Greater Los Angeles: more tattoos than business suits.

That’s my one-line summary. (For more photos, click here.)

When I told friends about my visit there, two-thirds of them warned that I might not like it: ugly architecture, no history, dirty-slummy bits, phony people who judge you constantly. The remaining third raved about it: great weather, awesome food, incredible beaches, a really rich indie-creative culture. The only verdict shared in common? It’s a polarizing city, and I’d have to visit to figure out which pole I’d be at.

…Or not. I’m not sure if it was my frame of mind going there, having been briefed of its pluses and minuses, and having prepared myself to expect its flaws and possibly hate it. Maybe it’s that I’m easy-going. Or maybe it’s just that sun, sand, sea and art appeal to me at such a core, essential level that I’m willing to trade-off a great deal to have them. Whatever the reason, my response to the city was decidedly ambivalent, leaning positive, but not severely so.

I’ll start with the downsides. Yes, there were areas that looked like red-light districts and marijuana havens, grungey with neon-lights and general sketchiness. For anyone familiar with the often elegant, historic and tasteful streets of the East Coast, these streets aren’t easy to swallow. Hollywood and the Venice Boardwalk are prime examples of this, littered with bong shops and sex shops and medical marijuana outlets. This really is the place where weird is deemed wonderful, and pleasure is a justified ends in itself.

I might not personally ascribe to that equation, but I know and accept that it exists. When Martin Luther King says “Let freedom ring,” I have other ideas in mind, but I get that this is another interpretation of the same ideal. It did shed some light, for me, on why several pop stars, especially women, find themselves going down a certain hyper-sexualized route as they move through their careers—making their art in those surroundings, I’m not sure other alternatives seemed available, or viable. Contrast their music with the delicately sparse and haunting music of one Toronto-based Leslie Feist—still sexy, but so understated, so delicate, so… snowy. Place finds its way into art. 

But the sun. That California sunshine is everything it’s cracked up to be. It’s what cool shades were made for. And Havies—I couldn’t resist buying a pair of silver ones fromLight Blue whilst strolling down the Venice Boardwalk (they are so comfy, I absolutely do not regret this spontaneous buy). Life hits the sweet zone when you’re on a Southern California beach, sand and sea between your toes, sun setting in the distance. That’s the truth. 

And the music. I might’ve seen people playing guitars and writing music together every other block of Palisades Park in Santa Monica. Paying just $10 to see some of the best up and coming singer-songwriters out there at The Hotel Cafe was a dream come true. I could get lost in Amoeba Music for hours, trolling through densely packed racks of cheap and rare records. 

And the action. The Clintons were in town that weekend, at venues that were walking distance from the motel I stayed at (I was in Hollywood). Fellow Jumbos that I met while I was there filled me in on the cool free/early screenings that go on around the area (where Sarah Silverman will just drop in to provide live comic commentary because she’s in town), on the next-big-thing film scripts they get to hear about before they’re even close to being produced. Just by being there, you’re in the thick of things. 

Now throw in the food. Eat really well for really little? Absolutely. For its huge reputation, the prices at In-and-Out are insanely small. Who thought even fries could taste properly fresh—those potato sticks were definitely not frozen first! I also had the best Japanese food I’ve had in a really long while at Shintaro Sushi, and whipped out my rusty Spanish to order a quesadilla and taco at a little hole-in-the-wall place I found on Yelp (everyone else ordered in Spanish…)—yay for West Coast cuisine options. 

All things considered, I think my verdict is best summed up as “I could get used to this.” The pseudo art deco architecture, which makes it feel like someone pressed pause on the area during its glory days of the 1940s-50s golden age of cinema. Glimpsing body art on nearly everyone, young and old, biker or professional or neither. Being a bus ride away from the ocean, a street down from live music and celebrity sightings, a corner away from great cuisine—I could definitely get used to all that. 

So bring it on, LA! Show me more of what you got. 

For friends who don’t yet know: I’m moving to Los Angeles for the start of 2012. 

Three Home Bases

About to embark on a flight journey that’ll have me touch down in all three of my home bases!

Best part is, I get to do it again in a week. ;)

USA->UK->SG

I promise to return to writing and photo posting when I reach home. It’s been a PACKED Fall!

