Chasing Sunshine

Fresh Air

2011-05-28T16:13:00.003-04:00

During my first weekend in Geneva, M and I went to pick strawberry at a small farm under the shadow of the Alps. My favorite color is of dominant display here: from dark shade of green grass and strawberry leaves, to the light green of vineyards at a distance, to the greenish gray of mountains far by the horizon. The Alps is what I'd envision Mount Olympus to look like: green and majestic, snow-tipped, perching atop bright halo of clouds. I see it every day, as I bike from M's cottage to the UN, up a giant hill that renders me breathless, down a smooth slope where the wind blows my hair messy, straight to the gate de Nations where a stern but good-humoured guard peers at my UN badge and ID through his sunglasses. From there, I ride under the twin rows of national flags, leading to les Palais des Nations, which houses many important UN alphabet soups such as UNDP, UNEF, OLA. The flagpoles tinker like bells under the wind, and every time I feel a rush of blood to my head, that of youth, dream, idealism, belief, as if nothing in the world has gotten to it, as if I was fresh off the plane to Manila in 1996, bright-eyed and awed, immediately enamored and committed to exploring the world at large.

The International Law Commission, where I intern this summer, is an independent body consisting of 34 legal thinkers (law professors, diplomats, countries' legal advisors) from around the world. Established under the UN Charter Article 13(1), which charges the General Assembly with "encouraging the progressive development of international law and its codifications," ILC commissioners fly to Geneva for 10 weeks each summer to formulate cutting-edge legal issues. Past work includes the groundwork for the International Criminal Court (1997), the highly influential Article of State Responsibilities (2001), and the iconic Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties (1969). Moreover, the ILC has a catalyst relationship with the International Court of Justice, where many ILC commissioners end their careers as judges.

My first week at the ILC feels like summer 1996. Sitting at a long table equipped with multi-language translation headphones, together with 20-some interns from all over the world, I feel small, awed, crazed, and incredibly happy. The debate sometimes get quite technical, but the level of intellectual stimulation is off the roof. The tug of war in international law, as expected, often centers on balancing state rights and individual rights. In some countries, it is illegal for an individual to commit suicide; similarly, in international law, a state does not have the right to "die", for example, to voluntarily allow other states to invade its territory, because it has responsibilities as a sovereign to its people. As a result, states can get away with a lot of questionable conducts in the name of "security and public order," an oft-cited phrase found all over international law, especially Human Rights treaties which purport to protect fundamental rights of individuals against states.

On the last day of 1L, my tort professor, Doug Kysar, a crazy left-wing environmentalist visiting professor from Yale, told us about a study where the subject is put into a room with some other people. As those people started taking off their clothes, the subjects became increasingly anxious and confused. Then, without fail, they ALL started to take off their clothes as well. And soon enough, everyone ended up naked, some without knowing why. "In your life, there will be many times when you have to operate with very little information. Hold on to your values. Don't do things just because your peers have done so, or because your mentor did it. They could very likely be wrong. And commit right now - write on your journal tonight! - to do some self-reflection ever so often. Otherwise, you might end up naked one day, without realizing it."

So tonight, three weeks after that last tort class, quite tipsy from Geneva's lovely dessert wines and so full of strawberry, I finally get around to self-reflect. What do I want to do? Who do I want to be? What world do I want my children to grow up in? My Jacobson mentor, the CEO of a successful hedge fund and the person who pays for my legal education, advised that one only needs to know what one likes today, not tomorrow, because "the system is indefinitely tolerant to those who work hard, and there are indefinite opportunity to reinvent yourself." Perhaps so... perhaps if one is smart enough not to fall through the systematic cracks. Perhaps if one is driven enough to strive for reinvention. Is that what I want? What about a picket fence, full-stocked kitchen, completed with happy, well-fed children and dogs? Will that be enough? Is it ever not enough?

The room I sublet from M is technically the whole attic of her cottage, with slanted ceiling and a lovely skylight that opens out to a blanket of stars. Outside, neighbors are clinking glasses and babbling French. The world is so vast, and amazing, and humbling, with pockets of sunshine everywhere, if one is wide-eyed enough to see them. So in honor of Professor Kysar, young, crazy and so wise, I want to make a commitment tonight. That I shall work on something meaningful and progressive to the world at large, that I shall seek out intellectual stimulation, and resist as much as I can the fragility of desire, as comforting as it may be. That however elusive is "good faith," it must be sought and practiced with persistence, because I really, truly believe that the world is better with it. And yet, however tempting an opportunity is, that I shall remember life is more than that, perhaps meaning can be found by the picket fence with a well-fed and well-raised family, perhaps the lives we can influence and which will influence us need not be continents away, but just right here.

Tonight, Mugg is back to Ithaca to attend the graduation of a good friend, who dreams to be a neurosurgeon. He calculated that assuming he makes it through medical school, it'll take $300K in debt and his 40th birthday until he starts making real money. In the mean time, he's sleeping in his car to save up on rent, and is graduating with a near perfect GPA. What do we do with these dreams and the crazy motivation they generate?!

I guess we keep them. Make them our motivation, disillusion, whatever. And I guess I should enjoy that rush to the head while it lasts, a signal that hopes and dreams are still there, a signal of the young at heart.

Mile 0.003 - Law School

2010-09-20T20:26:00.005-04:00

Source

Wooohoooo, law school! You know the thrill of bouncing on your tip toes at the start of the racing line? The adrenalin of your heart pumping itself, expanding and breathing for the winding road? The throb in your throat gulping down aching mouthful of hydrolites? And the pulsing muscles, dragging on, screaming "f$%! f%@*" while your brain tuned out in radio-like static? Well, that's kinda like law school.

Third week of law school in West Village, and word, I've never exercised my brain this intensely in life! I LOVE classes. There we witnessed a show of masterminded manipulation - cases, legal rules, common sense, life experience, pulled apart and thrown together, weaved and clashed, balancing and enlightening. Every single day, I walked out of class feeling dazed, wowed, bright-eyed, as if the wisdom of logics has flown down from the nine marble columns of the Supreme Court through a line of black robes, leather brief cases, hornbooks and treatises, through the professors' carefully crafted lectures, dropped into 90 confusing souls that is Section 4 of Class 2013, condensed into intriguing and fascinating legal idiosyncrasies inside my head. Here, emotion is meek, irrelevant, illogical. A good heart that goes out to the honest, hard-working men is hardly enough. Yet cold logic alone does not make a great lawyer.... or does it?

Mile 0.003. I had to stop tonight, closed the casebook, and took a long, purpose-less break (i.e., a whole season of America's Next Top Model). I had to remind myself not to get lost in law school, no matter how exciting the ride is. Because the race is long ahead, past law school, past Mile 26, past lofty amazing beautiful facts and reasoning...

Alas, Hanoi

2010-06-28T12:58:00.004-04:00

I woke up everyday this week awed and confused, wondering if I were still in New York or already back in Hanoi. It didn't help that the transition was a wash: the McKinsey confirmation didn't arrive till the end of May, giving me just enough time to file a 2-week notice to NERA, pack up as much as many as I could of the apartment, and dash to the airport. Even the goodbye kiss was a rush. Supershuttle, for once, arrived early to our front door and was honking. Mugg squeezed my wrist till it hurt, and pushed me and the lone suitcase onto the van. The laden kiss lasted just a second; the sun was barely rising on Fifth Ave. And before I knew it, New York shrunk itself into a dot, retreating away from the cloud, as if a dream.

Today, on a twice-delayed flight from Hochiminh City out to Hanoi, I once again felt such haze. The camera attached to the front of the plane projected the view ahead onto a large screen inside the cabin. Ten minutes from landing, the city of Hanoi suddenly emerged from a veil of fog, scrawling over brown sands and green hills. It looked like a magic fortress from Lord of the Ring, or Alamuth from Prince of Persia... How is that even possible? It struck me for a minute that home has become such a mysterious place. Perhaps cities aged twice as fast as dog years. That five years away has left me backward at least a decade...

Living in Hanoi in summer of 2010 was a surreal experience. The irony is stark: while the internship submerged me entirely into the business culture of client, it at the same time isolated me completely from the hustle and bustle of Hanoi. I will have to explain at a later post, but suffices to say that homemade meals and motorbike rides are still rare commodities. Good thing West Lake is just a step away, and a morning after the rain is perfect for an early run.

Till tomorrow, Hanoi!

Fork in the road

2010-05-29T23:08:00.002-04:00

The weather in New York this year was indeed like a moody woman. Spring was unusually hot, the beginning of summer unusually cold and rainy. Much to my woe, the weather swing and the overkill of VACC have negated any effort to train for an early summer marathon, like I did last year. A fall marathon also seems out of the question, as law school looms in the horizon. I've always wanted to run Miami in January, but the crisp memory of training in the New York winter immediately deterred my faint spark of motivation. On a good note, I found out that the Hash Harriers have chapters in both Ho Chi Minh City and Ha Noi! For those of you who are not familiar, the Hashs proudly call themselves "a drinking group with a running problem." Their runs, often organized as a treasure hunt with cryptic marks on trees and whatnots, always end in clashing beer bottles at a local bar. A coworker has many times lobbied me to join, but I never went in New York, simply because I was not that much into drinking, let along drinking right after a run. The Hashs' operations in Viet Nam however seem very interesting. Since the cities are unsurprisingly too crowded and polluted, they often take runners out to the countryside, about an hour away by bus, where Hashers are free to roam on paddy fields under the flawless blue sky. I know instantly that I will absolutely love to join. For those of you in Ha Noi this summer, check out their website: http://www.hanoih3.com/ They meet every Sat at 2PM at the American Club on Hai Ba Trung Street.

And yes, you heard me right, I will be spending summer 2010 in Ha Noi, where I left 9 years ago and last visited 5 years ago. An amazing opportunity somewhat fell into my lap a few weeks ago: I will be one of the first interns with McKinsey & Company in Ha Noi. I'm not quite sure what the project and the team will be like yet, but nonetheless can barely contain my excitement. Next week will be my last time (knock on wood!) analyzing crazy auction rate securities at NERA, and that alone is a reason to celebrate. The great summer internship is only dampened by two inconveniences: first, my family is in Ho Chi Minh City, so I would have to fly back almost every weekend to visit. My grandparents for sure would not be amused by me living and roaming Ha Noi alone, though the fact that I will be staying with a trusted friend's family, working for a trusted firm, and working with a friend whose family they have met, should provide enough security. Second, I sadly will have to leave Muggy alone in New York for 10 weeks, spanning over our move to a new apartment in Columbus Circle. We were both quite bumped about the long distance. Mugg was supportive, and I am extremely grateful for that. Depending on his job, he might be able to make a trip to visit China this summer, when either I will join him and his family, or he will drop by Viet Nam for a tour. Yuko was also interested in coming, so we're trying to work out a Japan - Viet Nam trip, which turns out to be quite tough since tickets all ran out so I couldn't book a stop over, and the internship won't leave much time for travel afterwards. Regardless, it is gonna be a over-the-top full summer. On the way back, I will land in New York on August 24; and law school orientation starts on Aug 25. Now, the books I've read all recommended settling in at least a week before school starts to get a feel of the land. I know that the summer schedule will leave me tired and jetlag for the first days of law school, but orientation goes on for a whole week, so hopefully by the time classes start I will have regained my energy.

Talking about law school, the final decision is NYU School of Law, where I will be entering as a Mitchell Jacobson Law & Business scholar on full-tuition scholarship. That means I turned down the equally generous Darrow from Michigan, and the prospect of an UN externship at Columbia. I never expected to be in love with NYU (I live uptown and run in the park - the unmarked Columbia's territory, after all), but the wonderful professors who administer the Jacobson totally melted my heart. Not to mention the sparkling-eyed students whom I met at the Jacobson reception, whose enthusiasm for the greater good and positive experience at the law school and genuine happiness left me quite speechless. Since I insist on staying near Central Park - the center of calmness, Mugg and I decided to move down 10 blocks to Columbus Circle, where we both can take advantage of the express train that should get us to Washington Square and the World Trade Center in less than 20 minutes and half an hour, respectively. It has not yet dawned on me, but I get visibly more and more excited for law school each day. The only problem is that there is no way I could finish the summer reading load as planned, given the new internship which supposedly runs from 8AM - 7PM each day, excluding weekends. Reading however is a great excuse for lingering forever at Ha Noi's numerous, hole-in-the-wall coffee shops, where black drops of caffein drop at the slowest possible speed down to a glass shiny with condensed milk. Hmm, I can already imagine many hours wasted there, under the shade of a towering tree, consuming unhealthy amount of coffee, dosing in legal doctrines.

The first book on the list is "Getting to Maybe", written by two law professors, who liken reasoning in exams as "forks in the roads." Given its ambiguity, the road to law presents confused and nervous law students with many 'forks', to which a good student should point out yet choose the most likely one to elaborate upon. As such, the law is the opposite of a definite answer. Instead of trying to get to a definite conclusion like yes or no, students should strive to "getting to maybe" - where 'maybe' with its flexibility and gray shade might be the best solution. This summer, to me, was like a fork in the road. I pondered for a long time if I should stay put at NERA, collect my half-year bonus, be happy with Mugg, train for a fall marathon. Or I could attempt to work for the first time at home, in a city that has changed so much that I will most definitely become a stranger both in work culture as well as habit. Ha Noi in my hazy memory was a dusty one, where I paddled my bicycle daily in sweat on a six-laned highway parallel to the train track, packed with trucks and motorbikes. And dust from used bookstores, where I spent many afternoon and entire breakfast budget on classic novels of knights and secret corridors in the Louvre. Ha Noi was a great city for childhood. How that I am grown, I wonder if there is a place for me there. Just in 10 days, I will get an answer.

Today, I made Mugg's favorite sha jia mien, a Chinese noodle dish that I learned from his mom, while he pored over a pile of CFA books. We had dinner together, fed each other sweet black cherries, and watched our favorite sitcom According to Jim. The daily routine seemed such treasure moments, now that my departure date is approaching. We often found ourselves looking at each other, repeating an assuring statement, "It is only 10 weeks, and we will speak everyday." 10 weeks indeed can go be very fast...

The gypsy song returns to my head:

It's time to wake up

It's time to go

Hey little darling, pack your suitcase

I'm gonna find you another world...

Indeed, it's time to wakeup. And to start packing.

From 2009 to 2010

2010-02-18T19:07:00.002-05:00

Happy 2010! Would you believe it, it's another year already. Given the fact that the Lunar New Year was just last weekend, I had an excuse for not turning the apartment upside down and taking care of all my bills by January 1. The Vietnamese believe that all old business needs to be settled in the old year; else bad luck ensued. Needless to say, on February 14, Mugg and I were furiously doing laundry, folding clothes, casting checks, wiping everything spotless. One thing I could not do was sweeping, since it's believed that I might as well carelessly sweep "luck" out. We then decided to... vacuum instead. I'm not sure what the consensus stands on this one, but technically since no "dirt" left the house, we should be okay lol

2010 promises to be an exciting year - Mugg has just started his new job downtown, I will be stepping a first toe into law school. Nonetheless, I was sad to see 2009 go. It has been somewhat of a watershed year for us. In the summer, Mugg and I moved in together after 16 months dating. It was my first attempt to cohabit with the not-so-neat sex, so I was of course terrified. I'm happy to report that the arrangement has worked really well so far. Being home and cooking for two has in fact become my most loved and peaceful moments.

Last May, Yuko and I ran out first marathon in Ottawa - the start of a running addiction. I haven't planned for a marathon this year yet, but am aiming for a 4-hour finish (9 minute/mile average pace for 26.2 miles). Two weeks ago, I finished my second half-marathon in 1:55'' - a 15-minute improvement from my first attempt. Speed training really does wonder. Only if it's less painful!

On the law school front, the latest news is that I'm in at Columbia, and have been awarded a full-tuition plus stipend scholarship (the Darrow) worth $150,000 from Michigan. UMich is flying me out to Ann Arbor during the last weekend of March for their Admitted Students' Weekend. I really look forward to the midwest's fresh air - certainly something that runs low in NYC.

On the first day of New Year, I took a long, relaxed run in the Park and entered the apartment with wet and muddy shoes. Just then, it dawned on me that I had just "opened" the apartment for us! This ritual is called "xông nhà" where the first visitor of the year is deemed to influence one's fortune that entire year. For this reason, the first visitor is often picked carefully. She has to be born in a good year, do well for herself, have good character and sometimes even needs a good-sounding name to make the cut. Given that the choice was between me and Mugg, and Mugg was still sleeping, I guess that qualified me :D

To "open" the kitchen for a year of good food and happy meal, and to celebrate Valentine's Day, allow me to introduce to you this amazing recipe for chocolate soufflé. As soufflé means "puff up" in French, you can imagine already that this dessert involves the ariest, prettiest, fluffiest cloud of dark chocolate, sprinkled with powdered sugar or dark cocoa. The rising of the cake is due to whipped egg whites, which incorporated air. When baked, those air bubbles expanded and rose, showcasing the amazing lift of the cake. Having heard many horror stories on deflated souffles, I had a nervous vision of introducing my kitchen to the New Year with a disaster. But no worry, as the trick to success lies with the whipped egg whites (which I have learned the ins and outs of during the macaroon class), I will be sharing with you some tips to make this a fool-proof recipe.

Chocolate Soufflé
Adapted from Eat My Cake Now, in turn adapted from Dori Greenspan's "Baking from My Home to Yours"

80 g (3/4 cup) of a good, dark chocolate, up to 70% cocoa - I used Lindt
90 g (1/2 cup) sugar
70 ml (1/3 cup) milk at room temperature
3 egg whites at room temperature
A pinch of salt
A pinch of cream of tatar
Butter (1 tbsp) + a dash of sugar and cocoa to coat the ramekins
Extra powder sugar or cocoa powder to sprinkle the tops

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

2. Clean and pat dry 4 individual ramekins. Give their insides a thick coating of butter, then sprinkle them with sugar and cocoa.

3. Break the chocolate into small pieces. Put the chocolate and the sugar in a heatproof bowl over a saucepan of simmering water; heat until the chocolate is melted. I simply put a ceramic bowl in the middle of a wide, slightly deep pan.

4. Transfer the bowl to the counter and add the milk.

5. In a deep, dry bowl, whip the egg whites with a pinch of salt and cream of tatar until soft peaks form.* Make sure that everything is dry, from your bowl to your whisk. Egg whites are super sensitive to moisture, and won't form peaks if exposed to so much as half a drop of water

6. Stir one quarter of the whites into the chocolate to lighten it. Then use a rubber spatula to gently fold in the remaining whites.

7. Bake for 20 minutes. You will see during this time that the souffle rise like crazy in the oven. Do NOT open the oven door to peek! If you must watch them (I know I did), just turn on the oven light and watch from outside. The tops will become crisp and might crack - it's not a bad thing.

8. Remove the soufflé from the oven, sprinkle the top with powdered sugar or cocoa and serve immediately. Warning: these things fall fast, so get your camera ready if you want to snap pictures. At any rate, they still taste heavenly after cooling down and losing some volume, so don't hesitate to save one for breakfast.

Bon Appétit!

