Bivalves and Bounty

“Now I know SOMEONE is coming into to town, I just don’t remember who?”

I’d like to blame the string of visitors as to why I couldn’t remember right off, but it may have been just my need for a strong South Asian tea. As such, within the day, I get a text from none other than Saman. A swift exchange of texts led to dinner plans at our bivalve palace, B&G Oysters.

Although nervous that now-too-familiar manager would reveal my addiction to North Atlantic shellfish, she was, thankfully, off for the night. Unfortunately, D couldn’t make it (high quality clinical care with zaftig multiparous obstinate Caribbean women awaited him the following dawn). But, it gave Saman and I a chance to catch up over a gastronomic geography lesson. The waiter, I suspect, was relatively new, because I didn’t get one genus species of the evening's oysters. Not. One. Genus. Species. Nor did he give Saman an adequate introduction to each oyster's bouquet.

They were out of Bee’s Island, and Wellfleet wasn’t listed so I asked for recommendations for one that was meaty, briny, clean, and overall Massachusettsy. I grew suspicious when he paused for an inordinate amount of time, and then recommended the most expensive on the list from the very geographically dissimilar Prince Edward Island. Fail.

After a tidy apology to Saman, we discussed allergy & immunology (he was here for a conference), and his near disastrous hookup at the Costa Rican wedding a couple of weeks ago. The former had made many advances. The latter had made many advances. I explained her dramatic transformation from classay to trashay complete with mousse-pregnant cascading 80s ponytail à la broke Selena, not to mention her accompanying zebra/leopard top. He confirmed his suspicion that D and I were now Asian yentas. I confirmed his confirmation so he wouldn't kvetch or get all mishugina.

It seems relatively easy to pick up where you left off after having lived with someone for most of your 20s. I was exhausted, and it was a school night so I walked Saman to his bed and breakfast. We were already in the heart of the Asian part of town (although most Asian Bostonians slip under the Asian-dar now anyhow), but WOW, was his B&B ASIAN. The chances are high with any brownstone B&B in South End, but combination of the faux fur throw, the silver leaf back lit headboard, and the micro-crystal (read sequin-like) chandelier were more than the non-Asian designer/proprietor could bare. Exceptionally. Well. Appointed. I teased Saman for a bit and admitted that I’d have done the same. Bade goodnight and slipped into a cozy slumber at home.

5pm Friday took FOREVER to arrive, but mercifully made an appearance. I’d forewarned Saman that I needed a nap before commencing the evening’s activity. I awoke refreshed and excited. I chatted with D about his recent work/interview and remembered why I prefer the solitude of the psychiatrist’s office to the cacophony of chatty staff and the ego-ridden. Poor guy, but he makes awesome decisions. At high enough temperatures though, sugar melts. Bootstraps pulled, we rallied around Saman’s newly adopted on-time arrival habit. More yenta talk over old-man Persian tea, and almond cookies plated over Automobile Magazine. Claims to all manner of household objects abounded (he previously owned only 70% of what was claimed, I feigned ignorance to most however). “Is that my fan?” “Hey D, don’t you love this high quality Persian rug?” “Is that my takhteh board?” He left each fair and square. That's what happens when you think you can pack all of your stuff in the space of 3 hours.

D and Saman chuckled at my efforts to minimize exposure to our unseasonably cold weather. I held off on gloves to avoid further embarrassment. Goepfert offered quick and spot-on recommendations for a gastronomically adventurous place with a robust drink menu. The Franklin. Well done. Any place that has both drinks with black tea simple syrup AND Pabst Blue Ribbon is a winner in my book.

Saman was shocked both by the bartenders upper body girth that betrayed her Asianese heritage, and her lack of engagement in being a bartender (at least to us and most non-female patrons). It was busy, but damn. Thankfully, the bebidas more than made up for her lack of genteel disposition. I can only assume that the tattoos and feather-festooned coif must have had consequential neurobehavioral effects. D was a little disappointed with the wasabi coated cod, but my pumpkin ravioli was delish. I didn’t get a good look at Saman’s plate given the speed with which he ate. Tape worm confirmed, although that thing must have gotten osteoporotic by now. D headed out and Saman and I decided on more bebidas.

He was on his second Mo Cocktail before he figured out what ‘Mo was. This delighted our waiter infinitely and apparently this served as cart blanche to get Texas sassy (much to our delight). Saman laughed it off and exaggerated shock. I really admire the Persian. Finally finding comfort in his skin. We tidied up our check, but not before identifying our waiter’s name as “Kiko.” He didn’t appreciate my Free Willy questions. Who knew that it was short for Francisco?

We headed to a place I’d checked out before with a very indeterminate ethnicity. It’s hard to tell who’s Asian in Boston. Saman opted for the less Asian place next door. The bartender asked Saman to sample his drink given his lavender allergy (who has a lavender allergy??) and explained to Mr. Bartender that he was in good company as Saman was an allergist. He warmed up a bit, but still asked us to finish up since the bar was closing. He was getting heat from his amazonian she-boss. Dropped Saman off, headed home, and enjoyed a blissful sleep until 11.

There are a few people that I wish had more an opportunity to hang out with in the past, but UCSF is one of them. She was looking into joining our Cambridge family but we enjoy competition from MGH and Children’s Hospital. Why anyone would give up the glory of the San Francisco Bay is anyone’s guess but she’s here looking around. We met up at Boston Commons before deciding that Food Network-endorsed bakeries always deserved our full attention. She had the sausage soup and the last sticky bun (HEAVEN) and I enjoyed a tomato bisque that should have been framed and the second to last sticky bun. We chatted about our shared med school and what things were like out in SF. I could see that the lacquer of training has rubbed away a bit. I shared my own experiences of needing a touch up and shellacking before Cambridge. I think I volunteered more than necessary about Cambridge but it seemed in welcome company. Anyone foodie with two fashion shows under their belt and a deep desire to provide high quality psychiatric care to the children of America and beyond is okay in my book.