Checking In, Checking Out

In just a few hours, I will be on my way to the West Coast! More specifically, Los Angeles. I hear the high will be NINETY-FIVE degrees tomorrow. Yikes! 

Here’s to coming back to Boston with tan. 

*For the rest of my photos from the trip, click here. 

Chicago. Here’s what I heard: Great city, but don’t go between October and April. Eat deep dish.

Now that I’ve been, I don’t know why people don’t rave about this city! Stunning architecture, wide streets, great art, sweet people, spot-hitting comfort food, incredible shopping, and it’s not even expensive (compared to Boston prices). Like a non-claustrophobic, clean, friendly New York city—wouldn’t have thought that was even possible. Sleek urban chic, not grunge. 

Highlights:

  • The Bean (or more correctly, Anish Kapoor’s Cloud Gate)—definitely one of those things you just have to see in the flesh, to experience its endless intrigue. 
  • Shedd Aquarium might be the best aquarium I’ve ever been to—maybe I’ve been tricked by it’s cheap basic ticket price of $8 (score!!), or by the way it kicks the New England Aquarium’s behind, but hey, they’ve got Beluga whales: instant legendary status. 
  • The Art Institute for its numerous Monets, Picassos and Dalis, my new favorite Van Gogh (pictured above), and for having a cool section dedicated to architecture and modern design. 
  • The view from the John Hancock Tower. If you want the not-so-insider’s tip on where the best place to stand is, ask me (or my fellow travelers). 
  • It’s a little far out, but Evanston’s a lovely town, and Northwestern beach is gorgeous. William and Will had a great time photographing themselves “eating” Chicago like a sub. 
  • Don’t expect mind-blowing, tear-inducing cuisine—it’s not—just enjoy the local for what it is: fat-laden, guilt-inducing hunks of carbs. Yummy, yummy carbs. Deep dish pizza, Chicago style hot dog, Italian beef sandwiches, cheddar cheese and caramel popcorn. Guaranteed to motivate you to take that long jog the day after (I did). 
  • The Miracle Mile—fabulous architecture and shop selection. And they seem to bring in a better, much wider range of goods than Boston does too, at lower prices. 
  • Attending my first baseball game at Wrigley Field! The Cubs didn’t do too well this past season (sorry guys), so it was really easy to get tickets. I’m still not caught up on all the rules of baseball, but the ball game atmosphere really is easy to get into and enjoy. 
  • Unwittingly stumbling into and being perhaps the only non-African-American patrons of hip-hop/club venue, The Shrine, down south. We were severely under-dressed, in our cargos/corduroys/jeans—people were so lushly decked out and having a great time. It helped that we were waived the cover charge and entry frisk… (friends, you really have to talk to me in-person about this one)

We spent a few afternoons and nights just wandering the city, admiring the buildings and bridges and fountains. It was such a marvel to me, the way all those structures could represent such an assortment of different styles from the past century and a half (I think?), and yet go so well together.

Oh! It was also very nice to get to catch up with Kara. (:

Random as the trip was, it was so incredible, and I’m so thankful it happened. Thanks, Williamses! 

Tomorrow—Chicago!

Here’s the funny story of how I came to be making a trip to Chicago on a random September weekend—I love telling this story.

It’s a Sunday afternoon and William and I had just had a work shift together. I’m walking over to The Burren at Davis Square to watch Liana play Irish music, so I ask William if he wants to come along, and he says sure, he’s always up for a drink. On the way to Davis, we pass by his house on College Ave, and run into his housemate and friend, Will and Maura. They’re on their way to Davis too, to catch the T out to Revere Beach for the sand sculptures, so we walk together. We tell them our plan and they say sure, they have time for a drink, they’ll join us. The four of us sit down at The Burren, get our drinks, and as Liana and her fellow musicians are setting up, we keep chatting, and their trip to Chicago in September comes up. Out of the blue, someone—I believe it was Maura—asks, “Want to join?”

I paused for all of two seconds (not quite sure I believed this was happening) before I said, “..yes?”