*Tips on working with egg whites:

Egg whites are easiest to be separated from the yolks when the eggs are cold. In macaron recipes, the whites are whipped with granulated sugar to make meringue, a fluffy, glossy mixture. All bakers' attention: whipped egg whites absolutely hates moisture and fat. It won't fluff up if there's even a drop of water on your whisks - so towel dry everything before starting! Similarly, it won't fluff if there is oil.

I always have a hard time telling whether my whites is soft, medium or stiff peaking, until an ICE student shared a tip: the meringue is soft-peaked if it draws out a long 'tail', and the tail is pretty bendy when the whisk is tilted right and left. A medium peak means a shorter tail and much less bent. A stiff peak, it follows, means a curt tail if any; when lifting the whisk, the egg whites peaks can stand up on their own without any bent (see picture below, courtesy of Joe's Bake)

Soft peak and medium peak

As French as it gets - Les Macarons

2009-12-23T00:18:00.015-05:00

Oh Joy, Macarons!

Ah, the French macarons - a baker's Everest. Those tiny little cookies, made from barely four ingredients, are deceptively cute. Their smooth top, and surrounding mysterious 'feet' in fact summon utmost care in technique and countless crossed fingers. The shells, as you might be able to guess just from looking at the picture, are extremely fragile, and absolutely hate moisture and uneven heat, unfortunately two things that bakers have minimal control over (the weather and the oven's temper). We try nonetheless, shoving off alarming heeds, sticky fingers and rising fear - for what a slap to the ego it is to be defeated by tiny little cookies! But we simply can't resist, we must whip those egg whites fluffy and grind our almond flour, because what a heavenly moment it is to bite into a perfect, colorful little macaron, through the soft, crunchy shell, into a chewy texture of meringue, into a bittersweet mocha ganache with a hint of orange zest. It's the one supreme moment of satisfaction and accomplishment that justifies the toil, frustration, and sweat (really, a lot of sweat!)

My first attempt with the macarons came one bored weekend browsing Tastespotting, a haven for wanna-be cooks. I stumbled on the macarons queen, Tartelette, a French pastry chef who made picture-perfect desserts. Not knowing any better, I decided to give it a try, pulsed my almond silvers in a blender (gasp!), hand-whipped my freshly cracked egg whites (double gasp!), and of course failed miserably. The products, which I didn't bother taking pictures of, didn't taste bad. In fact, they tasted a dream for the sweet-tooths. But alas, the macaron experience is at best half in taste; a heavenly moment is consumed by devouring by eyes first those beautiful creatures, only after that by taste their layers of textures and flavors. Without the oohs and aahs of admiration at their round dome and spreading feet, well, it's just not the same.

My chance to conquer the macarons finally arrived. Upon learning about ICE's upcoming macaron class, I promptly signed up. It was AMAZING! If you are a serious amateur cook, or a beginner looking for more refined technique, I highly recommend their recreational courses. My chef, the formidable Kathryn Gordon, who left a Wall Street and consulting career to pursue her passion in pastry, is a the utmost enthusiastic and patient instructor, not to mention years of producing perfect macarons with the Rainbow Room and Le Cirque. With her help, my chef-partner Jaqulin (an art history professor at St. John) and I produced these little mocha-flavor caps, soon to be swooned over by classmates and pronounced "best and picture-perfect!" by Chef Gordon:

A closer look at the pretty domes and feet:

Yummy! The best part of class is always the sharing at the end. Among the 12 participants, we made hundreds of those little sandwiches. My partner and I made two batches using two different recipes - one mocha-flavored shells hugging chocolate ganache fillings (above), and one ginger-flavored shells with caramel fleur de sel fillings. I freezed a dozen of those goodies awaiting Mugg's return, and will be bringing the rest to the office for a sugar-high Wednesday.

Can I let you in a secret? I am actually not that crazy about eating macarons (!!!) I know, I know... I'm just more of a creme-caramel kinda girl. I am, however, crazy about making these handsome and tasty French desserts. So if you are ever in New York when I'm rapping those macaron pans, count on having a lot of them to bring home!

I can feel it in my fingers

2009-12-21T23:50:00.009-05:00

Sky Travel

Wow, can you believe it, two days till Christmas! Unfortunately this year I didn't make it out of the city. The lack of vacation days, my cousins visiting and law school stress resulted in zero planning for the holiday. Given my blank 250-word essay for Yale, and the many scholarship essays in need of being written, I tried to convince myself that it would actually be a smart choice to stay in the city and get some work done. Wishful thinking, of course. It isn't easy with so many visitors dropping in and out of my apartment. I had a hard time saying no to traveling college students, who reminded me of my homeless self not so long ago. As a result, three teenagers now occupied my couch, gobbling up all the food in the fridge and talking "xi` tin" 9-X dialogues I'm too old to understand. Ah, youth.

Last weekend, New York was stranded in a snow blizzard. Mugg was so extremely lucky to jump on a plane to Miami at dawn on Sat morning, as a heavy veil of snow crashed down on the trees in front of my windows that night. The said teenagers, who had never seen so much snow in their lives, got considerably excited, and we went out for a quick snow fight. The trees lining Columbus Avenue, leading all the way up west from Columbus Circle, have all been lit up. A few houses have adorned Christmas decorations; laurel wreaths with big red bows are everywhere. As the kids raced one another into snow piles, I wiggled my frozen gloved fingers, and sang to myself the favorite tune of Love Actually: "I can feel it in my fingers, I can feel it in my toes..."

By the next morning, New York has been turned in a white, slushy spinster. Now I really regretted declining the open invitation from Mugg's parents to join them in Miami. Argh! This year, we decided to get Mugg's parents Christmas gifts together - an endeavor more rigorous than I was prepared for. After endless hours of brainstorming and debates, we finally settled for two awesome gifts - Shiseido's cream for mom (my go-to product for female giftees which has earned raved reviews from my mom, grandma and aunt), and an elegant two-time-zone watch for dad. Mugg said they opened the gift today and were smiling a lot - which, seriously, is a huge expression practice for Cultural-Revolution-era Chinese lol

And surprise surprise, I finally realize today that I am so consummated by law school admission! I guess the moment came when I looked at my Wish List for Christmas, and behold, they are ALL law school books. Books that I'm actually so looking forward to reading! It was a rather funny moment when Mugg - the more academia-cultivated of the two of us - refused to buy me any book and instead get me a gift certificate to the best Pilates studio ever. Yes, I am a proud Pilates addict, ever since a few classes fix my back pain and prep my legs for distance runs. I guess Muggy knows me best :-)

Back to law school obsession: make no mistake, everybody is obsessed. It's like being admitted into a cult-like, egocentric club where people half worship, half yearn to devour one another. Somehow the mindset reminded me of schooling in Vietnam - there are simply too few shining stars for an overcrowding class. Only this time, the language is one that I don't understand, the readings are a hundred times thicker, and the debt - no comment necessary on the debt.

Good news nonetheless: I received a super nice phone call for UPenn welcoming me to the class of 2013. The paper letter came today, accompanied by a thick, colorful viewbook tooting UPenn's great-looking professors and faculty. I like how nice it is, but wish they go green like UMich with an USB. Being unsentimental, I don't keep things for keeping things' sake. Even pretty viewbooks.

More good news: I was invited today via email to apply for the Darrow, UMich's most prestigious merit scholarship which provides up to full tuition AND a stipend. Wohooo! As excited as I am, I'm seriously overwhelmed with the essay ass-kicking to do in the next two weeks:

- 500-word Darrow scholarship essay for UMich

- 500-word Dean's scholarship essay for Cornell

- 500-word International Law essay for NYU

- 250-work (evil) free style rant for Yale apps

Notwithstanding, I can't wait to go to my macaron class tomorrow at the Institute of Culinary Educaton! You see, those cute little sugar-heaven sandwiches have driven me crazy in the last month, after a miserable failed attempt that resulted in my bitter and eager for revenge zeal. We'll see how it turns out tomorrow. I have promised my mailman and Fatima some macarons goodness, so those cuties better turn out perfect!

Time to sleep. Merry Christmas everyone :-)

NYU - Cornell

2009-12-10T13:35:00.008-05:00

I love the first week of December! December 7 features me dragging home at 10pm drained and stressed - what can you do, when your boss is freaked out, it's your duty to also sweat - to find a big, very purple envelop hovering under Mugg's giant grin. "It says NYU", he did a little dance. I hungrily tore the envelop apart, then did a long ridiculous dance myself.

In at NYU!

What a great relief, since this means that I have an option to stay in the Big Apple, keep my perfect apartment, breathe Central Park air, and well, enroll at a top-5 (US News ranking) law school in the nation! NYU is also ranked 2nd nationwide in International Law, which is a field I am interested in pursuing. Woohoo!

And today, my status checker changed to "Decision Rendered" at Cornell. The admission office was nice enough to tell me the decision on the phone - I'm in, and invited for the Dean's Scholarship! I have been scared multiple times by Mugg's endless snow storms tales from his undergrad years in Ithaca, but still am extremely happy. Cornell is a beautiful place, and has much to offer with its small class size and a liberal-arts-ish environment.

Five down - still 10 more to go, including one visible elephant i.e. the Yale apps. I definitely plan to finish it before the holidays, before the flurry of visitors will keep me breathless. Where I end up next year will largely depend on where Mugg will be, so crossing fingers for us both!

And on a non-law yet amazing note: a good friend of mine told me yesterday that she is pregnant! I can't even describe how happy I am, for I know that this baby will be in the best hands for all his/her life. My friend used an expression that I've never heard before, that she cannot wait to fall in love with her child. Wow. I feel like we take for granted that we must love our family, yet know fully well that it sometimes is the hardest thing. But to be truly fall in love with your child, your mom, your dad, how amazing that must feel like. I'm planning to stop by a baby store to get the expectant mom a present, and also a gift for the new-born son of my middle-school friend. She was the first to get married, and the first to have a kid, pioneering the 86-ers rite to adulthood. The new lives of my friends make me feel a bit more grown up, and definitely put my trivial stress on work and law school in perspective. Yes, it is a soft and gentle reminder - there are more important things in life.

:-)

Reasons to give thanks

2009-11-24T23:00:00.010-05:00

I felt bad dashing out of the office early on a busy Friday night, but gosh I was so glad that the hellish November weeks are over! Muggy and I are heading to Miami, where we will be spending Thanksgiving with his mom - an awesome cook and lovely lady whose cozy house and big, open kitchen I've come to love.

Miami still awes me with its sense of space. Every night, Mugg and I take a walk along the surburban neighborhood of Pembroke, whose concentric circles of houses interlaced into a sort of maze. We'd walk for hours, talk about our future, stop to observe a cute wandering cat, chase each other through the high neatly trimmed trees lining down the road. It feels funny to be in surburbia.

On Thanksgiving night, we joined a party with another Chinese family at their house. The husband is an amazing cook. My eyes grew in bewilderment as he glided his big, iron chef knife across the cutboard, twirled home-grown vegetables into neat stacks and molded pearl-white buns. I sat with the parents, listening amorously to their tales of the early days in the US, while Mugg engaged in a Wii battle with the family's kids, a 6-year-old and a teenager. The Chinese lady nudged me with her elbow, "Your boyfriend is so playful!" Mugg's mom nodded, "He grew up a good kid." I suddenly felt warm from the inside out. It has been too long since I last rocked in a comfortable chair, listened to small talk, and stuffed my tummy with a delicious family dinner.

The next day, we went to South Beach, where the warm sunlight and light breeze immediately knocked us into a long nap on the sand. I woke up dazed, staring straight into the immensely open sky above, and blanked out for a full minute before remembering that I was still on Earth. It's the oddest feeling to realize that - oh right, I'm human.

At midnight, we went with Mugg's friend to catch the first show of Ninja Assassin - a bloody, anime-esque action saga that features very real six packs from, guess who, the girly Korean singer Bi/Rain. Albeit the (always) unnecessary Hollywood violence, I was pretty amused, especially when an Europol agent snidely commented that "This guy [Bi] looks more like he belongs to a boyband than in a ninja club" - right before being slashed in two, of course.

At 3am, as the battles wore off the screen, we walked through the empty arches of the Miami mall and drove home. I rolled down the window, so the wind blew my hair into a mess and scattered Gun N' Roses "Take me down to paradise city, where the grass is green and the girls are pretty..." along the highway. The smell of the night was intoxicated.

"Why is the sky blue?" I turned to Mugg, "Just imagine if it were some odd colors - like bad-cheese yellow."

"It's the way molecules in the air reflecting light. It just happens to be in a spectrum that our eyes can see. And it just happens to be in the blue range of the spectrum."

Seriously, it is but a stroke of random luck that the molecules float around in the right way, so that I get the mood-lifting joy each time I look at the sky?

I took a deep breath and held tight to Mugg's hand, floored with gratitude. Oasis came on the radio. And I suddenly felt like I could live forever.

All I want for Christmas...

2009-11-18T14:15:00.004-05:00

Seriously, all I want for this Christmas, and next year, and the next ten years to come, is a JR1.

For 0L-wanna-be-1L, "JR1" has suddenly become the holy grail of our life-long quests. The famous "JR" is Josh Rubenstein, the brand new Dean of Admission at Harvard Law and a graduate of class of 2006. Being paid to research, I quickly found out that he had worked briefly on the Hill prior to HLS, and joined Bain for 3 years upon obtaining the JD. So this guy, in my guess, is probably in his early 30's. Is it not scary, that someone so young holds entirely in his hands the power to guide my career, life, and happiness?

JR1 is the phone interview made by the Dean, a prequisite for a follow-up acceptance call (coined the "JR2"). While a JR1 doesn't guarantee a JR2, the absence of one decidedly leads to a rejection/waitlist. Words on the streets are about 1,000 applicants out of 7,000-8,000 files were offered a JR1. And of these 1,000, about 750-850 were admitted. Since late October, the online 0L have shrunken to a bunch of neurotic, nervous wrecks as the first JR1 trickled out. Based on last year's statistics, JR2 will start coming out the few days before Thanksgiving for those who have had their JR1.

My endless wait, and the agony of each minute during such wait, has knotted my mind in a frenzy. Thanksgiving is coming in a few days. I'm hoping that the Miami sunshine and the delicious home-cooked meals of Muggy's mom will ease my sore disappointment. But oh I know it is gonna hurt, long and throbbing even after decisions have all rolled out next spring.

To quickly summarize the season's yield so far:
- Acceptances: Duke (giant envelop), Georgetown (tiny envelop), UMichigan (a big package with an USB and hand-written note from the Dean complimenting my work at NERA)
- Schools who have rolled out acceptances but haven't made decisions on my file: UCLA, UVirginia, Berkeley
- Schools I still not complete: Northwestern (pending interview), Stanford (oh Dean Reese, will you ever fax my form?), Yale (if I ever muster enough wit to write the infamous 250-words essay)
- Endless wait: NYU, Columbia, BU, UPenn, Cornell, Harvard

Reading

2009-11-03T22:07:00.004-05:00

When I was a kid, I thrived at reading. I was that kid who picked the thickest book on the shelf, who pored through the classic novels (The Three Musketeers, Ivanhoe, Robinson Crusoe, White Fang etc) before hitting puberty. I pretty much spent all my allowances renting books at the many used bookstores around Hanoi. Do you remember those, with musty smell and stacks of uneven volumes protruding from their fading shelves? The novels I read were published in the early 20th century, on yellowish paper so thin that there were always holes on them, and bind together with thread. I would buy book covers and neatly wrapped them up to preserve their fragile spines. Books were my great friends; they were magical, joyous, and never failed to transport me to their magical worlds.

In high school, I moved on to more serious subject matters: race (Mark Twain's books on Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn are a must for a New Orleans education), death (Faulkner's The Sound and The Fury - so far still the hardest book I've ever read), love (A Streetcar Named Desire, another Southern favorite). The literature influence of Ben Franklin High made me more somber, sadder, I guess a necessary rite of passage to teenage-hood and growing up. I did enjoy tremendously English classes, and absolutely loved creative writing classes where I got to relive the long lost dream of being a writer through silly poems and rambling prose. Sadly, it was probably the last time I read for the pure joy of reading.

College was different - I was enamored with political science theories and disillusioned by economics promises, so subsequently I was devoted to Hobbes, Malanczuk, Waltz and half-hearted towards Hull, Scholes, Fama. Reading slowly drifted away from being whimsical and creative; it was the bread and butter of my liberal arts education - to dissect the hypothesis, spot the argument, question the data, propose alternatives. By senior year, I was necked deep in theses and reading for fun had sounded as ancient as the ice age.

Post-college, I dwelled immediately into court documents, litigation trends and analyst reports breeze at NERA. My attempt to read fiction stumbled on a wall, as evident by the one year it took to finish Dostoyevsky's The Idiot (granted, The Idiot is next to The Sound and The Fury in the difficulty scale). I was horrified that I had forgotten how to read. But before I could do anything, there was the LSAT to study for. As I started subscribing to the Economists and the NewYorker in preparation for the test, surprisingly I found it - the lost joy of reading I had left behind years ago in Hanoi's old bookstores. Not from the monetary policy section of the Economists - please - but from the weekly beautiful Fiction of the New Yorker. It was both nostalgic and comforting.

Now that the threat/dream of law school is closing in, I know that this is my last chance to catch up on the forever growing pillars of literature. Once 1L falls on my head with its monstrous reading load, I will probably have to take another three years of refuge. So on top of the law reading list, the candidates for this summer are:

- Kurt Vonnegut. I always wanted to read him but somehow never got to. Shame!

- The brothers Karamazov. I bought it with the Idiot at a small cozy shop in East Village, but shy away from the time commitment.

- Milan Kundera. My favorite after Dumas. When I was in Prague, I read several of his books, including the infamous Unbearable Lightness of Being, but there are still many good ones to explore.

- A confederacy of Dunces. A gift from a high school friend, Kat. A Putlizer-winning satire on the beloved New Orleans life.

I probably will get some of these books on audio, now that I decide to sign up for a second marathon in March. It will be nice to have a running company again :-)

Non-sequitur

2009-10-28T12:41:00.004-04:00

Last weekend, I met up with Yuko for a 5 miles race to kick off the famous New York marathon in Central Park. The air was crisp and cold; the leaves have started turning colors. I haven't seen Yuko in a while - she was busy with the new job and I with applications. It was good to catch up - we talked about a friend's upcoming wedding, Stuyvesant Town and the East Village life I have not frequented since moving out. We of course talked about Yuko's love life and a recent disappointment. I tried to encourage her but knew that when one was waiting, any wait no matter no short was excruciating. We talked about the loneliness of the city - one easily got lost in such a big place. But it will be okay, we consoled each other, because we are young, and the night is young.

The next day, on my way to lunch, I saw an old man collapsing on 5th Ave. He was old, wearing a beige jacket and a casket that reminded me of my grandfather. I immediately ran over and tried to help him up. But his legs were weak, so another passerby and I lay him down on the pavement. Another passerby called 911. We took off our coats and layered them on his panting chest to shield away the October wind. "I'm okay, I'm okay", he kept repeating in weak voice. He was waiting for the bus to go back to Brooklyn, he said, after getting a root canal done at the dentist. His wife had insisted that he brought the cellphone but he forgot, he shook his head regretfully. His wife was always right. He was eighty-five and was wearing a pace maker to support his heart.

The lady who had called 911 kneeled down to keep him conversing, her hands holding his fragile fingers. I waited with her till the police and ambulance came, yet didn't know what else to do other than watching his gentle smiles and flock of white hair ruffling in the wind. A few minutes later, a firetruck arrived with medical workers and a load of equipment. Seeing that the old man was now in good hands, we gathered back our coats and slowly departed.

