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.

Non Sequitur

Per usual, I've got another jumping shot to add to the collection courtesy of my friend Dubai, and Augustus Welby Northmore Pugin (1812- 1852).

Asianese Please

Unskinny Bob’s. No. We were not being impolite; this was the club we were to frequent Dubai and I. After a short tube ride, we arrived a bit astonished; more specific, I arrived astonished. At this quasi-rickety nouveau-chic, East-End building, we confronted a queue that hugged the corners of the sidewalk. A part of my initial anxiety was lifted as Dubai was again greeted by warm coterie of 80s-fashioned Asian women.

Asian women are fun.

There was one whose countries of heritage did not match her ethnicity. She would be our main liaison for the evening. Polish bred, Swedish-raised, with Surinamese siblings. Yes....of course. How 2008. Given London’s relatively lax open container laws, cider was purchased and shared in line. We spent the next 40 minutes or so discussing London, Dubai’s accidental non-Scandinavian birth, and Lego earrings. The latter of the conversation was not well-received by the wearer, as she thought of this as essentially de rigueur for any posh Londoner on the scene to don any manner of 80s children’s toys or other pop icons of that era.

12:04am

The door guy (for he was not the bouncer) was this emo-sque, cardigan wearing gentleman with equal hefty helpings of tattoos and piercings of most visible skin and/or cartilage. He reminded me of an unfortunate malnourished mule given his wild shock of red hair.

“Unfortunately, we will not be able to let you in. Please don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

These were the words that he related to the trio of young women just in front of the Asians and myself. The protested, cajoled, and huffed with arms crossed then waving in a manner similar to the taxi driver from that morning at the Paris airport.

Def-eat-ed.

No worries though, the scene and the company alone was more than enough to satisfy the trip for me. Dubai related the proper British use of “twatting it up” as it related cogently to our company. Thus, we left all the Asians, who were formulating (far too slowly) plans for later. Our plans for later included walking to Dubai’s neighborhood now.

My astonishment found new home in Dubai and his Polish/Swedish friend. It is impossible, as Dubai intimated, to do anything spontaneously in London. This served in stark contrast to my experience in Paris where it is impossible to anything with any level of planning. Dubai apologized for unnecessarily and we instead decided to eat some Asian food.

The restaurant had some amazing music but was located in the basement for unknown reasons. Dubai, and moreso myself, found nothing edible, but dabbled, lived in the moment and left. The rest of the evening can be summed as follows:

Walk, gasp at queue, walk gasp at queue, walk....

It was GREAT. My people watching was on hyperdrive and I learned all about the Asianese subcultures and scenes. There is apparently an incredible diversity. We arrived at Dubai’s postcard-festooned flat, had warm red currant watched the Office and various other Amerovision programming and passed out.

It was the most beautiful, merciful, and replenishing sleep EVER. Dubai has a cozy-spare bedroom with a equally cozy down comforter. After a 10 hour flight, a two hour train, and a total of three countries in 24 hours, IT WAS BLISS. And off I slipped to dreamland.

Reservations

Beautiful, merciful, and replenishing sleep.

Didn’t get any of that on the train. I did however receive the cacophonous chorus of the most delightfully hyper kindergarteners this side of Disneyworld.

I peaked from under the brim of my hat to notice that I was literally surrounded by Barney’s key market (or whatever the French equivalent is). My heart certainly skipped a bit, but I was reliably distracted by the shrill of “ARRÊTE! C’est la mienne!” as it drowned out even the most powerful Aretha Franklin on my iPod. This was of course accompanied by the intermittent light and heavy kicks to the back of my seat. Defeated.

Somehow I squeaked out some sleep during the 2.5 hour journey across the English channel and but I’m sure the endorphins from my excitement of escaping Neurology in Europe evaporated all but the most stubborn of my sleepiness. I briskly walked toward the train exit but this time my distraction took hold of the most beautiful train station I’ve ever seen, St. Pancras.
Apparently I was some sort of church or something prior, but it is no less than a spectacularly remain train station that delivers you into central London from the Continent. As I peer out the doors, I see brown figure tower over some homely Britons. That would be Dubai and this would be our third country (France, United States, UK).