And that’s it. All I needed to know to say yes: (1) The trip was taking place outside of the October-April period for which Chicago’s climate is inhospitable, and (2) nice people were asking me and were seriously okay with having me tag along. 

That’s how badly I want to see Chicago. 

Done in the last two weeks:

  • Traveled back to Singapore for a week—flight time estimate: 20 hours there, 20 hours back.
  • Participated in a full-day of wedding festivities—setting and decorating desserts in the early morning, attending the wedding service, singing at the bride’s side tea ceremony, feasting through the traditional ten-course thirty-table dinner (congratulations again, Amanda and Nathaniel!). 
  • Had eight get-together meals or mini-meals with old friends (and a made a couple of new ones, by association!)—ie: ate great Singaporean food non-stop.
  • Moved into a new apartment, from one Greater Boston neighborhood to another (actually, I might be able to consider myself in Boston proper now!).
  • Went back to work at Demos.
  • Prepped and rehearsed every night of this week (beginning Monday, Sep 5) as stage crew for “Dearly Beloved,” the Colab Theatre Company’s show, which runs this weekend (Fri-Sat, Sep 9-10) and next weekend (Fri-Sat, Sep 16-17)—come for the show, all Boston area residents!

It’s been a great couple of weeks. A lot of work, a lot of fun, really busy, but really happy.

The studying/graduating now done - the personal projects resume.

I have four albums of photos from Rome, uploaded on facebook:

It’s been more than a year now since Ellen and I were in Rome. We spent six days there, living in a little hostel right by a university. I remember the city spilling over with people, mostly tourists like us, scrambling all over ourselves to try and see and take in as much of the city’s thousands of years of history as we could. Our six days were jam packed, with churches, ruins, art, catacombs, and delicious, delicious food. (Did I mention churches? Right - just checking.) Yet we probably hardly scratched the surface of this sprawling, hopping, eternal city.

Rome is one of those cities where wandering is incredibly profitable. That’s how we spent most of our time there: on our very first day, we were aimlessly walking down some streets, noting the preponderance of orange buildings, when we saw a sign for a church/tourist sight, and stumbled on in. Deep into the church, on the right - lo and behold, Moses! After taking our fill of photos and admiring Michelangelo’s skill, we fell right out into the sunshine again, to wander some more. At some point, we turn a corner - oh, there we are, the Colosseum. Just standing there, nonchalantly. What, you never seen a colosseum before? Been right here for the past.. oh, I don’t know, ten thousand years? Don’t act so surprised. 

The real surprise came via the Roman skies, on the second or third night: rain. Pouring rain, not like the wimpy all-day rain of the UK and the Northeast USA I love showing such disdain for, more like the tropical monsoon rain I grew up with, without the frills of thunder and lightning. I remember being cold and soaked to the bone, plodding back to our hostel after dark, getting lost and wondering why it seemed so much farther away than it should’ve been, not quite able to process that we were in Italy. Naturally, there are no pictures of that night - don’t be fooled by the uniformly sun-drenched photographs; the weather in Italy varies just like anywhere else!

I should mention that we visited Vatican City three different times. Three times! The second time was extra special though: we had had dinner the previous night in the dining room of a little hospice run by nuns, who allow the public to come in and have a simple meal, the proceeds going towards the hospice. The food was amazing, in the home-cooked, belly-loved way - Ellen even liked her peas (she does not like peas) - and one of the nuns in charge happened to see us saying grace before we began, joining us for the final “amen.” When we were settling the check, she looked at us earnestly, tried to begin in English - Ellen let her know she spoke Italian - then relievedly broke into Italian, and asked us if we would like to see the pope tomorrow. What..?! She produced two red slips of paper - tickets to the weekly papal address that happens on Wednesdays. We thanked her profusely, and left the dining room feeling incredibly blessed that night. That’s when we captured those dreamy night shots of the Castel Angelo and St. Peter’s.