We walked off some of the deliciousness and talked about Boston and life. Its such a small dating world! How one forgets this. We left the Asian neighborhood to arrive at the tony Back Bay neighborhood for some more tea. We elbowed our way past the Europeans to sweetly establish ownership over a table soon-to-be-unoccupied by a young nuclear family. As UCSF continued to stake our claim to our nine square feet, I ordered two pots of tea. The cashier was painfully new, and looked over her shoulder repeatedly and desperately, for any number of touch-screen related questions. “It’s my first day today,” she stated. I told her welcome, later realizing that I hardly go to L’Aroma often enough to stake claim versus the Black Hole, Antidote, or Inversion of Houston. Sigh.

My two pots of tea somehow managed to mutate into a single glass of tea, but this was quickly rectified. Saman arrived and enjoyed our surplus and company. He looked decidedly perky and rested despite his 5 hours of sleep the evening prior. I’d asked that they’d join me in hanging out with this thrupple I knew. Apparently I’m not the only one in the dark about novel Asian romantic relationships, but they, as I, seemed much more interested in fun lawyers, sharp architects, and shyer than expected software engineers. Although I love hanging out with the trio, I was more excited to let UCSF ‘try on’ Boston life for the day. Today would be decidedly skewed.

We took a nice stroll by the park and arrived at a Spanish tapas place I’d never ventured to before. 2/3 of the trio (New Hampshire and Massachusetts) arrived much to our delight. Saman was ecstatic that someone else was both knowledgeable about and had a strong love of Persian architecture. His enthusiasm was tempered only by the constraints of socially acceptable interpersonal rules. New Hampshire was accosted by a woman at the bar in a way that’s unusual for Boston, but we paid little attention given the Persian show beyond him. Later however our group was approached by said woman. She was dressed like New Year’s Eve by her own description.

“I don’t want to be that girl. I’m sorry. I just had a fight with my friend.”

(Add awkward pause here; in London this would be social suicide)

My curiosity betrayed my desired to remove her mildly negative energy. “What did you guys have a fight about?” I said.

“Oh, I couldn’t talk about it," she demurred.

She, of course, talked about it. And talked about it. And talked some more. Fortunately, Massachusetts held her attention while the others continued their discussion of Persian poetry and the concept and large category of ‘non-women.’ I was surprise and pleased that Massachusetts was really empathetic and adroitly asked her to forgive her friend. She did let some crazy out to include relatively sensitive personal health information, and childhood memories that felt incongruent with our current level of intimacy, but Massachusetts didn’t seem to mind. Is architecture the psychiatry of the physical world? I pondered.

Goepfert, provided an invitation to join some of his friends at TT the Bear. I thought he mistexted the name, but this was in fact the case. He promised “Freaks. Queers. & Trannies” much to the delight of 2 of the trio and UCSF. Saman was down to go but purchased UCSF more drinks in exchange for protection from the latter aforementioned group. We piled in Massachusetts’ truck (gasp) and New Hampshire made haste toward the Republic of Cambridge. UCSF isn’t surprised by anything! I assured her that this was a totally normal Boston weekend day.

We arrived to see freaks, queers, but no trannies. They were all replaced by hipsters. Goepfert arrived delightfully and shared his satisfaction with a small mirror purchase. “Isn’t it awesome.” I agreed although the coat check gentleman thought we were suggesting its use for powdered illicit substances. No sir. Don’t think so. I don’t know how I forget Geopfert is so much fun. His entropy is so friendly. Why fight it?

The DJ at TT the Bear was quickly compared to the villain in Who Framed Roger Rabbit by Massachusetts, but all was forgiven by his choice of Ace of Base. I was disinhibited enough to share my unvarnished opinion about a colleague and Goepfert did the same. I suppose things aren’t always as to another as they are to us sometimes (this works in both directions obviously). As predicted by New Hampshire and Massachusetts the music began to deteriorate into marginal 80s electro-clash without many standouts, but this was balanced by the lesbiana on the stage and the youngish pseudo-police officer in the tutu. 1 am came again, but much to our dismay TT decided the evening was complete.

Massachusetts garnered a free Cold Play CD much to the chagrin of a girl who credited her “cuteness” as qualification. We heard about that for a while. New Hampshire obliged his request for late night food. Massachusetts was taken aback by the line of one late night place. A young woman in line did not seem to realize my request for the location of the express line was a joke. We herded the cats again in search of other eats, and Massachusetts was taken aback again with the alternative of IHOP. “Isn’t that where I got food poisoning for three days?” quickly developed into, “That’s where I got dysentery for a month.” After some mozzarella sticks, I slumbered away to a very pleasant sleep.

Non Sequitur

Provincetown under a late summer shawl.

Non Sequitur

So, unfortunately, my old camera is no more. Vanished. Finito. In an effort to console myself in my grief, I bought a new one, which is remarkably similar to my old one.. I was testing her out on the roof of PBM4's labyrinthine parking garage. We shall herald in a new era of photography no doubt.... alright some doubt.

Vroom

Week at work was decidedly more smooth than last. I’d like to personally thank a perfectly free weekend as my saving grace. My iCal hadn't looked so clean in about a month. It’s a shame that idleness has become a luxury. When exactly did that happen? I fully enjoyed an AMAZING sleeping-in on Saturday and awoke to the steady sound of construction and less-than-distant Tejano music. Celebrity Cupcakes has opened, dare I say, next door and so far both my wallet and desire for refined sugars have been good. I patiently await mywillpower to erode so I may bathe my palate in warm yummy goodness.