Joyous salutations abound and we are off to get Ethiopian food per (Ribs, my med school friend and sister-from-another-mister, somehow influences effortlessly everything she’s involved with, even in absence). Dubai waves and glows as he fraternizes with the workers whose own smiles suggest more than a casual knowledge of this Londoner. Unfortunately, they ain’t got no room.

“Hmmm....come back in 30 minutes. We should have something then.”

Off to Rouge Lounge across the street:
Vanilla Stoli and Coke
Vodka Soda
Work, Play, Travel and combinations thereof
Ribs, Chicago, schedules

Voilà. 30 minutes and we’re back at the Ethiopian restaurant. It was nice to share Ethiopian with someone who I may argue likes the East African food more than me and the sharp use of English was garnish. It pained me that I perhaps would missed this opportunity despite the very independent nature of my cousin and Halles back in Paris. No matter, as the past washed away and we were off to pre-party, or better yet, prepare.

We went to Dubai’s and shared his red currant vodka and I shared with him when we in the medical field most often refer to the berry (intussusception if you’re curious). As is often the case when one visits the place of someone’s residence, there were three surprises.

1. Dubai has wall after wall of postcards from corners of the earth that would fill Odysseus himself with wonder; and quite the odd collection too. He apparently requests the oddest-shaped and least-blue postcards from his and his friend’s travel.

2. Dubai seems to be no less than an indefatigable individual, but even I wouldn’t have imagined that he would live literally across from his work in an architecture firm. This was thankfully balanced by his admission that he is regularly late despite the cross street walk.

3. His door says 88. This may not seem so unusual save for the fact that down the hall of this second story hall, the apartments are designated as follows: 1, 2, 3, 88. Apparently there was a Asianese guy there before that preferred not to have the number of death, 4. After sharing some more Zoot Woman, and talk of Tecktonik were hopped on the Tube to rendez-vous some friends of his at a suitable locale to hang out. Thus began our evening.

Après Moi, le Deluge

So things got off to a rough start despite starting out as smoothly as can be. Think Clinton’s Presidential campaign circa December 2007. Barré was kind enough to let me freeload in his Town Car to the airport, courtesy of Emirates’ business class. Gracias. The airport screen was slow but painless, the flight was on time, movies acceptable, with 9 and a half hours went by faster than junior high. Then I arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. I love Paris despite its best efforts affronts to airport civility (see last year). I arrived what can be best described as a spaceship, Terminal 2A. It’s the sort of round shaped concrete that may be both architecturally praised and admonished, but more than this it doesn’t make much sense. I was assured by the crew in Houston that I would be able to remain behind security to reach Terminal 2E were my cousin Leon and his friend Halles were in the arrive.

Nope.

After being needlessly corralled, and subject to yet more queues and what seemed like the longest glass walkway in France, I found myself spilling out into the airport dropoff road; I gathered a simple rendez-vous with Leon and Halles would not be possible at this point. So after a circuitous shuttle ride, I arrived at 2A...30 minutes later. I’d all but given up christening our trio at the airport, seeing as I had the address to the apartment we were renting, but ALAS I see my cousin with his signature and paradoxically frenetic saunter coming out of customs. Hugs exchanged and lets find a taxi.

“Need a taxi?”

Normally my travel instinct forbids such potentially troublesome accosts, and this was no exception, but just as I was about to shoo away the francophone African, Leon blurts out:

“Taxi? Yeah. Let’s go.”

Hmm... Why not?...I guess. I tried out some of my French and ask our new friend, who is quickly whisking us to the bowels of the CDG’s ground transport, how much is a trip to the 1st arrondissement where our apartment awaited. In a baritone West African staccato, he paused looked up and responded, “Uh...€60.”

