new post, new nephew

the latest in the ever growing list of loves of my life...

happy spring!

Adding Insult to Injury - The Plus One Conundrum

This summer I have been graciously invited to attend a dear friend's wedding. My first crush, and as I have said about many of the crew with which I was privileged enough to grow up with, one of the best people on the planet. I have known this man most of my life and I love him enough to travel cross country to witness his nuptials with a smile on my face and joy in my heart.

Whenever I receive a wedding invitation via the US Postal service and am invited to share in a loved one's special day, I am touched. I am far less touched when checking off my chicken or fish choice and I see there is no spot for the proverbial +1. In my younger days, when I knew everyone at the wedding or the understandable budgetary constraints made far more sense it was slightly less offensive. But as an adult in my 30s with a career and some semblance of decorum (I said some) I am baffled. As a single woman the immediate thought of those to whom I vent about this frustration is that it is far less about the escort of varying importance seated next to me at the polyester clad circular table for the evening and more about my quest to find my own 'one' and, in turn, give birth to the most beautiful biracial baby this side of the Mississippi. Perhaps there is a dollop of that frustration, but it is merely an optional condiment on an otherwise very real affront sundae.

Being from anywhere USA most of my friends partnered off early and those who are doing so now are the remaining few. This means, an implicit +1 on your dance card for life - and I respect that. My irritation lies within the fact that because I am single and have for one reason or another not taken vows with a member of the opposite (or same, depending on the state in which you reside) sex I am forced to dine on overcooked meat and listen to KC and the Sunshine band alone.

At 32, there is no longer a singles table at which the open bar allows for flirtatious chatter and inevitable questionable choices. This means, I am essentially at the kids table.

In the adult world it would seem that being single somehow equates to being a child, or being a cripple.

If I had a car, I am sure I would have a state issued placard dangling discreetly from my rear view allowing everyone who passes by to know that I am somehow so deeply flawed that no one wants to share a mortgage and menopause with me and therefore, I am destined to a life of peasantries with strangers and small talk with people who I don't give a rats ass about on the shellacked wedding dance floor of life.

Don't get me wrong - I am aware I can RSVP no thanks - but somehow that is cutting off my nose to spite my face because, though I think it is rude and thoughtless to not allow someone out of wedlock to essentially 'bring a friend' or better yet a significant other of clearly lacking significance in the eyes of the lord, I do want to share in the special days of loved ones and I am truly happy they have found what it is they are looking for and are able to celebrate in a public and celebratory manner.

Please believe me when I say these are not the ramblings of a bitter woman, but the stream of consciousness of someone who thinks too much and attends many-a-wedding. It just seems to be, that at this point in life, we are grown and if you need me to send a personal check for the $50 required to feed yet another face overpriced cafeteria food, as opposed to spending an otherwise lovely afternoon gazing at the happy couple while idly chatting the day away with your great Aunt Susan -sign me up!

damien at caroline's

a very talented comedian and sometimes subject is not only headlining at caroline's in new york city, but is also promoting doing so with a photo by yours truly. get tickets and maybe he and i will get shoot #3 underway soon..

congrats, damien!

beheard x soa x vietnam

Always happy to contribute to SOA Life, today they are running a brief write up on the cuisine I experienced while in Vietnam. Check it out!

LREI 2014 Art Auction

 I have been fortunate enough to have worked for and been associated with LREI, a unique and fantastic private school in Manhattan, for a number of years now, thanks to the lovely and talented Laura Hahn. I participated in their art auction 2 years ago, selling a photograph I took in Bogata, Columbia.

This year I have donated two pieces shot in New Orleans, Louisiana, to be sold in tandem and titled  'Americana Diptych.'

The show is March 12th.
Register to attend (and bid) at LREI!

Goodnight, Saigon...

My final morning in Vietnam was neither eventful or special. Though it was warm. I rose as my leisure and reluctantly went for a morning run, this time employing the park-provided exercise equipment all of the senior citizens seem to utilize during the early morning hours. I believe there is a way to utilize muscle groups when on these machines, but what I've witnessed looks more like flipping about that engaging one's octogenarian core.

