you do not post to your journal.
Bad monkey.

Its just that if I write down the good, I'll minimize it for how fabulous it is.

I'll stick with the despondent or create a story.

I am like a painter. I have my European period (in progress), my formative years in Mumbai, my Blue period (hello adolescence!) and indeed, there were even the depressive periods (Decembers in lawschool).

I took this picture of a canal near my old house in leiden. It is on the road to the local cafe Einstein's where we'd hang out every Wednesday night. I have taken many pictures of the same canal before, but none of them seemed to evoke the memory of my daily life.

Now I realize why. I took those pictures in daylight, when quite frankly, I mostly saw the canal at night.

Granted, the view in those days was somewhat shakier since I was tottering on 4 inch heels, vodka and cobblestones. This picture was taken with my arms braced against the bridge rail.

But this is the most evocative view of my life then. Were it a painting, it would be titled: Artist: Self-Portrait.

In the 7th grade, when my clothes were superlatively uncool and my hair was plastered flat against my forehead, I stared out of a bus window at One Green Hill. The bus was the crew transport that took my family from Paris Orly Airport to the city center. We had just landed from Bombay, the beginning of our week long family vacation.

Since Orly airport is in the middle of potato fields, there were many non-descriptive hills with industrial power lines that would mar any potential photograph. However, I liked this one because it had a cluster of trees at the top.

It was that moment, that hill, that beginning of a tension-fraught, squabble-filled family week of Every Single Sight Paris Has To Offer, which has consistently brought me back to Europe.

That one stupid hill in the middle of an essentially Parisian industrial area was part of the fairy tale. I felt like I was actually living in the time when French villagers died of the plague. It took me back to all those drawings in books, of women burned as witches and peasants working in fields. Never mind that India has plenty of fields. It was the European countryside with its cows and sheep and pigs and straw hats that I so desperately wanted to be part of.

And now I was here! And now I am here!

The intervening years since that hill have seen many a trip to vineyards, trains across Scottish highlands, across Dutch plains, to Czech forests. I love train journeys. I stare out unthinking, iPod-less so that I may dream of who I actually am.

A 16th century milkmaid.

As I spent a weekend in the middle of Ireland, I learned how Hannah marched through fields, lost shoes, had cows invade her backyard and spent summers swimming in a lake with her three sisters.

My childhood was spent on Mumbai's grimy trains, my face squashed into the sweaty waists of sari clad women, smelling slightly of jasmine and fish.

And somehow, we'd both ended up in the same town, speaking the same language, sharing the same experiences about men and wine. Walking on the street, talking about the present, we could have grown up not 5 minutes from one another.

Except when we walk through parks. I must walk on concrete paths because I find it appropriate that humans walk on what the city council made for them, while she marches right through the green grass, unconcerned with crawly unknowns.

Do you remember what its like to love someone at 14?

Talking to them makes your heart beat faster, stomach cramp and the occasional burp?
(Instant sabotage when you're trying to sound seductive).

I still feel that way every single time and seriously, after 10 years, I can't deal. So I've figured it out. I just won't call or visit.

There. Scratched THAT city off my list.

ps: I may die alone, but it still lets me eat.

What was I thinking? Coming here two whole weeks before work starts??

Living abroad the second time around is not the same as the first. There is less wonder, less "Wow I can't believe I'm here" and more "Wow what am I DOING here?" For example, a friend just asked me to list the two top countries where I'd like to settle and I said India or Italy. I am no where near those places!

But, anyway, what I'm doing here so far is partying very hard.

My room mates Sarah and Laura have a friends from their university, who live across the street. They all came over immediately for dinner to meet the "new American girl." Then the new American girl went dancing with all of them until 8 am. I've never done that in my entire life.

Lest one thinks I've done nothing but party, please. I've built half a bed, and booked a flight to Ireland for the rest of the week.

I'm posting some pictures to Flickr. Click on the picture for more.

I smoothed my black pencil skirt over my lap and tucked stray wisps of hair into my chignon. I sat down carefully, facing the interviewer, legs crossed, shoes pointed and polished. The man before me was the head of Big Firm, and I needed an internship.

Being Californian, he was tie-less and informal. We first discussed his children, his highschool and then my resume. He wanted to get to know me "as a person".

"As opposed to what?" I thought. "An armadillo?"

Fine. It beats being asked to list 3 personality faults.

As we chatted, I scanned the room, looking for ways to connect with this 40 year old man, who by his own account, grew up in an exclusive California suburb.