Croissant Brioche fully welcomed me into complete consciousness. Same cast of characters were present. Octogenarians and monied 30-somethings with their sticky-fingered progeny. Ironically relaxing in that it feels so French (read crowded with the steady clank of coffee cups, and plates filled with yummy treats). VK and I relayed our respective positions on race in America. It would probably be more accurate to say I shared my position and he played coy devil’s advocate. The conversation spilled over to a new very Asian furniture store on the way home owned by delightful Asians. Pants remained clean and wallet intact. I’m not sure why but there were a group of young women that annoyed the hell out of me there. Perhaps its because they seemed clueless and got in between me and the mirrors.

“Audi dealership? Sounds like a plan to me!” VK in his recent focus on practicing in the future has been quite avid on spending some of his future earnings. To be perfectly fair this desire of his has waxed and waned, but this certainly well within wax. Who am I to decline a trip to an autohaus?

There are few things that bring me to my knees, but German cars are definitely on that list. Damn. I clearly hadn’t given enough credit to the venerable badge of Audi. VK was a bit disappointed by an anemic A5. This was is marked contrast to his practical euphoria with the S4 as predicted. Our dealer Tyrone seemed to be quite busy but very relaxed and allowed for an unchaperoned drive on the Allen Parkway. As I fumbled with the seat warmer and radio, I’m pretty sure VK’s eyes dilated with pleasure of acceleration.

As a suitable bookend, we stopped at the Fish Gallery where I showed VK around where a sizable portion of my recent earnings have gone. There were some South American Parrot Cichlids that seemed more frightened than Nigerians in a security queue. They were decidedly not on the list for potential purchases. Fortunately, I managed to abstain from purchasing more Yellow Labs but not without hesitation. VK seemed amused in my deep ambivalence. Time slipped and he went off to call.

Arash and I shared a BBC period movie based on Sense and Sensibility; apparently I’m not the only one repulsed by and attracted to English traditions. He was dumbfounded that the word “bumkin” had its origins beyond his move to the US in the 1980s. 16^th century. Who knew? After making fun of the girl from Plymouth (absolute Valley-girl), we parted and I headed out to hang out with pharmacy Asianese Asians.

There were an unnatural number of pretty people everywhere. Well beyond the dismal numbers expected in freezing temperatures; this is HOUSTON after all. Most impressed. Yuan had twin missions of late to expand his confidence and his chest size. He’s been working out and was recently hired as a trainer. Pharmacy and weight lifting. Who knew? Another Asianese Asian caught his fancy but a variety of circumstances lead to a very constructive failure. All was forgiven as a New York Asian nearly tripped over himself staring. Approach. Shake. Chit Chat. Rejoining of group. Chit Chat. Numbers. Hug. Mission accomplished. At least Yuan has a template to follow now. It was nice to help others in the hunt.

Sunday came too quick, but I found comfort in sloth. Somewhere between hot chocolate, Nutella toast, tangerines, and watching my aquarium Monday came much too quick, but my lungs were filled with a warm respite.

High School Pre-Reunion

Friday I bade my family’s new-ish Texan homestead Dancing Oaks farewell to attend to my dearest Washington, DC; my class reunion awaited. Fortunately I had the pleasure of touring my dad’s “man cave” as my mother puts it. Sometimes I swear they do more projects than 2007 Dubai. Its nice to see Dad continue to realize his engineering education. It would certainly be classier to call it a “lodge” but I think my mother’s moniker will do. Unfortunately, I left the ranchito prior to my mother returning from her Black Friday activities. There was a Tom Tom to be purchased, and she was to have it for an amazing low low price. Thank you Walmart.

Hugs and besos, and off I go to the 100 mile trip back to my Houston abode. Somehow I managed to forget to pack my trusty iPhone headphones AND charger. What was I thinking? The rolling hills slipped by with the eager assistance of my new La Roux and Jay-Z albums (not as euphoniously divergent as one would initially postulate). I pondered when on earth I was going to get back to regular gym outings, a possible sky trip, healthcare reform, and of course how despite my high levels of planning (i.e. my airline seat choices, hair product bottling, highway traffic determining, magazine placement, and Netflix DVD choice) I still forget something silly.

Vroom. Eeek.

I quickly dropped off nonessentials, picked up headphones, and of course bathed my patio garden in some refreshing water before locking apartment three up again. My journey to the airport was actually fully restricted to neo-soul with Jill Scott and Erykah Badu. Car park. Shuttle. Security. Gate. Some texts reached notables announcing the abdication of my presence in Texas. Schwoosh. Off I go. I thankfully was near neither airplane talkers nor need of nap and made quick work of the Economist, Car and Driver, and a bit more of the Fountainhead (which I have officially be reading forever).

I cannot relate the protest of my entrails as we got the runway with the alacrity of a Tiger Woods press release. Not. Good. It was nice to walk with a sense of purpose again as I chucked some slow walking passerby on the airports moving sidewalk. To be fair, the nature of the Texas Medical Center is no less than fast-paced. Multiple Thanksgiving brunches, lunches, snacks, naps, and dinners can take its toll on an economic use of time. Nonetheless, I gleefully emerge from the cavernous vault that is the Foggy Bottom/GWU Metro station and head to New Hampshire and M Streets where my hotel awaited. Some quick coordination with Dave yielded a very promising pre-party near the U Street corridor. I quick shower relieved me of any superficial weariness. Scarf. Long johns. Amber Ale. A quick thank you to the Google gods. Voila. I arrive at U Street and 17th. Dave would arrive in moments to deliver me the rest of the distance to the house party.

