to get a room).  There is nothing wrong with showing a bit of affection, but Valentine’s Day morphs normal couples in sappy slobs.

My heart goes out to all of my single ladies (allll maaaa single ladies) that have to witness these atrocities (I am sympathetic to single men as well, I just simply had to use that Beyonce hook to spice up my writing a bit).  Couples are theoretically happy because they have found a mate that is cohesive with oneself.  Whether they are in love or not, they have found someone to happily share their time, and potentially a future.  However, single people are still searching for the one.  On an ordinary day, they may see couples and be slightly depressed, or just shudder slightly and congratulate themselves on being strong, independent, and wily enough to be on their own.  However, Valentine’s Day shoots all of this to shit.  All of those couples shove it down your throat and no matter how strong willed you are, you feel bad about yourself.  So what do you do to avoid the single person blues?  Many band together with friends, plastering on smiles amongst all the chipper couples (thank god for girlfriends and alcohol).  

In conclusion, I do understand this bit of writing is cynical, sarcastic, and an epitomization of a Debbie Downer.  But I leave on a truthful note.  I think the idea of Valentine’s Day, to appreciate your significant other and be thankful of the love you hold, is beautiful.  But I also think you can practice that ideal every day when you are a couple.  To me, random acts of love provides a sweeter gift.  However, since Valentine’s Day is a solid institution, I believe the greatest gift that it can bestow is simply another excuse to spend time with your significant other.  Simple things like watching a movie, cooking dinner, or talking about memories are beautiful ways to enjoy the holiday.  I remain cynical because I feel that the vast majority seems to forgo these lovely acts for the bears, the PDA saliva, and the table for two.  So until people can change their ways, I will continue to forever hate Valentine’s Day.

Background...As an Albanian

I’m making a goose martini very dry, very cold, shaken, with a twist.  As I mangle the lemon peel to first perfume the vodka, I can sense the customer eyeing my aptitude for making a decent martini.  I up my performance as I calmly, but showily, take the twist and slowly spread the essence all along the rim of the chilled glass.  As I drop the lemon peel into the drink, I finally look up, only to see the customer looking impressed at my thoroughness.  Giving a small nod, I fake some unimportant task to look busy.  When I look at the customer again, he returns my nod and gives his approval by starting up a conversation.  We make small talk - how well the martini is made, the economy, how the sky is blue, the economy, how the grass is green, and...the economy.  Once we get comfortable, the customer always seems to raise the question, “So Amanda, what is your background?” 

I admit that the question is a great conversation starter, and a common one in the United States.  For most people, it is a no brainer.  They reel off a list, (everyone seems to be some kind of mutt these days) even including that one percent Czechoslovakian.  Now I am genetically one hundred percent South Korean, and usually the inquirer will have something to say about it.  If they know nothing about Korea they might ask if I come from the good or the bad part.  Many will tell me that they have a connection to someone Korean - a friend, a neighbor, a crazy crack whore that lives in the neighborhood.  The worst is when people say “Annyong haseyo!” and regale me with their interesting and extensive knowledge concerning Korean culture.  However, once the person blows off a little steam and starts questioning me about my experiences as a Korean human being, I eventually have to admit that I only speak English, have never been back to Korea, and haven’t even tried Korean BBQ in midtown.  I have to confess that I was adopted and brought up as...an Albanian.

One word to describe an Albanian person: crazy.  Is that offensive? Possibly.  If you state that to any Albanian person, will they agree? Absolutely.  As an adoptee with an Italian/Irish mother and an Albanian father, I have had many different influences.  I suppose my love for food (especially pasta, bread, and good olive oil) and mafia movies (The Godfather and Goodfellas will forever surpass Scarface) stems from my understanding of the word “goombah.”  I also have inherited leprechaun figurines and fulfilled one of my grandmother’s last wishes by playing “When Irish Eyes are Smiling” on the violin at her funeral.  However, when it comes to the Albanian influences in my life...well, lets just say that “ooopah!” is a permanent word in my vocabulary.

Recently I put a home video, of no particular event or any great importance, of my family on facebook.  My digital camera documented two minutes of a car ride with my father, mother, grandma, and cousin (she happened to be visiting from Albania).  Half of the conversation is in english, half is in albanian, and of course, all of the consecutive comments do not relate to each other in the least.  The response I received from the video was astounding.  “Is that real, I mean, like was it staged?”  “What the hell were they all talking about?”  And my favorite, “Is that what your family is really like?  Wow.”  For normal people, there are limits to the imagination when trying to comprehend chaos.  They cannot be expected to have the vaguest inclination to even attempt to understand a typical Albanian family.

