DESIRE

LOST AND LEAVING

Early phone calls this morning helped me to a bright start. I sit here now, anxious, looking at the belongings I've accumulated recently and wondering about how to carry them along. Being a nomad has made a utilitarian out of me. I don’t have much; in fact, I have almost nothing. Everything I did own I purged upon my departure from Grinnell. But still, I have some stuff. I wish I could live out of a suitcase. As it stands, I live out of two.

A new chapter, a new beginning; for the first time, I’ve started to see my time here as finite, as terminal. When next will I be able to read under the dappled shade of a tree in Stuyvesant Park (the Western half), or linger outside of St. Georges in the brisk morning air after Sunday service? No more curry cutlet lunches at Udon West, no more delicate desserts in a casual surrounding at Cha-An, no more green-tea cupcakes at Amai down the street. I’ll have to find new places!

And the worst part: no more 50% off yakiniku dinner specials at Gyu-kaku. How will I live?

But is that the extent of my connection to this country? Can commercial transactions and gluttony really summarize my attachment to this life? No, if only it were that easy. Leaving this country means leaving my connection to the people who matter the most to me, leaving the land of my mother-tongue (who, or what, am I without a means of communication?), leaving the ability to catch pop cultural references -- in other words, I leave everything behind, including my sense of self.

I’m so tired of this; I’ve been on the move for too long. All I’m looking for is a place to call home. A vain effort since I refuse to assimilate, refuse to belong (odd since the only thing I crave in life is acceptance), and consistently strive to go against the grain. It is in my nature to do so. And where does that leave me? Awash in a sea of uncertainty. I think they call it Europe. When I uproot myself (yet again), life as I know it will end. Who will I be(come)?

In a previous incarnation of this journal, I raised the question of where I saw myself in December. At that point, the future was entirely up in the air. I did actually conceive of the idea of my still being here, gainfully employed, looking forward to the holidays and to my first non-white Christmas in eons. I’m still uncertain about the path I’m about to traverse, but at least a path exists. I can’t even envision the finality of September 1st, a mere five days from now.

VISA TRIALS

The past few weeks have been hellish; the stuff nightmares are made of. I was kept awake at night with worry about my indeterminate future; in particular, my ability to procure a French long-stay student visa scarcely five days before I am to depart. I tried to stay awake last night, so I wouldn’t sleep through my interview this morning (I’ve been getting up at 3pm lately -- the result of those sleepless nights I mentioned), first by dragging my roommates into a circular conversation until the wee hours of the morning, then by busying myself with meaningless blog-hopping. At around 6, however, my eyelids started to droop and I was forced to retire.

I had a brief and restless nap and shot out the door by 8am for my 11:30 appointment. Upon arrival, I was informed that applicants weren’t permitted to enter the building until the scheduled time so I wandered around the Upper East Side and had brunch at a charming café on 73rd. I then whiled away some hours on a bench in Central Park, going over my documents for the umpteenth time and organizing the placement of each sheet according to their position on the list of requested documents. As the hour of reckoning drew closer, I moved to a stoop in front of the consulate and entered a zen-like trance as I attempted to keep my nerves at bay. The minutes trickled by.

And then, it was my turn.

I sauntered up to the security guard, flashed my appointment card and identification, and was promptly ushered into (along with a handful of other 11:30am-ers) a narrow hall with glass booths on one side and a cluster of chairs on the other. I was first in line and made it through the initial processing with nary a hiccup. I was then handed a receipt and told to take a seat while I waited for my interview.

From my perch, I was able to witness the fate of the rest of my group unfold. The first person after me was missing her attestation (“What’s that?” she asked) -- denied! Thank you, come again. Your flight leaves tonight? Too bad. Second person’s parents are US citizens but were unfortunately born in Iran -- processing will take a minimum of three weeks. Your flight leaves tomorrow and classes begin at the end of the week? Sorry, government protocol. Please curtail your sobbing and histrionics, the French government is merely precautious, not racist. Next!