He went to UCLA. Great! He loves the football team...Not so great. The best I did was sell tickets at the games and make fun of the cheerleaders.

Then I spied a big, huge Star Wars Light Sabre on his bookshelf. Score! One of my first dates with my ex-boyfriend involved waiting in line for the opening show of Episode II. Believe me, if it had been a month later in our relationship, I would have put my foot down at the ridiculousness of it all. I do believe he was the only one with a date to the premiere. This was our first movie together and as we sat in our seats he said "Don't expect me to hold your hand for this one."
Seriously!


So now faced with another one of these twerps, I brought up Star Wars, how I was such a dedicated fan and how I spent 3 hours in line for that movie. I left out the boyfriend part.

The man was stoked. He went on and on, spittle forming on the sides of his mouth. I managed to keep up and feigned total knowledge (Thank you bf!). As he began discussing ewogs (or euwoks?), I noticed that we had 5 minutes left. Stopping his excited stream mid-flow, I made some concluding remarks and gathered up my portfolio.

Smoothing the lapels on my jacket, I carefully uncrossed my legs and stood up, balanced on razor thin heels. I shook his hand with a beaming smile and turned to leave.

"Wait!!"

I turned around. "Yes"?

He sprinted to the book case, took down the light sabre, and switched it on. I looked at the glowing plastic stick with some bemusement. Was I supposed to admire it?

"Oh how cool!" I said.

"Here. I have another one." He reached behind the case and took out a smaller one.
"You can try it out with me!!"

And there, in Big Firm office, with my suit, heels, hair, makeup, resume in one hand and Big Plastic Toy in the other, I had an Intergalactic Battle for the job.

I got it.
And turned it down.

Sarko is going to win.
There I said it. My foot is out and perhaps hurtling toward my mouth.

I love Sego. I love her because she is pretty and has that implacable smile every time her world is going to merde.
And when she says " ça suffit Monsieur" my inner French coquette tapdances, you go girl! Tell him! He is so dees-gusting, so full of himself, such a control freak.

But madame, he has a plan.

You're going to figure it out as you go along.
She has a quiet determination that I love, and in the latest debate, came off more stubborn and harsh than usual. She was no longer placable, and in my humble opinion, women tend to skewer women for that. Her opponent was exactly the opposite. Every time she struck a blow, he was politely pained at why she "wouldn't listen to other points of view." HAH! He's a boor all the time.



Perhaps the French vote more ideologically than I imagine, so she has a shot. There are fewer people more left than the French and she's far left of Sarko.

But this is not the time for France to lean left. The Euro is keeping them afloat and they're still clinging onto medieval agriculture as the last bastion of French farmlife.


And those riots? Though Sarko didn't handle them very well, most French don't think he made it worse. They possibly think that answer is probably more force in the cités, not some lah-di-dah socialist plan to get them on their feet.

I do want Sego to win. I just don't feel it in my bones.
Perhaps I've been in America too long and my lens is more focused on who the Americans would vote for.

For a short snippet of them debating in 1993 (you don't need to understand what they're talking about), check out the above.

Harrumph This is supposed to go on my facebook and flickr sends it here. Argh.

Where's that wine?

ok let's try again.

The process that started with a gynacological exam at the American Embassy in Bombay in 1996, ended on April 10th as I was sworn in as an American citizen.

The date was incredibly auspicious because it is my mom's birthday. She's the one who insisted that we were moving to America whether we liked it or not, and filed the papers. After 14 years of filing, we were called into the Embassy in Bombay for an interview, and the above mentioned medical exam.
I don't remember much about the interview except that my mom warned us not to "sound stupid".

Until that day, we all regarded her plans with mild amusement, never really believing it would happen, until we were sent packing on a plane. Apparently she wasn't kidding.
Oh and um, she's still in India, not quite ready to leave herself.

So anyway, the swearing-in ceremony was in Nob Hill, up the street from where I go to law school. I had two hours free before my first class of the day... I could run up, get sworn and not miss Corporations! Perfect timing!

I rolled out of bed. I wore green, with mismatched blue socks (that were very visible through my Steve Madden shoes.) They would turn me back for either wearing an Islamic colour, or more likely, being woefully underdressed.


All to-be citizens were seated in this huge auditorium--over 1000 of us, with families in the balcony. There were tons of babies waving American flags. People were so happy!