My grandparents, Olga and Dhimo, lived two doors down from me.  Throughout my childhood, in the likes of My Big Fat Greek Wedding, I went there almost every single day - with the rest of my immediate family.  The more extended family came to visit on Saturdays.  Those were the days where the house exploded with arguments, as each person got louder and louder in order to be heard.  Many times the talk would switch to albanian when they were really pissed off - the swears came with more fluidity in their first language.  However, besides the war zone, the house always provided comfort.  There was always a seemingly bottomless pot of coffee, metaxa, and plenty of food - my grandma always seemed to be making something.  Lakror (my grandma’s spinach pie), beef stew, and baklava were a few of my favorites.  I was proud to grow up at my grandparents’ house, with their huge Albanian flag waving like a red beacon of hope on the side of their house.  I sat with the women on the porch and visited the men sitting on various plastic folding chairs under the grapevines outside my grandpa’s garden.  I went to Albanian picnics and did circle dances with my relatives. Although such an environment was undoubtedly stressful and chaotic, I loved, and still love, my Albanian family. 

The funny thing about Albanians is that they keep track of all their relatives, spanning generation after generation.  I actually just discovered a long lost relative through Facebook who we found out, through relatives, is my fourth cousin.  My grandma, who cannot tell you what she ate for breakfast, told me the exact connection to this strange new relative (his great-grandfather was my grandfather’s first cousin and his great-aunt was in my grandma’s bridal party, etc).  Once we talked and figured everything out, it was great to learn of new family.  However, I’m sure he was very confused when he saw some random Asian girl with his own last name.  It’s like when I say “Sievte” to an Albanian - they are shocked, and quite understandably. However, once they are able to comprehend the strange fact, they are always delighted to find that I am really one of their kind.  I always find this strange yet amusing.  Their enthusiasm to ask about my father is victorious, like they are delighted that I found the light and good fortune of the double headed eagle.

One of my favorite stories of meeting a fellow Albanian in New York City is regarding an old manager, Roni.  I was applying to the steakhouse where I am currently employed - an acquaintance already had a job there and had recommended me.  After I dropped off my resume, Roni saw my last name and asked about me, specifically if I was Albanian.  Of course my confused acquaintance stated that I was Asian.  To preface, I came to this restaurant a little overwhelmed.  I had just left a small, family run restaurant in the Upper West Side (my very first restaurant job) and had never experienced anything as big and corporate as this steakhouse.  As I was meeting the staff on my very first day, Roni came up to me and, without the kindness of an introduction or welcome, asked, “Why do you have an Albanian last name?”   I told him that I was adopted, then asked how he knew it was Albanian (most people assume it’s Italian).  He told me that he too, was Albanian.  We exchanged knowing looks and then simply just shook our heads at each other, walking away.  Needless to say, Roni was my favorite manager I ever worked with.

I used to hate many Albanians I met, they were just simply too chauvinistic.  I pride myself on being a strong, independent woman and unfortunately, the mentality of many Albanians and I often clash.  However, despite our differences, I have learned to love them.  Their true warmth and love of family overlooks any old world, backward views - they really are usually dear, good people.  When any person at my bar asks what my background is, I am honestly proud to say that I am Albanian.  I doubt if I will ever marry one though.

Boarding

1.

I was proud of my luggage.  I used to have the reputation of being the ridiculous person that packed about 15 pairs of shoes.  But in life, we mature.  We fall in love, we pay our taxes, and we learn to reduce the amount of shoes to a reasonable number of 5 pairs (depending on the length of time and the fluctuation of weather in that particular climate of course).

But for this particular trip, my very first trip to Europe, a month-long expedition into a world utterly unknown, I am proud to say I packed the acceptable new number of 5 pairs into one large black suitcase.  For a month!  I even left some extra room, honestly it was only about 3/4 full.  The mature and older me realized that it would be a complete bitch to carry two heavy suitcases - as well as a purse as well as a carry-on as well as any other purchases that I was bound to make along my trip.  

I feel like this seemingly mundane description about my luggage is actually absolutely necessary to present an appropriate picture.  Imagine me, walking through foreign airports with two suitcases, a carry-on, excess packages and a purse.  Now imagine me carrying a simple, chic black traveling case with my hair blowing in the airport terminal wind, smiling smugly to the struggling tourists that did not have the fortune to learn my packing skills.

