real life You Got Served

Well kind of. There were no dueling dance crews - one white, one black - but at times I did feel like I was in a movie this weekend.

My best friends from home and I went to Memphis for the weekend. One of our long-time girlfriends was getting married on a riverboat on the Mississippi River, which is probably one of the greatest ideas ever. Despite the excruciating heat and the initial feeling of seasickness as the giant Memphis Queen III left the dock, the entire party - from the vows on the bow of the boat to the R&B goodness of the band - was a blast. Sure, parts of it were a logistical mess, such as us being told about two hours before the event that they had not planned for a cake cutter or plates (which they of course had but we managed to borrow a foot-long knife from the Marriott for the evening), not being able to actually hear the vows being exchanged without a mic and the bride's sister walking up to the top deck late after not being alerted that the ceremony was in fact starting. Hey it happens, but all in all, it was a stellar crowd enjoying every minute of the night.

But I digress. The boat docked about 10-ish, at which point my girlfriends and I promptly, and drunkly, chucked every last flower we had labored all day cutting, wiring and arranging in vases. We downed the last drop of our gin and tonics, loaded the car with the vases and left over cake and headed for the dance club, Plush, on Beale Street.

We walk in - all still dressed to the nines - and the two men were frisked for weapons and related contraband. I'm not sure if that made me feel good or kind of scared. Either way, we got in and ordered a few drinks and then unabashedly hit the dance floor. I quickly realized we were the only white (and multi-racial) folks in the crowd, and having had a not-so-welcoming experience in an all-black club in Birmingham, I was a little skeptical. (Picture three ladies walking on to the dance floor at Platinum, promptly clearing the place out. I'm saying people slap walked off the dance floor, with ladies throwing us eat-shit-and-die looks. Some of the men, however, loved the White Girls and bought us Long Island ice teas in massive mason jars.)

But we certainly weren't too worried about the reaction, as we danced pretty much all night. You know it's good if you get there when it's not too full and leave after the floor clears out. Well, there were a few guys there that seemed to be part of a dance crew of sorts and every once in a while they would break into these routines. It was unlike anything I have ever seen, except of course on You Got Served (act like you have never seen that movie) without the acrobatics. But these guys were so good, and crowds would gather around them.

At one point, the song Set It Off came on - a personal favorite - and I was all excited and went to dance again. Then I realized everyone was doing the same dance. Pretty much everyone in the club was moving the same way, something like the electric slide but without all the dumb hopping and cha-cha-cha. It was a sea of people, moving, and smiling and having a damn good time. Only, the white girl didn't the memo and was left standing on the sidelines wide-eyed.

Other highlights of the night include: drinking Remy Martin after some of the groom's friends bought a bottle from the bar; being filmed for some show on BET - the camera crew was taping people dancing and had a friend of mine and I say some shit like "You're watching what you're watching" or "What's on is what's you're watching" or something. There were also these two girls dancing in another area behind the bar, and they were so good we went right up to them and started dancing with them. I have literally never seen an ass do that before. I complemented her, and she said "as long as you're on beat, girl." Easier said than done, friend. So my girl bought them some tequila sunrises and we quickly departed when the women next to them rudely said "excuse me," making it apparent we were not welcome near them. That's fine. Oh and there were the gentlemen that wanted to "holla at us." One told my girl he wanted to "scratch her scalp," whatever that's supposed to mean.

The night ended back at the Comfort in where A and I found ourselves trying, with the help of the guy behind the hotel front desk, to pry into a bottle of Cabernet. He jammed a three-inch screw into the cork and struggled it out with a pair of pliers. After about 45 minutes, he was proud at the success of his project, and we were too drunk and tired to drink the wine.

my best dean face

So my dad is in this funny portrait in the School of Public Health. I think it was for an anniversary for the school and they got all the past deans and him, the current dean, together to sit for this absurd and stodgy painting, which I know just makes him gag.