Ten minutes later, when I circled back to 5th Ave after getting lunch, the crew was gone. I hoped they had taken him to a hospital and that he was okay. They probably had called his wife, an old lady somewhere in Brooklyn, waiting at the lunch table for her husband. My chest gripped at the thought of her hurrying down the subway to come to him, her unsteady steps and white hair in the wind.

By the time I told Mugg the story, I was half in tears for no reason. Old people often have that effect on me and my easily teary eyes. They remind me of endurance and wisdom, at the same time fragility. And how strangely, as I thought of the old man, I was instantly thinking of speeding down the Lower Loop of Central Park towards the finish line, with golden leaves and spots of sunlight shining over my head. I often wonder, aside from the endorphin, why New Yorkers are so obsessed with the run. Now it is clear to me - the run is to commemorate the fleeting joy of youth, to hold it in your feet just a panting breath further, and to feel it expanding in your chest at the finish line.

One toe

2009-10-09T10:57:00.005-04:00

October 2, 2009 - I am officially in law school! The first acceptance came today, while I was in California to visit Stanford. Duke did wonder to my mind with its 2 weeks turnaround decision. The JD/LLM looks quite good, including a 1L summer head start and a 2L seminar in HongKong or Geneva. The degree focuses on comparative and international law, with a language component. I'm still waiting on other schools (1 more application to go!) but it certainly feels great to have a fallback option. And even better to have a fallback option that is a top 10 law school in the US.

I met Dean Hoye, Duke's Dean of Admission at the LSAC Forum in New York. The man is super nice, and said he remembered my name from the application pile. He was also quick to assure that after the 1L summer seminar, Duke will help place the JD/LLM students in organizations in Hong Kong and Switzerland. Sounds too good to be true, doesn't it? I've started to like Duke more and more after each encounter.

The big question for the next 11 months of 0L is: to read or not to read? The 'gunner's route', as recommended on TLS, has comprised of a series of books - which I immediately obsessed over:

1. Law School Confidential - done reading. a good overview of the time line for law school. The lag time is amazing. According to the book, to secure a judicial clerkship after graduation, I will need all materials ready at the end of 2L year. And to be competitive for the crucial 1L internship, I should be arriving on campus armed with a polished resume and 6 volumes of study aids. Good to know.

2. Getting to Maybe - bought, but haven't touched yet. A must-read by everyone.

3. Delaney's Legal Reasoning - bought, but haven't touched yet. Recommended as a good peek into 'thinking like a lawyer'.

4. Planet Law School - hmm maybe?

5. Commercial outlines - 6 volumes for all the common legal topics. I need to research more the edition and the price before getting them used off Craiglist's. Each book is huge (300 pages) and dense, but it would be a good idea to skim over the big picture of the law, given my limited knowledge of the system here.

6. 'For-me' books: several that I want to read just because the topics are interesting
- Letters to a Young Lawyer by Alan Dershowitz (crim law prof at HLS, and defense attorney in the OJ Simpson trial)
- Law and Society in Vietnam by Mark Sidel (leading legal scholar on Vietnamese law, according to the coolest law prof I've met - Bill Alford at HLS)
- Raising the Bar: Legal Profession in East Asia by Bill Alford (Chinese legal prof at HLS)

It will be a full summer!

Smell

2009-09-25T22:55:00.004-04:00

I followed Mugg to Boston to visit schools today. The trip was long and tiring, especially after a long day of work. But Harvard Law School totally makes up for it. I started out visiting a Contract class - which ironically was cancelled. Luckily, another class took place in the same room, so I was fortunate to be able to sit in Torts, taught by Prof. Morton Horwitz. I surprisingly enjoyed Torts and the personal stories that served as the backdrop for the cases. Today's lecture focused on negligence, and how the charge centered around the concept of foreseeability - basically how probably it is that an accident based on these particular circumstances could happen. The burden/ liability aspect of the lecture appealed to my economic background. And just in case this ever comes back in m future, the formula is B = PL where B = the financial burden that the defendant should take on, P = the probability of the accident happening, L = the liability incurred by the accident. So if B>PL, i.e. the burden to insure that prevention of the accident is greater than the $$ damages caused by the accident, and the defendant didn't take the preventive measures, he is NOT liable. Otherwise, he is liable if the burden is less than the liability.

After the class, I met Shaud (ex-NERA coworker) and his friend, Charlotte, for lunch. We chatted for about 2 hours and took a tour around the law school. I never got to know Shaud very well at NERA, but we had a really good time. I love how chilled and down-to-earth both of them were, and love to listen to their experience in class and during their first summer. HLS law library is THE bomb. High ceiling, flooding light, wood panel, spotlessly clean, the smell of prestige and antique law books. I love it. I totally love it. I totally want to be here, more than I've ever wanted most things.

Yi was equally impressed by HBS and kept talking about how Harvard is what the rave was about, and even more. Beyond the Asian dream, it promises an education more amazing and opportunities more that I ever fathom. As Bill Alford put it, my LSAT is "healthy" but my GPA is potentially trouble. Now Mugg and I just to put together polished, coherent applications to set off who we are, and hope for the best!

Summer update

2009-07-05T15:20:00.005-04:00

The past few months have been, no doubt, the busiest months I have had in the past two years in the city. After the marathon at the end of May, things were unraveling so quickly that I barely had time to catch a breath, let alone blogging. As a result, nothing has been written in a long while. But now that the sun has found its way back over the green foliage outside 70th street, and summer has made it bright albeit late appearance over the city, life has finally mellowed down. This morning, after a round of egg benedicts topped with salmon for breakfast, while waiting for a loaf of banana bread to brown in the oven, I suddenly found myself out of inspiration for the law school essays. What better to do, then, than blogging.

After a near frantic experience in February, I took Mug's advice - the best yet - to sit in the Feb LSAT anyway and cancel the score, for the sake of a practice run. I reluctantly complied, though the thought of wasting $130 did not sit well with my third-world upbringing, especially on such a luxury, unnecessary concept as "a practice run." But in hindsight, that was probably the best decision I have made. When June rolled around, I was ten-fold more prepared, logic-wise and pressure-wise.

The three weeks period of waiting for the score went by extremely quickly, mostly because it was packing time. Right before heading to Canada for the marathon, Mugg and I found the perfect apartment for our first attempt of cohabitation. Located on the second floor landing of a townhouse, the one-bedroom was two studios combined into one, featuring two bathrooms, two lofts, two doors and big bright windows looking out to the three-lined 70th street. Best yet, it is half a block to Central Park, half a block to the B and C train which drops us right at the door of NERA, and two blocks to the 1, 2, 3. The rent was well within our budget, so we were willing to sacrifice the fact that the kitchen was teeny, no dog allowed and no laundry in the building. I guess when it comes to housing in New York, you really can't have it all.

The packing process was, at best, a pain. At worst, it cost us some heated arguments over what constituted as "functional" furniture (he: a table that works) and what is just plain ugly (me: a table that wobbles, has uneven legs and stained surface). We eventually made peace and compromised - the god-awful table had to go, but Mugg can keep three out of his four red, identical t-shirts. I mean it, identical!

Thanks to kind friends who came to help (Yuko, Luan, Binit, Denis), the moving was much less of a nightmare than I had dreaded. We picked up my stuffs first from Stuyvesant Oval, which only took up a third of the 10x10 UHaul, filled it up with half of Mugg's suitcases, went to pick up a coffee table, then unloaded the truck in front of the new nest. When Luan, Yuko and I moved the first load inside, Mugg drove Binit and Denis back to his apartment to pick up the more bulky items, i.e. bed, mattress, couch, two glass-top desks. We started out at 9am and were done moving furniture by 3pm, at which point Yuko and I carried our broomsticks around the city to clean up the apartments we had left behind. It was a bit emotional. I was excited for the next step of my relationship, but sad to leave my housemate of two years. We of course made a promise to run together every week, and hang out as much as we can.

After a whole week of unpacking, organizing and cleaning, I have finally figured a way to make my tiny kitchen functional. The secret is rather simple - clean as you go. The magic organizing tool - sticky hooks which line neatly under my cabinet and along the wall, holding everything from the utensil rack to my slotted spoon. I even bought a kitchen cart with extra counter top, which has been unnecessary yet.

On a peaceful Saturday - fourth of July - I finally made my way to the park, promptly took off my shoes and stretched out in Sheep's Meadow. The sun was bright, birds were chirping and the moving machines of Manhattan were spotted napping under shades, playing frisbees, making out on the green grass. The extra oxygen of the west side seems to make us human less antsy and more dreamy. I will never cease to miss the holes-in-the-wall of East Village, but now that I experience this, I wouldn't trade this neighborhood for anywhere.

As for the LSAT, I got the score that I want, the fruit of 6-month labor and two boxes of practice tests which were promptly given away. Life is falling neatly into places. And of course the road ahead is winding, but I know that it is the best road I yet to walk on - because Muggy is here, looking down at me when I wake up, turning off the light when I go to sleep. And calling out to me from the living room, where he has firmly planted a refuge on the couch, "Honey, is the banana bread ready yet??"

Hey I remember, when we used to sit...

2009-06-05T17:48:00.002-04:00

The fair young man with blond dreadlocks leaned over his guitar, striking a soft, sweet melody that I only knew too well:

Hey I remember... when we used to sit

In the government yard in Trenchtown

Oba - obaserving the ypocrites

As they would mingle with the good people we meet

On the front steps, two young girls were swaying in the delicious and smooth spring air of the Canadian capital. Next to them, Martin, a short and gleeful Canadian with perching Gucci glasses on a tanned slender nose, lazily scratched his purring cat. Inside, someone was barbequing sausages in the kitchen, from which the distinct fragrant of burnt grease tickled our senses.

The Ottawa Backpackers' Inn, with its brightly paint walls, named beds and no-shoes-inside policy, was the exact peaceful refuge that I didn't expect to find in the Western hemisphere. Martin, the owner, set a hippy and relaxing model for his staffs, which in turn translated into an easy, charming mood for the hundreds of low-budget travelers passing by Ottawa every week. I met two men who had made the inn their semi-permanent stay; both were in "transition periods" to find a place in Ottawa. One man, a guy in his forties, had became so naturally integrated in the routine of the inn that he often offered his car to take everybody shopping, or his service to walk around with visitors who were clumsy with maps. The other, a younger man with deep-set eyes, seemed less happy here. I saw him hanging out in the lounge most of the days, browsing the internet with headphones on. He must have been quite lonely, as he scrutinized each new visitor as if looking for someone to converse. He told me that the dorm-like atmosphere of the inn was irritating, and that he had spent three months here and could not wait to move out. I was amazed that anyone could last that long at a place intended only as a rest stop for the restless.

Ottawa is easily the prettiest Canadian city I have visited, much more serene and elegant than how Montreal or Quebec was in my memory. As always, the consulate trip was painless and fast, and had become standardized - from the long wait outside the fortress-like gate to the tiny waiting room to the 2-minute interview. While waiting for the visa, I made arrangement to work from a Mercer office in the financial part of town, and found myself surprisingly joyous to walk half an hour to work everyday along the famous Rideau Canal that curved through the city. Celine, the bubbly lady across the hall, raved about the skating break that everyone took most afternoon in the winter to skate down the canal and grab a hot chocolate from a booth on ice. The work life balance here is, wow.

As the weekend rolled near, I grew increasingly anxious about the first marathon, knowing that I had only trained half as dedicated as recommended by the guidebook. On the other hand, my soleus muscle (the big muscle in the back of the lower leg) had healed from its last overtraining, and the inflammation surrounding my big left toe had also subdued. I consoled myself with a claim I had read somewhere, that an under-trained runner is (apparently) in better shape than an over-trained one. As it turned out, that statement is absolutely true.

More about the actual race in the next post. But to make a long story short, I finished, in good time and injury free. My legs completely shut off for the next three days, but after a week I was happily racing Muggy up and down the East River with zero soreness. Yes, what they said was true, the last 10k (6 miles) were long, dusty and painful. No, they lied about the toenails - all 10 of mine came intact, none lost and no blister found. Pace bunnies were my savers. The cheering crowd was my wind. And Muggy waiting with hugs and kisses at the end of it all was touching and adorable.

After the race, we celebrated by gulping down glasses of water and ordering giant portions of steak to replenish the torn muscles with protein. Sitting down was hard; it seemed our legs had done their work for the day and refused to bulge any further. But how relaxed the mind was, and how strangely warm and calm beating the heart...

My feet is my only carriage,
So Ive got to push on through.
But while Im gone, I mean:

Everything is gonna be alright...

Rain!

2009-05-04T12:17:00.006-04:00

I'm singing in the rain - Gene Kelly

Last week, New York suddenly sparked light. Some wise organizers at the NYRR had decided to cancel the Moore Marathon due to the temperature approaching a dangerous 90 plus degree. Too excited for the sun and not as wise, I dash out in haste for the 7-mile stretch along the Hudson River, which very soon resulted in two scorching red shoulders that still ache under my shirt no matter how much aloe vera was applied. Apparently I've taken the majority of advices from the Suncreen song to heart, but ignore the foremost and most famous of them all:

"If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Stretch.

Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.

But trust me on the sunscreen."

As the burnt skin slowly peeled off, spring rain pushed the sun back into the clouds and spent hours drizzling puddles down on the sloppy pavements of Stuy-Town. Waking up on a gloomy Sunday, I was instantly grumpy-fied by the gray and indifferent sky outside of Muggy's blue curtains. I waited, but the rain refused to stop. Quite angrily I put on my sneakers and stormed out, unable to fight the running bug and the rather annoying beeping of MLB the evil video game.

As usual, the first three miles were hard. My fists and face were wet and cold, yet my back and thighs sweaty. Central Park felt like a deserted track, on which each footstep of runners was amplified off the cement and sent echoing along the big loop. The rain eased the heat off my back, and felt surprisingly refreshed on my steaming cheeks. Soon, my toes were soaked and wiggled uncomfortably in the muddy shoes. I ignored them and kept running. Half way down the second round on the big loop, I accidentally engaged in a race with another runner, a big guy in blue t-shirt. He didn't seem to move on very fast, so I thought I should just overtake him. Big mistake! Perhaps his long stride and relaxed shoulders gave off the wrong impression. I felt my legs quicken to fix the distance between us, yet unable to gain ground. It took me almost 2 miles, from 100th Street down to Columbus Circle to pass him. He, too, was indignant and sped up. I could hear his whizzing breathing along my side for at least half a mile before dropping off behind. At Columbus Circle, I gave up the temporary victory, stopped by the sidewalk and stretched out my shaky knees. Blue t-shirt guy happily zoomed by into the distance. Thank you for making the last two miles so fast!

Leaving Central Park, I ran as fast as I could back to the cozy little apartment on 52nd Street, where I knew Mugg was waiting so we could go to dinner together. My heart was literarily flying as I hopped up the stairs, snapped open the door and jumped onto his arms, triggering long howls of protest as my wet and cold face snuggled tightly into his chest. He lifted my messy chin up and smiled down kindly, "You look pretty."

And standing there with my puffing and huffing heart, throbbing calf muscles, growling stomach, I felt all of it at once - love, blessing, magic.

Sunday - 14 miles, 2 hours 20 mins.

April sun

2009-04-25T14:39:00.004-04:00

The sun gotta be my most favorite thing in the word. Well, the most non-Muggy related favorite thing to be correct, because he has the same effect on me as the sun does: they both manage to make my cheeks pinker, my shoulders loose, the tightness in my calves relaxed, and my mood high all day long.

After many months of long cold winter, the sun has finally returned to New York, perching ambiguously behind the shiny top of the G.E. building at first, but slowly sneaking out and beaming through the shaded windows behind my cube. Taking advantage of a slow Friday, I waited impatiently for the clock to strike 6, slipped on my running shoes and bolted out of the door before any watchful boss could catch up. The pavements of 6th avenue were flooded with people, particularly girls in colorful dresses showing off bare long thighs and freshly-painted toes peaking from open sandals. In Central Park, runners crowded the paved roads, snaking around lazy horses and tuk-tuk drivers. The cement glistened under the sun, and I felt my feet lighter, my calves excited, my thighs ready for a good work out.

After the first two miles, the shin splints kicked in and it became quite unbearable to keep going. The gatorade fortunately helped, and by mile four the pain faded away. As the training goes on, I have started to feel more and more of my body. With every strike on the ground, I can feel now the vibration it sends upward through my legs which swing like a pendulum in the socket of my pelvis, and the twitching quad muscles striving to keep up. I can feel the pores on my face opening, releasing sweat, breathing, panting. It is as if the whole body aligns in its motivation to move forward and swallow the miles. There are, of course, times when I feel my body succumbing under fatigue, and falling out of alignment. My pelvis sit back, creating a kink between my lower body and the rest of the spine. I have attempted to fix my posture unsuccessfully, until taking a Healthy Running workshop with Julia Pak of Balanced Runner (www.balancedrunner.com). The exercises though simple worked like a charm. As she puts it, sometimes we unknowingly disalign our bodies, creating cross-motivation which impedes the overriding movement of running. Think of our arms and legs as pendulums, swinging from our hip and shoulder sockets. We want the pendulums to swing most efficiently. That means eliminate any unnecessary weights and movements by curling the arms up rather than down, tilting forward rather than backward, landing on the middle of your feet rather than the heels. I cannot wait to try out the new running form tomorrow!

April sun is here. The city is warm and glowing, like a girl in love.

Cheer stories

2009-04-02T22:37:00.005-04:00

Simply Loving, SimplyBloom Photography

I have recently found my fix for red-eyed days at work, and a very cheesy one at that - the Wedding and Celebration section of the New York Times. It started innocently. I was browsing the 'Bates Alumni in the News' bulletin one day, and tumbled on an article of a Batesie girl who proclaimed herself a free spirit, left her college love to explore the world, came back years later and eventually got married to the high school sweetheart. Finding myself surprisingly happy at her tale, I frequented the section a few days later to read about an oldies couple who got married for the second time after they had divorced over growing apart. From then on, I make a point to visit the Happy Page once a week. Marriages of all types, between all sorts of people, were reported. Many have met online. Many have broken up multiple times. Many have been threatened with break-ups and succumbed. Those stories never fail to delight me with their sweet endings. It is a comfort, after all, to know that romance is alive, out there, achievable to normal people of all sizes and shapes.

I turned twenty-three year-old a few weeks ago, on a crisp and sunny Wednesday. Throughout my childhood birthdays were never big deals, but since moving to New York they have become better and better each year. I suspect it has to do with the increasing appreciation of little things that matures with age, particularly the freedom of being adult, exemplified by everything that New York has to offer. Of course, having Muggy and Yuko with me here are like having birthday presents everyday, 365 days a year.

Short Route - 4 Miles

2009-03-19T14:03:00.004-04:00

Albeit short, the 4-mile loop from Stuy-Town to midtown east is my favorite route. Past the UN, there is a small steep hill to climb, followed by a rewarding downhill stretch. I love that the route is easily adjusted, using the rule of thumb that about 18 New York streets make up 1 mile, and an avenue length-wise is about 3 streets. The real kick of the run, however, is the midway stop I always make at Mugg's to grab a gulf of water, drop off a sweaty layer, or most of the time solely and happily just to steal a kiss.