FISHY. But Leon is impatient, and so Halles and I are off to the ATM. A young taxi driver pulls me aside in the hall and intimates in his native French, “You know that’s not a taxi right? That’s a private car. A trip to downtown should not cost more than €40-45. How much is he charging you?”

“Il est un VOLEUR!” and all manner of angular gesticulation followed the aforementioned €60. Subsequently two...then four ironically paramilitary-clad French Police officers began lazily hovering around this man’s gestures like flies to honey.

Was it something a said?

Leon face looks perplexed and concerned as a number of police officers follow me outside to this private car. Our bags were mercilessly packed tightly in the tiny euro-hatchback and I could feel the drivers pensive worry as I tried to bargain down the price to €40.

Nope.

The bags come out with a speed that belies this country’s inefficient nature after I refuse a €50 fare. I’m sure our African friend’s celerity was encouraged by a healthy fear of becoming familiar (or perhaps more familiar) with the French po-pos. In either case, Leon for a moment was speechless as I explained what had just taken place.

Let’s try again.

We then were ushered to the proper taxi stand and hired a bigger cheaper car to take us to the city center. Halles looked peacefully out the window as Leon fidgeted with something or other and I tried to give the address to the driver, also a member of the African diaspora. After a perplexed look, which by now I had unfortunately become accustomed to, he corrected my pronunciation of “quarante-deux.”

Can’t catch a break today.

After a €44 cab ride we arrive. Leon did an excellent job of scouting for an apartment to rent. Café directly below us, boulangerie and patisserie and four markets literally 20 steps away from the door in any direction. I must admit the events of the morning slipped away as new mothers forget the pain of childbirth in the eyes of her new child. In an incredulous and equally loud manner Leon of course, wondered where our apartment contact was, as we had called him from the taxi with our well-predicted time of arrival.

I called again, fumbled through more French and he came around the corner with his apron still on. Apparently he also owned the Lebanese restaurant not a block from the building. Keys came out, instructions given, linens delivered, and cash exchanged.

Nous arrivons.

I had booked a Eurostar train to London for an impromptu visit to my Pakistani-bred, Emirates-born, California-schooled London resident and fellow wanderlust-ailed friend, Dubai. I grabbed my trusty green daybag, which I prepacked in Houston and found myself blissfully navigating the urine-fragranced Metro to Gare du Nord. I jumped out when the train became suitably West African and made my way to the Eurostar terminal. Thus began my London sojourn.

Tecktonik! Super chouette!

I can't stop watching.

During my recent trip to Chicago, my Pakistani, Dubai-native, Londoner friend kept teasing me with what he described as "TECKTONIK! C'est super chouette (its super cool). I'll send links." Dubai had the same level of excitement he reserves to relating stories about Turkish trysts, or Scandanavia so I assumed it had to be something. So, alas, after a whirlwind Chicago weekend when Dubai was Stateside, I have been the very fortunate recipient of the aforementioned links. I'm certainly no stranger to electronica, but this is a weird mix of dancing that borrows alot of break-dancing, hip-hop, and techno. Add some arm-flailing and bingo, you've got yourself Tecktonic. Its interesting that this has been brought to the same people that produced Descartes & Sartre. In any case, I thought I'd share. I've got vacation in Paris later this month and my desire to check this out...or even participate...is struggling with my desire not to be a herb. That and my Afro-American pride refuses to be recipient of retro-grade trends from that side of the Atlantic. It's supposed to be other way around right à la rock, jazz, blues, hip-hop, break-dancing, etc., right?

Perhaps not always. We'll see if I get all Tecktonik in France.

Friday in Chicagoland

The unfortunate thing about floor to ceiling windows is that let it a hot tranny mess load of light in the AM. My eyelids protested in vain against a flood of piercing and cold white light as I stumbled across the hall to take the most urgent tinkle of my adult life.

After washing les mains in lavatory, I let out a very substantial, "WHA?"

It was snowing.

This makes 2/3 times I travel to Chicago in what seems and endless barrage of snow. No, matters. It does look gorgeous from the 17th floor, but lacks any true threat to my now, comfortable and infinitely less urgent constitution.