(This is academia, remember, where people call him Dean So-and-so and when I come around they say, Oh you must me Dean So-and-so's daughter. My dad just humbly wants to be treated like a human and called by his first name.)

So since one of my girlfriends works a few floors up, she recently took me to the conference room where this masterpiece hangs. Of course Pops would never show this off. After giggling hysterically and being generally incredulous that this is my dad, we thought it fitting to take a picture of me alongside the serious-looking academics. (Truth be told, I am unspeakably proud of him.)

This, friends, is my best dean face.

batten the hatches, Chicago

I am coming back.

Just rented a place - right across the street from my old studio. Because I am crazed and all amess due to my last-minute plans to come to DC and then my inability to decide where I want to be next, I gave up my apartment in Chicago. But luckily, I got a place nearby and can move in a couple weeks.

Even if it's for a couple months, I am so excited about returning to Chicago.

One less thing to wake me up at night.

girl crushes

A story today in the NYT prompted this post. More on my thoughts on the story later.

It happens. As a straight woman in her mid-20s I have certainly had what some call a girl crush on other women I meet. And although I sounds like a sexual thing, or a romantic love thing, it's just the excitement of meeting a new woman who is cool, funny, smart, and sometimes kind of hot.

The first time I heard the term, I was standing in the bathroom line in a bar in my hometown a couple years ago. I had met this girl who was the girlfriend of a high school friend. I remember she seemed very nice and was wearing really cute, black, pointy shoes. We chatted a little, drunkenly complemented each other on our clothes and shoes, and she said she had girl crush on me. It was super flattering and not creepy at all. I took it to mean she thought I was cute and funny and a good potential friend (although I can't say I have seen her since).

Since then I have recognized a few times when I will meet a woman, get to know her a little, and become - to use a word in the NYT article - smitten. Not in an obsessive way, or as I said before, a sexual way. It's just that there is a connection, and I really enjoy spending time with her. And as I have gotten older, those connections are a little more frequent - though most women then turn catty or competitive or a little nuts, but that's a post for another day - and stronger.

I think the article is a little misleading. The writer ledes with a scene in a bar with one woman attracted to a dark-haired dancing beauty. Right there, it makes the crush thing sound sexual. And it's not about being physically attracted - in fact, it's more like the crush develops after a certain amount of dishing or witty banter. And I can't say I have ever had such a crush that I got nervous or stammered or sweated in her presence. That makes the whole phenomenon seem silly and childish when indeed it's quite fulfilling and exciting.

and now for some good news

In the toot-my-own-horn category, I just found out that a story I pitched and wrote for my papers ran on two papers' front pages. One of them was the lead news story right under the masthead. Hard to appreciate without seeing it on the page, but it's pretty awesome.

Makes me think the headache and logistical mess of moving to DC for the summer was worth it.

just one of them days

So I am having one of those low self-esteem days. We all have 'em (though mine seem to be more frequent these days) and they are usually for silly reasons.

Here are my excuses.

Just had an interview with the Gannett recruiter... I wasn't exactly the star reporter I meant to be. Questions like "What separates you from other candidates?"
and "What is the role of a journalist?" always mess me up. When I am not feeling like the sharpest knife in the drawer, it's hard to talk up my stellar qualities. I am not even sure today why someone should hire me over one of my colleagues. And I am not confident that my best skills and attributes come across in a 20-minute chat.

Congress is out of session, but we are still reporting.... Considering I cover Capitol Hill, what, pray tell, are you writing about, you may ask. Good question. This week and last - not much of anything. I am digging around for studies, trends, unusual happenings. Then I try to see if anyone in West or North Alabama cares. I am convinced my editor thinks I am a slacker or not enterprising enough and that eats away at the competitive part of me. Boredom breeds more boredom, and slow days make me lazy, restless, anxious, and all-too-pensive.

I have no where to live and no job come Aug. 31. That keeps me up at night.

I just got my hair cut and I look something like a brunette Annie Lennox. No kidding.