The morning was still cool and I went to get some fresh fruit and croissant before heading back to Budget Hostel 2 to properly bathe and prepare for the long journey ahead of me. Knowing my flight was at the crack of dawn on the 13th, I had not bothered to book accommodation for the night of the 12th, and planned on crashing at the Saigon airport - something that, for anyone who knows how I travel, comes a no surprise. Cheap and resourceful - that's me!

Hair washed and braided, new psychedelic leggings purchased in Hanoi painted on and I went out into the increasingly balmy sun for a manicure/pedicure that I told myself I would indulge in before returning to the states. Having last addressed my feet in 2013, I felt it was long overdue.

Receiving perhaps the best and most silently relaxing pedicure I have ever received I was feeling like a new woman. I stepped out on the street feeling clean and almost human. 30 feet down the road, however, I moved to put my phone on my camera bag and dinged a nail. In a haste to correct it, I only made the issue worse and had to face facts that my beautiful manicure was only meant to last a matter of moments. Any woman who has ever gone through the trouble and expense of this sort of attempt at beautification no doubt knows my frustration with this trivial detail.

Oh well. C'est la vie - a motto I find much more comfortable to abide by when not on my home turf. It was lunchtime and with this being my last day in Asia till lord knows when I was determined to eat well, and eat authentically. Pho 24 was just around the corner from the main market and the locals could be heard slurping down slimy noodles from around the block - so that's where I went.

A bowl of Pho Ga was ordered in Vietnamese for the fist time and, my chest puffed with pride at my daring and, I thought successful feat. The victory was short lived and chest almost immediately deflated almost as the polite woman taking my order responded in unimpressed English. Boo!

The chicken mixed fresh basil and spicy red peppers made this dish well worth the price tag and I have come to the conclusion that I could pretty much eat raw bean sprouts at every meal. Bright pink watermelon juice sat loyally by my bowl as I spooned up the broth a and attempted to have an international phone call with my Bestie.

Having spent the last three and a half weeks here I knew that the time that comes in every woman's life every 28 days or so was on it's way and it was only a matter of time before I was exhausted, hungry and on the verge of tears - though that does sound an awful lot like every day for me! 

Deciding to take the suggestion of a virtual stranger/new friend - something I only do on the rarest of occasions - I hired yet another motorbike driver and road 20 minutes out of the city center to Van Trahn, described as a Tourist Complex, but much more closely resembling a high-end suburban swim an racquet club. Not my speed, I will admit, but with my current state of exhaustion there were certainly things that sounded far worse than laying in the sun.

40,000 dong to take a dip and occupy a chair kept me 'busy' for the late afternoon hours, but before long it was time to take my now chlorine drenched body back to my belongings and make a plan - at least give plan-making my Pat Benetar best shot. Without any sign of a motorbike out in district lord knows where, I was forced to take a proper cab, during rush hour, allowing me the opportunity to see uniformed children exiting school for the day as well as begin to silently stew over all of the sadness that so easily rises to the surface of my deeply Irish psyche, like the curds of freshly turned milk, when in the 'real world.' I am not saying I have not had my good and bad moments while in Asia, but something about that quiet cab ride let me know that in a day's time I would be back in the cold, in more than one way.

Nevermind all of that business. Back in my 'hood' I was on the hunt for food, feeling weary from all of the over self analyzation and thinking about life in general. For some reason when I am on the hunt for food, there seems to be no prey to find. I picked up some Choco Pies at the circle K to take back home with me and share one of my travel traditions, of sampling a new cookie or candy from a foreign place with a dear friend. I ended up at restaurant 48 (not sure why all dining establishments are numbered here) , a very posh and very westernizwd establishment that not only gave me the silky smooth instrumentals stylings of Phil Collins - but Debbie Gibson - with lyrics! I mean - what else does a girl need?!?

Clay pot chicken and rice, which literally just means those ingredients are served in that device and in no way indicates it's cooking method, and 2 lime juices later, I had a pricey bill, a full tummy and only a couple hours to go before hitting the hay, and by hitting the hay I mean awkwardly sleeping on my backpack in a cold and abandoned airport. I am just hoping the Vietnamese authorities have no issues with my jammies.

Back at the hostel I packed my newly acquired Haribo and struck up a conversation with Paul, an English teacher living here by way of Liverpool and quite possibly a reoccurring character from 'The Young Ones,' a BBC classic and personal favorite. I had to give myself momentary credit for immediately picking up on the Liverpudlian accent, but I suppose that credit is really more appropriately attributed to 4 lads who made it big in America from around that way.