Back to sleep... and sleep.....and sleep.

DAMN! I woke up hella late. My ambitious plans for tackling phase three of my Chicago personal tour is quickly evaporating. I haven't woken up this late since....well...probably the day after Ribka's Halloween party with the Mexicans and Poles. Always a footnote. Guided tour of Southside Chicago will have to make due with the Japanese tourists today.

Self-tour of DuSable Museum it is. Decided.

shower

vigorous vents and dents

cower...

ravenous brunch of crunch

I ponder why orange juice always taste funny after toothpaste as I put on my wooly armor in silence. Ribs is working, the Man is gone to see his beautiful mamma in Minnesota. Keys in pocket, I confidently saunter out the front to meet my new companion niège. She's kinda cold.

Taxi it is.

Blocks blocks and blocks roll by anonymously. There's a cool steely yet gossamer el-train tunnel to the left with a near perfect modern compliment building below and beside it. Birds flutter in the white sky. Michigan Ave spills into deeper numbers, we cross a crystalline Washington Park, and arrive....kinda.

I pay the cabby who insists the 80s groupthink-designed rear entrance is the front entrance. "You tryin' to go to the museum? You gotta go around to the front."

Humbly, back to the slush I trotted around to a remarkable granite-heavy front. Its a bit bewildering considering I can't make out road, from park, from sidewalk. This could be a gaudy backside for all I know à la pre-Diddy, J.Lo.

I museo-dork around but am disappointed. I misspelled Word docu indicates that the gallery of the second floor is closed and I'm forced to take the elevator town passed a terribly romanticized account of African history. There I people watch, wondering who are these other fellows visiting a museum on a Friday at 4pm. Student, hospital visitor (next door to U.Chicago hospitals), and security. Some of the art is compelling, but then I shutter to think what the National Museum of the African-American will look like when its completed in DC. Let is not be stale. You'd think with an amazing history as the gateway from the South for the American urbanization of the Negro, they'd have more stuff.

Always good to see a fellow alumnus MLK,Jr. and his speech. Very pleasantly surprised to see my favorite African American artist Henry Ossawa Tanner. Okeedoke. Time to leave.

Peruse the gift-shop, lose my hat, found my hat. Left gift-shop sans purchases. I bundle again, by now an expert at a quick exit from zero and decide to ditch the idea of taxi. I see what looks to be the U. of Chicago hospital where Ribs works, but quickly dismiss the implausibility of being so near where she works.

I take a very pleasant stroll through the park, and obviously bother some geese. How on earth do they stay so warm in that cold water? Texts from the boys indicating imbibes and Mar's place, so I decide to head downtown to meet up with Ribs later and grab some tea.

What was life before cheap internet phones? Googlemapped, the funky sounding Argo Tea Café. Hopped on trains, texted with Ribka briefly on the train about plans, as she planned to be off by 6pm. Walk around a bit the Loop and am delighted by the bustling activity. If the weather were in Houston, grandmas and abuelas would admonish any attempt to navigate, or God-forbid, enjoy it. I unwrap at a more-corporate-than-I'd-like tea shop. Order a tea and chicken wrap made by a infectiously bubbly barista and somehow end up spending somewhere north of $10? Who says this country is cheap? Then I recall that my friends that say that earn Euros or Pounds.

Using my table-getting skills honed in Atlanta coffee-shops as a study and tea-addicted college and medical school student. I snag one with a nice view of the shops denizens. There was a SoCal sounding duo to my right who insisted that their 'No War in Nepal' fundraising shirts be 'cute.' I withheld a small gag, but the Asian one was hot, so the male within me gave her special dispensation. There was a motley crew of gents to the left who for the life of me I could NOT figure out what they were up to. My phone indicates that Ribs will be on her way back home soon and its a mess of a day.

I pack, contemplate getting her some tea, but realize the silliness of training it back to South Loop then walking it for 20 minutes to deliver tepid tea. Besides, second busted locale of the day.