View Larger Map

Morning Run - Medium Route

2009-03-18T00:46:00.002-04:00

According to the training calendar, I'm due to run 6 miles tomorrow morning. Luckily the route to Brooklyn Bridge roundtrip provides just the mileage plus the great view of East River. In the earlier weeks, when the medium route reaches only 5 miles, I usually run one-way to the bridge, cross it to Brooklyn and return, then catch the subway back home.

View Larger Map

Morning Rush

2009-03-10T15:25:00.006-04:00

As we dreaded, the morning rush before the client meeting at 2pm was chaos. Luckily, Asian Charm and I had spent considerable time in the office last weekend to reorganize our files and line up our macro, so this morning we cranked out numbers as smoothly as a pasta machine. As true proteges of industrialism, we exemplified the conveyor belt concept in damages calculation: each inflation series was born from Alex's SAS program, then looped into the fancy equity cushion model handled by Steve B (justly labeled the most efficient man in the office), before it was plugged twice into the monster that is our damages models, which Asian Charm and I ran parallel to check each other. Each number was then touched up prettily with footnotes, heading, colorful graphs and placed in a clean-and-clear (conceptually) exhibit, before being sent off to the VPs.

From there, the chaos began. D.H., despite her pleasantness to work with personally, was a tough VP to please. Nothing escaped her mind. Amid the hundreds of analysis and files we produced, she could always be counted on to remember a remote, barely related point from a light year ago that contradicted some assumptions we had made. Each exhibit that went through her hand came back beaten, naked, shivering, weak, begging to be strengthened. We would furiously snatch up the weakling, remodeling and reproducing while our Seamless orders turned cold, until all little loopholes were sealed, each comma pored over. Only then off the exhibits went to counsel.

Today, at 1:30pm, burried in piles of print-outs, I could not help laughing when I saw Alex sprinting down the hallway, a stack of binders spilling over his arms. We hurriedly shuffled the exhibits in order, snapped them into each binder, attached a good few inches of backups and stuffed them into Asian Charm's brief case. As he and Esther rushed out to client's office (luckily quite close by in Times Square), Alex and I sunk back into our chair and heave a relaxing breath. It was finally my favorite time of the day. The morning rush was over and calmness had returned to my cube.

I wonder if I will miss this when I leave the world of consulting - the endless excel sheets, tell-tale price series, damages calculation that makes and breaks corporations, and the people like us behind the scene, our eyes and our backs getting worse from staring and hunching in front of the computer. Not that going to law school and becoming an attorney would improve my eyes and back, but I stubbornly hang on to the faith that the law will have an answer to the mystery of this system. Mugg has insisted that the green bills will make the world go round, evil or good. I guess the competition is on.

Before the calmness could settle, D.H's emails peppered up my inbox - more emergency damages calculation needed! More hours billed, paychecks deposited, people going to work. Indeed, the world goes round.

Peaceful day

2009-02-21T20:30:00.008-05:00

The crisp New York morning was bitingly cold. 28 degree - said the temperature billboard at one brownstone corner in Midtown East. Random patches of sunshine scattered on Fifth Avenue, polished shinny store banners perching on top of the impeccable glass windows of Abercrombie, Gucci, Apple, Tiffany. Few passerbys wandered happily along the cobblestones surrounding Central Park, alongside tourists in decorative carriages, whose eyes opened wide with excitement like those of children. Unlike the passengers whom they carried, the horses decked up with bright red pompom meekly clucked their steel shoes at the driver's nudge, their heads hanging low, their jaws sluggishly grinding some leftover straws. It was a normal lazy New York sunday.

The cold refreshing air stung my bare lower calf as I jogged hurriedly towards the park. "Hitch" playing on TNT, and Mug's warm embrace, had - like always - kept me at the cozy apartment longer than expected. The timing however worked out perfectly. Just like me, Yuko was often running late. As an implied code, we had learnt to show up 15 minutes later than the agreed time.

As I reached the park entrance, Yuko emerged from the nearby subway station, shivering slightly. We had layered up with long-sleeved thermal shirts and fleece jackets, but none were wind-proof. Since our muscles were already stiff, we decided to skip the traditional stretching warm-up at a park bench to prevent muscle tearing. Instead, we jogged slowly for the first mile and exchanged small talks. As I now spent three to four days a week at Muggy's, I didn't get to see Yuko as often, and was glad to catch up on our weekly long run. Her boss had warned all employees of the company's unstable financial situation; a mutual friend had just been laid off; another mutual friend was eight-month pregnant. We agreed to call the first friend to express consolation, and wondered if the second was planning to get married to her long-term boyfriend. Soon, the talk trailed off as we needed to concentrate on our own breathing. While the cool air swept off sweat quickly and prevented us from steaming, its dryness made breathing quite difficult. Not many runners or bikers ventured out today, allowing us ample room to pace ourselves. I counted the usual marks - a sign East 90th street, an entrance to the Jackie Kennedy trail that circumnavigated the Reservoir, the steep curve leading to the west side. After two miles, I started to feel the tightening of my inner thighs, the mild ache in my left rib, the soothing numbness of my toes. I could feel my calf muscles quenching at each landing, and the balls of my feet striking the hard cement in monotone beats - one... two... one... two - like the counting of a ballet exercise. The endorphin instantly kicked in. My mind suddenly went blank, focusing on nothing but the faint smoke of my breath and the winding miles ahead.

At the fifth mile, I reached for the ipod shuffle and turned on "Atlas Shrugged". Beating my expectation, audio books had turned out to be a great blessing. Much better than music, they distracted me with the narrator's warm voice and the novel's intriguing plot. I had picked "Atlas Shrugged", partly thanks to Mugg's enthusiastic recommendation, partly due to its 60-hour length, which I figured would last me till marathon day. As I was engrossed in the Taggart's railroad empire, Columbus Circle soon appeared, marking the final curve toward Sixth Avenue where we closed the six-mile circumference of Central Park for just under an hour. Though the time was short of spectacular, I felt a sense of relief that we could still run six miles with relative ease even after a two-month hiatus. I made a mental note of my 12-mile inventory this week, and projected a 15-mile goal next week.

We walked slowly to our favorite Egg Benedict restaurant (whose real name Mugg and I never bothered to learn) on Second Ave for a much-deserved hearty brunch. Amid good food and lively conversation, Mugg reached for my hand under the table and gave it a slight squeeze. Today was the first day of our second year together. My heart felt warm. It was a peaceful New York sunday.

(picture courtesy of www.beckermanphoto.com)

Thứ Bảy

2009-02-09T15:08:00.006-05:00

Sáng thứ bảy, một tia nắng lẻ loi đâm xuyên qua tấm rèm nặng trĩu trên cửa sổ nhà anh, hạ cánh nhẹ nhàng xuống những thời báo kinh tế của anh, những quyển sách luyện thi của tôi, nằm ngổn ngang trên sàn nhà gỗ. Tôi tỉ mẩn đếm những vết rạn trên trần nhà, đợi chuông báo thức rung để nhanh tay tắt máy trước khi anh kịp giật mình tỉnh dậy. Gỡ tay mình ra khỏi tay anh, tôi nhón chân chầm chậm đi qua sàn nhà cọt kẹt, luồn vào chiếc váy thoải mái nhất, vừa chải tóc vừa sao lãng quét mascara lên mi mắt. Tóc tôi đã dài đủ để kẹp lên gọn gàng sau gáy, những dải tóc nhuộm đỏ ngày xưa đã phết đi gần hết, chỉ còn đuôi tóc đâu đây hơi hoe vàng. Trong guơng, một gương mặt nghiêm trang nhìn tôi chăm chú, vạt nâu dưới mắt, hướng mày xếch, khoé môi cong. Rất lạ lẫm, không giống gì con bé tóc ngắn, toe toét, luôn bồn chồn thời đại học.

Như thể từ trong một màn sương loãng dần, trên đầu tôi bỗng hiện ra đôi mắt nheo ngái ngủ của anh, nửa lo lắng nửa trìu mến, "Trang, sao em chưa đi? Em sắp muộn rồi!"

Tôi nhìn sững anh, như thể vừa chợt nhớ ra điều gì. Chợt nhớ rằng tôi không còn là con bé thời đại học cần sải chân đi khắp thế giới để tìm hạnh phúc nữa. Đơn giản bởi vì hạnh phúc... là đây.

Test Anxiety

2009-01-30T18:05:00.002-05:00

I feel like I'm having an anxiety attack... One more week till the LSAT and my head feels like it's exploding. A sure sign that it's time to put down the book and go dancing. Or drinking.

Counting Down

2009-01-18T19:11:00.003-05:00

Three more weeks till the LSAT! I've increased my practicing dose to four sections a night, twice as many as recommended by McKnight's wife. The result has been encouraging, at least on the reading front where I averaged 2-3 missed questions. Yet logical reasoning is still a giant headache. While my mean and median wrong question have lowered to 4 instead of the usual 6, it's still not good enough to break the PR of 172. And that's assuming I made no mistake in Games - where I'm most confident yet most subject to the tiniest panic. Good news is, as demonstrated by recent LSAT tests, two questions are offered as freebies - test-takers can usually miss two and still score a perfect 180.

Last week, when Mugg committed his first step in studying for the GMAT by buying a load of books, we came to the somewhat sad realization that we won't be doing much as a couple for the next half a year, possibly more. 2009 is devoted for graduate school applications, CFA level II and marathons. Luckily, that we can do all of those things better together is a real comfort.

New Year Resolution

2009-01-05T19:32:00.013-05:00

Oh yes, man is a fool
And he thinks he'll be okay
Dragging on, feet of clay
- "Happy New Year", ABBA -

On the eve of 2009, I declined an invitation to join middle-school classmates to opt for a peaceful night cooking at Mugg's. Not because I disliked any of my middle-school friends; in fact I was eager to see them again and curious to gauge their changes. They have all stayed much more connected to home than I did - a realization so poignantly revealed when I was the only one unable to remember the Vietnamese term for random words like "equator" or "lava." We had met the night before to muse over Vietnamese food, dirty jokes and old memories. I found the moments fond, but rather painless. The craving for familiar cuisines, humors, and semantic expressions of early New Orleans days has, for better or for worse, completely vanished. In a way, the self-identity quest has simply been resolved. This feels like home.

As soon as that night, as I labored over dense reading passages and logical nuances on the LSAT, I felt again the glass ceiling of the American Dream. After seven years of teenage angst and college transformation, words still do not register. I couldn't feel it: images, lyrics, flow that I once internalized from reading Dumas, Nam Cao, Hugo in Vietnamese hopelessly slid off my mind, like water on a duck's head, without even a trace of recognition. All of my neurons desperately try to rebuke the idea. After all, I've studied the language since I was five, and have completely submerged in it since 15. How long does it take to internalize a language, for something a bit complex but not terribly sophisticated like the LSAT? I feel like dragging on a long, solidifying clay track.

On the eve of 2009, Yuko, Mugg and I cooked, watched Kathy Griffin annoying the hell out of Anderson Cooper on CNN, and toasted champaign in paper cups for yet another year. Despite economic downturns and unsolved problems of the world, life has been specially kind to me in 2008 - runs were finished, tests were passed, laughters were brisk, and hands were held in sleep. I am nervous and excited for 2009, a busy year to come:

- Jan: a jampacked month of studying
- Feb: taking the LSAT
- March - May: run run run, Bollywood dance recital
- May: trip to Canada, visa renewal and first marathon
- June: Mugg takes CFA, Yuko takes exams in Japan, time to start law school application/ retake the LSAT if need be
- July - August: law school research and essay, law seminar in The Hague, home (?)
- September - October: sending out applications for law school
- November: New York marathon
- December: ... relaxing time?

Thinking about the year head, I felt a rush similar to my feeling at the start of the Staten Island Half Marathon last October. The race has begun, the clock is ticking, the miles are closing in. I anticipate the pain to kick in, and welcome it. For I can only think of, and want so badly, to cross that finish line, even if I have to drag on feet of clay all the way there.

A perfect day

2008-12-16T21:44:00.002-05:00

When today is not your perfect day - like, you are sick, you face is stuffy, your LSAT score is on the decline, you forget the cell at your bf's so no goodnight kissy, your homework is due tomorrow - yeah, I mean a totally sucky day, what's left to do but envision a perfect day?

A perfect day starts early - ideally 6:30am on the dot. You have packed everything the night before, so by that first beep of the alarm you roll out of bed and storm into the bathroom - victoriously beating that annoying roommate who takes up an hour washing his face. 10 minutes later you rush out of the apartment, hastily run down the paved walkway of Stuyvesant Town just in time to catch a dewy L-train freshly rolling in from Brooklyn. Trust me, if you live in Manhattan, there's no pleasure equivalent to the joy of catching a train just in time.

On the train, you munch a favorite fudge brownie Cliff bar and chuck half a bottle of water (your pre-breakfast, pre-run routine) while flipping vigorously through credit meltdown and G-20 meetings in the Economist. Better yet, since it's your perfect day, the train is half empty. Thus instead of having your face squashed against the window like usual, you get your royal ass its own seat, next to a tall dark and handsome - wait for it - Asian guy with slanted eyes. You pretend to tilt your head 45 degree to check out an article on the opposite page, but in one full lash scan Tanned Asian from head to toe. Hmm - you smile professionally - not bad.

But you don't care to look again because you immediately daydream about your boyfriend, who holds forever grudges against waking up before 9am and does funny dances when his baseball team wins. And you giggle to yourself like an idiot. Tanned Asian seems startled and peeks a look over. Meh, you nonchalantly flips your Economist, he wears pop-collar, how preppy is that.

At The Gym, where muscles go on display and skinny flimsy bitches steer clear, you run 5 miles on the treadmill at 20-second faster pace than your comfort zone, sweating like crazy while watching your favorite show Charmed on the little TV. Exhausted and feeling accomplished, you treat yourself a long bath and sauna, knowing that the bosses are all out on a conference. Then you order the usual all nutritious shake, made especially in your honor by the proud chubby owner of the juice bar, stride out in your boots and feel like today will be perfect.

Something falls on your lashes. So you look up and see a flurry of snow - the first snow that hits New York this year. The corners of your mouth automatically pull apart into a wide smile, and you blink incredulously. You hastily pull out your phone to alert him of such beauty, but hesitant to wake him up. But before you could put the phone away, the phone rings its silly usual tone, and his voice is drowsy on the other end, "Good morning my little bed bug. It's snowing."

You laugh but decide to sound stern, "I'm not little, I'm a giant bed bug!"

Fatima

2008-11-18T12:30:00.005-05:00

Let me start off by saying I love Fatima to death. We met on my first day at NERA, at 5pm on the dot. "Hi mamma," she said in crisp Spanish accent, pushed the giant green tub by my cube to dump in my trash and recycling bins. "You new?" She nodded at me with a mischievous and patronizing air of a senior to a freshman. "Yes," I timidly replied. "No worry, I take care of you," she patted me on my back.

True to her words, Fatima takes the best care of me and my messy cube, as she does to everyone in the office. No matter how late I stayed, she circled the office twice or even three times to make sure all trash bins were empty the next morning - a deed I didn't fully appreciate until she left for a week-long vacation in Ecuador. Her substitute was not as dedicated, and being greeted by the faint smell of yesterday leftover was quite unpleasant.

Fatima has nicknames for everyone in the office. She refers to the Big Boss as "my best friend", and my Japanese Boss Charming as "tall Chinese guy." On Halloween, Boss Charming's girlfriend stopped by the office dressing up as a stewardess. Fatima promptly informed the next day, "Chinese guy's girlfriend, muncho pretty!"

I especially admire Fatima for her big bright smile, every time I see her, at 5pm on the dot. It's no question that she works hard - on weekday at MMC office from 4pm to midnight, all weekend at the Sheraton hotel. Apparently she also contracted with certain electricity suppliers, as one day she insisted on me switching electricity provider to save 7% on my bill.

One cold winter afternoon, as the sun hastily collected its purple rays, Fatima proudly told me, "Yesterday my son's birthday. I took him to Olives Garden in New Jersey, Manhattan too expensive. I buy him Armani Exchange jacket, $275. My son 19 year-old!" Her excited voice touched me, and I wanted to get up and give her a hug. But she might think it's weird. So instead, I offered the tiramisu I had ordered for dinner, "That's great Fatima. Would you like a dessert?" She did a graceful curtsy, "Thanks mamma!"

Logical Headache

2008-11-14T14:29:00.004-05:00

In a fit of aspiration, I signed up for the Feb 2009 LSATs and went on a spending spree for Powerscore bibles and official LSAT tests. As a true NERoid, I drew up multi-tab spreadsheets to track my performance, saved all missed questions and reviewed them with Muggy at the end of each week. To my great annoyance (and beaming pride), Mugg proved much better than I on logical reasoning sections - unsurprisingly, as he often rambled on the beauty and linear regression of logic. I, on the other hand, was invariably left with a giant headache and no less giant frustration.

Based on the numerous law school admission predictions available (my favorite is chiashu.com), I would have a chance at the top 20 schools if I score at least a 172 on the LSAT. To have a decent chance, however, I'd need something around 175 - which usually gives room for missing max 5 questions out of 100, or an average of 1 question per section. Not impossible, but very hard to achieve within 35 minutes.

There are less than 2 months left, and a lot of work to do.

Chasing Sunshine

2008-11-12T01:03:00.007-05:00

It was the end of July, year 2007, smacked in the middle of summer. Somehow I remembered New York was particularly chilly.

"Let's take a break" I messaged Mugg over NERA's internal chat system (basically IM, and off record, hence our preferred mean of communication). This, of course, happened long before we started dating, back when Mugg and I were just two lost college grads eager to start our first job. We sat on opposite ends of a flat office, divided into even cubicles, one identical to the next. We frequented each other often for light-hearted laughter - Mugg over my silly comments, and I over his guaranteed one-lined sarcasm on even the happiest observations of the day.

"Fine. I can spare your whimsical head five minutes."

We met up downstairs. I had previously been complaining to Mugg about the waste of sunshine, as we were practically in the office from sun up to sun down, minus the two minutes of fresh air walking from apartments to subways. In this case, the grass was truly greener outside the office.

"We can chase some sunshine down for you", he shrugged non-chalantly, striding towards Times Square where the sun had peaked through white clouds and shone brightly down the green roof of the classic Irish bar Connolly's.

We stood in the bright sunlight for a minute, in silence. I was impressed, incredulous that Mugg was capable of uttering a phrase so non-cynical. "Got enough vitamin D?" He asked after a few more seconds, impatient to return to messy hedge funds' transactions. "Just a little bit more," I pleaded, but resignedly inched my feet back to where we had come from, the towering black marble 1166 Avenue of the Americas.

"We should take more breaks," I almost sounded like begging.

"Maybe." He almost answered too fast.

Bleak October

2008-10-29T15:50:00.000-04:00

The dreaded winter has made its way back to New York, and cast a depressing drizzle onto the pitch black marble wall of 1166 Avenue of the Americas. Esther walked by my cube everyday, peered out at the gray sky, and sadly declared that the next time we saw a sunny day would be next April - half a year from now!

