If Only I Were a Snake on the Run.

“Getting my morning coffee at the Mudtruck. Don’t even talk to me until I’ve had my morning coffee. Seriously, don’t. I’m venomous.” -BronxZoosCobra

I never thought I’d say this, but I not so secretly wish I was the escaped Bronx Zoo Cobra– or at least the creator of the Cobra’s twitter account. All week long, amidst a declining capacity to compose my thesis and an increasing demand to consume larger quantities of caffeine, I have looked to the Bronx  Zoo Cobra twitter account to provide me with comic relief. And with over 200,000 followers, clearly I am not the only New Yorker in need of a chuckle or two.

Furthermore, even TIME Magazine, a well established and respected reporting medium, took the opportunity to interview the snake and ask her about her Houdini-esque escape. When asked to address her favorite celebrity sighting, the Cobra made the selection I would have:  Tina Fey! Only unlike me, the Cobra decided to “play it cool,” and not accost her.

Indeed all of the Cobra’s experiences were carefully catalogued under the hashtag #snakeonthetown. And I, who fears snakes more than clothing in shades of color, found myself living vicariously through her. A New Yorker 220 miles from home, I was fortunate to experience the everyday New York grind through the entertaining reptile.

Considering that I have officially (as of today) confirmed my acceptance of a position with a New York employer, I believe it is vital to stay up to date on matters of New York politics, baseball, and bagels. And thanks to the little snake that could, I have.

Sadly, however, the Cobra was discovered this afternoon, lurking in the depths of the Bronx Zoo Reptile House, and since that time she has refrained from tweeting. I must say that in addition to all of the other disappointing aspects of today, i.e. discovery that Starbucks is not in walking distance of my hotel, this has been the lowest blow.

As a recent health study indicates, New Yorkers are some of the most depressed people in the country. We average 3.4 days of poor feelings, when the national average is just 2.3 days per month. And somehow the increased drink sizes at Starbucks no longer suffice.

We need lean, mean tweeting reptiles to remind us of the simple things–especially when said reptiles rely on caffeine almost as heavily as we do. Or, as one Facebook group advocates, we need the Bronx Zoo Cobra to host an episode of SNL.

She slithered her way into my heart. Now the question remains: How can I return the favor? A visit to the Bronx Zoo perhaps.

When bridesmaid becomes a verb.

If I could marry a city, I’d become a polygamist and marry London and New York. In the last four days, I have been privileged to see “Blood Brothers” on the West End and “Sister Act” on Broadway. And, avid readers, celibacy has never looked so good.

Ironically, in the midst of my musical awakening, two close friends have gotten engaged. While bridesmaid for me has already assumed the power of a verb, I was still surprised, excited, and perhaps even a wee bit  jealous of all of the wedding bells brouhaha.

Two extremely special people are about to embark on a new phase of their lives, while I simply try to get through the 26th of April: the dreaded thesis due date. They are about to become lean, mean baby-producing machines, when I consider a successful day one in which I’ve consumed  my body weight in lattes.

These women have a sense of certainty pervading their futures, whereas I stand the chance of being in one of three continents come the 1st of June. Their futures include bright white dresses involving excessive amounts of lace, and mine is marked by another trip to Anthropologie to find the perfect little black dress.

Needless to say, our paths are diverging. They seem to be selecting the path well-traveled, whereas I– taking my cues from Robert Frost– am opting for the road less-traveled.

Commenting to my mother during the “Sister Act” intermission, I said, “If I became a nun, well, that certainly would surprise a few people. And it would likely qualify as the road less-traveled given the fact that the average age of a nun these days is 76.” Yes, I told my mother I was ready to join the sisterhood in an act of complete spontaneity.

However, for those who know me well, spontaneity is not my strong suit. I prefer the employment of Excel spreadsheets when making major life decisions. Even if I opt for the less popular path, it is a well-calculated decision (and usually made from the comforts of my local Starbucks).

And, as my mother noted, joining the divine sisterhood would just be a means of “escape” from the challenging realities I would prefer not to face. But upon reviewing both Sister Act films, I began to realize something about myself; something I verbally acknowledge, but rarely internalize: I like challenges.

I live and breathe off of challenges. In fact, I deliberately create them for myself so I can properly channel my Jewish neurosis. I take on Oxford-sized balls with little to no funding because I get an adrenaline high from last minute fundraising efforts.

And considering my success in these “challenging” endeavors, I am starting to believe that regardless of my major life decisions (which will be made this Friday), I am capable of handling all of the challenges that accompany them.

And if not– if I fail and find myself scrounging for abandoned cardboard boxes behind my local Starbucks– at least I can say I’m not 21 and pregnant with my third, counting down the days until I can drink caffeine again.