Train,

Michigan Ave,

18th,

doorman wave

keys,

hat,

scarf,

plop

Ribka phones ahead to summon her emergency reserve of champagne for another kir royale. Most of been a worse than expected. I doggedly tried to force the champagne in the ice maker and eventually became victorious. Poured the pumpkin seeds in the bowl and readied the glasses. The door begins to click and echo against the shiny wood floors and a exhausted and yet smiling Ribka drags through the door.

We sit after agreeing on the proper color for a kir royale and toast to a quasi-nasty day complete. She is now off...for a day. We catalogue "one of the the worst 10 days of [her] residency" and trade med stories again. I caught of guard a bit as Ribs used to pride herself for her lack of med-speak, but realize that she's seen far worse than I. Hugs. Pumpkin seeds. Well-worn decisions.

86'd the idea of deep dish in favor of one of my holy trinities of food, Ethiopian (beside Soulfood, and coconutty North Indian). Fitting. We leave late per usual, and indulged in some nostalgia on our way to the Northside to meet some of her friends.

We get a sweet parking spot right in front of the restaurant and cater-corner to my beloved Green Mill of my first pre-blog Chicago trip in 2004. We wait at the bar for inordinate amount of time for a table considering Ribs speaks Amharic and is a regular. Her friends arrive in pairs and are cooler than I expect. The Asian holds back a biting humor that I bathe in, and the other is another example of the delightfully blunt Jewish woman I seem to keep running into these days.

We finally snag a table and palm the honey wine to the table despite it looking a bit déclassé. We've got needs. Ribs orders per usual and we slip into a quasi-uncomfortable med speak, but quickly lighten things. Ribs protests that she still hasn't seen Dubai and insists on having the upper hand in the matter of meeting. Dubai, always adroit obliges and shows up after ping pong with Berlin, Mar, and Mar's cherubic man Cob.

At first echoed Ribs concern that these two groups may not mix well, given Dubai's fine taste in friends and exquisite adaptability it was HILARIOUS. The sharp Asian tirelessly attempted to fix Mar's zipper on his jacket; I was more concerned that his jacket was obscenely thin and quickly lost interest in Asian's success. Berlin gushed. He waxed poetic about the glories of Germany and its punctilious mass transit. He's had a few elixirs and is exudes his patented pleasant sea of calm. Dubai entertains. Mar is Mar, and still no time to really get to talk to J yet. Ribs' other friend silently joins the table amidst platters wot, kitfo, enjera, and numbers 12, 14, and 20. I'm not even sure what her voice sounds like, but Ribs insists she's good people. Good enough for me.

Time to party.

Ribs bids farewell to her medicine girls and we join our United Colors of Benetton crew for a lively night out. We leave a frou frou place for another, then in favor of grungy cross-town trek. Dubai notably and justifiably raises concerns about the distance. We bitch and whinge but it brings the former Paris redux and better focus. LOVE it.

Ribs tells Dubai that I'm visiting Paris April and he goes through his mental calendar. Busy guy. We scratch our heads for a reredux given limited time and joke about meeting in Fiji or something. Then I realize the plausibility of this happening and am warmed. We arrive at the country bar turned poppy palace for after hours, and then realize that this may be were L'Évêque concluded his evening during the December Chicagoing. Huh. I can see it. We have to stand outside for 1o minutes or so but are perplexed, then surprised, and then thankful for these incandescent heaters. Niiiiiiiiice.

Dancing with Ribs as Mar and J wiggle at the periphery. Dubai towers and bubbles and again I take in the scene and moment. Berlin, who is normally good for a nice exchange, even at a bar, has remained sentinel and is committed to having a little fun in the States. Night ends with another line at the coat check. We spill out the door. Most of us conclude the night.

Ribs demonstrates the lower friction coefficient of black ice, and we somehow manage get upstairs before passing out.

Keys, jacket, scarf, shirt, longjohns, jeans, bed crash.

End of day two.