To echo the weather, I was in a gray lousy mood. With the election closing in, Mary and I have actively talked for Barack: we have been making calls to swing states, hoping to sway voters. We convened on Monday in an empty conference room during lunch hour to call Pennsylvania. People on my calling list were, as a statement of fact, old. I talked to more than a dozen of 80 something crowd, who were exceptionally grumpy - due to the freezing rain or maybe because I had interrupted their afternoon nap? Usually I love older people and love how they remind me of a long future ahead, but the oldies in Penn state sucessfully lauched me a very very grumpy early-20's crisis. Ack.

To the least of my expectations, waking up early has put such a strain on me and Mugg. We have always been night-owls, staying up till 3am on a workday to blast guitar hero then crawling in to work at 10 (that's a particular thing I love about NERA). Our schedule, however, grew apart as I now woke up at 6am and went running, effectively waking Mugg up with my shuffling on his old squeaky wooden floor. He still went to bed at 3am, meaning that I would get no sleep from my new bedtime of midnight till 3 due to his loud baseball games and shuffling. As a result we were both haggard, cranky, and complaining that we didn't get enough attention from each other the next day.

Ack ack.

I'm glad that October is soon over, so soon I can cross off exciting activities that nonetheless have crowded out the more important things on my priority list. With winter blasting in, chances are I won't ever mutter enough motivation to run outside at the break of dawn, so that should solve our early rise vs. night owl problem.

As for Mugg, he promised to go running with me once a week at night, in exchange for a late late night of guitar hero and cuddling in the next morning. There are still much conflict of interest we have to work on, but I'm glad there's a compromise to be made.

I can't wait for November.

The next step

2008-10-18T15:51:00.002-04:00

Another thing I love about the Wonderland Trail, how the road is long but definite. I only have to put one step at a time after the next, and after days and nights we will eventually reach the finish line (assuming maps are good and bears are full). The road of life, in the past 22 years, has been similar - long but definite: by high school I know I will go to college, by college I know I need internships and jobs. But now, supposedly well-equipped ex-post 22 times 365 times 24 times 3600 times infinite moments of wisdom, the road suddenly erupts into, in my mind, a convergence of land, water and sky. Or, in boring words, a convergence of possibilities. I could do pretty much anything now, unconstraint, free spirited (that was always the goal anyway, no?) Few thoughts that have entered my mind include (a) law school - that's a big yes yes but "a good time" for it is still ambiguous; (b) development studies program in Sweden - now that's enticing; (c) joining a dance troop and samba my way through rio - hmm nope, just a dream, I detest those carnival outfits.

By default of course I could stay at NERA, move up along the ladder and work the system. Funny enough, in the much warned cold corporate world, I've found warmth and love tugged in backup books, court briefs and the very impersonal, un-private white cubicles. And I'd like to think that my presence has made work a bit more tolerable for Mugg, Boss Charming, Esther, Craig, Jay, big Trang, as they have completely colored my world. So there is hope after all, of human interaction rising above silly quabble of stock frauds and messy hedge fund transactions. Like the dementor, I live for that, hunting restlessly for leftover hope in gloomy New York.

One sunny day in September, as we were visiting Berkeley, Mugg gasped at the revelation that I could not do a cartwheel. He promptly took off his shoes, dragged me to a stretch of green grass in front of Bloat Hall (the law school!) and tried desperately to flip my hips over my head. It turned out, I had no balance whatsoever, and could not sustain my body inversion for as little as a split second in the air. We had a grand time nonetheless, and I'd never felt more free spirited despite the fact that I was doing nothing more than hurting my butt.

So I guess the next step is exactly what it is, a tiny little inch, some time unrecognizable.

One Step

2008-10-12T15:55:00.001-04:00

It was the most exhilarating feeling I've felt in a long time. The last mile of the 100-mile Wonderland Trail, as we had been warned, proved the longest. We were practically running, pressing our blistered feet and tired knees up and down hill, dusty and sweaty backpacks bouncing. It was September 12, 2008. We finally made it back to civilization after 10 days in the wild. It was, by far, the most physically arduous thing I've done in life. We hiked through snow, forest, mud, dessert, meadows; drank the freshest ice-cold water from rivers; slept under the stars; swam in lakes. Life was simple: we went to bed when sun set, wake up at sunrise. Biggest worry of the day included a nice spot to filter water, a flat ground to pitch tent, a bear pole to hang up our food. The first day proved the hardest for me physically, while mentally I was freaked out the last day - Mugg had a fever and almost didn't make it out. Thanks goodness he gathered enough will power to finish the trail. We hugged each other tight at the finish line. The trail has made us true companions.

The best spill-over effect of all, the hike has launched my body into a thirst of activities. Once getting used to hiking an average of 10 miles a day with a 45-lb load, my muscles screamed and itched in New York for something more rigorous than samba dancing classes. Before I knew it, I signed up for a half marathon and started running 4 times a week at 6am. At Mugg's dismay, I soon became a morning person and even sooner discovered my addiction to running. The half marathon is tomorrow in Staten Island, so I really should be going to sleep right about now.

I'm incredibly grateful for this twist of attitude, that I've somehow managed to become athletic which I always aspired but feared to be. I hope to complete the half marathon in 2 hours injury-free (much thanks of course to Yuko my running buddy).

2 more things to note:

1. My samba class is marching in the New York Halloween Parade, accompanied by the live band Samba Manhattan (www.manhattansamba.org). So come check us out on Halloween if you are in New York! The parade will start at 7pm-ish on Spring Street and 6th Avenue. We'll be having weekly rehearsal Thurs night out on the Westside Highway around 8pm - just follow the beat of drums and come join us on some hot samba steps!

2. I'm contemplating signing for a full marathon in Jan or Feb 2009 - leaving 3-4 months for training. Possibly the ING Miami Marathon in late Jan. My dream: to run a marathon on the Great Wall in China one day (http://www.great-wall-marathon.com/) - maybe this May?

I'd like to dedicate this first long run to the Alchemist and what it has taught me:

"If you want something bad enough, the universe conspires to help you";

"You must understand that love never keep a man from pursuing his destiny. If he does, it's because it wasn't true love."

Getting Ready

2008-08-28T22:31:00.002-04:00

The big trip is almost here... only one more week! I am so incredibly excited and nervous just the same. In the past month, Mugg and I's weekends have been jam-packed with nothing but hiking, breaking into boots, loading backpacks. Slowly we eventually collected most if not all gears needed for the Wonderland Trail. Today I bought my final, but probably most important, piece of equipment - the Gregory Maven 50L backpack. I have had 2 other lined up from coworkers, but this little backpack is so comfortable and beautifully made that I couldn't resist. An internal frame, the pack has a sleeping bag compartment, 3-entry into the main load, a solid and sturdy hip belt that fits snugly around my waist. I was lucky to find a perfect fit - it was the last x-small backpack left at Tent and Trails. My only concern is that it's not big enough, though the sales man insisted that I should only carry 25 pounds, a quarter of my body weight. "Just make your boyfriend carry more!" he said seriously. We loaded the bag with 25-30 lbs and I walked around the store, amazed at how well the weight sat on my hip bones. Mugg will be carry considerably more with his 70L backpack - I grimaced at how he surely would laugh once he saw my tiny internal frame. Once Mary bring me her sleeping bag, I definitely need to load the backpack and see if it can hold 2-week worth of living.

The bulky items will be the sleeping bag, the tent (5 lbs splitting between Mugg and I), insulating pads, 5-day worth of food to keep us going till the next cache. Amazingly 5-day worth of food translates into about 10 lbs per person, meaning we each will consume about 2 lbs of food per day! I never thought I eat that much. Water too will be heavy - we each will carry about 3L, or 6 lbs a day. Most likely we will filter enough water supply for the group in the morning, then might do it again at night if someone runs out. We will need to be scanty with water, especially Mugg who drinks a lot, since there might be a stretch when there's no lake or river near us.

Unlike Mugg who is a light sleeper and is bothered frequently by blisters, my biggest worry lies with the fact that a shower might not be feasible till the few final days of the trip, when we hit a more-equipped check point. The prospect of not being able to wash my hair for 10 plus days sends me squirmish - luckily tickets had been bought at that time the thought finally dawn on me so there wasn't a possibility to back out. Baby wipes and dry shampoo are considered, though both are inconvenient. We will have to pack all trash with us, so I'm hesitant to bring anything that's non-biodegradable. And dry shampoo... apparently there's no need for water, just shampoo and towel dry - the concept of which is skeptical to me. More research has to be done on this.

It all started 3 months ago, when Ian, a phD candidate in Oceanography at UCSD and Mugg's buddy from Berkeley, sent out a rally call for a backpacking trip of 100 miles on the Wonderland Trail that runs around Mount Rainier, a snow-covered active volcano southeast of Seattle. To my surprise, Mugg enthusiastically signed us up. "I never know you are so into backpacking," I had asked skeptically. "It's a one-of-a-lifetime opportunity," he answered solemnly. He was right - it definitely is not a light matter to plan a long backpacking trip on which we will have to live with bare survival. The Wonderland Trail is open only for a month or two a year, since the rest of the time it's covered in snow. We were lucky that Ian took care of most the logistics, like planning out the route, acquiring permits, sending ahead food cache. There will be six of us to split the food and common gears: Mugg and I, Ian and his triathlon girlfriend, 2 more guys from UCSD. Daily menu includes mostly dry food - lots of trail mix, energy bars, beef jerky etc, with the more fancy freeze-dry food packs spared for dinner. I am most excited for the warm milk tea in the morning (thank goodness we are bringing a stove!)

As inexperienced in backpacking as it gets, Mugg and I had to buy/borrow most of the start-up gears. In fact, I haven't shopped for anything but hiking stuffs in the last quarter. After this trip, I might have to make hiking a life-long habit to worth all the investments made (not a bad motivation at all, mind you lol).

The packing list, so far, stands as followed:

- Gregory backpacks - 70L for Mugg, 50L for me
- Sturdy Goretex hiking boots - Merrill for Mugg and Vasque Sundowner for me
- 20 degree sleeping bags - borrowed from Craig and Mary the wonderful nature-loving coworkers at NERA
- Thermarest 4-season self-inflated insulating pads - rented
- Kelty 2-person 3-season tent - amazing piece at 5 lbs
- Hiking shirts and shorts - 2 each per person
- Rain jacket and rain pants - 1 each per person
- Long thermal tops and bottoms - 2 and 1 each per person
- Thick wool socks - 3 pairs each
- Silk sock liners - 4 or 5 pairs each
- Fleece jacket and fleece pants - 1 each per person
- Lots of hand sanitizer
- Sun screen, bug repellent, iodine pills to purify water, personal aid kits, moleskin for blister, duct tape, small towel, journal, camera

All of this (plus food and water) will add up to 30 - 40 lbs loads each of us will lug along the, so I heard, breathtaking trails of Mount Rainier.

I can hardly wait.

Vacation time!

2008-08-26T15:56:00.000-04:00

The last few days before vacation are long. Way too long. As Mugg has been kept in the office everyday past midnight for the last two weeks, I was appointed Chief of Packing and Investigator of Missing Items. The progress was good - yesterday I felt particularly productive between listening to Michelle Obama and packing up my sweet little Maven. To my dismay, the backpack is indeed too small, and definitely won't fit the giant synthetic sleeping bag a coworker had kindly dropped off at my cube. I will need to go back to Tent and Trails to exchange for a bigger size or return it. Good thing I still have Alex's backpack as a backup. But man, how I'm gonna miss those hip belts. Michelle Obama, on the other hand, was fantastic.

Mugg is justly the Chief if Misplacing Items. As if affected by a spell, two things can never match up in his apartment: socks always get their partners confused, and gloves strive in vain to find their better half. Well, I had to admit I played an active role in the chaos. In the last few weeks, I was often distracted by superb jumps and twist of gymnastics and other Olympics events while folding laundry, thus giving my share in mixing up socks. Next thing on our Sherlock Holmes list is a right hand winter glove, a must item for the chilly nights of Mount Rainier.

Jay called few nights ago and asked if I want to volunteer for the Talk For Obama campaign. A coworker at NERA and law school candidate, Jay took 3 months off to campaign for Obama in North Dakota. As he was outgoing and an avid bar hopper, I was curious to see how Jay coped with the god-forsaken midwest town. Apparently the campaign has worked him breathless. While there isn't many bars around, Jay has been well-entertained with tall blond girls in this German-Swedish settlement region. lol Good for him. About Talk for Obama, I enthusiastically agreed. After vacation, Jay will pass along to me a list of potential voters in North Dakota to whom I need to call and persuade them to vote for Barack. In preparation, Yuko promptly lend me her "Dream from My Father" so I could marginally be familiar with the man. Exciting stuffs!

Three more days till the big trip!

Cram(p)

2008-05-19T22:32:00.001-04:00

Lately, as Mugg - in the most exaggerated and ungraceful manner - pointed out, I had a tendency to shuffle up my English vocabulary. In shock I discovered that things I thought my whole life are A turn out to be B. It all started one casual weekend when we decided to make salmon chili, a recipe passed down by his ultra-health-conscious friend from school. I volunteered to get grocery, among which were scallions. Mugg's face turned stone when I showed up with pinkish tiny onions, "These are shallots, you know that, right?" We raced to Wikipedia, and to Mugg's amusement I sunk into a state of temporary disbelief, as if my childhood had just been robbed by the discovery that Santa Claus were fictional. "It's okay" he consoled as I kept knocking my head an hour later, "You are not native." To which I pouted indignantly, "I used to win spelling bees during a class full of American kids!" Obviously a spelling bee trophy can hardly justify my messed up English skills, but since I am a girl and I just lost my bet over tiny onions, Mugg chuckled and offered to clean the dishes.

To my horror, I soon discovered in subsequent weeks that the matter of shallots vs. scallions wasn't the only leak in my memory pipe. Yams turn out to be not sweet potatoes; people travel on a subway, not in; "If I was" is as acceptable as "if I were"; and a flurry of nuances that I thought I had mastered.

I soon develop a habit to make Mariam Webster my best buddy. Like now, just 5 minutes ago, before putting down the title of this blog as "cramp" I cautiously performed a quick check to find out that cramp (v) as in a tension in muscles is very different than cram (v) as in studying really hard for an exam. That, by the way, is what I mean to write in this blog: I am cramming real hard for my CFA.

Honestly - reeeeal hard.

New York Spring

2008-04-17T22:33:00.001-04:00

One morning, I woke up and looked outside the window: sun rays had generously poured over the head of the Statue of Liberty, and the winding tourist line in front of Battery Park was especially long. Light green buds had, from nowhere, crowded on otherwise bare branches. Spring was here.

A few years ago, during a cold bleak winter night in the Bates library, Saif and I mused over the many recent break-ups of out friends and commented on how hearts grew cold due to icy weather. But, when spring came, we optimisted, the hearts would soon become warm and toasty.

Spring 2008 - I snuggled at Mugg's warm and toasty heart as we strolled down Seventh Ave, happily away from the office earlier than usual on a Friday night. We had talked the night before about "life correlation", a statistic concept based on the correlation coefficient we looked at on daily basis at NERA. "My life is correlated to your mouth. When your mouth goes down my happiness goes down, when it goes up my happiness goes up," he said grimly, pulling the two corners of my mouth down and up into a frown and a smile.

I had laughed brightly at such silly thinking, but was deeply touched and amused. "So it was a good thing, then, that our life correlation coefficient is positive. And statistically significantly different than zero."

And I thus felt my own warm and toasty heart.

Cold cold night

2008-04-07T22:19:00.000-04:00

It all started with Oasis' Wonderwall, which Itunes menacingly or unconsciously put on repeat mode, and I too disconcerted to resist.

Or it could be an hour and a half of sweaty samba, followed by another hour and a half of roasting and suffocating in hot yoga.

Whatever it was, by the time I got home at 11pm, downed a full glass of orange juice and walked around my room for the nth time, the phone rang. "So, are you gonna tell me?" Mugg sounded suppress-ingly excited. "No, don't worry about it, it's not important" I resorted to passive offensive technique. "Come on!" he insisted on for five more minutes, but gave up with a giant arrgh as I refused to bulge. "Fine. Bye then."

By midnight, after one more dose of Wonderwall, I resolved to pick up the phone, "Let's meet." "Now??" Mugg was a little shocked - I learned later that a giant basketball game was on TV then. "Hello?" "Yeah yeah, now" - I must have knocked my head till silly during the 3o-second conversation.

We walked around Union Square in silence for half an hour, then talked till 4am in Starbucks.

It all started one cold, cold night :-)

Soul and Sunshine (II)

2008-03-30T15:59:00.002-04:00

Spring has lightly skirted around New York. The weather is still chilly, but couldn't prevent people to hop around in shorts and spring fashion. I was caught more than once shivering outside due to deceiving sunshine, but refused to give up my mid-calf tight and oversized bright yellow Saint Norbert sweatshirt. It just feels so good to shed off thick layers of winter clothes, and I'm already in summer-mode.

February and March have been two months of lightheartedly silliness. A week after Vietnam, a very special friend of Yuko and I, Xue Lor, came to visit us in New York. A Hmong immigrant, Xue spent many years at a overcrowded refugee camp in Thailand before settling in Green Bay, Wisconsin. With shaved head and broad smile, Xue resembles a bear-hugged jolly Buddha who often whole-heartedly bends his head over so we can rub it for good luck.

Xue was a big brother to me at Saint Norbert, as he was big brother to everyone who needed help. Most often it's the richest guys and most coquettish girls who demanded the most attention and most easily forgot. He'd help them out anyway.

On my way out of the library, I often stopped by, and we'd talk for hours about finding identities, finding love, keeping love. We still do.

Funny how life sometimes throws us such sudden and lovely treat. Xue in New York has giantly and dramatically altered my world, in the most unexpected way. It turned out, a little nudge was all I needed.

Soul and Sunshine (I)

2008-02-19T15:59:00.001-05:00

The flight was long, longer than I last remembered (I was too cheap to get a nicer route, lesson learned). Olya once told me she felt like she was always on plane rides back and forth from the U.S. and Russia - how terrible that must be, I thought sympathetically while experimenting restlessly with my legs to find a comfortable pose. Tough luck.

Tan Son Nhat airport was more beautiful than I last remembered. Turned out it was brand new, freshly finished by the Japanese a few months ago. I could felt the change of attitude the minutes the plane landed: pride sparkled in the eyes of airport workers; returners were more awed at their stylish outfits than they were at eager visitors' blond hair and blue eyes. A good sign, I guess.

Honestly I don't remember much from this trip home. I only remember one feeling: that of waking up with the sun fully shone onto your face. That of calm blessing, full happiness, heart-wrenching warmth, and terrible, terrible nostalgia.

Truthfully I couldn't even recall what we did, obviously tons of family bonding since it was New Year. I did remember grinning from ears to ears with my cousins, playing badminton at the crack of dawn with Grandpa, cleaning vegetables with Grandma, and standing numbly in front of my sister's jar of ashes wishing so bad for an alternative...

Frankly now it is rather painful to recall, as such sweet thoughts trigger a bad case of homesickness. I can say though, that I was refilled with much souls and sunshine.

Preliminary and Unchecked

2008-01-07T22:01:00.000-05:00

1. One time, at one of our check-on-each-other routine, Mugg told me a funny line from a movie: "You can lose money chasing after women, but you'll never lose women chasing after money." He then looked at me and laughed, "But you are different. You are a bum, so this might not work." I resented him outwardly, but secretly was content.