It was nice to see him again. TEN years since our high school graduation. I can only say with any confidence that we’ve hung out reasonably in the last 4 months. Its strange, some people you would be remiss not to spend more time with. He apologized for his inebriation. Within the hour I apologized for joining him with mine. This was all in the setting of a buzzing house party full of Asians (à la Micke)...and a 50 year old Dutch woman. My adopted status as a social butterfly courtesy of my six years in Texas was tempered by my previous status as uncongenial courtesy of my nine years in the DC Metro. Fortunately, most of the Asians there unburdened me by either fully engaging me or benignly ignoring my presence. I did enjoy learning about flip-cup, development of media materials for the American College of Cardiology, and of course who the 50 year old was. Apparently, a large gaggle of Asians were out imbibing that evening for a “Century.” My liver shutters at the thought of what THAT may be. In any case, the older Dutch woman revealed herself to be one of the Asian’s mother. Huh. Imagine that. She was kind enough to deliver the gaggle to the present party. Mystery solved. Dave shared some new developments. Apparently its become de rigueur to get a MBA in this economy. We also discussed some parallels in our lives with upcoming changes and of course waxed lyrical about high school shenanigans.

At the time, having strawberry yoghurt wasted in your lap is...not that funny. Somehow that changes with time. We shared a French class senior year and joked about the (useful) pain that we experienced there. He further caught me up with developments with other friends of course. A divorce, a doctor, and an updated roster of Asians were some highlights. Someone insisted on opening a window (it was a bone-chilling 36 degrees outside) and I quickly retreated to better interior climes opposite the Dutch woman. I noted to myself that these are a curious and interesting people the Dutch, the few that I’ve met. I may have to see the country that produces them. They were among the first to issue us debt to fund our American Revolution against the British; perhaps I’ll have to check them out.

The hours slipped by and my hunger betrayed my desire to stay much longer. Dave expressed a desire to get some rest and avoid unwanted consequences the next morning. He offered a great all night pizza place a block away and we parted ways and the inky darkness. Baffeto's was my beacon beyond the cold, glistening road bathed under those nauseating yellow street lights. The clerk followed me in. Perhaps he’d just finished a cigarette or just wanted some air. In any case, I didn’t know, nor could I decide if he were Ethiopian or just a Pakistani. Immaterial as my stomach growled in protest to my dithering. “Italian sausage special.” I realized that asking for recommendations was as useful as asking Americans their thoughts of healthcare reform beyond vapid vitriol.

It. Scent. Is. Of. HEAVEN. As I was chatting with VK, who was unfortunately stuck in the bowels of the hospital, I was greeted with an unceremonious delivery of a pizza box as I lazily learned over the counters facing 18th street. Perhaps they have become immune to the olfactory delight that greeted me and the leggy loitering Persians. Wow. It was my plan to walk the 1.3 miles back to the hotel as I have previously, but anything that would have adulterated the current state of the pizza was intolerable. I exchanged pleasantries with VK via my fully charged iPhone, explained the situation, and promptly hailed a cab. HE was Pakistani and pleasantly continued his conversation via his Bluetooth headset as we rolled toward the Renaissance M Street Hotel. His breaks squealed and chassis rumbled as all good DC cabs should. I hopped out but it seemed I couldn’t walk fast enough. Double doors. Concierge. Elevator button. Wait. Curious nearly oval elevator. 7th floor spills in front of me. Door. Keys. Wallet. Jacket. NOSH.

I couldn’t have predicted how delicious those six slices were. Pleasant satiety enveloped me and I quickly went off to sleep. Tomorrow would be our ten year high school reunion. What lay ahead?

Non Sequitur

VK and I ventured to get some tacos from midtown's Taco's-A-Go-Go. Delightfully tacky yet unrefined.

Touring Towers

It was Abby (AKA Abena), one of the ‘Brits for Obama’ contingent that campaigned with my parents in Ohio some months ago. She kindly inquired if I would be available that evening for a tour of Parliament and perhaps a drink.

Great! Recently there has been a great deal of scandal and worry surrounding MPs and spending. I’d gathered that theses Parliament office workers were more than busy as of late, so I was very surprised to hear from one of them.

The irony of the evening is that I arrived at the visitors gate of Parliament promptly at 6:15pm. I was to meet Abby inside. I approached the guard and inquired if I may pass, as he was blocking my path. I couldn’t tell if his response of “I’m sorry its closed now” was saccharine, sarcastic, or seemingly genial. In any case, I feigned ignorance and cordialness and called Abby.

She flew around the corner and I could see her frenetic energy out of the corner of my eye as I took some more photos.
“Are you Cecil?”
Abby was a shortish, smooth-faced, and round Ghanaian. She would be my guide for the evening.

At first? Yeah, it sucked. After the initial thrill of being taken in to a separate entrance wore off, I began to realize that she probably hasn’t given a tour before. Just prior to introducing me to some colleagues at one of three Parliament pubs, she intimates,
“You know, even though I’ve worked here for all this time, I guess I don’t really know much about this place.”

Duh.
Worst tour ever.

But, as we say in Texas, “Bless her heart (add ample diphthong here).” We breezed by some of the most amazing stone and gilded ceilings that I’ve ever seen. We trampled hastily over well-worn marble floors. We glided by immaculately glistening stained glass. Intermittently we would stumble upon a 17th century statue of some notable, and I’d hear a light British-kissed voice inquiring, “Hmm...what does the plaque say?”