An American in a Parisian Starbucks

Have you ever met the person who is always the subject of a random security check? Without fail, upon entering an airport, hoards of security agents swarm around her as if she were the cheese in a New York-style cheese danish. Well, avid readers, I am the aforementioned cheese. And while I navigate my way through Heathrow’s finest terminal, JWu shares a tale of the American Dream within a Parisian context:

Bonjour à tous, this is JWu blogging from Paris. Yes, I have been known to frequent McDonalds in order to take advantage of cheap macaroons (c’mon, a box of 6 for €4.50!). But today, I decided to visit another iconic American institution, Starbucks, in order to write this entry.

They aren’t exactly on every corner, but I’ve already wandered past a dozen or so in the last two months. Also, the Starbucks coffeehouses in Paris don’t really differ from those in the States, aside from a menu written in French and [high] prices denominated in Euros.

Anyways, before this frapaccino induced high wears off, I thought I’d share an anecdote here. Earlier today, I experienced the most interesting class discussion involving twenty French students and one Chinese American (me). It was unnerving to listen to these students articulate the foundations of what it means to be American and debate the “American-ness” of affirmative action policies. They knew everything from the “melting pot” to the Tea Party movement; I can’t recite the Pledge of Allegiance or sing the national anthem without Google.

The professor even asked me, since I am technically the American ambassador for this class, what the American Dream means in contemporary society. I managed to eek out a couple quasi-sentences about how, from the standpoint of a first-generation American who grew up in a community of immigrants, the American Dream is the belief that hard work leads to economic gain and class mobility. This was first time I had ever articulated the aspirations and mindset at the core of my being …and it wasn’t even in English.

Though currently abroad, I am living the American Dream in terms of exploring new places and rejoicing in new accomplishments (i.e. speaking French coherently enough to order a meal, riding the Métro without falling on somebody, etc.). I’ll conclude with this quote of St. Augustine: “The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.”

So whatever your dreams may be, set time aside to enjoy the freedoms of travel. And take comfort knowing that wherever you go, a friendly neighborhood Starbucks awaits you.

Getting my bellhop on…

While I lurk about the South African health minister’s hotel lobby, dressed as a British bellhop, the lovely JWu has agreed to be my second guest blogger tomorrow. Spending her spring semester in Paris, JWu will provide a tale sure to include McDonald’s macaroons. Yes, in Europe McDonald’s is a classy joint selling classy desserts. No wonder the fast food joint has become so popular abroad; appealing to the locals’ culinary preferences is excellent niche branding.

Hipsters and Hamburgers

While I chase down ministers of health on holiday in Europe, the lovely Gentile Giant has agreed to share her words of wisdom and wit. Enjoy her masterpiece, which weaves elements of Brooklyn, London, and psychological observation into one fluid and entertaining entry:

I arrived at Grand Central on Saturday morning, chanting Kim’s directions over and over in my head. “Darien 11:14 train to Grand Central. Take the 4 to Atlantic. Brooklyn Flea. Darien 11:14 train to Grand Central. Take the 4 to Atlantic. Brooklyn Fl-”

And then I saw them. I simultaneously forgot where I was going and fought the urge to buy them all a hamburger. Hipsters. Hipsters everywhere. Even though I lived in New York this summer, my seven-month absence induced some kind of hipster-memory loss. Sure, we have our own hipsters up in Boston, but I consider them to be the hillbilly cousins of New York’s finest family. Instantly, my Saturday afternoon Brooklyn Flea Market adventures took a turn for the academic. I, Claire “Gentile Giant” Ayoub, took on my own behavioral study, entitled, “The Study of a Hipster: Natural Habitat, Supplies and Social Interaction.”

Courtesy of http://transferium.wordpress.com/

PART ONE: THE HABITAT

While Grand Central Hipsters are interesting, they are all on their way back to the land of the hipster minority, the great land of my people: Connecticut. No, I wanted to see the real thing. Enter the Brooklyn Flea in Fort Greene. As my friends became engrossed in the vintage jewelry, I crept through the racks of musty clothing to wait for my prey. I found an empty corner and stood as still as possible. I knew how nature documentaries worked, and I was prepared to do the equivalent of standing for four weeks in a riverbed if it would allow the fish to become used to my presence. And by riverbed, I mean flea market. And by fish, I mean hipsters. And by four weeks, I meant until lunchtime because boy was my tummy rumbly.