There was a huge stage in front of us with a table draped in blue, a podium and a giant screen. Of course, some middle school's colour guard came in and raised the flag.

First, we were shown a video of the "History of Ellis Island". You could see the historical island and the boats slowly pulling up, carrying hundreds of people, the Statute of Liberty in the background. My heart swelled because I felt like I was a part of history. I felt Jewish, I felt Polish, I felt like I was in the 1900s.

Then the boats docked and a hundred fat, pasty American Tourists with fanny packs and piggy toes sticking out of tray-like sandals got off.

The Mexican woman next to me burst out laughing. Apparently this wasn't a historical film, but a modern summer's day in America. A statistic flashed by on screen. Since 1900, America has naturalized 1.2 million immigrants! That's it??? Clearly, they're not catching all of us. Los Angeles has more illegal immigrants west of the 405!
My Mexican friend handed me a stick of chewing gum to feel more American. I did.

Then George Bush came on and told us to be proud. No one clapped.

Then passport services told us what we all wanted to know-where the applications could be dropped off.

Then ANOTHER video. A song.
The National Anthem?
No. Lee Greenwood's "Proud to be an American." It wasn't the Mtv version, but from the Dept. Of Homeland Security who had directed children running through fields and a scratchy photograph of Mt. Rushmore popping up on screen occcasionally.
And everytime he sang "God Bless the USAAAAAA-AAAA!" it video cut to hundreds of new citizens leaping up and waving flags.
After the last booming crescendo, the auditorium fell silent.

The Mexican woman next to me leaned over and said, "You know, if it were 9/11 today, we'd have been sworn in and kicked out of here an hour ago. That's what happened to my husband."
And I wished for a terrorist attack for a fraction of a second, before the absolute blasphemy of the thought in that place and time shamed me.


They began calling out each country's name alphabetically and one by one, we stood up.
I was Australia, so I was standing pretty early and got a good view of the Bolivians rising etc. The whole room before me was seated quietly, with a couple of people popping up here and there.

Until they got to China.

EVERYBODY stood up and we could have gone home right then and there.
The Chinese are still coming to America apparently.
Yemen was last (What? Zimbabwaeans are still here illegally?) and then we said the pledge.

Little old lady with blue hair, a blue school-teachers suit from the 50s and a quavering voice led us through the national anthem.
I was mentally patted myself on the back for not having to read the lyrics like everyone one else.
You see, I was in my school's choir.
I stopped singing abruptly. Apparently, after 2 years of choir I only know the half the anthem because I never paid attention when the sopranos sang their parts.


Then everybody cheered, and officers came up to our seats and handed us our Naturalization Certificates.

I caressed it for two seconds, put it in with my passport application and handed it back. Now I can leave for vacation whenever I want.


I joined the throng exiting. There were reporters and television crew outside, along with a long line of drivers cursing these "bloody immigrants" for blocking up the street again. Its San francisco, what else could this crowd be, but a protest?

Evading the Vote Republican! tables, I ducked into the cathedral across the street.

I walked up the aisle. I felt my arms, my legs, my gut. I felt the same.
I thought of the flag. I felt the same.
I closed my eyes and briefly considered changing my name to Jennifer Greenwall.

I opened my eyes and saw the altar.

It felt like I was back in Europe. I only visit God on tour. I prayed and prayed for an answer of where I'm supposed to be and where I will end up and where I will find my life.

Then I walked out in the sun and called my mother to wish her Happy Birthday

“Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you’ve got about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies — ‘God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.’ ”

www.muffinbatter.com

Great links from a group of directionless 20 year olds with impeccable taste in interests, if I do say so myself.

I met a real live farmer from Kansas in San Francisco last week!

I was on the train, coming back from the San francisco airport, to my apartment. He was 40, definitely a tourist because he struck up a conversation on public transport. Turns out he was in the city for a Grain Conference.

Having nothing better to do, we began talking about government subsidies and the price of corn and ethanol. No really, I was fascinated.

Anyway, the talk turned to Bush. Farmer had voted for him. I acted like I'd never even heard of Bush.

"Well a lot of folk voted for him in Kansas. They're good people. Good hearts. And they like him."
I said, "Well I think many people in this city didn't vote for him."
"Yea we figured. I've heard they're real left around here. I haven't seen a hippie person yet."
"Well you're staying downtown, I'll doubt you'll run into any trouble. This is just like any other city."

Then we both get off at the same stop
get to street level

and walk into TEN THOUSAND protestors storming the city.

