This post is going to be all over the place, because lately my mind is, in fact, all over the place.
Two nights ago, I was on my way home to Orange County from work in LA, a drive I make three days a week, and frankly, I’ve hit a wall. It was fine for a while; it was just the grind. No big deal. But I’m in a different space now, and it’s possible that that space is delirium, because I was listening to Ave Maria as I drove, (this is where I would explain why the classical choice, but I just frickin’ like it) and suddenly to my ears, the song became the symphony that was leading this carefully choreographed ballet I’ve entitled Le Traffique. Cars were weaving into and out of lanes harmoniously, in time to each sustained note of the cello’s climbing scale. It felt like overhead music that every person on the freeway in that moment could hear, and we were syncing our movements in this delicate little dance. I swear the rpm of my tires began to match the rhythm of the beats and oh my God, I waited for the red underline to show up and it didn’t which means I just spelled rhythm right on the first try. The cars attempting to cut others off would swerve to the crescendos dramatically, and my brake-and-gos were simultaneous to the staccatos. Now I’m just saying music words. I don’t think Ave Maria has staccato notes. The rest I really did actively notice though. The point I’m getting to is this: My mind has numbed itself so hard to this commute that it has turned the hellfire of LA traffic into a lyrical dance sequence, and Ave Maria into a coping mechanism for this particular struggle. That’s gorgeous. I am fine. The monotony of this drive has also led me to think about some of the simple pleasures I enjoy in life, in great detail. Here we go. I used to go swim at the Chapman lap pool on certain week nights during open hours, between 6:30 and 8pm. I’d do this last spring when the warmth of the day hadn’t had time to dissipate yet and was still lingering as the sun went down. The angle of the remaining daylight on the water made it a velvet gold, and the triangular flags that hung above the end of the pool, which signal backstrokers to flip turn, looked like the album artwork to my youth against the pink and orange sunset sky. When I finished my set, I’d remove my cap and dunk my head, because it feels so good when my hair lolls about in slow motion underwater. Then I’d get out and towel off, throw on the long sleeve navy blue Crew shirt that I’d gotten at my final regatta over my suit, and step into my flip flops to bike home. I live half a mile from campus, so it was a quick jaunt, but I’d try to take my time with it. I felt like a Stranger Things kid, if for no other reason than being on a bike, as I pedaled through the quaint neighborhood surrounding Chapman, sequestered from reality for the moment. I loved cruising down these quiet streets with pink flowers covering the trees and the ground beneath them, the air finally succumbing to a chill breeze, my hair wet and endorphins still pumping amidst a gentle evening. I’ve become fairly restless with my typical library of music, as I’ve performed every song in it for the 6am 405ers nine thousand times now. And although I love them, I sometimes need a break from my godless podcasts between episodes. I’m trying to switch it up and have been acquainting myself with the discographies of The Rolling Stones and The Beatles, and clearly a period of classical. I’m sure I’m the first person to say this because no one has ever listened to The Rolling Stones before I, but young Mick Jagger is ~dreamy~. I often wonder what I would sing about if I were in a band and wrote my own music, but I guess it would be this stuff. Thank goodness I don’t know how to compose. Although, it would be kind of amazing if everyone’s slo-mo, deep-toned war cry on the road was a jam I wrote about that last second moment you realize that Siri routed you to the godforsaken 5, which is garbage every day of the week, and it’s too late now to flip a U and retreat from battle. Another distraction I thought about recently: I think one of the most riveting movie scenes is the one in The English Patient when Katharine regales the circle of men in the desert with the ancient story of Gyges’ rise to power. She tells this tale to their fascination, the symbolism purposefully blatant in that moment, and when she finishes, she sits back down and says “Shall I spin the bottle now?” What? I want to play that game. What are the rules? The neck of the bottle chooses who gets up to orate a legend of your choosing, as if you yourself were the keeper responsible for passing it down through the generations? Trivia night is frickin’ child’s play compared to this. Where do I find a circle of people who are even remotely interested in this game? My Ethics professor from two semesters ago? Bueller? Anyone? This is a serious inquiry. I just imagined playing this with my family, and now I’m chuckling because my mom and brother are notoriously tangential and often forget where they were going in their storytelling, so this would be a mess. My dad would make one up on the fly but tell it with such fervor that we’d think it was real. You’d have to strap in for mine because I’m gonna start by reciting Hercules from beginning to end, songs and voice acting included. If you’re thinking, why does this sound at all fun to her, I’ve just realized I forgot to mention, because there’s wine, you guys. So beyond rehearsals for that, I’ll keep singing in the car and thinking about my simple joys of life, which in less than a month when I move to LA, I’ll have eight more hours to devote my time to every week. I will be more composed by then, and combobulate myself again. I know it’s not a word.