I’ve hardly ever eaten better in my life. I’ve become comically dissatisfied with prosciutto or cured meats made anywhere outside of Italy/the Mediterranean, since enjoying a prosciutto and cheese (can’t remember which kind of cheese… feta?) sandwich from a deli near the Spanish Steps. Getting to people-watch from a bench by the Spanish Steps as we munched away may have had something to do with the ascendent quality of that consumption experience. I don’t know the pizza of Naples, but I do know the pizza of Rome, and it is delicious, and incredibly easy to eat by the pizza - it’s very thin and crispy, so each person is meant to have a whole pizza to themselves, as I learned from Olga. I never realized focaccia bread is mean to be pizza crust, without the toppings - we found this out while eating at a salad restaurant near/in the Vatican City, where they served it to us. It’s sort of like naan. Our meal at Cannavota ranks amongst the best restaurant meals I’ve had in my life, alongside Casa Lucas, especially with its incredible waitstaff. 

Yet the sensation I most associate with Rome is that of the surreal. Seeing and exploring buildings and ruins that are thousands of years old; walking on cobblestones and pavements along pathways that have existed for just as long; moving amongst the excavated tombs of first to fifth century Christians, who upon death had their bodies buried whole in anticipation of Christ’s return and their raising to life (they believed their bodies had to be physically intact to be raised to life), whose bodies had to be buried outside the city limits by Roman law, whose deaths were sought by the Roman officials because it was believed that as long as the Christians were dead, they would no longer be threats. I’ve studied some history over the years; I am familiar with broad swaths of world history from maybe maybe the last two centuries. I myself am only three years past twenty. Here I am, seeing and walking on and exploring things that have existed a hundred or a thousand times more than myself, whose existence I can’t even fully process, mentally. It quite literally blew my mind. It very much put me in my place, recent little blip in human history.

And finally, Michelangelo. I believe I teared up, just looking at the pieta in St. Peter’s. I enjoyed the Sistine Chapel much less, only because we had to plough through so much more art beforehand and arrive there completely over-saturated, but the pieta definitely evoked something in me. That man was incredible, and made incredible contributions to humankind, and I sincerely hope we’ll see many more artists like him, who produce work that inspire awe for centuries after.  

Romance of the United Kingdom

Cheesy as it sounds, my relationship with Oxford - and perhaps England, or the British Isles (to include Ireland here) more generally - really is best characterized as a romance. Yes, I lived there in the flesh for a good nine months, “suffering” through the most work-intensive period of my life up till that point, so I should have no illusions of its idyllic-ness, should be acquainted with its flaws, should at minimum have come to know and accept that it is a real place with real-place-imperfections and challenges. But there is no denying the rosy tint that my mind’s eye sees it in, still, no denying the truth that even when I’m actually there, soaked to the skin in its erratic rain, feet soiled from trudging through its mud, tripping over its uneven ancient cobblestones, I am happy.

Before I arrived this time around, I did wonder if I would have a different response to it, did wonder if it was just a one-time experience, did wonder if I would find that the spell had dissipated, passed its one-year expiry date. On the flight(s) over, I felt so distant from it, felt like the year before was a complete other life that I’d stepped out of. I felt like I was fighting my way back to the UK, that I had all this crud from the past year that I needed to shed off, that I was shedding off, in flight. Like I was reuniting with someone that I’d fancied and had fancied me back in the past, and finding out if we would hit it off again, if we could work something out. All I can say now is meeting met, romance rekindled, there is nothing I can do about it, I don’t quite understand it myself, it completely defeats my no-nonsense-minimal-drama sensibilities, bring on the rain and British clouds, I am helplessly in love.

Even more telling: I am completely unable to give a satisfactory response to the simple question, “How was your trip/Oxford/the UK?” I just start gushing stupidly, entirely incomprehensible as I ramble on and on in stock phrases like “it was amazing/awesome,”  that don’t actually help the listener to picture what Oxford is like at all, nor what my friends there are like. 

So here’s my attempt to be somewhat coherent. 

I’ll start with Port Meadow, one of my favorite places in the world. I don’t think I’ll soon forget picnicking there with Tom and Daisy on one of my last days in Oxford last year, watching the horses and cows and sheep and geese across the river from us. Walking there with Daisy and Tom again this time, after a good meal and catch-up at the Royal Oak, was such a blessing. 