Then we began to meet the Diaspora. A thin Afro-Caribbean security guard brightened at the sight of Abby, introduced himself and then showered me in Jamaican patois. I caught maaaaybe 70% of it. My blank stare and staccato response betrayed my ignorance.

“Sorry, I see one of us and then I get going.”
Inside I agreed, though my words said, “No, not at all.”

We exchanged pleasantries that I had since become unaccustomed to since being in relatively staid England. He was warm and pleasant, and reminded me why I love my people so much.

Abby hesitantly asked if this gentleman had keys to the crypt. He said he didn’t but pointed us in the direction of a fellow officer that did and eagerly obliged. We immediately began our decent in the cold, twisty halls below the most ancient part of the Houses of Parliament. A large wooden door swung open to an incredible gilded chapel. To call it gorgeous would be an understatement as to call Houston summer-sun warm would be also in error. The other security guard related to us a small morsel of its history, but needless to say I don’t think I was supposed to take pictures.
Good tour.

We began our ascent again and spilled out into the ancient Westminster Hall Abby began her entreaties of completing the tour as we entered the Common Hall. Her knowledge and likelihood of a better performance was dismal. As a last ditch effort, she kindly asked another guard if he knew anything about the Hall.

To begin, his name was Minty. He was the sort of gentleman that you’d imagine that had a favorite pub, noshed proudly on English food and English football wins, and was seemingly ambivalent but deeply devoted to his wife. He was a Londoner.

Minty at first teased us with a little knowledge of our surroundings.

He talked about the ceiling with its many symbols, he sprinkled minor dates and peoples, and shared a simple joke or two. I ate it up. As did Abby. Seeing an opportunity, Abby kindly asked if we could see the House of Commons. He eagerly obliged and walked us there.

The talked about EVERYTHING. About Churchill, about the rebuilding of the House of Commons after the War, about the ceremonies involved in the Queen’s annual visit, about ‘modesty drapes.’ He discussed the origins of the word “tally” that was born there, and the phrase “toe the line.” I was enchanted. I wouldn’t call myself a history buff, but a thorough understanding of origin is oh-so-much fun. Abby, Minty, and I laughed and sighed in awe.

Minty was quite the history buff and hilarious in a high school teacher sort of way. He whisked us to where they vote, to the venerable although seemingly anachronistic House of Lords, to halls, corners, plaques, and even regal dressing rooms. He explained the British Royal family tree with the assistance of the many paintings on the wall with the clarity and hilarity of Maury.

BEST TOUR EVER.

“Well, we should say hello to my friend before we go. Do you have time? I warn you he’s a bit off” Even if not entirely true, he could have asked for a kidney and I would have said yes.

We joined another guard with who he’d been working with for the better part of two decades. Within 10 minutes he showed us his tattoo, Mayhem I think it was, (on his upper arm) and graced us, without hesistation, to his passionate and riotous performance of a NUMBER of his favorite bands song. He cajoled into joining. In a surreal moment, I thought, “Yup. I am karaokeing in Parliament.” Not your average evening. We talked of Obama’s senatorial visit to the Houses of Parliament and debated if Obama shaking your hand counts as “meeting” him (we for our karaokeing friend it did). I hadn’t laughed that hard in a house of government in quite some time. Our friend insisted that we take photos in his hat with his new (beautiful) Blackberry. We obliged.

“Oops. Its 10! We’re no longer paid to be here! We’ll see you later!”
And just like that, off they went after hearty hand-shakes. Thus concluded the evening, never to be repeated again.

I'm Just a Lucky So-and-So

So the day started innocuous enough. I had an early afternoon free and decided that I would remain in my decision to do as much exploration as possible. I’d already purchased my hat; this had freed considerable mental capital, so I made my way to Coventry Gardens. I stumbled upon store after store of posh threads that contained items that were well beyond my pocketbook. Another Paul Smith store teased me we further sartorial delights. I even managed to stomach an Abercrombie & Fitch look-a-like store. I’d pretty much decided to venture back to the flat, when voila!

Neal’s Yard

Tucked just beyond the street in a tiny courtyard beyond an alley layed the former residence of Monty Python, delicious vegetarian fare, and an excellent perch to do some more people watching. After requisite picture taking under the watchful protection of my new hat, and a quick seat at a café table, I was (eventually) accosted by a waiter.
“Are you vegetarian?”
I stumbled, “Uh...no, but uh...”
“Then I suggest these.” He turned to the back of the menu phlegmatically and began pointing to their ‘non-veg’ fare.
“Hmm...that sounds good, how about the quiche?”
“Excellent choice.” He quickly disappeared.

The meaty quiche was...palatable. In any case, it was a beautiful afternoon. I considered a desert, but decided that I’d better get the bill since the service took a remarkably long time.

I failed at taking a photo of a delightful 60 year old with red leather boots and matching hair, but low and behold:
I’ll call her violet. Violet was reading a newspaper near some important statue, her husband dutifully and eagerly looking over her shoulder. I’ve never, ever, seen someone match their skirt, to their, purse, to their cardican, to their earings, to their HAIR. Well, besides in some parts of Atlanta, but I digress.

I continued my sojourn to an art supply store that was housed under a canopy of chimneys.

My ring tone, I’m Just A Lucky So and So, chirped through my new skinny jeans (gasp). I struggled additionally to receive the change from the purchase of a hilariously British card. “Hello?”

Yes We Did

Above is a poster by Lance Wyman who was commissioned for the above piece. Its practically de rigueur for artists to be involved in this past election, but I'll take it. You may remember Lance Wyman as the guy behind the Olympic Mexico 68 Posters.

In any case, its nice to proud of the leader of the free world again. We'll see where this takes us. It seems like everyone has an opinion (1, 2, 3). Mine? Its nice to have smart people running the country.