Paul mentioned he was going out and invited me along so, after booking and paying for my 11:30 pm taxi to the airport for my 5 am flight, I hopped on the back of Paul's motorbike, which he drove with Saigonian sensibility, and headed out to an open air barbecue spot that is clearly a local hangout, with only Vietnamese drinking buddies with wire-rimmed glasses and cocktail waitresses in micro mini Budweiser emblazoned dresses present. Well, that if if you don't count two Brits and an American trying her first local Saigon Bia. 

The boys, both Paul and his BFF Glen were jovial, sweet and generous. Paul commented on my 'bohemian style of dress' and I couldn't help but smile as, just a couple of weeks earlier, I had been called conservative. Perhaps I am the Sybil for the 21st Century. Though I suspect if I had accepted regret would have immediately have set in, an impromptu marriage proposal over a beer and stir fried vegetable is always a pleasant surprise and a great way to wind down a trip. Despite the repeated suggestion that I reschedule my cab, I stuck to the plan and was driven back to the hostel to meet my waiting taxi cab.

The night was warm and sultry, making the bronzed skin on my shoulders glisten in the neon lit night. The midnight streets of Saigon were empty, but not lonely and I believe I could have lived the rest of my life, happily perched upon the back of that bike. I tried my best to absorb every last moment of my time here in Vietnam knowing the sands were running through the hour glass of time at lightening speed. It was literally the perfect way to say Goodnight, Saigon.

Which leaves me here, homeless and draped upon my worldly possessions at the Saigon International Airport. Knowing well what I had in store for me when opting for airport accommodation for the evening, there is one variable that had not occurred to me - what if the airport seating is strictly outdoor? And outdoor it was! Wearing all possible layers of wardrobe tucked within my trusty rucksack, I am left here, chilly and waiting for hours while watching families, uncertain whether they are coming or going, doing their best impression of a documentary crew shooting a behind-the-scenes film for One Direction. I mean, seriously - I realize there is a language barrier but minutes upon minutes of video and stills were shot and from what I can surmise all that is taking place is banal conversation amongst friends and family either about to board or just having had arrived at SGN who all seem to think their entire existence is one big Hallmark moment. I had been told they don't fly much - but still. I mean, come on...

27 hours, several screaming children and many bags of candy later I arrived, safe and sound in New York, just having slid under the Polar Vortex radar and instead of being diverted to another airport, instead was just met with cold winds and white snow. With only my tan, a couple of pairs of earrings and a yet unedited card filled with photos to show for it, I can say with all of the confidence in the world my time spent in Vietnam was worth every tear, every moment and every penny.

Back Back, Forth and Forth

Thick, doughy pancakes and unripened pineapple has never tasted so sweet. Perhaps my move for free breakfast was ethically questionable, but with having used Sunflower as my continual home base and with Clarisse having offered me half of her private room after I had confirmed booking at another place, I felt moderately justified in my partaking in the buffet breakfast offered to guests.

Clarisse and I both fiddled with our respective electronics and then it was time for me to rent another bike and head to the beach, and time for her to pack her bags and catch a busy to Hue.

We parted with matched American hugs and Parisian kisses and said our goodbyes, with no false promise of keeping in touch, but knowing that we had thoroughly enjoyed our time together here, in Hoi An.

The folds in the full skirt of my bright orange dress flapped happily in the wind and I peddled my way back past the rice fields to An Bang beach. Passing up on a beach side meal this time, I simply laid in the shade an read the John Grisham novel I had acquired for free in Phu Quoc. As the old adage goes, beggars cannot be choosers and therefore I could not have chosen to have the last several pages of my novel missing- but I think I got the gist.

The highlight of the day at the beach was spotting an unearthly creature. A man of such beauty I simply stared in awe as he meandered over to what I could only assume was his girlfriend. My loins were a flame and just as quickly were quickly extinguished when said mythical beast started snapping #grownmanselfies. Nothing kills a hard on faster than vanity and foolishness - a deadly mix.