Basically, I epitomize the word “cool”.  Here I am, traveling abroad for a month to far away places.  Everyone at home is jealous and a little in awe that I am going by myself (though I am visiting people in every country, it still counts as a solo expedition).  As I flip through a magazine, waiting to board the aircraft that will take me off into the sunset towards my destiny (first stop being Germany), I feel that I am an actress in a movie.  The girl that is shot in slow motion, because every little action seems to glow with radiance, is really me.  I glance around, hoping to spot all the people that can not help but wonder who the luminous yet mysterious girl is.

The plane begins to board and I admit, for a radiant traveler movie actress, I become a little nervous.  My palms start to sweat and I clutch my passport a little tighter than necessary.  However, my sure smile never leaves my face, and as I get up and join the line, I flip my hair in that classic Pantene commercial way.  I am going to Europe and I am fabulous.

After my credentials are checked, I begin the walk down the short little passageway from the boarding gate to the plane.  Fuck my fabulousness.  It all crumbles as soon as I take a step into that cute little tunnel of darkness.  I start to panic about the 13 hour flight, the amount of time away from home, and the unknown European terrors that will undoubtedly arise.  With each step, my palms become sweatier and sweatier.  My feet are unnaturally heavy and I suddenly feel clumsy.  My hair is not flipping about anymore, it now feels dank with the sweat that is starting to form on my brow.  I reach the end and also the door to the plane.  No, I will remain composed goddamnit.  I am a traveler that is so mature, I only need to pack one suitcase.  I take a breath and continue forward.

I look completely composed as I step on the plane.  Immediately greeted by a smiling and pleasant looking crew, I buck up when confronted with people.  I am transformed from the tourist having a panic attack, and I am able to smile demurely at the attendants.  One girl in particular looks at me and gives me a grin, one in which you can see all of her perfect white teeth.  Her gesture encourages me to speak and I say “Hello.”

However, my “hello” does not really come out like “hello.”  Instead, my nervousness (in the form of flem) comes crashing down out of nowhere, knocking my composed self on its ass.  Although I hear “hello” in my head, the tidal wave of mucus in my throat actually produces something like a croak, phonetically sounding like “Ha-loo.”

The flight attendant smiles wider (if that is even possible) and returns my greeting with another “ha-loo.”  She then utters a string of guttural sounds that I barely comprehend to be German (Note: I had not done any research for this trip and knew nothing of the German language, not even that “hello” was “ha-loo”).  Panic sets it.  I am a tourist that cannot travel by herself and has no idea what the hell is going on.  And now for some reason, this flight attendant is speaking rapid German to me and I have no idea what the fuck she is saying.  I had noticed that other attendants were greeting passengers with directions to the location of their seats.  Fresh wave of panic.  She is telling me where to go and I can’t understand.  I don’t know what to do, especially now that this smiling German attendant is now finished with her mish mosh of ugly words (yes I believe that the German language might be the ugliest language in the world).  

There were two options:  I could either go to the right or to the left.  I felt like I was in my own Choose Your Own Adventure, the books that would stop mid-story and ask, “Would you like to go to the right around the rock?  Or would you like to go to the left around the rock?  If you chose the right, you would have a safe passageway and continue with your journey.  If you chose the left, you would encounter a shark, be eaten, die, and then have to begin the book (and your journey) from the very beginning.  In my case, I had a choice: “Would you like to take the right aisle?  Or would you like to take the left aisle?”  No I would not be eaten by a shark.  But if I made the wrong choice, I would undoubtedly be laughed at by all the attendants while the passengers would point and snicker at the stupid tourist girl.  Ultimate embarrassment for the fabulously radiant traveler movie actress.

I decide to pick the left aisle.  I am so nervous I can’t muster an appropriate “Thank you for your help in aiding my boarding process.”  Screw that, I can’t even croak out a “bye.”  All I can do is produce a weak-ass smile, while slowly venturing towards the left.  Nobody says anything.  Nobody pounces on me, dragging me to the other aisle while simultaneously laughing and calling me an idiot.  I hold my breath and take a decisive step into the left aisle.  PRAISE THE LORD I AM IN THE ODD NUMBERED SECTION OF THE PLANE.  I have an odd numbered seat.  Thank you, thank you, for not making me look like an asshole.  My smile comes back, but this time the smugness is replaced with one of relief.  I find my seat and sink down.  I think my hands have stopped shaking.  I am here, ready to begin my journey to Europe.