Still More

Yeah, I know. There is still more Chicago to come.  Shooo...

Experienced, Imagined, and Delightfullly in Between

Chicago.

Yup. Again.

Thanks to an insanely light schedule on sleep medicine (seriously people, I’ve have had stress dreams), I was able make a quick four-day sojourn to recreate that amazing and dizzying weekend in Paris of yesteryear. Yup, that one. Remember the pics? Ribs, my favorite Ethiopian is an intern up in Chicago, and her college friend Dubai was doing another world tour with a stop in the Windy City. The stars aligned, the gods smiled, and it was PERFECT time to meet up.

So, I arrive at O’Hare, and am instantly reminded of my last trip in December to Chi-town (here, and here) with L’Éveque and Barré. Out of the airport, I get my 3-day visitor pass, hop on the CTA, and am whisked towards Ribka’s current digs in South Loop (it would be much more accurate to say I was very slowly rolled toward the South Loop as anyone knows who takes the lamentable Blue Line to and from the O’Hare). In any case, I escape from the bowels of the red line and am thrust to the less-than-bustling street at Roosevelt.

I am quickly reacquainted with winter despite the very recent vernal equinox. Out comes my trusty black scarf, leather gloves, and billed skully. Next comes a shabby black Honda that suggested a recent snow (or in Ribs’ case, no time for car washes). The car stopped at the green turning lane complete with Ribs clad in her best scrubs, East African cordiality, and light post-call veil of fatigue.

Talk of marginally competent nurses, 3am pages, frenetic days and other red badges of interns filled the frigid Japanese auto and laughter soon followed to an audience of slowly passing orange tinted street lights. SOOO, wonderful to see Ribs after a 8 month absence.
We arrive at her kick-ass apartment in South Loop which provides remarkable unobstructed views of the inky blue Lake Michigan and its counterpoint, glittering phallic representations of capitalism thrusting toward the sky. As a suitable start to the weekend, and merciful end to Ribs’ insane clinical day, we enjoyed a kir royale (one part crème de cassis and five parts champagne) for old times sake and light conversation. Her gregarious Eritrean husband and I insisted that she retire to bed (girl’s gotta work the next day).

I’m always in awe of Aman. While remaining perfectly engaging and affable, he’s able to tactfully explore a seemingly inexhaustible supply of financial, engineering, political, and cultural information. There was Calatrava’s new Chicago building, the arriving snows, planetariums, and of course Abisha (Ethiopian and Eritrean) everything. Always enjoy a great exchange.

Brrrriiiiiiinnnnng.
“OMFG! I’m hurrr! We r going to hubbard and state, o callahans?”

12:41a. First text message arrives from Dubai. His number spills over the lines of my phone betraying its transatlantic origin. Apparently he’s just arrived in Chicago from visiting family in California and is already getting started with shenanigans.

After a short and unconvincing assertion to Aman that I should call it a night, Aman gave me instructions for the best area to catch a cab. I of course briskly made my way toward the cabs and onward toward the aforementioned Irish bar. Off I went to my Pakistani, Dubai-native Sverge-phile, Londoner, and as the text indirectly suggested, some friends of his. The kir royale has the pleasant affect of providing suitable bastion against the bitter cold of Chicago, and the grand dame welcomes my arrival with her dizzying city lights. As we arrive closer, I point my South Asian cabby in the direction of O’Callahans across the street. The squeal of his brakes is quickly followed by the course cold sound of my Hamilton across the Plexiglas threshold. My excitement burgeons as I approach the Irish bar, and I’m asked for ID.

I effortlessly reach into my pocket to flash my Texas driver’s license. My excitement is quickly replaced by an increased sense of doom as I can NOT find it. Thankfully, the bouncers were in now mood for waiting and just asked my age and ushered me in. Though, it was a comfort that I wouldn’t have to be returning to Ribs’ immediately, I was understandably haunted by images of my lonely ID being trampled on the floor of Intercontinental by the flip-flops of sunburned Floridians, and the unwashed toes of intrepid Hare Krishnas. But alas, there are more important matters.