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Imagine if you will: your high school senior year field trip. Even if you didn’t take one, pretend you did and reacquaint yourself with your class, the shenanigans, the feeling of community in the people with whom you shared four plus years of school. I had one to San Francisco and one to Disneyland, and they both shared the same vibe; wholesome yet untamed. It’s the feeling of being unapologetically yourself because you grew up with these people, yet you still surprise them because there’s no reason to hold back, and vice versa. Take this feeling, and inject it into an experience comprised of people you either just met, or have only known for a few months. The feeling of camaraderie doesn’t naturally go hand in hand with a group so new; it’s not that you’re not yourself, you just calculate a little bit more. However, during my study abroad program’s excursion to Česky Krumlov— an idyllic town about three hours out of Prague— the class trip feeling with these people I’d known for such little time fell right into place, just fit together, like a substrate to an enzyme. I will not apologize for that metaphor because it’s one of the only things I remember from IB Biology and I’m fairly impressed with myself.
My program covered most of the Americans that were studying at AAU, which is a melting pot of students from numerous countries alongside the native Czechs. They hosted this overnight trip to Česky Krumlov, and it was so enticing that almost all of us took advantage of it. It was very reminiscent of high school in the best way; we left on a bus with our solidified friend groups, but all were quick to sidle up to those seated near us to get to know each other better. Everyone was sharing memes, music, or stories, and the laughs were undulating from the back to the front and back again like the wave at a baseball stadium. The juxtapositions of the trip were profound between the bus ride and walking the town; in a generation in which everyone can connect just by being able to quote the same vine simultaneously, we were suddenly transported to an entirely different era. The first thing we did was a walk-through of a castle that could very well have been a location shot for every live-action Disney film ever made. It was the kind of majesty you want to experience with others, because if you tried to explain the scenery later, no one would believe you. Leaning on a palace balustrade and looking at the distant villages on a hill that may as well have been painted onto the horizon, hitting the arm of whomever’s next to you and saying, you see it too, right? And then we went on a hike. It was November, the air was cold and crisp and the foliage that still clung to the trees was a vibrant orange. The sky was overcast, so everything had a glowing silver outline on it, like backlit objects in a digital photograph, but the splendor of it was that it was real life, real time, as the sun made its way down. Everyone had their hands in their coat pockets to warm them as we kicked about on the trail. We bounced around different groups as we walked and talked, all making our individual presences known in some way. Everyone was flirting with everyone. There was a kid on crutches. I feel like there’s always a kid on crutches in high school. We’d drunk wine by the river at lunch, and the hike had us en route to a fire pit where we roasted marshmallows and laughed about stupid things, verbally appreciating each others’ personalities after a killer joke or perfectly spun tale. We went out when we were back near our modest hotels in the town square, and woke up in the morning to breakfast in the dining quarters. When in the Czech countryside. Let me paint you a picture: five French men on the same rugby team who are living in Switzerland and visiting Prague for the weekend. Very handsome, all of them, the finder and keeper of my attention in this crew being an engineer. It’s a nice backdrop, right? I’ll answer that for you. It’s right. So we’re dancing at a ’90’s pop underground club called James Dean. It’s week 2 of my semester. The hair is down, the weather outside is balmy, the crowd inside is feeling alive, and the vibe is like… chef’s kiss. Can’t describe with words. Pretty Fly for a White Guy comes on. I nod with a smile as it intros— I have good memory associations with this ditty— swim meets, car rides, basically nothing comparable to what it became forevermore after this. I expect to be the only one singing, but LO! After I finesse my imitation of the girl’s opening “Give it to me baby,” five French voices immediately come back at me screeching the high-pitched “Uh huh, uh huh,” that follows, and I have never forgotten that. Ever. I will never. It sounded so much better when they did it. I’d come to understand that everyone my age, give or take ten years, no matter what country they’re from, can belt The Backstreet Boys when the DJ throws it back, but The Offspring? I tip my hat. The night was accented in so many different ways that it feels like it played