My method was working. Two girls slowly walked over to my corner, making sure to look at everything with an ironic half-smirk. Their clothes looked ragged and tattered, but I was 98% sure they weren’t homeless. I’ve been told that staring at people in dark corners isn’t socially acceptable, so I began to rummage through a rack of men’s coats to my right, all while keeping them in my peripheral. In hindsight, I would have been better off staring. Those of you who know me know that A) I love childhood and B) I am horrible at hiding my joy. So, when I found a red raincoat with adorable rope toggles during my cover-up, I immediately pulled it off the rack and squealed.

“KIM!” I screamed to my friend, halfway across the market. “KIM! IT’S A PADDINGTON JACKET! I FOUND A PADDINGTON JACKET! PADDINGTON THE BEAR, KIM! PADDINGTON THE BEEEEEEAAAAAARRRRR!”

Observation 1: Hipsters don’t like surprises.

Observation 2: Hipsters judge with minimal effort.

Observation 3: Hipsters hate childhood icons.

PART TWO: SUPPLIES

After blending in so well in Brooklyn, I decided to give the Manhattan Hipsters a chance to shine. Or brood. I followed my friends into Hipster Mecca:

I had never been in Urban Outfitters before. I tried to fight it, to maintain my documentary drive, but I couldn’t help sounding like my father.

“Hey, looks like someone cut off half the fabric and doubled the price! Guffaw guffaw!”

Needless to say…the visit was short.

Observation 4: Hipsters are willing to pay $30 for plastic sunglasses sold on the street for $5.

Observation 5: Hipsters don’t like eye contact.

Observation 6: Hipsters don’t like small talk.

PART THREE: SOCIAL INTERACTION

Now, I thought my research was done for the day, but I was in for the academic surprise of my life. My best friend’s boyfriend was at a barbeque in Chelsea (almost a tongue-twister…ALMOST!) and we were invited over for dinner. With my own measly bank account in mind, I was picturing some kind of 9-floor walk-up with a view of a meth lab. So, imagine my surprise as I walked into a schmancy building overlooking the Hudson and was directed to take a few lefts and a right until we reached the elevators by the second wall of cacti. “Not to be confused with the first,” the doorman said. Obviously.

I am not usually self-conscious. You’re talking to the person who covered her jeans in glitter and sequins at age fourteen, then leapt through the hallways screaming, “I’M A STAR!” But I found myself unnerved at being so incredibly underdressed. However, I quickly found out that I wasn’t lacking a DVF shift and a whisp of Chanel No. 5. No, I was missing about nine holes in my jeans, oversized black frames and the light musk of PBR.

Hipsters. I was at a hipster barbeque. I was having hamburgers with hipsters on a rooftop in Chelsea. I, Claire Ayoub, hipster investigator, had just stumbled onto the nature documentary’s equivalent of a blue whale birth.

So, what happens when you combine Hipsters and a Gentile Giant with a perpetual case of the giggles? Pure magic, that’s what.

Observation 7: Hipsters are afraid of whales (like me).

Observation 8: Hipsters hit their heads on lamps (like me).

Observation 9: Even hipsters get the giggles.

When in doubt, make ‘em laugh!

The Gentile Giant

 

I left my heart in Brooklyn.

Avid readers, I have arrived in the land of cucumber sandwiches. The weather is glorious, in the rain, fog, and sleet sense, and the people– well, they continue to describe me as “gregarious.”

However, as many a New Yorker will tell you, you can take the girl out of the City, but you can never take the City out of the New Yorker. Hence my need to share the following video, which has made me incredibly homesick. It is an ode to my future borough of residence: Brooklyn, and documents the lives of Brooklynites, who adore Michael Jackson, Paris, and Sunday brunches:

And for those well acquainted with the Gentile Giant, expect a glorious guest post Monday morning!

New Yorkers will always wear black until they can find something darker.

New York Magazine asked its loyal readers a vital question– “What makes someone a New Yorker?” And as a loyalist myself, I felt obliged to read every single response. My personal favorite was, “New Yorkers will always wear black until they can find something darker.”

For those who are well-acquainted with my wardrobe, there are but two consistencies: black skirts and black boots. Despite Kate Spade’s delightful “Live Colorfully” campaign, I find myself consistently pulling the black garments from my closet first. And, perhaps, if I am in a hyper-caffeinated state, I add a pop of color.

Generally speaking, however, I resort to my black Longchamp bag when accessorizing. Yes, black bags complement black outfits. And I am in the philosophical state of binary oppositionial denial. In place of viewing the world as painted in strokes of black and white, I just see shades of black– the 21st Century gray, if anyone outside of New York asks.

Now my propensity for dark shades has never posed much of an issue. Though I have been subject to the standard biting commentary (“Oh, look, it’s the Elbow-Concealing Grim Reaper!”), I have succeeded in acquiring additional garments of the black variety without fear of verbal retaliation.