Just covered a panel discussion on the housing boom. Riiight. The only reason I understood half of what they were talking about was because I had the lovely pleasure of covering real estate for the Prague Post. Surprisingly some of the same concepts came up, and perhaps not surprisingly, the folks today could have been speaking in Czech and I would have understood just as much.

reflections

I realized today that I have been so consumed with assimilating back into American life, keeping my head above water reporting in DC, and losing sleep over my next move that I have not given proper time to reflecting on my time in Prague.

This became clear to me when a former globalite who spent a quarter in Prague emailed me, asking how I felt about Prague in retrospect. I wrote a couple sentences about how I miss it, and she writes back this tear-jerking account of her post-Prague musings. As I read it, I felt a lump rise in my throat and it made me begin my own process of fond reflection. Her account of feeling utterly isolated but totally alive rang true for me.

Though it might not be as meaningful to those who have not spent time in Prague, I have pasted it below (slightly edited) for all to read. I also plan on beginning to articulate my own thoughts on the city one of these days...

And I have been planning and thinking of ways to get me back Europe. I
fell in love with Prague, with that area of Europe. I want to go back to Prague to work as a journalist some day, if only for a year.

I really loved that apartment, too.

I'd heard both positive and negative things about The Post from past beat reports, residency students, and people who worked at The Post (both in the past and at the time I was in Prague).
Disorder was the word that was used most often. And while my residency was a bit different, something of an experiment with online media that died after I left, I did enjoy the living experience.

And that's what I miss most. I try to explain to people this way: I was learning 24/7. At work, one thing and in English mostly. But after I got outside of the work bubble of English, I was paddling furiously to learn Czech, to learn about other people. Not through classes, but by building on what little words and verbs I'd picked up from work and then trying to get people to talk to me.

And despite being linguistically and culturally locked out for a while, I never felt more like a person in my entire life. There was this one moment where I about lost it, early in my stay. I was exiting the Muzeum station and heard a child laughing, saw a couple kissing. It hit hard that laughter was something I could understand, and that kissing was universal. Language without words.

I miss that after hours learning. I miss the shock in the shop keeper's faces when I'd build on my sentences and words. I miss the sour-faced woman at the butcher shop who always rolled her eyes at me when I'd close my eyes at her writing down the price of my ribs. I wanted to hear it and see if I could finally, finally make out the numbers she was calling out.

I miss the slower pace of life but in a city. I miss the walking. I miss the sound of the trams. I miss the rain and dew on the cobblestones in the morning, the autumnal leaves (I was there in the autumn). I miss looking out of the living room window (where I slept) at the night time skies. The tea pot in the mornings, the oven in the evenings.

So everything I'm doing right now, right now as I am making the final rounds of interviews for a few new media positions (I graduated in June and have been looking since), everything is in line with what I want to do in my life. And I hope that the skill set I'm looking to build and experience I'm gonna get will help me get back to Prague. I'm giving myself five years. I want to live in Prague again sometime in the next five years. The experience feels incomplete to me still.

And next time hopefully not as a starving student. And maybe then it'll be with someone to share it with. Because for all that I am an I-can-do-it-myself kinda girl, I realize now that I have this box of memories and nostalgia for one.

best. show. ever. ...

... besides the O.C., of course.

The show: So You Think You Can Dance.
A Fox creation, but against my better judgment and overall disgust with that network, I watched it and loved it.
Something about hundreds of contestants - dancers of all stripes ranging from Irish dance, to break dancing to interpretive (some dude "danced" with a mattress) - auditioning for the ultimate spot on who-knows-what. Not sure what the grand prize is, but the chosen ones then take classes in salsa, hip hop, contemporary, etc... Then the requisite elimination round.

Who knows (or cares) about the logistics. All Fox shows are the same - there is some activity, harsh judges saying horrible things, some tears, a few elimination rounds, more tears, more narrowing down, and then America votes.

