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The Strand

I can't seem to write about New York right now. I seem to be somewhere else--in my head maybe. We crawl from one corner of the city to the other, searching out food and, occasionally, enthusiastically, those little temples to literature I find in the form of libraries and bookstores. We browsed the Strand today, for as long as Chris could stand it. Difficult to explain my love of bookstores since I never buy anything. Maybe it's just comforting to be in the company of so many friends, gently beaming their familiar titles at me. The Strand boasts 18 (8?) miles of bookshelves, which I found difficult to contemplate. (Certainly each shelf in a bookcase must be counted separately?). I thought: a dustier, more historic version of Keplar's in Menlo Park. Still, it was no Powell's. I know with these careless words I must be stomping on some old and sacred ghosts, but that's all gone now, isn't it, and it's not coming back. That's what all of New York feels like to me, pasting over all the character and tradition, all the grime and humanity, with anything that is bland and chic and new. Sometimes I turn away with an excess of helpless disgust, but then I always look back, oddly fascinated.

Daily Trivia II

I'm losing my sense of time. Events that happened a few days ago seem months away, and yet Friday sneaks upon me as a surprise. Our days go like this: wake up around 10 to 11 am futz around and feed ourselves a bit, deciding what to do; go to a few places in the city to eat; walk walk walk until we think Carlos might be home soon; watch TV/go on the internet/trip research with Carlos until his eyes get droopy; shower; laundry; retreat to our rooms where Chris and I work on his Chinese lesson of the day; and finally Chris drifts off to sleep while I read.

Daily Trivia

We still do laundry everyday (or, rather, Chris does it since I usually just have underwear and sometimes socks). The laundry hangs by the window in Carlos's bedroom, where we sleep, from a white string tied around a silver-painted pipe and a precarious-looking nail. Seeing our hanging laundry pleases me for no reason I can devise.

We didn't go out today--instead occupied the whole morning cooking and then went to tutor the soccer children with Carlos. I spent the afternoon helping Crystal with her science homework, a puddle of anxiety over my inadequacy. Couldn't I have gotten something more straightforward than (literally) rocket science?

NYC

During the day we wander around the city in the damp cold. Everything is gray--the concrete, the sky, the slate rivers. And dirty the way only a city can be dirty in the wet.

Today we got caught in the Garment District during rush hour and were so overwhelmed by the crush of people that we ducked into the subway and left. Then I read all the way back to the 161st St. stop, just like a local would, and that's what I pretend we are for this month that we're here. After all, what do we do besides eat, take the subway, and cook? We walk just to see, and sometimes we pop into a library (for rest) or a Starbucks (for the bathroom).

I'm intrigued by the idea of living here. It's at once alluring and hateful. I love the ease with which one can slip into different worlds, and yet none of these worlds are as great to me as San Francisco.

Camping in Oahu

 What surprises me most is that I barely notice going from place to place. It should be jarring to return to the U.S. after two months away, but right away I take for granted the grocery stores, the potable tap water, the traveling in cars (the white waitresses who aren't even European, the cats who have thick fur, the cleanliness of the beaches). There is also much else that is similar to the Philippines here, one aspect of which is the presence of the Filipinos themselves. The prices are purely American, though.

Another surprise: that Hawaii is as pleasant as it is. I thought it would just be an expensive version of the Philippines, but the weather is cooler (i.e. more bearable), the sand is soft and free of broken glass, and the topography is much more dramatic and impressive. On the other hand, you can't eat a whole tender rotisserie chicken for $4. Yesterday we met a woman who lives part time in Menlo Park and part time in Honolulu (her husband can work from home). What a life!

We're at a campsite now. Cold showers and no electricity for us. Camping seems to mean something else in Hawaii. All our neighbors have set up miniature cities here, complete with generators, hot showers, stereos, tarp tents, family-size tents, huge barbecue grills, electric lights, possibly television. I couldn't help but laugh when I walked by an encampment, sniffing steaks in the air, and then saw Chris sitting with a lonely, longing look among our peanut butter, bread, and bananas. We seemed such waifs, he and I, with our tragic little tent. A stranger casting a casual glance around the campground would guess that our site was empty. (It's not so different from when we used to walk back from Camiguin Action Geckos Resort to our basic little cottage, except that we can't even buy our way into luxury here--but, no, I'm being disloyal to our Seascape room, which was actually quite comfortable and quiet, and anyway we got to meet those French backpackers Chris liked so much.)

Strange to think that the first leg of our trip is already drawing to a close.

* * * * *

When you're young you can spend hours on end thinking about yourself, discovering. As you get older, you think you've found out everything there is to know. Your interests grow wider, maybe you become political, maybe you get absorbed in your job. Your self slips away from you. Suddenly you're traveling, and you realize it's been years since you've found out anything new about yourself. It feels a little bit like you've died and not even noticed.

So what do you do with that?