There was the garden play we caught, Oscar Wilde’s “The Importance of Being Ernest,” so typically Oxfordian in its setting and character. I remember sitting there and just marveling at the fact that we most definitely are back, watching a play in a courtyard just off the busy St. Giles road that’s magically quiet just by virtue of being within college walls, with the college Master sitting by his window, snapping photos. We also saw the improv group the Oxford Imps at the Wheatsheaf pub, and the press preview of the production that a bunch of our friends are involved with, Tamburlane - student performances, student-run, all incredibly professional. Always so much to see and do in Oxford. 

There was the adventure to Churchill’s grave and Blenheim Palace that Sam spontaneously took us on, with music and a picnic feast in his boot! We sang Taverner’s “If Ye Love Me” to Churchill, jumped on the little train, conquered the second largest hedge maze in the world, visited the Palace’s state rooms, walked through the rose gardens - brilliant on all counts. 

Of course, there was dear old Pembroke College. We attend and sang with the Chapel Choir for CU Chapel Service, we cheered for W1 in the Summer Eights rowing competition and watched them bump Wadham RIGHT IN FRONT OF US as we stood in the gut of the river, we chatted with the porters, we had formal hall in the newly renovated Forte Room, we ate ourselves silly with sandwiches and summer berries at the Garden Party - Pembroke pride, alive and well. 

But most importantly, we hung out with these guys (and many others not pictured, of course!):

We talked, we watched youtube videos (or watched the boys play Tony Hawk’s…), we giggled and laughed till odd hours, our hosts had a barbecue and nearly all the Pembroke second years came out, we had lunch with Maria in Christ Church meadows (and then lay out in the sun on the grass for 3 hours), we sat for hours on a bench chatting with Ed in Lincoln, I had long meals and walks and talks with Singaporean buddies… It was magnificent. The kind of magnificent that leaves you in grateful disbelief, at the wonderful people you’ve gotten to know, at the strength and depth of your friendships. People whom you enjoy and trust, who feel the same towards you, and with whom it seems so easy to pick up again with, no matter the time you’ve spent apart or the different places you’ve been in. 

So friends, and Oxford - again, I will see you later. How much later, I don’t know - might be a year or two, may be much, much more (especially given current finances) - but I don’t think I can stay away forever!

Goodbye, only for now. 

Enough of this radio silence - I need to write for pleasure!

Our visit to Madrid has become such an important reference point for the continuation of my Spanish studies this year. My professor and conversation group instructor are both from Madrid, and just being able to picture their home city in my mind gives me this sense of affinity with them, somehow. It sounds bogus, I know - how much can I learn about a city in just a few days of being there? - but it’s been so helpful for me, a seemingly lone Senior struggling to express herself in a class of much more skilled and practiced Sophomores and Juniors. Necesito a tanto apoyo que puedo obtener. (I don’t even know if that’s grammatical. Hm.)

Madrid, in my mind, is one of the great European capital cities, bustling and bursting with culture and colour. This is the city that houses Diego Velasquez’s “Las Meninas” and Pablo Picasso’s “Guernica”, that serves some of the best food I’ve ever had in my life - please, please, please go to Casa Lucas if you can; it may change your life - that I will always remember fondly, in wonderful memories of travelling with Ellen, Ivee and Daniel.

Highlights:

  • Discovering, whilst stumbling about in the rain, looking for a place to hide from the cold, just how genuinely ubiquitous the dubious institution of the “Irish Pub” is;
  • Meeting up with Mary and her high school Spanish teacher, and having authentic Ecuadorian food;
  • Food-Googling with great success;
  • CASA LUCAS (ask Ivee for detailed run-down of which dishes we had!);
  • Enjoying after dinner gelato from San Mercado - so good;
  • Having a laughing fit in el Parque del Retiro over nothing we can remember!

Hasta luego, Madrid. 

Barcelona: The Tale of the Attempted Snatch-Theft

This is the tale that I need to tell because word of mouth currently has it that I’m a hero, when the true hero, if anyone, is someone else (waitress at cafe!), but that aside - it was a team effort. Let me explain:

Six of us were hanging out at the beach: Ellen, Fiona, Lauren, Lydia, Will and me. While the rest went to dip their feet in the water, Lauren and I stayed up on border between the pavement and the sand, taking photos from our vantage point and looking after all our stuff (we’d pooled all our stuff together in one spot). We must have looked like the most clueless tourists for miles around, because we weren’t really paying attention to our things, weren’t holding them down with our hands, hadn’t put our legs through the bag loops or anything (we learnt these strategies only after). It probably didn’t help that one look at us would have told you, “oh, English and Chinese girl, must be tourists.”