Immediately I spot Dubai, whom I haven’t seen in a year. I honestly hesitate thinking that it should be nearly impossible to spot him so quickly, but then I remember that he is 6’3” or thereabouts.

“Whatsup! I can’t believe I’m seeing you in your home country!” As always his language and observations are spot on. Stout American embraces and rapid exchanges and updates flurried about:

Me:
Psychiatry internship.
Flights.
Spring in Houston.
Ribs’ horrible day.
South Loop.
Vanilla Stoli and Coke.

Dubai:
ARUP engineering.
More flights.
Balmy California.
Swimming.
Cowboy boots.
Vodka soda.

Then introductions. Since I always love first impressions, I'll share them. First introduction was to his high-energy fellow Stanford alum, whom we'll call Mar. Mar is half Euro-Jewish and half Pakistani, and besides South Asian heritage, shares Dubai’s indefatigable nature; I instantly understood why these two fellows were friends. Instantly and equally intense and pleasant. Certainly a rare combination. Mar was just getting over a cold, but despite the scratchy nature of his voice, he did not hesitate to share it. Mar just matched into Emergency Medicine in New York seemed very bright and driven and self-confessed a very limited attention span (Emergency Medicine jackpot). His level of excitement was abuzz. That level is usually reserved for beauty pageant winners and oil execs after Ahmadinejad admonitions. I think I may like this guy.

Next up was Berlin; he was strangely a sea of calm amidst the maelstrom of energy and friendly inebriation of his amigos more than happily provided. Perhaps it was the liberal use of his pearly smile, or maybe it was the warmth of his words for Germany. Homeboy really likes Germany. Whatever it is, his neatly shabby flaxen coif and brow ring belies his very type-A job. I think I may like this guy.

There were other intros of course, but they came too late after my Vanilla stoli to have made a lasting impression unfortunately. The Irish pub, which like many places in Chicago was white as the snow is certain. We garnered no shortage of looks of course, not simply because of our unusual excitement. As a Black man in America, it becomes easy to shrug off the expectations and enjoy oneself, which I thoroughly participated in. I was delighted by Mar's excitement for New York as I recall my own anniversary of excitement, Match Day 2007. My thoughts that I would like this fellow were confirmed when I realize he reminds me of my best Cape Verdean Rhode Islander friend from college. I have a brief word with Berlin, and a briefer word with others, and before I know it I'm in a cab.
Poor cabby. Five 20 somethings with frontal lobe disinhibition, and not even a word of protest. Chicagoans are stout creatures. Goodness knows where we were going, though I thought that this would be an excellent point to chronicle the journey. This picture is one that was pretty indicative of Mar. "Fierce." This is of course one of 7 phrases that Dubai recounts as being used ridiculously often this trip. I digress.

We are whisked to some quasi-1980s building with a cavernous lobby, motionless and emotionless guards redolent of those Chinese guards in front of Tiananmen that time in Beijing. "Oh its the Hilton." K. Thanks. Berlin is apparently spending some Euro on the digs and we listen to "music." I was having trouble figuring out exactly what genre or even language to no avail. Dubai prophetically protested against the loud American decibel level, and Mar protested against his protests. There was smack about London and Europe thrashed about, Berlin and a ginger remained content. All I could think was that this situation was terribly random. Just the way I like it.

"KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK."

Yeah, so at least it wasn't the po-pos, but we instantly knew what a 3am knock on the door meant. As Americans, we most undemocratically selected the foreigner, Dubai, to answer to perhaps charm whomever was at the door with his exotic accent. Deferential, and apologetic, Dubai managed to shoo homeboy away. The vast majority of us elected to scram for the evening (as it was closer to 4am now). Dubai was staying with Mar and they walked back to his place, and I cabbed it back to Ribs'.

Waved at the doorman, walked to 17th floor door, fiddled with the door. Keys, jacket, scarf, shirt, longjohns, jeans, bed, crash.

End of day one.