2. Random incidents from the office:

- Steve: What the hell are you guys looking for?
- Boss Asian Charm and I (intently looking out of the window with binoculars in our hands): The moon, Steve, the moon! (few minutes later...) Well, no moon, but that guy in the opposite building sure ate a lot!
(Note: Boss Asian Charm has a pair of kick-ass hiking binoculars that we often used to spy on the moon, random meteors, and people from other buildings).

- Esther: Did you hear? They SETTLED!
- Me, Craig and Asian Charm: What, awwww man!
(Note: My first and our favorite case settled for a tiny amount - a proof of our diligent work. The team however was bitter since we didn't get to work on it anymore :-(

- Asian Charm: I wanna get married, man.
- Esther: I need a marriage counselor, man.
- Craig and I: (contemplative silence)

- Thummin: Do you happen to know if doperman is a dog or a cat?
- Me: Huh?
- Thummin: Oh I'm working on a pet food case. Do you know they feed them salmon and lobster? Make me hungry!

- Boss Yum: The DOJ has very odd sense of justice.

- Me: (showing Yi the chart of law school acceptees) Well, acceptance probability is directly proportional with LSAT score and GPA. Except for this person right here (pointing at a low outlier) - how did he get accepted?
- Yi: (with casual sarcasm) He probably has only one leg.

NERA is a very lovely place to call home :-)

3. I somehow got along very well with New York cab drivers. Most of the time we struck up lively conversations, and many time I was given phone numbers for "in case you need a ride." I did even give my phone number (which I never, never do) to one guy - John - who gave me his green-leather-bound Bible and invited me to his church. "I will call to quiz you on the Book of Wisdom" - he said solemnly.

One time, I rode with an Indian guy who grew up in Guyana. He looked no more than 25; though during the 15 mins from 1166 Avenue of the Americas to StuvyTown, he was comfortable enough to confess he is actually 37. "How do you look so young?" - I was amazed. "Let me tell you the secret" - he smiled brightly - "No meat, no drink, no smoke." Hmmm - I thought seriously about those temptations, and had to confess I might never be able to quit meat.

Tonight, as I opened the door to climb in, the cab driver peered at me with his spectacle, "Remember me? I took you once back really late, around 1 or 2am. We talked about life in New York. I waited for you to get in your building safely before I drove away." He turns out to be from Togo, and we chatted heartily in French. I suddenly felt warm - like the City was a little less indifferent.

4. Sunday night, the Grand Boss strode in the office to catch me swinging around on my chair along the hallway. "Wish I could be swinging" - he shrugged.

"Go home, I can handle this." - Asian Charm urged sympathetically as my eyes turned blood red from analysis-saturation.

"Where are you?" - Mugg asked
"I'm at work, and the DOJ has odd sense of justice."
"Ah." - I can imagine his eyes squinting tight at the other end of the screen - "Such is life, young grasshopper."

No, woman, no cry

2007-12-08T16:01:00.000-05:00

"Here is your food, miss" - the delivery guy from the Vietnamese restaurant I ordered on Seamless Web handed me the plastic bag with a toothless smile. He wore a flurry hat with flaps covering his ears - the one we often fondly called "Russian hat", an oversized coat damp with the first New York snow, but no gloves. I could see clearly his red knuckles and cracked fingers. Outside, on his bike hastily leaned against the black marble wall of 1166 Avenue of the Americas, I saw dangling more plastic bags - he was on his usual delivery routine. But I have never noticed until now: his red sniffing nose, his shivering shoulders, the piercing cold of an indifferent winter in a rather indifferent city.

"Oh... it must be so cold outside." - I said almost apologetically, wishing I had brought more tips down.

"Yes, cold." - He nodded several times - "These, warm." - and pulled out a cigarette half smoked with a light laugh. I lingered to watch him: as soon as he exited the revolving door, he lighted the half-done cigarette, hunching his shoulders to shield it from the wind and took few satisfying deep puffs. Then he hopped onto the bicycle and pedaled away.

New York seemed to dissolved, and I could suddenly see myself, on a bicycle, wheeling away down the crooked pebble roads of New Orleans one winter night, a delivery girl.

I had to run to the bathroom to cry a little. And I wondered how had I forgotten all about it - my other life - the moment I started earning paychecks and swiping credit cards. Hard times...

Over dinner in the still busy office, I scrolled through my pictures from long long ago, and suddenly wondered what had happened to them - the friends I met and the friends I lost. Oleysha and Ivan, a poor but loving Russian couples from Wisconsin who shared with me their winter coat and home cooked dinner. The two little kids we met in a monastery in Tiksey, India whose hair were full of sand and who fell asleep so easily on the earth. The rich doctor family of Saint Charles residents who were rude and impatient, but kind enough to give me a ride for one and half year of high school. The Jamaican handy man with hope in his eyes, who I later learned has cheated on his wife and ran off to another Bahamas island...

All those people from a long time past which I do not want to relive, but know that it was much more poignant than the life I am now living.

Unless I could make this new, beautiful, comfortable, American-dream life as meaningful as I aspired it to be.

And so I pray - pray you remind me of the more important things worth living for...

Perspectives

2007-11-03T16:03:00.001-04:00

Few weeks ago, as I was having dinner with Esther, Fumi and Craig to celebrate the close of our big - and my first - case, one of us brought up whether we enjoyed working better than school. We all agreed we did, though what Esther added startled me, "Working is great, though you tend to lose perspective. You know, when we start wearing suits we tend to inflate our importance. I bet you, if one day - phooof - I just disappear," she shrugged, "Manuel would be sad for a while, but he will survive. And Fred surely will find another consultant in no time." Manuel is Esther's boyfriend who she has dated for seven years, and Fred Dunbar is the founder of our securities practice, who often comments on Esther's efficiency.

The woman really got me thinking.

After two painful days of pure programming, I admitted she was right: should tomorrow comes and phoooff, I disappear, I wonder would anyone notice. Certainly not my landlord, since rent was just due last week.

A liberal art education really tries hard to pump our head that we are somebody, that little things we do in aggregation can have big impact, that we are at worst educated and responsible. Truth is, as I come to learn a little perspective, you and I are - no matter how much Nat King Cole insists - replaceable.

Replace-able. Re-p-la-ce-a-ble. I repeated the word out loud several times, a little overwhelmed.

After dinner, I shrugged and accepted it. I thought of a de-motivational poster Mug once showed me with pictures of a million snowflakes captioned "Always remember that you are unique. Just like everyone else."

And so, tonight, lying in bed with mismatching socks and messy hair, I kind of just... disappear.

Snail and Porcupine

2007-10-26T16:05:00.001-04:00

Conversation of a late night:

- Mugggg. I'm hugging a porcupine. And so are you.
-.... That makes no sense. What porcupine?
- The one with sharp feathers.
-.... Are you okay?
- I'm sorry. We should never have hugged that porcupine.
- (logged off)

Out of sinister curiosity, I googled "hug a porcupine", and damn me, it was the name of a book by psychologist John Lund "How to hug a porcupine: Dealing with Toxic and Difficult to Love Personalities." The world is bleeding expressions, seriously.

As I scrambled up the stair home tonight, I saw a snail in the middle of a step. Naked without its shell, the thing looked raw and fleshy, a little disgusting in fact. I poked at it with a leaf, and it startled, quickly withdrew its squishy antennas and rolled up into a ball. A second later, it ventured the antennas out, turned them 180 degrees and I could see, from the very end of the flesh, two tiny black dots peering at me. We looked at each other for a good thirty seconds, I was admiring the vague brown veins under its porcelain skin, and who knows what it found interesting on my humanly face. With the best intention of saving it from careless footsteps, I gently cuddled it up onto the leaf and brought it down to the last step - where, I thought, it might find food easier. But what the hell do snails eat anyway? I thought hard, but had no idea. Meanwhile, the snail angrily rolled down the leaf and mightily stretched its bodice upward. Such great effort. I could see every muscle tensing up and relaxing, rolling flesh and veins, leaving behind a trace of sticky saliva.

My brain slowed down to catch up with its slowness. Then I remembered the porcupine and every neuron dashed again.

A typical weekend

2007-10-21T16:04:00.001-04:00

Winding Road, MoMa

Friday night movie and an abrupt goodbye. The men then headed out to a bar. Apparently, according to them, I'm "always invited" even if they don't articulate it, only because "you bring all the girls." I was a little sad. Half of the time I feel like I'm one of the guys, half of the time I'm bothered that I'm not "really a girl" in their eyes and they won't put me on their list. It's a lose-lose situation. But it's a conscious choice: I cannot be their definition of a "normal, f-able girl", whatever be the benefits.

Mug insisted to me, to men there're only 2 kinds of girls: f-able and un-f-able. So I was written off in the un-f-able list, thanks to "We need someone to listen to our most glorious victory and our most miserable outcast!" - they scratched their heads apologetically.

Saturday, I joined the Oliver Wyman group in a firm-wide volunteer day, spending 5 hours painting murals for an elementary school in Brooklyn. The mural depicted the cover of a picture book: three black kids with happy face are jumping up and down, showered in stars, while random frogs are spurring everywhere above their head. The frogs all wear elaborated shoes, the shoelaces of which took us hours to shade. I had a blast mixing paint and making up random story lines on why the frogs all have such colorful shoes. I think they're all great princes turned into frogs awaiting the kiss of true love. That's why the world is left with men who define girls in2 categories, f or un-f-able.

And that's when, as if struck by a lightning, I discovered that I'm still a lost teenager at heart.

Saturday night, Yuko took me to Moonfield, a newly open fancy hotel in midtown where she had gift certificates for the most delicious Violet Blueberry Martinis. Tipsy and laughing after two drinks, we made a list of all the things we must do before leaving New York. Yuko and Trang's list of Becoming Good Women. I suddenly felt so young and full of the American dream, as if six years hadn't flown by and I hadn't been wearing an inside-out shirt in a world of outside-in garments.

So we bottom-uped our pretty martini glasses and stumbled down 5th Ave in our high-heeled boots, just in time for a call from Brendan and Yi to meet up for dinner. They were stunned that we already got the Asian glow at 8pm on a Sat night, and we laughed brightly at their usual co-worker-ship humor. They however caught up to us fast at an underground cozy sake bar in East Village, where the sake are named after - most likely - your desired opposite sex: Rich and Smooth, Round and Well-defined, Strong and Unforgettable. Here Yi found his favorite and started to look dreamy after the 5th bottle; Brendan too hit it hard with a shot of Tequila. Yuko, the legendary drinker, of course beat both men; and I stick with my beloved plum wine, just how I like it: Tender and Sweet.

Tipsy enough to tred dangerous water, we decided to play Truth and Dare. The long-haired Japanese waiter broke into a laugh when, losing a dare, I smiled bright at him and complimented on his cuteness. But the damage is nothing compared to Truth. Too much information disclosed. Co-worker-ship is finally broken into a more nuance territory: friends with embarrassing secrets.

After the sake bar, it was Yi and Brendan who stumbled as we finished off the night in a hookah bar, collapsing our lungs with breaths of sweet apple between sips of Moroccan beers and yummy bites of baklava. The lounge was magically transformed into a disco floor as Hips Don't Lie blasted the foggy air and a multi-color disco ball started spinning. Women and men hollered; I became miserably thoughtful over my kir glass, Brendan almost passed out, and Yi refused to tell us the only way that a woman can take advantage of a drunk man.

The sun had almost peaked over the horizon by the time that we, the lost teenagers of Never Neverland, drunk out of our minds and forgetful of our pains and the world's trouble, knocked our knees on the sidewalk to crawl home.

We all woke up the next morning with a huge hangover and a revised list.

Sunday, Yuko and I went to Carnegie Hall for a piano concert of Beethoven's sonatas. Sophisticated classical music did not make an impression on my mind. I miss Chopin and Rachmaninoff and the age of lost romance.

Sunday night, Mug and I went running along the Hudson to prepare for the race in Central Park. The night was beautiful: Manhattan lazily cast the lime lights on our moving shadows, the breeze whizzed through our panting breaths. Soon my knees lost feelings and my breaths got heavier; but in automatic motions we kept steady steps. I felt peaceful, blank, free of Descartes' cursed existence: the existence of thoughts.

I was so tired that I didn't feel it till much later: the slap, full in the face, burning hot.

Just a typical weekend.

New Orleans

2007-02-25T16:06:00.000-05:00

Listen to the Bayou
Can you feel the blues
In my lonely heart…

“The Bayou is a river that moves with the ties,” Kaitlin’s dad explained to me as we drove along a branch of the Mississippi river that used to be a heavy trading route back in the days. I realize how often I use the phrase: back in the days when we used to go to Franklin, back in the days when Coach Firneno’d make girls bend over to check if their skirts were long enough, back in the days when we’d roll down Saint Charles on the streetcar named Desire and lazily sipped a paper cup of latte at the Café du Monde…

I dropped by 3437 Napoleon Ave at midnight. In the eerie chilly air, a lone streetlight casted my peeled shadow on the wall of a ghost town. The whole street was deserted. The little basement where 7 Vietnamese families used to live and fight over the bathroom now stood empty, its walls stripped down exposing molded beams, its floors dusty, still lingering the smell of stale water. I looked at my shawdow on the plastered wall and cried a little. Hard times...

3437 Napoleon Ave was never quiet on the bathroom front: something was always stuck, or missing - most often toilet paper. Someone (impossibled to identified, since there were at least 20 of us living in the space of 5) had hiden the toilet paper away, right on the day Elisa dropped by and had to pee. So we ran to the public library down the road and stole all of its toilet paper. Becky O'Malley - upon learning this - condemned us of stealing against the Catholic Archdiosese and the next day, brough me a package of 12 rolls, which lasted me till the day I left.

Becky was the first true American friend I had. Apparently she had noticed me thanks to the school bus incident. You see, I didn't belong to the yellow school bus that picked kids up from their houses. I usually took the public bus, but somehow that day I needed to get home fast. So I kinda just climbed on the yellow bus, hoping the lady wouldn't noticed. But of course she did, stopped the vehicle, and tried to kick me out. And well - I begged, please, i'm from Vietnam, I don't know how to get home, please take me. I must have reminded her of a strayed dog, because she let me stay. True, I was a strayed dog. In the back, Becky had a great laugh out of the incident, and noticed the next day that I was in her homeroom. So she asked me to come over her house to watch some animation.

I have too many stories to tell about Ben Franklin High School - its notorious green roof, the Rapuzel-haired Ms. Fontenot, Coach Firneno - an ex-marine who taught with a yard-long rulerstick and many many other characters that could have come straight from the satire The Confederacy of Dunces. Kaitlin Baudier took me back to Franklin the night before I left, so I could glue my nose to the glass door and squint at the status of Monsieur Benjamin, standing so proudly in the centre of the hallway, like he has always. Kaitlin is the female version of a true Huck Finn. Her famous Hess story goes like this: Mr. Hess - the economic teacher - always wore red socks. His classic pose: slumping in the armchair, arms folded, his feet on the table, red socks exposing, the corner of his mouth sagged down , ready to spit out sarcastic comments as the students poured into class. One day, Kaitlin realized she also had red socks on. So she pulled up a desk straight in front of his table, put her feet up and assumed the same pose. Hess said nothing but looked at her. They just sat there for 10 mins, red socks looking at each other. All the students pointed, laughed, talked, then got really quiet. Eventually, Kaitlin couldn't hold it anymore, so she broke out into a laugh. "Ha!" Hess said, put his feet down, and started the class.

Bruce was my first kiss - a 6 feet 4 muscular guy with a huge smile and goofy mind. Like Kaitlin, Bruce is the kind of kid that can sit down at all cafeteria tables (the Asian table, the Black table, the Gothic squatting group, the nerds) and would be welcomed. Everytime he saw me running down the hall, bookpack unzipped and notebooks spilling out, he'd pick me up with one arm, hailed me across his shoulder and carried me and my books to the next class. On weekend, he'd take us out on his beat-up truck - whose wheel was not even working unless you banged on it hard. We cruised down the water front, along the lake, veering left and right, bruised as we smashed side to side in the tight cabin.

One day, Kaitlin and Paoblo - a sturdy red-headed with a long beard - were fighting in the hall. Paoblo smashed Kaitlin's head, so she punched him in the stomach and pulled his beard down. Just their luck, Ms. Gills - the grumpy Creative Writing teacher - turned the corner and caught them. So, they stopped as quick as lightning, stood mellowly side by side like two innocent statues. Ms. Gills looked at them tentatively, and decided they were making out, so she gave them a PDA offense. Kaitlin later explained to her parents, "No, we were fighting, and Paoblo is dating a man right now!"

Apparently Paoblo has become gay - which was funny to me since he once asked me out on a date. James Page - my biggest high school crush - has also declared that he is gay. And Brian Pittman - the anime fanatic - got married and played a vampire movie in the church (the priest ran yelling, you cannot play images of the undead here!) Elisa and Kaitlin are now living in FEMA trailers because their houses were flooded. Ben Franklin has become a charter school. Ngoc has committed suicide. And Lanisha died last May of a brain tumor, after beling locked out by her crack-head boyfriend. I remember she was so pretty, the prettiest girl in school. I always bumped into her crying in the bathroom because her family did not approve their relationship ("he is white, but so what!")

And... life goes on.

Does Ms. Fontenot still have long hair? Does Coach Firneno still have his yard-long rulerstick to make girls bend down so he can check the length of their skirts? Mr. Hess still wears red socks?

Life must go on.

Goodbye New Orleans. I come back there everytime I need a little bit of soul, a little air to breath, a little right to be ridiculous, a little jazz down in the French Quarter - a little me.

Goodbye New Orleans, time to move on.

Loss

2007-02-04T16:07:00.000-05:00

BẠN
Khóc bạn hôm nay khóc mãi thôi
Tương lai mơ ước, cuộc đời ơi
Sách vở trăm năm chưa ráo mực
Tài năng một chốc ngọc đà rơi

Tri kỷ còn đây vẫn sớm hôm
Hai mươi mốt tuổi, một tâm hồn
Hải ơi, chữ còn, người còn mãi
Sâu thẳm trong tim: "bạn trong tôi".

Lê Minh Đức (04 - 02 - 2007)

I last met him at the VietAbroader 2005 Conference in Hanoi. He walked in the Twin Towers in white shirt and blue slacks - the usual uniform, though he is already in college - and tapped on my shoulders. We could only chat for a little bit, then I had to go back to greet the guests. I asked him about school in Vietnam, and he smiled sadly that it was pretty bad. I thought it was just another normal complaint - like we always complained. After the conference, he went to shake my hands, and said it was great. He left - and never, never would I have thought - that is the last time.

We did not hang out a lot in secondary school - partly because I sat in the front and he in the back. He was rather quiet back then. This morning, as I frantically scrolled through old friends' blogs, I was suddenly horrified that I didn't quite remember his face. But now it all came back: we sat side by side on a bench outside the Hanoi Twin Towers, I was wearing ao dai and sitting up straight, he rested his elbows on his knees, head bended, wavy hair, a smile slightly sad.