At this point, I started to lose myself deep in prayer. If middle-aged white women couldn’t get past the hawkish glares of French consular officials, there was no hope for an un-white, 20-30 year old boy like me (i.e. profiling anyone?). I was deep in concentration, trying to perfect my doe-eyed and impotent expression, when my name was suddenly called. I gulped and timorously made my way over to the glass booth. The proceeding events were a pleasant blur. There was banter (a bit in French, a bit in English), there were polite requests for copies of my documents, there were smiles, and there were snippets of advice on career and living in France.

A few minutes later, I was strolling down Fifth Avenue with a receipt for my passport and the knowledge that I could pick it up at 3pm that day. I was all smiles despite the fact that I was being sustained on two hours of rest. I decided to linger around the vicinity of the consulate while waiting to pick up my visa, so I went for lunch at some Italian place with gorgeous floral arrangements and sunny tables that spilled out onto the sidewalk. I also had a bit of a look around the area and peeked into some stores I must remember to revisit, stores that sold specialized artisanal crafts without a recognizable brand. [Note: Lexington Avenue, between 74th and 76th]

I picked my passport up at 3 and have been lovingly caressing the visa ever since. On the one hand, I loathe how much importance is accorded to this sticker in my travel document. In fact, I also hate that I don’t have freedom of mobility as evinced by the trials and tribulations I had to suffer through (mostly the stress before the interview, not the actual interview itself which in retrospect was a piece of cake) all for the sake of pursuing a Masters degree in a nation that is not my own. What is this ridiculous anachronism known as a “nation-state” anyway? But I digress. With this final piece of preparation taken care of, I am now gearing up for my departure on Monday.

New York has been good to me, but there is still so much more of the world to see.

CHINATOWN

At around 12:57 am this morning, after the conclusion of a satisfying celebration of my birth with some close friends, my mobile device emitted its last feeble beep before settling into an eternal slumber. No amount of flinging it across the room could resuscitate this fixture of my life. Hitting it repeatedly against the edge of a table, similarly, elicited no response. Thus, after staring blankly at its dim screen for close to an hour, I resolved to give it an appropriate burial and promptly launched it with great might into the gaping maw of my trashcan. Such crap does not deserve to be recycled.

Although I fancy myself fairly independent in that I’m not entirely reliant upon companionship, I also recognize that I would have no understanding of my own existence were it not for my place in a greater community of Others; wasn’t it Sartre who posited the notion of a mirror-effect? Admittedly, I could have done without this means of instantaneous communication for the next few weeks, but why subsist right? I’ve always been a fan of immediate gratification anyway. With that in mind, I set off to (horror of horrors) Chinatown this afternoon in search of an adequate replacement.

I had my first taste of China(town) during the express ride there, where I was squished into a corner of the train by little old ladies wheeling gigantic produce-filled carts. I beamed at this reminder of East Asian wet markets, but bemoaned my lack of standing space. Emerging from the subway, my olfactory glands were furthermore assaulted by the putrid odor of rotting seafood and human byproduct. I staggered along Bayard as I struggled to channel respiration orally. Upon finally regaining composure, I continued on my quest for the coveted Unlocked Mobile Phone.

After about fifteen minutes of weaving in and out of unmarked backstreets, I soon realized I was quite lost and could no longer orient myself. Seeking a respite from the humidity, I decided to step into what appeared to be an air-conditioned space and was immediately teleported to Hong Kong. I’d like to describe what I ventured into as a “mall”, but the word doesn’t adequately reflect the reality of it. It sort of reminded me of the labyrinthine communities housed within the Chung King Mansions in Kowloon, albeit on a smaller scale; entire lives could be lived without exposure to the natural elements.

Rows of narrow storefronts lined never-ending passageways and the glare of florescent light drenched everything in sight. There was a curtained clinic at the top of one escalator, and right next door, a pharmacy with a long line of sickly people spilling forth. The manifold stores were typical of the sort found across East Asia or within predominantly Chinese enclaves; stores that sold neon-colored, single-sleeved polyester tops embedded with cheap diamante, and the like. The walls were also covered in mirrors that reflected the visual cacophony of glaring lights and colors. It was maddening.