A man comes walking slowly up to us. He’s middle-aged, quite disheveled, has a ghostly look in his eyes. He doesn’t really make eye contact, he just takes Ellen’s purse, and keeps walking away. Lauren and I are completely confused, we go over and yank Ellen’s purse from him. It’s not a moment’s business, he’s quite determined to hold on to it. It’s enough time for him to mumble something to us - Lauren genuinely doesn’t know what he’s saying, I catch enough understand, but pretend not to: he keeps saying “para comer, para comer” - ie: to eat. Please give me something so I can eat.

We keep shaking our heads at him, while pulling Ellen’s purse back. Eventually, we succeed, and we go back to our things, but he follows us back too, and we pick up on this, so we try to hold down everything so he can’t take anything else, but we’re not fast enough - he sees Lydia’s bag, lying on the fringes, and this time, he grabs it and makes a run for it.

I know what happened next went by quickly - probably not more than 3 to 5 minutes - but it felt so long. It must have been the number of thoughts running through my head, or how traumatically aware I was of what was happening.

I see him run off with Lydia’s bag, and I take off after him.

Now, I have to clarify that this was by no means heroic. I did not think for a moment I was going to catch him (I did not), let alone know what I was going to do even if I had (What, pounce on him?! Take him down?! This is ridiculous!) - all I knew was he’s running, I have to run too, if we lose sight of him then hope really is all lost for Lydia’s bag. You could say I did it because there was nothing else I could do.

So I ran after him. There’s a group of bystanders, they see me running, they catch on - they start shouting “Policia! Policia!”. 

Now here’s the heroic part. We run past a cafe by the beach, and a waitress come running out with a broom, shouts at the thief, and throws the broom at him. She throws the broom at him. I kid you not! He drops the bag, but keeps running. The waitress picks it up. More on that later.

Now here’s more silliness, on my part: I don’t see him drop the bag, so since he keeps running, I keep running. We run past some policemen - I cannot for the life of me understand whey they’re not helping me out! (I think he showed them his empty hands.) Will, the only man of our group, sees me running, he runs over, starts running with me in his bare feet, and overtakes me. We chase him down a nearby street, he disappears up one of the staircases. I still think he has the bag, and now I think I’ve lost him, I’ve stopped running now so now I’m in a full-fledged panic. There are passers-by on the street where I think I’ve lost him, a lady and a man by his car - I’m desperate, so I stop them, and ask them if they speak English. They say no, and are about to go on about their business, so under pressure, I just blurt out in my broken Spanish “Una persona toca el…. BAG de mi amiga!!” (This is absolute rubbish by the way - basically, I don’t know the word for thief, I still can’t conjugate to save my life and wow, don’t remember the word for “bag”. Great.) Somehow, they get my meaning! They ask me where he went, I think they’re about to help me get in touch with the police when the waitress from the cafe finally catches up with me and tells me that he dropped the bag, it’s with her colleague in their cafe. You can imagine my relief. Well, some embarrassment as well, but much more relief.

Will and I walk back to the cafe, where the rest have gathered, and we get the bag from the lady’s colleague, extremely thankful. The group of middle-aged bystanders who saw everything happening talk to us, keep pointing to their skin and telling us to be wary of immigrants, giving us tips for keeping our belongings safe (they’re speaking in Spanish, so they use lots of “live demonstrations”). When the waitress returns, we go into the cafe to thank her and tell her she’s a hero, she says we’re going to make her cry! (She tears up, it’s really sweet.) Lydia said when she saw him take off, she knew it was her bag somehow, but she just gave it up to God and knew she was going to get it back.

Doesn’t it sound like it could’ve been an hour? Nope, just 5 minutes. 5 frightening minutes.

When we told the story to Oriol, he said, of the almost snatch-thief,  “Poor man.” I couldn’t agree more. That look of desperation he had about him, I’m always going to remember it.