I feel floating, bloating - the same feeling when the acolhol has just hit the brain, slowly numbing the neurons and making life a little more surreal than it should. I remember feeling like this at Christmas 2004, sitting in Sara Snider's living room and crying uncontrollably when Ms. Brandon said, "Ngoc hung herself in the backyard on Christmas Eve." I remember going to her funeral, looking at her purplish stony face, and thought - how could it be, she was always smiling, sitting near my locker in the hallways of Ben Franklin High School. She was always early and I always late. She was always smiling and I perpetually depressed all high school life. How could it be that I am still alive and living while she is dead?

I remember my art class in 5th grade. The teacher tried to teach us to analyze a painting that made a big impression on me. It painted a funeral parade marching through the field, amid the sky and the earth. The parade was tiny, we could only made out the long dark rectangular shape of the coffin. The sky was very blue, but took up only a fifth upper part of the canvas. The other four-fifth was stark black, representing the earth where the coffin was soon to enter. The title was "Gan dat xa troi."

Meanwhile, another New Year is coming...

Grown up

2007-02-01T16:08:00.000-05:00

I remember at age 10, I was addicted to a certain adventure series named TKKG, about four German teenagers who sneaked out of school, chased criminals, flirted, basically kicked ass in all meaningful senses. I remember my anxious longing to grow up fast, to be 15 and full moon, so I could sneak out and chase criminals and do all these great things too. Well - so I realized later this Don Quixote complex - as age 15 rolled around, while I did in fact sneak out of school numerous times, this action resulted in many spitting scoldings; and I still did not find any criminal that I could safely chase let alone kick ass.

Oh well.

When my friends saw my passport picture at age 15, they were further convinced of the myth that Asians age less fast than the rest of humankind. In fact, I did look much older at 15 years-old than I do now at 20. All of us Asians out there however know to ourselves that myth is but myth. I for example am quite convinced that the delayed aging has nothing to do with my yellow undertone but everything to do with my sleep and fulfillment.

At 20, and a senior in college, I was suddenly wind-striken to realize: I am young. In fact, so young. The realization, seemingly simple, is revolutionary to someone like me, who has anguished - and took pride - in being more mature/experienced than most peers, even certain older people. I am surprised, and somewhat disturbed, to learn that I am more and more carefree and nonchalant, more and more optimistic about rosy future and lasting love, that I love the way it is now and am reluctant to reverse - even at the expense of some higher purposes. Instead of power, responsibility and burden, I feel light headed and light feeted, in denial of pain or worries or fear.

It's bad.

I am a happiness junkie. I'm overdosed with laughter and my veins are caked with the cocaine of love. But oh how lovely it feels!

And precisely this - not my tailored resume nor my many econometrics model - is my much-valued liberal arts education. What a disheartening thought to have to graduate.

Tản mạn

2007-01-26T16:08:00.000-05:00

Cuối cùng thì tuyết cũng rơi, hối hả rải trắng xoá những mái nhà gạch đỏ và đóng băng chiếc hồ nhỏ trước cửa toà nhà Olin. Bầy vịt đã bay đi tránh rét từ khi nào. Trời thoắt lạnh căm, thâu thấu chích những gò má đỏ ửng và hắt bông tuyết lốp xốp bạt ngang những làn mi chớp chớp. Sáng dậy nghe cổ họng nhoi nhói tôi biết là mùa đông thực sự đã đến, chậm trễ hơn mọi năm nhưng không kém phần cay cú. Iris và Mai ló đầu vào la toáng "Lạnh quá!" với bốn mắt kính còn phủ mờ hơi. Tôi lục cục lôi quần đông xuân, khăn len và dầu khuynh diệp ra lót gối sẵn sàng. Biết ngay mà, trời trở rét chưa được mấy hôm thì mũi tôi đã sụt sịt, phổi phập phồng. Năm nào cũng thế, ốm rồi.

Cũng chẳng trách tuyết được. Cũng tại tôi. Ngày đầu tiên tuyết rơi, tôi và Iris oà lên ngưỡng mộ cái vẻ đẹp trinh trắng và thanh toát của miền xứ lạnh. Tuyết rơi nóng hổilàm mọi thứ thật sạch sẽ, phẳng lì. Như hai con điên, chúng tôi qươ quýt áo khoác, xô nhau chạy ra ngoài để lăn lóc, vùng vẫy chân tay in dấu một thiên thần trên nền tuyết mới toanh. Tôi nằm đó thật lâu, thầm dần hơi lạnh, mơ màng nhìn lên màn trời đêm đen ngòm lốm đốm những sao. Dường như tuyết đã đóng băng cả thời gian và những lo âu. Chỉ còn lại trắng xoá một cảm giác êm đềm.

Đêm thứ sáu vừa buông, một mớ nhạc tả pí lù đã chan chát khắp ký túc xá. Đâu đâu cũng thấy sinh viên thoăn thoắt tuồn bia, rượu, mồi nhử vào phòng. Và những tiếng rù rì: "Nửa đêm tiệc ở ký túc xá Smith nhé" hoặc "Hookah ở phòng tao" hoặc "Mày có ID không? Đang cần thêm mấy két..." Marta réo tôi trên điện thoại, "Đến nhanh đi. Nhớ mang đồ đấy!" Sau mấy lần cạn chén với nhóm Adams, tôi líu ríu vứt chai vodka vào trong túi xách, rồi khoác vai Kevin loạng choạng lên đường. Trời thì lạnh mà vodka thì ấm hôi hổi như cái sự ham vui của chúng tôi. Vừa đi tôi và Mai vừa hát toáng Mỹ Tâm, "Vẫn biết yêu người không lối thoát..." chỉ sực nhớ suỵt nhau im im khi đi ngang qua toà nhà giám thị.

Phòng Marta thơm lừng mùi thuốc lá caramen của hookah - một kiểu tẩu nước nổi tiếng từ vùng Trung Cận Đông, với thân thuỷ tinh duyên dáng và những ống hút dài uyển chuyển. Cem - người Thổ Nhĩ Kỳ - vừa thong thả rít thuốc vừa nhả chầm chậm những hình tròn khói, trong khi Besir từ Macedonia và cô bạn gái người Kosovo say sưa nhảy một vũ điệu vùng Balkan. Marta ngồi đê mê một lúc lâu, thi thoảng lại thổi sâu vào một chiếc ống gỗ dài ngoằng - một thứ nhạc cụ lạ đời từ Châu Phi. Tôi biết cô đang nghĩ gì.

Kevin dóng lên một nhịp hip hop giòn giã, và những người đang ngồi trầm ngâm lập tức sáng mắt, vai nhún nhún theo điệu nhạc. Sherraine, cô gái da ngăm chân dài, nhảy phắt dậy, loang loáng uốn mình trong tiếng vỗ tay và hò reo của bạn bè. Tôi cũng bị kéo dậy, và mặc dù đầu óc lơ mơ cũng bắt đầu tự động đung đưa theo những ngâm nga của Nelly. Marissa hào hứng xoay khắp nơi, đầu gối chùng và mái tóc đen dài quất lên xuống. Nhảy một hồi hết hơi, tôi bỏ ra ngoài hớp một luồng khí lạnh trong lành. Marta đang tựa lưng trên bậc cầu thang, lơ đãng chập chờn đốm tàn thuốc lá với Binit. Tôi quàng tay qua vai hai người bạn. Không ai nói gì, chỉ nhìn mãi vào màn tuyết vẫn rơi hối hả.

4 giờ sáng, tôi lê lết về phòng, đầu nóng hổi, chân tê cứng và mệt rã rời. Mai lờ đờ quăng áo khoác xuống sàn, "Đói quá!" Một người bạn thực thụ, Iris lục tục đặt cơm. Tôi bày ruốc, cá cơm và muối vừng xuống sàn, rồi ba đứa dập dờn nhai trong cơn buồn ngủ. Khi Iris quay về phong yên giấc rồi Mai vẫn còn nán lại. Nhìn mặt nó thần thờ tôi biết là nó đang buồn. Lôi ô mai và sấu cay ra, tôi gạ nó ăn. Trời đã sáng, hai đứa vẫn vừa nhằn ô mai vừa thủ thỉ, rồi ngủ gục lúc nào không hay.

Sáng hôm sau, tôi tỉnh dậy với cổ họng đau buốt và trán hâm hấp cơn sốt đầu mùa. Lo lắng ra mặt, Mai và Iris mang nào thuốc nào chè nào mật ong sang săn đón, tha hồ cho tôi vòi vĩnh mát-xa và sai vặt. Mai vừa thò tay bốc ô mai vừa cằn nhằn, "Lợi dụng ghê quá!" nhưng vẫn tăm tắp pha vitamin cho tôi uống.

Ôi một thời sinh viên...

Huyền thoại ông

2007-01-14T16:09:00.002-05:00

Ông tôi có thể phong biệt danh "chuyên gia" cho bất cứ ai: bác tôi khi đi làm về hay càu nhàu thì bị ông phong là "chuyên gia nhăn", bà ngoại hơi tí là hoảng lên thì bị ông giễu là "chuyên gia la oai oái", còn tôi - rất cứng đầu cứng cổ - thì ông hay cốc đầu gọi là "chuyên gia lì." Riêng mình, ông có rất nhiều danh hiệu: nào là chuyên gia giặt quần áo, chuyên gia rửa bát, chuyên gia xe ôm cho chị em chúng tôi. Ngay cả những chuyện không ai muốn rớ tay vào, ông cũng làm chuyên gia được, chẳng hạn như chuyên gia dọn ống cống, chuyên gia cọ nồi, chuyên gia lắng nghe và vỗ về mỗi khi bà ngoại lên cơn giận - mỗi trận dài, bất thường và dấm dẳng như mưa hè. Chẳng thế mà cả nhà tôi, càng ớn bà ngoại thì càng nể ông ngoại. Thì chỉ có ông mới trị được bà, mà bao giờ cũng vui vẻ đáp ứng nguyện vọng của chúng tôi mà lị!

Ông thường hay xoa đầu tôi bảo, mày là có nhiều kỷ niệm với ông bà nhất. Cũng đúng, ông bà nuôi tôi từ nhỏ, mãi đến năm 1998 lúc tôi 12 tuổi, bà sợ lạnh kéo ông chuyển vào Sài Gòn ở thì tôi mới bắt đầu sống với mẹ. Ông rất thương tôi - một kiểu thương "đầu hàng" rất khác với bà. Ông thường hay giấu bà dẫn tôi đi ăn cháo lòng và cua luộc - hai món tôi mê mẩn mà bà chê là "đồ dơ" ngoài đường. Những năm 90, ông góp nhặt tậu được chiếc xe mô-kích của Nga đỏ chói, bình xăng to đùng chễm chệ trước yên lái. Tôi là đứa cháu đầu tiên được ông kê lên bình xăng, chở chạy lòng vòng khắp Hà Nội chơi, và rẽ vào Tràng Tiền ăn kem ốc quế. Sau này, khi ông tậu được con xe Dream êm ru, tôi cũng là đứa đầu tiên được tõm lên yên xe, lò mò cùng ông đi khắp các tiệm sách cũ Hà Nội để truy tìm những quyển tiểu thuyết ố vàng không còn tái bản...

Khác mẹ hay bà, ông không vặn vẹo hỏi han, cũng không bàn lùi những chuyện tôi muốn làm. Ông chỉ lẳng lặng đáp ứng mọi yêu cầu của tôi bằng vỏn vẹn hai chữ "Được thôi!" Và mỗi lần tôi khoe với ông kết quả - điểm 10, rồi giải thưởng Quốc Gia, chuyến đi Phillipines, học bổng Mỹ - ông lại thích chí vỗ đùi đánh đét và chà chà tự hào, "Thu Trang mà lị, có phải đùa đâu!"

Ông chưa một lần giận tôi - hay làm tôi giận. Thực ra ông chính là "đồng loã" của tôi trong những cuộc "nổi dậy" chống lại sự kìm kẹp của bà và mẹ. Chẳng hạn như chuyện của dì Tám, cháu gọi bà ngoại tôi là cô. Tôi rất quý dì Tám. Hồi nhỏ dì hay tới chơi với tôi, dẫn tôi đi mua kẹp tóc, dạy tôi hát và nấu cà ri gà cho tôi ăn. Dì hơn tôi năm, sáu tuổi, trẻ và vui nên tôi rất thích đi theo dì tầm sư học đạo. Vài năm trước, dì có xích mích gì đó với bà ngoại - chỉ một câu nói phật lòng thôi - thế là bà cấm cửa dì, không cho bao giờ lại nhà nữa. Ba năm trôi qua, ngay khi dì lấy chồng, sinh con, hai cô cháu vẫn không hề gặp mặt nhau làm lành. Hè khi tôi về chơi, ông liền sắp đặt giấu bà dẫn tôi đi thăm dì - cũng như ngày xưa còn bé ông hay giấu bà mua truyện tranh cho tôi đọc, hay đưa tôi đi chơi đây đó. Với một đồng loã trunh thành như thế, tôi làm sao có thể giận được! Thế nên, tôi có thể phản ứng quyết liệt lại những cáu gắt chửi mắng của bà và mẹ, nhưng không bao giờ có thể lên gân với ông. Biết thế, ông cười khoái trí bảo tại vì ông là chuyên gia có tình có lí. Còn tôi và mẹ và bà - thực ra thì đều từ một khuôn mà ra cả, thế nên con nhà tông không giống lông thì cũng phải giống cái bướng bỉnh thôi!

Lên cấp 2, tôi mới biết thực ra ông không phải là ông ruột của tôi. Ông ruột của tôi mất trước khi tôi sinh ra, vì vấp phải một quả bom chìm khi xung phong đi gỡ mìn sau chiến tranh. Ông Phong (ông tôi bây giờ) là bạn cùng quê với bà từ hồi còn nhỏ xíu, tình cờ gặp lại sau chiến tranh trên một chuyến tàu về thành phố. Bà kể, hôm đó mẹ tôi sốt rất cao, bà lại phải về báo cáo nhận công tác. Nhân gặp ông trên tàu, bà nhờ ông đưa mẹ về trước, và cảm động thấy ông chăm sóc mẹ rất cẩn thận. Mẹ và bác tôi thì kể là hồi đó, hai người rất ghét ông, vì tính ông rất cục, làm gì cũng ngay lập tức, hùng hục, không lần chần nhân nhượng bao giờ. Còn ông, ông hay nằm vắt trán lơ đãng bảo tôi rằng, ngày xưa bà tôi rất đẹp, đẹp nhất cái xã Đức Phổ tỉnh Quảng Ngãi. Bà lại là con nhà quan, ông cố có hẳn xe đò cho người ta thuê lái. Còn ông thì con nhà một ông giáo nghèo, ngày ngày đạp xe theo xe đò chở bà đi học. Sau khi lấy nhau, bà nhất quyết không chịu có thêm con vì sợ cảnh "con anh, con tôi" sau này. Thế nên ông không có con ruột - nhưng chúng tôi không ai, không một ai, có thể chối đẩy rằng ông chính là ông ruột của chúng tôi.

Nôen 2006 về thăm nhà, tôi giật mình thấy ông gầy đi rất nhiều. Da ông vẫn đen cháy khoẻ mạnh, nhưng gò mà ông đã hốc lại. Đã 73, ông vẫn lái xe máy vù vù đi chợ, nhưng răng ông đã phải nhổ gần hết một hàm và làm răng giả. Mỗi lần ra khỏi nhà, ông không bao giờ quên cầm theo mũ, khẩu trang và một chai nước cho chúng tôi giải khát - thế nhưng ông luôn luôn quên hàm răng giả của mình, để em họ tôi phải chỉ vào cái miệng rỗng không của ông la toáng lên ông mới hấp tấp quay xe lại. Thế cũng không lạ - thế mới đúng là ông tôi.

Nôen 2006 - khi tiễn tôi ra sân bay, mắt ông bỗng dưng nheo nheo, cái miệng rỗng không hơi há ra, quăn lại giật giật. Những nếp nhăn của ông cuồn cuộn trào lên - hình ảnh một lão Hạc bất lực và yếu đuối của Nam Cao khi bán con chó Vàng quý báu của mình. Ông khóc. Lần đầu tiên trong đời tôi thấy ông khóc, như một bộ phim quay chậm, méo mó, ngạt thở đến vỡ tim. 30 tiếng sau đó suốt quãng đường qua Mĩ, và ngay lúc này đây, mỗi lần tưởng tượng lại gương mặt nhàu nhĩ, giật giật của ông, tôi lại trào nước mắt. Cũng dễ hiểu thôi - tôi là một đứa hay mít ướt - và hơn nữa, ông là tuổi thơ của tôi. Hồi cấp 1, khi tôi bị một thằng nhóc lớn hơn đuổi đến mức ngã chảy máu hết hai đầu gối, ông đã xách tai nó lại bắt nó phải vòng tay xin lỗi tôi. Tôi lớn lên trước hết trên yên xe của ông, rướn cổ háo hức nghe ông kể những câu chuyện làm súng, hút thuốc phiện với dân Mèo thời bộ đội. Tuổi thơ của tôi là dám láo toét xoa xoa cái đầu hói gần hết của ông, trêu trọc sao da ông đen trũi. Và ông luôn đáp tỉnh bơ, "Da đen mà đời đỏ thì mới tài chứ!"

Ông của tôi - với lòng bàn tay đầy chai và những móng chân gập gẫy, với những chiếc răng khập khiễng và lung lay - ông là định nghĩa gia đình của tôi. Ông là xe máy, là đường Giải Phóng, là chiều ba mươi Tết, là vỉa hè, là gạo chín thơm lừng. Ông là cảm giác vững chãi, là xót xa, là nỗi nhớ nhà, là thời gian. Là sợi dây chặt nhất sẽ kéo tôi luôn luôn quay trở lại...

Once upon a time

2006-12-22T16:11:00.000-05:00

Đã lâu lắm rồi không viết blog bằng tiếng Việt, cũng như đã lâu lắm rồi không trằn trọc nửa đêm thèm cháo tim gan tía tô đầu ngõ, không tần ngần những câu văn Dumas, những nốt nhạc Sô-panh hay hoài cổ những Trịnh Công Sơn. Cuốn vào những bon chen của luận án, việc làm, những yêu đương chộn rộn, tôi đã lâu lắm rồi không còn biết nhớ, biết tương tư, biết tiếc. Thật lạ, khi mà tôi đã dành 15 năm thấm thía một tiếng "tiếc" để rồi trong vòng 5 năm sau đó tìm mọi cách xoá đi bài học thời thơ ấu. Trong phong cách sống của Mĩ - thứ mà ông ngoại thường hay gật gù gọi là "cách sống công nghiệp" - cái nuối tiếc không có chỗ. Nói đúng hơn, cái sự tiếc, hắn quá tốn kém: tốn thời gian, tốn tư duy, tốn trí nhớ, tốn ngủ. Cái đời sinh viên, chỉ cầu được ngủ cho đủ, ai mà dám chi ra chừng ấy thời gian để mà tiếc. Rồi đến lúc đi làm, từng giờ từng giờ tranh nhau tính vào hoá đơn khách hàng, tiếc trở nên quá tốn tiền, quá nhiều "opportunity cost." Tôi sợ rằng mình sẽ chẳng còn lúc nào mà ngồi thần ra hàng giờ, bó gối, gục đầu vào hai bàn tay để mà nhớ, để mà tương tư, để mà tiếc nữa. Vậy nên... còn hôm nay, còn giây phút này, sẽ hoang phí mà dành cho nuối tiếc vậy.