Non Sequitur

Chamberlain and I were joined by our favorite future pediatric interventional cardiologist at one of my favorite haunts in Houston, Poison Girl. And no, you're not imagining things. That is in fact a giant and rather ironic/anachronistic Kool-Aid Man with his similarly enormous 80s compatriot, Cabbage Patch. I needn't say more. Just go.

And a Happy New Year.

There are absolutely no words. My only hope is that you had as an amazing send-off to 2008 as I did....but I doubt it.

Merry Christmas

Somehow my parent's managed to entertain and feed around thirty people of multiple branches of our family for Christmas. They certainly have more energy than they claim. In any case, welcome to Dancing Oaks.

Solstice.

Our resident Cherokee compatriot ironically emailed our whole class...except me...for his annual gathering (this slip, I'm sure, is largely because I send most of the social emails to our class and don't include myself on the list. Right?).

In any case, my local Bengali go-to is out of commission given the watchful eye of her baba, so I trek it alone. Cherokee always has a tendency to surprise with a seemingly anachronistic calm demeanor. He holds court in his rapidly gentrifying neighborhood (read still 'hood but with character). I park behind another of Germany's finest, in a gaudy yellow. My fingertips and palms tickle the rosemary bush as I clank up the wood plank steps. Its decidedly quiet on the porch as I reach for the door knob.

Tap, tap.
Enter.

As a quick aside. I love Houston (and not in the narcissistic self-referencing sense). Its just so random. If non-blue, oddly shaped post-cards could be made of soirées, I'd have to send this one out to DXB. I'm greeted by an older married Black couple who smile and ask my name before I even have a chance to take my scarf off. I reply softly and smile as my eyes gauge this odd tableau vivant:

Young, engaged, yuppyish couple painfully resisting yuppydom.
Multiple short-coiffed former/current hippies.
A heap of Native American
A pinch of East Indian
A hint of Asian

And a hint of Asianese.

This is all set in a woody, creaky 1920s bungalow that is Cherokee's and his roommate's dwelling. Teal walls embraced the light and delightful smell of tannin-y wine. Yum. I glide past the couple and those already in intimate conversations, passed a table of cranberry chipotle cheddar, brie, and gouda to head toward the kitchen. The crystals in the window sparkle.

"Oooh hello! Great to see you!"

Deb's hands open wide as she sweetly moves for a hug. Deb is one of those people you meet once and are bewitched by. You wonder how did America manage to produce someone who has remained so innocent and warm. Her long gray hair catches the light and wind from the back door as she points.
"He's out there by the fire" she says referring to Cherokee.

As promised in the invite, Cherokee has the firepit going and this may be one of the only nights this 'winter' where it may be more utilitarian than simply visually appealing. Cherokee shares some wine and asks if I've grabbed a Tarot card and paper.

"Deb's really into that stuff." Deb fluently joins with eyes wide, "It'll predict 2009 for you."
"Also, be sure to take a blue paper, write what it is you'd like to let go of this year, and throw it in the fire."

Clever. Done.

I warm my hands and we exchange light chat, and swiftly I return inside to pick up a Tarot card and paper. Before I do, I go to sign the evening's guestbook, but have trouble deciding whether to leave a superficial yet quick holiday message or a substantive yet time-intensive holiday message. I decide to leave my signature. On to the paper betrothed to the fire.

Humility forbids me from revealing what I wrote, but I'll let you imagine.

"_______ __ __ __________."

As for the Tarot card, I'll be less bashful:

"Hey Debra, is the Magus one good?"
She pauses as her gaze remains fixed down before responding. Enter wave of panic. She finally meets my eyes and intimates, "That's very good. That's the best one of all the cards."

If it were bad, of course, it was my plan to remain in ignorance about the details of the card, but her exuberance piqued my interest. So I picked up the well-worn Tarot book to get the quick and dirty.

None to shabby, but kinda freaked out.

Note to self. Only use powers for good.

So, Cherokee and I are joined by Rockstar and Hans outside by the fire. We discuss our shared fascination with fire and compliment Cherokee on his wood stacking skills. We're interrupted gracefully by a woman who discusses mental health, and the utility or beauty of taking pictures of fire. Our other quasi-German, Iranian fellow psychiatry resident joins much to our delight (he's on call, but is apparently more efficient with his time than we originally estimate).

Debra laments the lack of use of the smores she's provided and Cherokee beautifully redirects with an aplomb that suggests plenty of experience of doing just that. Cherokee and I chop some more cheese and apples (by we I of course mean Cherokee) and I swirl about for a bit.

My next exciting and rather unexpected meeting is with this one woman that I can only describe as...uncanny. Her hair was cut in a fashion that suggested a mushroom and it framed a raceless, blank face with ironically intense eyes.

"Hello, you work with [Cherokee]?"

"Oh..yeah. My name is Cecil."

She stares.

Further, she continues to shake my hand for what was undeniably an uncomfortable period of time.

Enter wave of mild anxiety that by now had become quite familiar this evening.

"That was my father's name...that's a very unusual name."

I pray that my concern does not show on my face and am reminded of my times being tested by more adventurous patients.

With half a smile, "Yeah, its also my father's name."

I half listen, to her pleasant yet gauche response, as she continues to hold my hand.

Odd.

"Oh, hey [Cherokee]." I turn back to this odd one, "I'm going to help our friend here bring out some more wine. It was a pleasure meeting you."

I give the Cherokee a very knowing stare, and my thoughts are communicated clearly. In the kitchen Cherokee confirms my initial impression and we share a small laugh.