Back to Sunflower I changed into 20-hour bus ride appropriate clothes, which should have a hidden pocket to house cyanide, and went out to have what I was deeming my 'last meal,' as crackers and Haribo would likely get me through the next day or so.

It was while siting at this outdoor establishment, after ordering pizza - because nothing sounded good - that a handsome older man I had noticed the day prior, and who I was quite certain noticed me, walked by and we both gave a genial hello like we had actually ever spoken and not simply exchanged telling glances and flirtatious smiles.

He kept walking, turning around just enough to let me know that he was wrestling with the idea of joining me, but as his figure faded I dove back into my bootleg Nick Hornby, literally printed on stitched together and copy paper. The Asians really do seem to love their knock offs, even when it comes to literature.

Evidently his wrestling match ended with him opting to return to the restaurant and before long we were dining together, having a great conversation, exchanging playful barbs. All with 90 minutes until my bus departed on the first leg of my journey back home to the good ole US of A. As he stated himself - 'the clock was ticking.'

After dinner he escorted me to snack acquisition and sat with me at the hostel to wait for the bus. Transportation has been far from punctual here, yet neither of us knew it would be nearly 3 hours of waiting. But no bother, in fact, when the double-decker sleeper bus arrived, in a flurry of chaos and hurry I was irked that I had to go. My new English friend chivalrously brought my ever-expanding backpack to the bus and we hugged and bid adieu - but not before I suggested he fly to Saigon - knowing full well they are no flights this week, or I would likely be on one.

This encounter was not dissimilar from the German in Da Nang with the minor exception of interest and attraction. I do hope to hear from him again, but if nothing else maybe he can simply function as a beacon of hope in a world of douche bags.

The bus being 3 hours late was actually the most enjoyable part of the journey as the first half was spent freezing my nicely tanned ass off and being attacked by bugs of unknown origin. The seats were recliners, so preferable to the train, but with only one stop to literally piss into a hole in the ground in the middle of nowhere the first 12 hours, it looked like this was going to be a bumpy ride - in more ways than one.

Continual stops in the middle of nowhere seemed to only act as assurance we would not be arriving in Saigon at 5 pm the following afternoon as promised. After being forced to get off of the bus at a station in Nha Trang with little to no information I could barely believe the horror stories a Mexican fellow rider was sharing with me- until we got back on what seemed to be the exact same bus but with Adolph Ho Chi Minh at the wheel.

At the risk of sounding like a spoiled white girl, I was literally moved to the back of the bus, Rosa Parks style with no explanation given. I was simply and angrily waved to the back. I was dismissed. Evidently the front seats are saved for locals despite the fact that tourist pricing structure ensured I paid at least 3 times as much as them for the exact same accommodation, I was seen as a second class citizen. I realize I should see this as justice, or a learning experience - but really all I see it as is fucked up.

An attempt to discuss the possibility of bladder relief was of little use and when the attendant handed out waters to everyone except the white people on the bus I was partially enraged, partially amused. I felt like I was in the documentary from the 50s where little kids are divided by the brown eyes and the blue eyes and chaos and prejudice ensues. I have never felt more brown eyed.

I realize racism exists in present-day America, but at least we have the decency to mask it. This blatant affront to tourists was my first experience with it. And I hope it to be the last.

All of this in addition to people literally siting in the aisle coughing on you, leaning on you, and eating their odoriferous native fruit a little too provocatively and loudly for my liking was wearing me down. A friend of mine back in California, who shall remain partially nameless (Sean) would literally go apoplectic if confronted with this situation. Luckily my adventurous spirit and travel tenure at least makes is bearable - though respite in the food and toilet break was eagerly welcomed, if only for the opportunity to not have cockroaches and people alike invading my personal space.

An estimated arrival time of 5 pm soon turned into midnight with Morgan Freeman at the wheel and Jessica Tandy riding shotgun.

Exhausted by the time we arrived at the bus station I chose Evil Kinevel of motorbike taxi drivers and we negotiated an inflated fare for what was the first time I have been legitimately frightened on one of these contraptions since arriving. Racing through the warm Saigon night I felt a sense of comfort and familiarity as I had been in this city just 3 short weeks ago.