Có quá nhiều thứ để mà nhớ - tương tư- tiếc. Giống như lôi ra cái ngăn kéo lộn xộn của trí nhớ, tanh bành khắp nơi những mẩu kỷ niệm, chằng biết bắt đầu sắp xếp như thế nào. Thôi thì lôi được mẩu nào ra thì dọn mẩu đấy vậy. Này thì, những quá khứ đê huề...

Từ bé tôi đã mê văn, chắc chắn là từ khi mò mẫm được quyển Ba Người Lính Ngự Lâm đầy bụi và mọt trên gác xép của ông bà ngoại. Cả mùa hè tôi dí mắt kính đít chai vào những dòng chữ ố vàng, nào những đấu kiếm trên các cầu thang bí mật của điện Louvre, nào những nụ hôn vụng trộm chập choạng tối ở các cửa ô Paris, nào những đam mê và vỡ mộng. Bị đầu độc lãng mạn thế còn chưa chừa, suốt năm học tôi nướng tiền ăn sáng vào các tiệm sách cũ, chồng chất vào đầu các kiểu Ivanhoe, Đông Ki Sốt, Robin Hood, Tứ Quái TKKG. Tivi thì toàn Sinbad Thuỷ Thủ 7 Đại Dương, Bố Già, Vòi Bạch Tuộc. Thời thơ ấu của tôi là thế, đê mê trong các kiểu phiêu lưu, mơ mộng gặp đủ các kiểu người, ám ảnh sống lăn lóc trong các kiểu xã hội. Năm 10 tuổi tôi bắt đầu cuốn tiểu thuyết đầu tay, nguệch ngoạc ngòi bút tím trên những dòng kẻ ô li về công chúa này, rô bốt kia, phù thuỷ nọ. Đến khi tôi tốt nghiệp cấp 2, cuốn "tiểu thuyết" không ai đọc ấy đã ngót ngét 5000 trang giấy phổ thông, chứng kiến nét bút tôi chuyển đổi từ to kềch sang lăn tăn va giọng văn tôi khấp khiểng theo nhiều dòng ảnh hưởng. Cốt truyện chẳng đâu vào đâu, vì tôi mắc bệnh ba phải: sau khi đọc xong "Thời Thơ Ấu" của Marxim Gorki thì tôi hứng lên viết văn nội tâm; sau khi xem xong tập mới Ngũ Quái Sài Gòn thì tôi hung hăng lái hướng truyện về lũ trẻ em đường phố. Tiêu hao bao nhiêu mực giấy và lời mẹ la mắng "Sao mày không học bài toàn viết nhăng viết cuội" thế mà truyện vẫn còn dang dở. Cô công chúa Promina đã qua mấy đời tương tư mà vẫn chưa tìm được người yêu. Đến hè 2001, thi tốt nghiệp cấp 2 xong tôi không kèn không trống lê thê sang Mĩ, vứt bộ truyện trường kì lại trên gác xép. Hơn 5 năm rồi, tôi đã quên bẵng mình viết những gì, quên cả cái cảm giác thâu đèn giữa đêm viết say sưa như một Dumas trẻ thực thụ. 5 năm qua tôi đã gõ hơn 5000 trang bài vở, luận án, resume... nhưng có lẽ không bao giờ có thể viết với nhiều hưng phấn như 10 năm trước, loay hoay bơm mực Thăng Long để rồi nắn nót miêu tả nếp áo hay mái tóc của một cô công chúa ảo ảnh. Và... tôi tiếc.

Mỗi khi nhớ lại thời thơ ấu, tôi lại nhớ ba - có đúng hai kỷ niệm. Kỷ niệm thứ nhất là một đêm mùa đông, hai mẹ con tôi khi ấy còn sống ở khu tập thể E3 ở Bách Khoa, cái căn hộ hai phòng mà ông ngoại dành dụm cho. Tầng dưới nhà ông giữ xe có một dàn nhót rất sai quả, mỗi lần theo mẹ đến lấy xe bao giờ tôi cũng cố nhón chân nhón tay lên để hái trộm. Trước cửa nhà tôi có một cây hoa giấy, hồng ngần ngần, tôi và chị Tú hàng xóm hay hái hoa, xé ra cho vào nồi chảo nhựa bé xíu giả chơi đồ hàng. Năm ấy tôi vẫn còn học mẫu giáo. Đúng 7 giờ, chương trình Bông Hoa Nhỏ chiếu hình tôi múa cùng đội thiếu nhi trên Cung Văn Hoá. Đang ăn cơm, tôi mừng quá nhảy cẫng lên, làm đổ cả bát đang và dở. Mẹ từ trong bếp chạy ra, bực mình, thẳng tay tát làm tôi khóc nức. Đúng lúc ấy, chuông cửa reo. Mẹ tôi ngấp ngó hỏi, "Ai đấy?" "Anh đây!" Ba về! Hơn một năm rồi ba đi xa, bỗng dưng về không báo trước. Mẹ quệt nước mắt tôi, lau qua quýt tấm thảm, rồi hai mẹ con tức tưởi chạy ra mở cổng. Ba ôm một cái hộp giấy rất to, xoa đầu tôi cười mãn nguyện, "Đầu đĩa băng đấy!" Mẹ con líu ríu đón ba vào căn hộ. Nhà Tú bên cạnh thấy động hé cửa nhìn, tôi khoe với Tú, "Này nhà tớ có đầu đĩa băng nhé!" Mẹ cau mày véo vào tay tôi. Như mọi khi tôi chắc đã rơm rớm nước mắt. Nhưng hôm nay ba về... Kỷ niệm thứ hai, tôi nhớ rất rõ bóng ba đứng ngoài cửa, đầu đội mũ cối. Ba chìa tay qua song sắt ôm tôi, bảo, "Tuần sau ba sẽ về đưa con đi ăn đám cưới cô chú H. nhé." Tôi lúc đấy chắc khoảng 4, 5 tuổi. Tôi rất thích đi ăn đám cười, để được các bà răng nhuộm đen hay các ông đầu hói đội mũ bêrê chuyền tay cho quà. Thế nên tôi háo hức đợi ba về. Thế nhưng ba không về. Ba đi luôn. Chỉ còn mẹ cáu kỉnh dang tay tát, chỉ còn bà ngoại nước mắt ngắn dài than thở sao đời tôi sẽ khổ, chỉ còn đầu máy nhiễm bẩn chạy băng đứt quãng. Hơn 8 năm sau tôi mới gặp lại ba. Và... tôi tiếc.

Hai tuần trước, sau khi phê luận án về đạo Hồi ở Malaysia, tôi lững thững lôi google video lên giải trí - và tự dưng vấp phải cả bộ Bản Tình Ca Mùa Đông. Bộ phim Hần Quốc này đã cũ lắm rồi, bọn bạn tôi đã xem hết từ những năm 2002, và đã xong cái quãng đời rú rít "Bae Yong Joon!" Còn tôi, năm 2002 tôi vẫn còn hoang mang tìm đường bắt xe buýt ở New Orleans về nhà hay gãi đầu trước gương hàng giờ tập thi diễn văn. Năm 2002 tôi quên bẵng những ám ảnh tuổi thơ về Won Bin hay Bae Yong Joon hay hoàng tử Williams để ám ảnh hoà nhập vào cuộc sống Mĩ. Thế nên, tôi muộn mất 4 năm trong dòng đời Việt Nam. Mãi đến khi 2007 sắp gõ cửa tôi mới tìm lại được cái rú rít ôi Bae Yong Joon, rồi những lãng mạn và khóc lóc thật thường tình khi xem phim Hàn Quốc, rồi những mơ mộng vẩn vơ khi cuộc tình thời thơ ấu được nối lại... Thế nhưng, mối tình đầu của tôi đã qua rồi, và những cái lãng mạn lăng xê bởi phim Hàn Quốc đã không bao giờ đến. Và... tôi tiếc.

Và tôi rất tiếc - tiếc rằng thời thơ ấu đã qua, mối tình đầu đã qua, rằng tôi đã thấm thoắt 20 tuổi rồi mà tiểu thuyết đầu tay của tôi vẫn chưa thành. Thế nhưng, bù lại, tôi đã đi du lịch năm châu - đúng như tôi tưng mơ ước; tôi sẽ làm việc tại một công ty tư vấn luật kinh tế ở New York thành phố không biết ngủ - đúng như tôi từng mơ ước. Và mặc dù tôi không yêu ướt át như Bae Yong Joon trong phim Hàn Quốc, tôi rất và vẫn đang yêu - yêu đời, yêu được sống và yêu để sống.

Thế nên - tiếc nuối đối với tôi đã trở nên quá đắt đỏ. Tôi quyết định không tiếc nữa mà sẽ chuyển sang... tương tư. Tương tư từng giây phút đã qua để sống cho trọn vẹn. Sắp tới về Việt Nam, tôi sẽ vác sang Mĩ 5000 trang giấy của tuổi thơ và quá khứ, để gói lại quãng đời dang dở ấy. Nếu bạn muốn lãng phí thời gian đọc cuốn tiểu thuyết vẩn vơ này thì cho tôi biết - nào thì ta cùng ngẩn ngơ hoài cổ...

Me like

2006-11-24T16:15:00.000-05:00

I have a horrible memory of music; I am incapable of remembering any lyrics nor song titles nor who sing what. Yet I love to dance. I love to lock the door, turn up the themes n jump around until my heart speeds. If I hear beats I have to wiggle my shoulders or tilt my head or swing. Take me to the dance floor and I'll stay there till day breaks, till my head hurts and my feet sore. I love to dance by myself, as if no one and nothing else exists. It'd be nice but I do not need to dance in a group or with people I know. I do not like or need to dance with a man, nor to grind - unless I like you. I will not let u hold my hand, or put urs on my hip, unless I like you a lot. When Im moving I am unconscious of my booty my look my hair my boobs; I am simply enjoying. Here under dim lights we are all anonymous, strangers, free n loose. So do not ask my name or my phone number. Just move to the beats n stop being self-conscious.

I like to go to far away places, meet far away people. I like to get lost in long-winded alleys and stop for hours to watch a line of ants crossing the road. I like to breathe deep and live on the edge, without letting common sense slow my senses. If you are a taxi driver I'd probably ask you about your life and your kids. If you are a bouncer I'd probably make u laugh with some strange jokes. If you are the consulate I'd show up at your door everyday until you give me that visa. I hate failures n no, it's not cheating until u get caught. I like to taste new food n discover new knowledge. I get bored very fast so I must move on move on and renew myself seconds after seconds until Im bored of change. Then I'd fall asleep so soundly...

I am naturally curious and I like to ask a lot of questions, definitely philosophical (or cheesy) questions about love. I love in short intervals, planning nothing for the future n preparing to be just fine if we break up. I will try not to love you because love is hard to stop short. Yet if you make me fall in love, I'd love long n sweet like a first kiss. I am a maximizer when it comes to love - so we definitely will fight. But I can promise life will be colorful.

I am obsessed with cuff links. Jon, the basketball co-coach, asserted to me that cuff links look best on the floor, next to his shirt. But I disagree. Keep them on, and I'll smile at you so brightly that you'd feel like you're bringing sexy back.

If I cannot laugh I might as well be dead. If there're only 2 ways to do something I'd try to find a 3rd. If I cannot travel I'd suffocate. If I cannot be passionate I'd rather not be.

I am a contradiction and I like it. You should too. So dance with me - and I promise life will be colorful.

Enlightenment

2006-09-22T16:21:00.000-04:00

I feel joy. Overwhelming, exhilarating joy that bangs against my chest, urging to be spilled out on others, so they can experience this same heavenly feeling. No, I did not just win the lottery, or land a job, or have exploding sex. Truth of the matter is, I have just headed out from my Political Science class.

Those of you who know me well have probably heard me ramble on about a certain Matthew Nelson, professor of PolSci at Bates, so young, so smart n so hot, whose lectures I attended religiously. Well, two years ago he moved to London for a new teaching position at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), and we, his converts, forever mourn this loss. Matt's lectures are the kind that drops students' jaws, smashes our heads into fresh ways to look at the world, and burns our hearts with the desire to be responsible citizens. Very few professors can do such transformation.

One particular conversation I recalled was a very impromptu talk we had on the staircase. Khoa and I were on the way to dinner, and bumped into Matt walking to his office. It was about 6pm, a chilly Maine winter night. Somehow, we started talking about power n responsibility on hungry stomachs, n very soon it launched into a full-scale conversation. Matt, bright-eyed n amused, looked at us squarely n concluded, "You are young n educated, therefore you are the intellectual 'elites' of the world. In that elitist status, you have power, n with that power comes responsibility."

I will never forget that one simple sentence which sent me joy, quiver, n the realization of my self-bought burdens. Those like Matt are the reason I go to college. I was hungry, n he dined n wined me with knowledge n hope for a higher, more sophisticated life.

Today, walking out from International Politics class, I experienced again the thrilling joy that twinkled my eyes n shivered my knees. Her name is Olga, another very young prof who knew how to hypnotize students with talks. Talks of something so far-reached like international order but so relevant to one's life. That is the trick.

"What is the state but a lion and a fox? The lion has to be there, but sud b sleepin. The fox, on the other hand, has to be always awake. The state cannot sleep. The lion must be always ready to kill, while the fox must know that most of the time it's not in his interest to kill."

"The state is a man in chain. As an individual, you hav the choice to die in the name of whatever, freedom, justice etc. But the state is a man in chain, the state simply cannot have the choice to sacrifice itself, because to die is to betray people who trust it. Think about yourself, you are 20, you are free spirits, free to live recklessly. But once you have a child, u simply can't entertain that life anymore because now someone depends on you. You have different reasons to live. So the state must live on, even if the preservance of its existence means committing evils. Politics, then, is never the choice between good and evil, thinking so is too idealistic. Politics is, in fact, the choice between committing 2 evils. "

"Love n betrayal are entertwined concepts. N that is just as a problem for democracy as for our lives. You'll find from historical evidences that it is a lot easier for us to betray our values in the name of love. Let's say that I am dying of hunger, n your piece of bread is there. Many people out there would rather die than eat that piece of bread. But if my child is sitting next to me dying of hunger, it is so much easier for me to betray my values in the name of saving my child. You'll see that in many instances, democracy is committing the same betrayal in the name of love - love for freedom."

"A man who is nothing but a political man would be a beast. Realists realize that each generation will probably produce a Hitler. But more so, there is a Hitler in each of us, our 2% of beast, and THAT is what matters in politics."

And that is how Bates feeds me.

Summertime

2006-08-21T16:22:00.001-04:00

Summer 2006 - unforgettable time. New York - unforgettable city. Here we love and laugh, dance on the street at the wake of dawn, breathe and be free. Here we lock eyes with excel worksheets, sweat in the metro and bargain on the pavements after spending a fortune on a meal or a dress. Here, I feel thrilled - like a real woman.

Summer summer. I keep calling its name, the calling of the wild, as if I can make it turn around. 3am on a Sunday nite. And when tomorrow comes, here we will be, scrambling to the metro to work, bulge our eyes in front of the tiny prints. As noon strikes, Hang Hon and Long U. will lobby me to sneak out for lunch, and Long will screech as I walk out of 1166 Avenue of the Americans, 10 minutes late but grinning so fashionably. We will hit our usual spot in Bryant Park, where salmon and scramble eggs perch my appetite. We will make jokes and laugh heartily as if nothing else exists. And just like that, we live it up in da game.

Last weekend we went to see Susanne Vega perform live in a tiny bar in East Village called Sidewalk (thanks to Caroline, my new friend introduced through Khang). Stretching my neck awkwardly through the crowd, I swung softly to the beats:

New York is a woman
And she'll make you cry
Because you're just
Another guy.

Here I felt small and anonymous, but somehow incredibly big.

I wonder, is this true, or is all just a lovely and awfully long dream?Won't I just wake up tomorrow dazed at the sunshine, puffy eyes and late for work? And even if the routine is all I get, if days after days I shall hurry down Steinway street to catch the steaming V while hunting restlessly for something quaint, I know with a convinction, or simply - with faith - that I shall regret nothing.

Break time

2006-06-21T16:24:00.000-04:00

My loving gangs from Bates: Svitlana from Ukraine, Marta from Slovakia, Saify from Pakistan, Binit from Nepal, Shawna-Kaye from Jamaica and me.

I met them on those first days at Bates, and we have remained good friends throughout all those Maine winters and human dramas...

In fact, looking back, I feel like I have integrated them into my selfness. With Marta it was crazy adventures: the streets of New York, overnight at Mcdonald, and of course, Kingston, Jamaica. From her I picked up the zest for music and for life.

With Saify I had countless conversation about love. Saif is so full of love that he needed to spill it over. And Shawna with her screeching laugh. Shawna taught me how to dance, crack jokes and appreciate black men. Missing from the picture is Kristofer Johnsson from Sweden, pale, sarcastic, easily freaked out about small things yet funny and reliable as a man is capable of. We had a pact: when I am 40, if we are both still single, we'll get married. The pact, however, is gravely endangered as I found out from facebook that miss Shawna and my future husband are regularly exchanging secret messages. Hmmm :D

"Friends are the family you choose," said the taxi driver from one of them midnight drive home from NERA. I never really appreciate that truth until New York. "You know why they always say 'New York, New York'?", continued the taxi man, "Because everything here is double: you pay double the price, you have double the fun, you are surrounded by double the people but you feel double the loneliness."

So I learned 2 things: appreciate your friends, and, listen to your taxi driver.

New York, New York...

First day

2006-06-19T16:25:00.000-04:00

So they say, be careful what u wish for.

In 15 mins I will have been here for 11 hours, on my first day as an intern at NERA Economic Consulting. Welcome to the American dream.

About Me

2005-01-01T12:12:00.004-05:00

Hello,

Welcome to my blog. My name is Trang, I live in New York and am turning 23 year-old in a week! I work for a consulting firm, but while running econometrics models I often secretly dream of whipping buttercream or folding dough in the kitchen. After almost two years of Seamless take-outs and restaurant hopping, I have recently converted to home cooking and being a vegetarian, both of which pose new and fun challenges. Since then, I discovered that while a hug is therapeutic, a hug accompanied with a nice cupcake can truly do miracle. Upon this discovery, I set on making tasty food and sharing them as a venue of expressing love to those around.

Like Francisco d’Anconia of Atlas Shrugged, who could “neither stay still nor move aimlessly”, I like to be constantly on the move. Unlike him, however, I love to walk around purposeless - especially in New York where every street corner promises surprise. Being a typical time-pressed animal of the big apple, I soon become too impatient to walk, and instead started running. The freshness of the runs is so addicting that I am currently training for the Ottawa Marathon in May 2009. Since it is my first 26-miler, I figure it can’t hurt to incorporate sightseeing and a mini vacation as a moral boost. In fact, I have a faint doubt that those might be the only things that keep me going when the running gets tough.

I read it somewhere that prospective law school students should make a habit of making and writing down sound observations. Whether that habit can actually enhance one’s performance in law school is unclear; but having kept various journals and written many pages of rambling, I instantly and happily jumped on the idea. Sound observations aside, I set up this blog simply because I love writing about the quirky life of the city, and love to share my learning experience in cooking, running and dancing (I am a devoted student of samba and a beginner in ballet).

Thanks for visiting, and I hope you enjoy reading this blog as much as I enjoy writing it.

- Trang