More fire, a half-glass of wine, some more delicious cranberry chipotle cheese and the evening winds down.

Austin

I love Austin, Texas. That is all to be said. Thanks so much to Firewoman Frost (not some clever sobriquet) who helped make the above happen. No further explanations.

Rapprochement: Scene 1

I like creeks. So when cajoled (I was clearly over eager) to accompany some amigos on a journey to that liberal bastion Austin, I of course accepted after some protest of practicality. Last week was buuuusy. As with all institutions the balance between selflessness and self-interest and slips precipitously under the following circumstances: inordinate pressure. Given a fake-hurricane, missing bosses, and a repellent schedule I clearly slipped by Friday. Forgive the lack of detail.

But let's start at the beginning. I quickly finish my work/academic responsibilities in Houston's western concrete bowels and swiftly navigate slow drivers, evening traffic, and an insufferable heat in Eva, my trustworthy 1994 E320. She (until that point) hadn't experienced that level of brutishness since Bavaria I imagine. I arrive to Rice Village and quickly find parking and run to Uncle Funky's Daughter for my appointment. Gotta get the locks maintained.

Tonya is gracious as always, and we (her more than I) comfort a newly dreadlocked Texan/New Yorker. My spine tickles with the cool drops dripping from my immaculately clean locks and watch the clock earnestly. My flight to Austin is at 7:50p and its about 6:15p (we'll ignore the obvious yuppiness of flying the 174 miles to Austin, but I assure you my schedule was that tight). Tonya insists that I go under the dryer, to which I protest in vain and find myself suppressing waves of panic as the time remaining draws nearer to record times for driving to Intergalactic.

The dryer stops. Wallet emptied of fee. Tie catches the breeze as I run to my car. The door stiffly shuts after its grating chime. Two minutes later I've changed at home and back inside my auto looking at traffic maps on my non-iPhone. I-59 changes to I-45. 7:20p and painfully slow ribbons of steel sow fears of missing my flight. Mierda. Change of plans. 610 to I-59. 7:35p. I feel some hope returning as I've never managed to get to the airport this quickly during the weekend rush. I see in my minds eye which garage I'll park and where and map in my head quickly the shortest root to Gate C34 all while approaching the Houston Intercontinental Airport sign.

There's a limo that refuses my passing, but its okay 7:39 and I've got a plan. Damn. Cones. CONES & "Closed for construction." Panic. I whisk around the airport again for more parking and realize the immensity that is IAH and come to quiet resolution that I'll never make it on time. "When the next flight?" I follow inane signs directing me elsewhere to another terminal that seems about a half mile past Hades. I see the purple garage that I want to park but am frustrated by a tiny plastic ropes in my way.

"F***-it. I'm parking here and running."

Weekender bag in hand I reexamine myself for metal and make the appropriate changes. Terminal C in all of its 80s modernity greets me with its obnoxious angles and fluorescent lights. "Is this the Elite Access line?"

I don't have Elite Access but do have an amazing deficit of time 7:45p. Maybe there's a chance. Airlines suck now right?

"Wow. You're pretty." The young Negresse's co-worker who's zaftig curves betrayed her starched polyester and shiny name-tag, elbows her immediately in disbelief.

"What? He is."

I'm nonplussed. I'm clouded by the abruptness of her comment, the need to get through security, and my a terrible sense of urgency.

"Uhhhh....thanks." I manage to squeek out a tepid and equally worried smile. I fly over that forbidden blue carpet release my sandals from my feet and hurry through all manner of x-rays and metal detection in record time. Off to C34.

I see a queue of people. Damnit. They're already boarding the next flight. Whoa, wait. "Sorry for the delay folks. Let's begin boarding our first class passengers at this time."

7:50p

Thank goodness for 15 minute delays.

30 minutes of flying. I arrive at the tiny Austin Airport with my hand-baggage and am delighted to find the Barton Creek Resort van that L'Evêques arranged. I tolerate the rosy-cheeked driver's banter about Scotland, and his papers in college, and relax at the site of the beautiful hotel. Though there are no brown-people in site, I am comforted by merely being awak from Houston at the very least. Drop the bag at the room, change into my swimming drunks as I am reminded of Phelps and Dubai, and feel a bit naked as I navigate the lobby toward the pool.

BLISS.

The pool glows under the stars, live oaks and palm trees, and I'm wrapped in a soothing Texas zephyr.

"Hey! Cecil's here!"

My weekend begins.

Non Sequitur

The roof of my favorite Houston arts venue, Jones Hall. Kevin, the former roomy, graduated from our med school here last month. He's now off to beautiful La Jolla for internal medicine as expected.

Bruthas wanna know

"Why don't you ever update the blog no more? bruthas wanna know."

The short answer is that they don't have internet-capable computers in hell. This brutha's been working...hard. Thankfully though I am no longer a lowly intern (since July 1st). This being said, privacy and medico-legal constraints forbid me from divulging details of my trip through Hades these last couple of months, but I can share with you the following (absolutely unrelated) thoughts I have had in the last couple of months:

1. "32 hours of no sleep = 3 Vanilla Stolis and Coke"

2. "Nurse, please don't be stupid. I have no energy for stupid."

3. " This bath needs to be 10 degrees warmer to soak the pain away."

4. "Most beautiful wedding EVER."

5. "That's a hot tranny mess."

6. "Is everyone Asian now? Why are they so much more fun?"

7. "Scheiße. Am I losing weight? Back to the gym."

8. "Please let there be noting else wrong with my car besides 27 cents."

9. "Calling me doesn't make it faster."

10. "I guess I'm trading in Persians."