It happened to be san francisco's biggest baddest muthafuckin' anti-war parade of the year.
And I'm not talking about a few students with bandanas.
I saw nudists (of course), veterans, the Deaf, the Blind, the Grandma's against Elderly Abuse, the Vietnamese Immigrant caucus, Cheese lovers of San francisco, the 911 Conspiracy Club, at least two school marching bands and no less than three Christian church groups.

I guess I'd put my foot in my mouth, and my shoe size was big---the parade took HALF AND HOUR to pass us.

"Enjoy your time in the city sir. You're like Muhammad and the mountain"
"I'm sorry?"
"Except San francisco came to see you."

10. HOW TO FINALLY GET OVER THE LINGERING FANTASY OF THAT LONG-LOST LOVE

In one area, however, we are learning, at least according to various versions of this story that have come my way: You fell in love that summer in college. Or while studying in Rome. Or while milking goats in Bhutan. Whatever the case, your time together was magical, it ended prematurely, and you never forgot. And 20 years later, when the routine of your life (children, work, chores, little sex, no romance, not even a Valentine’s Day card for the spouse on your radar screen) starts to get you down, you find yourself wondering, What kind of glamorous life is he/she leading now? What if that had been my life?

At long last we are finding out, and we are doing so en masse, courtesy of Google text and image searches, even Google Earth (aerial shot of his house, anyone?). In time, we stumble upon an e-mail address, compose the perfect note, swallow hard and hit send. And soon we’re reading about the amiable husband/wife, the overscheduled children and the unsurprising career, all in a tone that’s breezy, passionless. “But it’s such fun to reconnect,” he/she blathers on. “And wouldn’t it be a scream if the next time we’re in the same city on business we could meet up for a cappuccino?”

And just like that, for many of us at least, the fantasy evaporates. The grass is not greener. It’s the exact same grass, or maybe even browner. So you log off, stand up, splash water on your face, and stride back into your life with fresh eyes. After all, you love the children you have, not the children you might have had. And the same goes for your spouse, who would never call anything “a scream” and who, for that reason alone, deserves a special card this year, perhaps even chocolates.

Modern Love Problems, like what to do if you're a sex columnist with no sex, solved!

Word on the street is,
I might be part of a collaborative blog.

Don't say anything yet, because when I say Word I mean syllable and when I say Street, I mean alley.

Well, the first time I receive the international recognition I so rightly deserve is also when I have to share my prize with every snot-faced freshman in UCLA, corded to their computer.

I'm talking about "you", Time Magazine's person of the year. Why us? Because of our participation in today's age of information.

I thought they were talking about YouTube at first. haha- splitting it up into first and last names.
Someone just corrected me.

I know Time magazine thinks of itself as a historical annal. Time 2006 is strutting before Time 2056 as if to say "See! We captured the flavor of our time."

Give me a break. This choice is an utter and complete failure of the imagination. What? Did Time wake up last week and think, "Crap we gotta pick someone!"

Or is it worse that no one has distinguished themselves enough to truly stand out in 2006? Maybe it hurts Time magazine to enunciate who our person of the year really was: Paris Hilton and her posse of airheads. Her influence on tweens will stretch far into the future.


Half-assed jokes aside, here's who I remember:

Zinedane
Berlusconi
Kim Jong
Ahmadinejad
Creators of YouTube

and of course

I myself, am always vote-able.

The BBC had a story last week about how condoms in India are too big for the average Indian male. One week later, it is STILL the most emailed story. I'm not surprised.

Please stop emailing it to me!! I don't know and I don't care. I suspect Indian men aren't all that embarassed about this bit of news. Size isn't that much of a fixation out there. And, the population is doing fine. Virility is still highly prized and we're about to knock the Chinese off their 1st place pedestal.

My next story has to do with breaking up with a French boy over his culinary skills. That is far more interesting than an Indian boudoir.
Well, if its my boudoir we're talking about.

Pumped up by my first year of living On My Own in UCLA, I decided to do something crrrazy over the summer.

I simply rolled out of bed one morning and thought, oh wow I'm going to Scotland. Because you know, that's what a normal hot-blooded 18 year old would choose.

Scotland always had this fairytale charm for me. I couldn't really imagine it as a real place. It was a place for books, elves, druids ... (I know I'm getting my English mythology mixed up but c'mon, my act of rebellion was a trip that old women on buses choose, what do you expect). This was perfect. My parents had never been there, I'd never been there...it would be a trip to call my own.