out in chapters; meeting, dancing, cobblestone walks, drinking games, mixed languages, a Ferrari at one point, a minor incident with the Czech police for unlawful climbing (it was not me), and clock chimes. When with the French. Visualize the grandeur here: it’s fall break, end of October, and my roommates and I are on our second of three countries in ten days. We’re in Ireland and we’ve hopped a bus from Galway to County Clare, where the Cliffs of Moher await. They are majestic; the grass is wet from morning rain making it the Irish green we’ve been craving, the ocean waves are dark and loud below us, and the weather is clear enough now that you can see for miles. My roommate Maddie and I both slip and fall at certain points and are muddy for the rest of the hike, but for some reason it’s the cherry on top of the day. I found it quite literally impossible to be upset. On our way back, the bus stopped at a classic Irish pub restaurant for a late afternoon lunch. Something I love about Europe is that no matter how new an establishment may be, you tend to get the feeling from the décor, the menu, and the overall atmosphere, that you’ve traveled back a hundred years. It very well may have been that old. The five of us had beef stew in bread bowls and drank Bailey’s coffee, sitting on wooden barstools at planked tables in an open, naturally lit place that felt cozy from the local charm that surrounded us. When in Ireland. Take a walk in my clogs: Amsterdam, not only our last stop of the fall break trip, but the tenth and final night. We’re on the prowl for a good Heiney bar to close out our Dutch experience (we love a good Heineken and were nothing if not forced to abbreviate), and we have a flight back to Prague out of Schiphol in the morning, so we declare aloud that we’ll probably head back to the hostel by midnight this time. Ha. Ha ha ha. Fools! We meet a pack of cute Irish men also there for the weekend who ask if we’re heading to a bar, which we are. Amazing, they say—they’ve got the perfect place for us to have some good craic. Except it’s pronounced “crack.” We laugh with them for a second, my roommates and I, all of us looking at each other to clock whether or not we just misheard, but each of us has the same confused expression amidst this long group chortle as they wait for an answer, so we simultaneously clarify— that’s actually not what we said and we’re not super into your crack idea, thanks. Turns out the Irish vernacular for a good fun time is “good craic.” Cool cool cool. That we can get behind, a fun night is in fact exactly what we were going for. So to summarize so far, these guys were immediately hilarious and did not smoke crack. Just want to make sure that’s clear. Together we’re a big group, so we dominate this Heiney joint that we’ve just stepped into to the point where the guys pretend to be bartenders so they can escort some people out of their seats to make room for us. They were so jovially convincing about it that I had to laugh. We drank to what became our most unpredictable night which only got better as it went on, which it did until morning. When looking for good craic in Amsterdam. Picture this: Budapest, 1st of December 2017, 34 degrees. Szhéchenyi thermal bath house. My roommate Juliann and I change into swimsuits in a locker room and literally do not think or speak to each other about the temperature outside, because there is no need for that kind of negativity. We were hitting the baths no matter what, so why bog down the experience with complaints at that point? It’s our final trip of the semester and we’ve been talking about this place for months, so it’s go time, baby. My body was right on par with my thoughts that day because it numbed itself immediately when we stepped outside. I don’t even remember the cold, and that says a lot for me because there were moments during every trip I took when I was wearing eight layers of clothing and actively thought that I must have been the coldest bitch on the planet. Not that morning in my swimsuit though. We face the elements and run into the outdoor thermal bath, which is the size of a Vegas-style pool. You can’t even see due to the steam rising from the hot water into the frigid air. I was an ethereal being as I floated on my back through the gentle fog, The Flower Duet opera playing regally in my mind to accompany my graceful elementary backstroke. That’s right. I used to be a swimmer, but I still chicken-airplane-soldiered my way across Budapest’s royal pool. Getting out was what I imagine it felt like to emerge from the womb. Wanted to cry. Was cold outside. You understand. Then we entered all 15 of the other smaller baths inside the building, ranging from caldaria like the first, tepidaria, to frigidaria. We didn’t skip any even though the icy baths gave us concern that we might pass away then and there, but the saunas made up for those. When in Budapest. These are some of my favorites; thanks for indulging in my perspective. I don't want them to lose focus. |
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