My familiarity with the type of environment evoked a pleasant feeling, like a visit to an ancestral home. I also suspect spaces like this one might be prototypes for future urban living. I’m not usually so doom and gloom, but having recently watched the animated feature Wall-E, I’ve been musing about the prospect of an atmosphere so polluted it’s become incapable of sustaining life. Within a built environment, air will be filtered, temperatures may be controlled, the threat of rain nullified, and so on and so forth. By fabricating our habitats, we gain an added advantage in controlling our (collective) destiny.

I finally left the Blade Runner-esque fantasy and ventured out into the “fresh” air. It had started to rain by then and I fumed as I kept getting caught behind groups of ambling denizens and gawking tourists. I finally found a place that would sell me the contraband I so desired, although at a price I would rather not have paid, but I yielded out of desperation. I am now, once again, equipped with a phone. I’m also satiated from an exquisite dinner with the roommate (duck confit and goat cheese salad was to die for) and about to turn into bed. All is well with the world.

OLD AGE

23 -- four years past being a teenager, four years into young adulthood, four years closer to a natural death. The last time I attached unnecessary significance to an arbitrary day in the Gregorian calendar was August 14, 1999, when my carefully laid “birthday” plans were rendered useless and the ensuing disappointment was more than my young heart could handle. Since then, I’ve stopped committing birthdates to memory and don’t expect anyone else to do the same of mine. I’ve become a little better about remembering, with the advent of Facebook and its automatic reminders, but birthdays have ultimately lost their relevance to me, let me make this clear.

It's not that I’m completely heartless; I do understand the birthday phenomenon. Hallmark marketing aside, it’s an event, far more personal than Christmas or Groundhog Day, in which the individual celebrant is allowed to take stock of his or her life thus far. I’m sure at some subconscious level even the most vapid bimbo realizes that individual worth is measured not in material accumulation but in human relationships. Hence, the proverbial birthday acts as an opportunity for the celebrant to validate his or her connections to humanity; acknowledgement in the form of “Happy Birthday”s followingly seek to authenticate and elevate the individual’s sense of self worth.

But humankind, in its animate glory, is a never-ending source of disappointment. My soul, being the feeble thing that it is, susceptible even to the tiniest of pinpricks, cannot weather such crushing blows to its esteem. Without a home-base, without a geographical location in which I know more than five people, with being transient and having spent my “birthday” in over 10 countries so far, how can I expect constancy in the face of such uncertainty? It is thus in an act of self-preservation that I reject my role in this celebration. Nevertheless, I almost always find myself pleasantly surprised on the day of my birth each year, because I’m sentimental and a sucker for such things.

I received some phone calls at a little after 12 this morning and woke up to a slew of e-mails in my inbox. Logging on to Facebook, I was similarly greeted by a giant sign wishing me a pleasant day. I was so moved by this cyber-display of affection it was all I could do to prevent myself from kissing the screen. Of course, I was already secure in my relationships with the sources of all of these acknowledgements -- people who can see past my affectations, people I’m uncomfortable around because their gazes cut a little too deeply (I hate you for being able to see me more clearly than I can see myself) -- but they were nice gestures nonetheless. Definitely appreciated.

Soundtrack:

Prefab Sprout - Appetite
Procol Harem - A Whiter Shade Of Pale
Psychedelic Furs - Ghost In You

AIR TRAVEL

Today, after weeks of research and deliberation, I finally decided that flying Air India to Paris is simply a deathwish waiting to happen. I tried in vain to get a refund, but ultimately decided to write it off as a sunk cost and purchased a more expensive ticket on another airline. Air India has a record of about 7 fatalities per 1,000,000 takeoffs, while American can boast of a rate of less than 1. [Source] My father, of course, is appalled by my flagrant disregard for the value of money. But in the face of death, I ask, what worth is a few hundred dollars? Needless to say, we're currently not on speaking terms.

My nerves are wrought from the prospect of my upcoming flight. They say flying becomes easier with experience, but in my case, I've only become more distraught with each passing flight. Every safe landing to me is interpreted as another successful attempt at thwarting death's efforts. But the odds will catch up eventually, I'm almost certain. I just want to find a place in the world I can call home so that I may curtail all of this criss-crossing of the globe and lead a comfortable and safe life within a 5-mile radius until my ultimate expiration from natural causes. Too much to ask for?