It never occured to me to ask anyone to travel with me (lack of friends) and I completely forgot that Ireland was also next door (lack of imagination).

After a 3 month battle with my parents, I finally bought my ticket, a big Michelin map of the country and ... that's it really. The Michelin map should indicate how clueless I was: its a big yellow map of motorways, which is useless for a train traveller or backpacker 8 years too young to rent a car.

If I ever had doubts, I couldn't back down after all the fuss I kicked up to get permission to go. I couldn't change countries because then it would woefully illustrate the short walk my mind took, from the germ of an idea, to reality. In fact, as weeks passed it seemed like an even worse idea because I had met my first red-blooded American boyfriend -- 4 weeks before I was to leave and we decided to stay together nonetheless.

But I didn't want to back out of my first real decision, so I never even thought about all the drawbacks. Stubborness can come from shutting oneself off from reality and reason. I finally got to London, promising everyone that I had planned everything out meticulously. Then I went to the train station to buy my ticket to Scotland.

The 5 hour journey across England illuminating, because I saw no pretty speckled cows or peasants in the field. Instead, it was just motorways and tyre warehouses. As my train pulled into Edinburgh, the enormity of it all hit me. I was a little girl, with no room to spend the night, no map of the city and no real plan. This was my first time doing anything on my own.

At least, I comforted myself, I speak the language. Ha! Big help THAT was. Faced with the Scottish accent I had to resist asking... well parlez-vous francais instead?



For the first night, I did what I promised myself I would never do-- I ran into the travel agent in the train station and booked my first night at a hostel. All my ideals of exploring the city and finding a cool place to stay went out the window.

The first person I met was a down to earth, honest to goodness, gorgeous.... French boy. No, wait, garcon! He was in my room and was working in the city as a waiter. Happy to meet someone who spoke his language, (and English with an accent he could understand), he spent all evening telling me about his plan to score with an English waitress he worked with. With my due support, he then headed to work for the night.

I don't really remember what I did when he left. I was so timid that I don't think I ventured past the block I lived on. I was deathly afraid of pickpockets in my strange hostel room, so I showered and slept wtih my money and passport in a little pouch under two pairs of underwear and jeans with a belt on. It was hard falling asleep. One the one hand I was listening for thieves. On the other, my belt buckle was digging into me.

But it had been a long day, so when I finally did fall asleep, I was so thankful.

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my waist. I jumped up, convinced that I was about to be left penniless and stranded.

It was the French boy. Oooh things were looking up.

"Hi?"
"salut!"
"What time is it?"
"2 in the morning. Want to go for a walk?"
"yeah Yeah!" Yay! I thought, my first foreign romance !!!
As we stepped outside he said,
"I just wanted to tell you..."
"yea..."
"She said yes. She'll go out with me."
...
"You woke me up to tell me that?"
"Yeah, she really liked what I said, and.."
"Frenchie. We talk tomorrow morning okay?"

If I was going to enjoy this trip, I was going to have to pick 'em better.
More later.

(photo of edinburgh, with summer weather)

All those cover letters, in lieu of blog posts, has finally paid off. I got my first concrete job offer.
It isn't the best offer (my standards are rather high dah-ling) but it is my first vote of confidence from the American job sector.

Muahahah. Suckers.

Talk about a coincidence.

Yesterday morning.

Student: Hey I've stopped checking your blog.
Z: Yeah I don't post on that anymore. Creativeness is better spent writing resumes.

Student 2: What about the blog?
Z: I'm stopping it. Italy was a great note to end on. A perfect circle in a way. It was about this crazy fun life I was living in the past 2 years and now I've settled into the mundane.

This morning.

H: Bitch, put something up!
Z: Okay!

It's "okay" with a caveat... don't expect anything interesting. Yeah right. There are a new batch of int'l students in town, a new batch of int'l professors. I am currently going to a fancy French restaurant with a Frenchie from Berkeley. I am learning Italian. I am forgetting French. I had a job, then I didn't. I have 4 more interviews coming up. I lost my phone, I lost my voice. I lost my room key. I lost a plane ticket. I lost an entire bank account.
My dignity is straining away, but I've got it by its collar. My sanity already broke free but I'm in hot pursuit.

Oh yes, still in law school. Came back in San Francisco. Cannot leave America until the Dept. Of Homeland Security says its okay to do so.