Recently, I've thoroughly immersed myself into the task of making my once-forgotten and neglected patio into something a bit more respectable. Thankfully, I've had plenty of help to enable my burgeoning addiction to Ikea clay pots. Its gotta be a dozen already. Basil for pesto, oregano chicken, mint for mojitos; yummy. Hibiscus, roses, palms, vines, vinca, and a variety of annuals now grace the patio. Add a dash of halogen for the night, garnish with small fountain, and voilà. Its actually NICE to look outside now.

I See London, I See France

Dreams are a funny thing. One of my fellow psychiatry resident LOVES to interpret them. As I was fully immersed in the most fulfilling sleep in recent memory, I had the following dream.

I was with a female friend learning Arabic at some slick looking institute or something when her teacher kept saying. “Yamaz.” Then I asked,

“What’s the difference between ‘yamaz’ and ‘yella?’”

Knock, knock, knock

Apparently it was NOON. Merde. Clearly I had underestimated my sleep deficit or overestimated my abilities. Dubai very kindly reminded me of the time, and offered use of the bathroom for grooming. Scrub, wash, brush. I straightened, inspected, and gave a nice Blue Steel in the mirror.

Off we went.

It was Dubai’s goal to find some food that was both delicious and not available in America. In the matter of availability this removed all but the most remote of food in the world, and in the matter of deliciousness it conversly removed all English foods. What’s left?

Japanese pizza. Kid you not.

Dubai stood proud and donned a big Scandinavian smile as we arrived at Abeno Too to have said pizza. I chose the Osaka Mix and they cooked it right on the burner in front of me. It was thankfully less acrobatic than our American Japanese steakhouses, for I fear the consequences of such with a ‘pizza.’

It was a weird combination of eggs, onions, bacon, parsley and thinly sliced dried ham and moved in a strange serpentine manner like a hundred tiny vipers to a charmer. I’d never seen anything like it. Dubai chose a decidely less active omelety looking Japanese burrito thing and we both delighted in the experience. Hoji cha (that robust and woody Japanese tea) was poured, we cleaned our palettes and left.

We were making our way toward the Parliament building when we stumbled on a demonstration in Trafalgar Square. MY PEOPLE! Dubai looked a bit bewildered as there were no fewer than a thousand Bengalis shouting about saving curry houses. I of course explained my inordinate intense love of India, love of Bengalis, and love of curry houses. His furrow brow lifted, and he cheerfully suggested pics be taken.

Laura, a friend of Barré’s I met in Houston, was studying in London but called to say that she would unfortunately not be able to meet us given her massive paper on the efficacy of the HPV vaccine. Sighs were exchanged and Dubai and I approached the Parliament Tower.

We were absolutely dumbfounded of how to reach the small park in front of it. There were people there sitting and relaxing yet there were no identifiable crosswalks and pretty harried traffic circle poised to take kneecaps quicker than Tony Harding. Just as we were discussing the above, there was a whole flock of small children in Boy Scouts (or their British equivalent) led briskly across the street despite imposing buses and spirited hatchbacks.

We looked at each other and bolted across the street...safely...to reach the curb of the park.

Perfect. Dubai remained uncharacteristically passive and cheerless as I gathered snaps of him in front of the Tower (and then gave into the silliness), the same way I used to protest pictures in front of any Washington monument, memorial, or other neoclassical DC building. So we exchanged spots on the grass and attempted to add another jumping shot to my collection. Successful. Kudos to Dubai’s photo skills. We then walked toward the Tate Modern. Before approaching the behemoth former powerstation turned art museum, I again became distracted by a flurry of acrobatic skaters under a bridge in a cocoon of graffitied walls. I intimated to Dubai my childhood desire to be a skater (very unfortunate), and off we sauntered. We quickly stopped at a giant, curious metal cylinder with cameras on its periphery that was installed on the walkway. A jumpsuit-clad dark haired Briton explained "The Memory Project." Must be more art. I was disgusted with a rather candid shot of me eating caramelized nuts, but Dubai gave another big Scandinavian chuckle.
After taking a call in what I can only assume was some Eastern European language, we arrived in Tate’s side entrance. The giant crack in the floor of the museum’s foyer (it was artistic people) was filled as was the elevator to the top floor for tea. Tea ordered, Dubai verbally slaps my wrist for attempting to tip, and I put my chair-seeking skills in overdrive and score two bar stools looking out onto the Thames and St Paul’s. Nice.

I became chagrined as more light, deep, and in between conversation with Dubai made me internally question this worlds horrible immigration policies.
In keeping with our rapid pace, we headed over that previously shaky Millennium Bridge to Old old London. We giggled as we passed Ye Old Cock, debated the ease of learning Farsi (easy), Urdu (hard), and Bangla (still up for debate), and mulled over potential countries of citizenship and career. Though I probably should have said it, I clearly think of Dubai as one of this world’s singular creatures and it really kinda pains me to think citizenship could strangle potential global contributions. Alas...the road ahead.

I was immediately blasted from sympathetic melancholy by Muji. This is the super simple Japanese store that I had been cyberstalking for MONTHS. Dubai seemed perplexed by my fanaticism as apparently this store is apparently as common as fog in London. I remained restrained and purchased a mere two postcards, and some small passport sized books. Dubai suggested I jot down quick points about my day as I travel and my eyes dilated.

A breeze through Chinatown led back to Dubai’s where he was preparing some curry cabbage. He stuffed his near sacred swim gear in a bag and walked me back to the train station. Hugs, and promises of meeting in Buenos Aires next followed lightly and fragrantly. My sadness to depart from such a WONDERFUL time was balanced by my desire to thoroughly consume Paris’ glory.

Train ride was short and child-free, merci à Dieu.
J’arrive à Paris.