I had booked a bed at Budget Hostel 2 again, knowing the price couldn't be beat and the location was central. I requested a bottom bunk and was able to actually obtain one for the first time since my arrival. After a quick ice cold shower I climbed into the pod that I paid $4.50 a night for not inches from 2 complete strangers and fell fast asleep knowing the next two days would almost be just killing time until my return to New York and it's foreboding Polar Vortex.

Unable to properly sleep in like the teenagers and young people surrounding me after a night of cheap beer and cheaper liquor, I rose at 8 am to that old familiar rooster crowing its miniature lungs out just across the way.

I went down to the lobby in my bra-less pajama ensemble, having long ago given up worrying about things such as appearances in public, and took care of some real life stuff before properly changing and heading out in search of breakfast nearby - as my grumbling belt wouldn't wait long.

Allez Boo - clearly foreigner friendly - was just across the park and a banana pancake and mixed fruit juice sacrificed to the gods of my intestines in minutes flat. This may seem like a safe enough breakfast order but each and every time I order something along these lines they are unexpectedly different - for example - this pancake featured some sort of liquidy center - like a cherry cordial which I don't believe anyone actually likes. I ate around it and enjoyed the view of clogged streets further clogging lungs and utilized the free wifi for some Skyping with Boston before heading back to the hostel to retrieve my 4th book on this journey and wander.

I wandered for a good hour or so in the opposite direction of all of the sights to see that I had been aware of and found just what I was looking for - no white faces and no places that charged entrance fees. In their places were bike shops wrapped in brightly colored cellophane, making new tires look like unwrapped Christmas presents. Dress stores with dummies vaguely resembling the Kardashians before they hit it big and BeBe was considered designer and lots of odd looks from the locals as if I had lost my way - but I walked with purpose - like any good New Yorker and eventually found myself at the Mecca of all things requiring and promoting good taste- Burger King.

Some sort of cheesy nostalgia often leads me to the red and yellow doors of this establishment when traveling abroad. It feels like a very serious joke I have with myself and when ordering a meal the woman received my instructions better than most in the US as how I'd like my sandwich to be prepared. Unfortunately this did not ensure this petite portion would satisfy my taste buds as the chicken had skin and gristle, free of charge - but, on a positive note, it is the first time I have had decent ketchup anywhere in Asia. I felt as though it checked something off of my travel to do list - so all in all, I was a satisfied customer.

More waking and more solicitations for motorbike rides ensued. When I politely declined their offers, the same - 'where are you going question' followed to which I could not answer, in every sense.

Hours later I wandered back into familiar territory I stopped at the cafe at which I had eaten weeks ago, this time ordering Combination Vegetable with Rice. When it came out with octopus and beef I was disappointed, when I relayed this to the waiter, he was irritated. Clearly just having scraped the protein pieces off the plate I ate my cabbage and carrots floating in bits of beef. I literally have no idea how a vegetarian would survive here.

A couple hours of reading in the hazy sun and my book was near finished do I got up, to head back toward what I believe was District 1. My sense of direction is fairly good and I knew I was heading in the right general direction. Unlike my past days in the city, this one brought me through the posh part of town where I can only imagine Europeans come to spend their well earned Euro at Gucci and Prada for mere dongs. The night was sticky and the city alive.

When I arrived back at the market I was not only minorly relieved, but so very proud of myself for taking a fairly succinct route back to my humble abode. The shops were all closing, but that was OK by me, as I have spent more than my share to 'help the economy' over here. The fear buried deep within as to my fluid spending habits the past few weeks will only really be addresses once I am back on domestic land, as I feel it would be pointless to deal with that sort of malarkey now.

Just when I thought I could not shove any more food in my face - I saw Tutti Fruitti. Much like the shops sweeping New York City, TF was a self-serve yogurt shop that had brightly painted walls, annoying up beat music, and rainbow sprinkles! Though I am a sucker for the self-serve craze and can rarely resist, I have to give credit where credit is due and say that Madison Station Cafe, located in Carmichael, California is not only my first place of legal employment, but also the best frozen yogurt on the face of the planet. There just simply is no contest. Sorry, Saigon.

With tomorrow being a sort of weird long day, where I plan on sleeping at the airport to cut down on travel time and expenses, I went back to the Budget Hostel to pack my bag as efficiently as possible, make sure I seemed to still be in possession at least of the things that really matter - and write this piece.

Notice I didn't say shower.

I am disgusting.