The show reawakened my desire to become a professional dancer. Lack of skills or baseline talent aside, that is what I sometimes think I am truly meant to do. And if I hadn't already committed to being a reporter, I just might have done it....

too much moving around

On an evening walk in my neighborhood yesterday - in DC, don't forget - I walked by a sign advertising a new condo building planned for an empty lot. The sign read Lincoln Park condos. My first reaction was - Lincoln Park? Are they confused? This is North Capitol Hill - a far cry from the posh lakefront neighborhood of Lincoln Park. And just because you dress it up with a name like Lincoln Park it's won't stop being the ghetto.

Then I realized I don't live in Chicago, where the other Lincoln Park neighborhood is. Oops. I guess I have been moving around too much in the past year. I don't even remember where I live.

Also of interest during my little jaunt:

In a small yard in front of a rowhouse, my neighbor has planted, alongside the lush greenery and pansies, a dirty bouquet of silk yellow roses. Silk. Fake roses. Planted into the ground right next to the bushes.

In other news, I learned a priceless laundry lesson last night. After turning my only white shirt light blue (this is why I shy from wearing white), I promptly called my father. I realize I moved away from home nearly a decade ago (yikes) but sometimes you just need to call in the experts. He passed me on to my step-mother, who then referred me to her mother.

So I called who I guess you could call my step-grandmother, who is an ultra-Southern, God-fearing, Republican wife of a former minister. If anyone knows laundry, she does. In the thickest, kindest, most bourgeois (as opposed to rednecky) Southern accent, she instructs me to fill the washer with water, half-cup of bleach and detergent.

"Then you let it churn a little, and put your garment in and let it soak over night," she tells me. "Then run the wash again in the morning. I do this every week with all my whites."

It worked. This woman knows her laundry.

musings on DC living

People don't seem to understand why I don't love DC. Most folks - whether they have lived here or not - seem to love this place. It occurred to me this weekend why they love it and I don't, and I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that they haven't lived in the DC I have lived in.

I shared a cab home Saturday night with a guy who was heading to Capitol Hill but lived in Alexandria. He worked at the US Patent and Trademark Office, and since I used to cover the USPTO for a technology pub, I was interested in what he did and what his career plans were. We chatted for a bit, and then he stopped and said: "This is why I love DC. Only here can you have a conversation like this riding home from the bar at 2 in the morning."

I will give him that. I had spent the evening at a bar where walking to the bathroom I overheard the phrase "profit margin" or some shit.

Then somehow we came back to how I live in a shady neighborhood, once again verified by my cab driver. I agreed with my backseat partner that only in DC do you find such a civic-minded, driven group of young people - but, I argued, also only here do you have such a stark dichotomy of class and race. Well-to-do, educated, affluent people sharing the city with the destitute, disaffected, isolated, angry. There seems to be little middle ground and these two opposite ends of the spectrum fuel the city's tension.

One night I ride home in a cab talking about patent fees. The night before I take the bus, listening to a man holler out nonsense like "Everybody in the bus say 'I love ya.' I love ya!" and "If you man, be a man; if you a mouse, stay in the house."

I told the guy riding with me that I actually like living in this neighborhood, that it gives me a small picture in another world and teaches me so much about race, class, politics, crime. He agreed, and said he was a minority in his apartment building in Alexandria, that there were people from all over the world, particularly Africa.

But it's different. And the cab driver articulated it the best. And his assessment seemed to sum up how many people can live in a different DC.

He said: "No, I live in Alexandria, and I am one of those people. But we are different. These people from other countries are here because they chose to be here and they are working hard or studying or making a better life. The people in this [North Capitol Hill] neighborhood are Americans. They are stuck here, and they are poor and angry and killing each other."

It's true. And my argument is that many people don't experience the latter. They may know about it - the crime rate is hard to ignore anywhere in the city - but they don't go home to it or wake up in the middle of the night to it or fear the bus ride home because of it. They experience the affluent, educated residents; the fun bars and great restaurants filled with like-minded people. They even see the racial diversity and feel the vibes of an international city. But they are missing something. They are missing what I think is the other part of the real DC. They are missing the elements that make me both love and hate this city.