There is but one exception: England. Apparently the “live colorfully” campaign is more than just a means of selling $395 purses; it’s a way of life, or  ”modus operandi,” as one such Oxfordian phrased it. And in the midst of my last minute packing crusade yesterday, I realized how few colored garments I had placed in my suitcase.

So I did what any girl who had just downed two Starbucks ventis would do, I ran like the wind to my local Anthropologie, explained my predicament to my personal shopper, and a few too many dollars later walked out with garments in shades of red, green, and blue. Granted, the blue was of the navy variety, but I believe in taking baby steps.

The kicker, though, is the nail polish selection I have opted to sport. In place of my standard OPI Lincoln Park After Dark, which, in truth, is a moniker for black, I chose a most fitting color: “My Private Jet.” Given my red-eye excursion, it seemed the most logical selection– a brown with glittery undertones:

And with that, avid readers, I bid you adieu! When next we meet, I will be across the pond, interrogating a certain health minister about his wildly erratic sleeping patterns.

Interstate 95: The highway that made me a monotheist.

I try not to live my life according to stereotypes. Every so often, however, I encounter a particular individual, environment, or stream of speeding motor vehicles that affirm a stereotype I try so vehemently to deny. For example, today, on route to the train station, I encountered the infamous Massachusetts driver.

And I specifically use the term “infamous” because it carries a negative connotation. Mass drivers are known to be the worst in the entire country (Beloved Roommate excluded from this sweeping generalization). They are drivers who hesitate to enter an intersection, then determine to take the risk as the light turns yellow, but fail to make their move before the light changes to red. As a result, they block both the pedestrian path and part of the aforementioned intersection.

As my grandmother would say, “You take your life into your seat belt when you step foot in a moving vehicle in Boston.” And while my last four years of college have affirmed this reality time and time again, today particularly stood out.

Amidst the rush hour traffic on I-95, Massachusetts motorists determined to sidestep the jam by driving in the emergency vehicle lane. The Beloved Roommate, the Awesomeist Sophomore, and your truly were beside ourselves. What in Moses, Mary, Mohammad’s name did these Mass motorists think they were doing?

Aside from endangering the lives of drivers and passengers in legitimate lanes of traffic, it reinforced a stereotype I had tried to dismiss as invalid– that Massachusetts drivers drive like today’s their last day on Earth, and hence all fear of reprimand or speeding ticket disappears.

While the Roommate and Sophomore contemplated sudden death, I reminded them of the pact I had made with G-d last week when I determined not to pursue my assailant: You can’t take me from this Earth until I have tried the Starbucks trenta. “In that case,” the Sophomore reasoned, “you better not drink that trenta anytime soon.”

After twenty minutes of exchanging expletives, we arrived at the Route 128 Amtrak station. I would live another day to drink a skinny vanilla latte, and so after a brief goodbye, I parted ways with my Wellesley women and boarded a New York-bound train. While on the train, I received a text message from the Sophomore, “Hey, just for your sanity, apparently it’s legal to drive in the breakdown lane during rush hour. They’re trying to open up more lanes.”

While, in theory, there is some logic in opening up additional lanes during rush hour, it ignores a critical factor– that in the event of an actual emergency, emergency vehicles would be unable to reach the motorist in distress. And that, avid readers, is why I have departed this state for Spring Break.

London, get ready ’cause here I come!

What not to ask a former African health minister.

As a classically trained political scientist, I have grown to value the importance of qualitative fieldwork. Asking policymakers the tough and often uncomfortable political questions is essential to drawing any sort of useful conclusions.

However, there is an art to crafting these questions. Though covertly I may be playing hardball, overtly I must address my interviewee with the warmth of kindergarten teacher. And until recently I was succeeding in this endeavor.

Then I sent an email with my list of interview questions to the former South African health minister’s office. I needed security clearance before I could begin my thesis-based inquisition, and the minister’s office needed time to prepare carefully crafted responses to my line of questioning.

I admit my questions were more biting than those I had given the Ugandan Minister of Health. Then again, Uganda had seen significant declines in HIV prevalence, and South Africa sadly had not. Nonetheless, I made a conscious effort to ask questions, rather than simply castigate with question marks.

In constructing these questions, I created two documents– one containing the questions I intended to send, and the other reflecting the frustration I had with South African decision makers. And perhaps because it was 6 AM and I had yet to have my first latte, I sent the latter document.

When I heard nothing, I emailed a friendly reminder. The response from the administrator, “Are you serious? You ended your line of questioning with ‘How do you sleep at night?’” Moses. Have. Mercy. I had just asked the South African health  minister how he slept at night given the years he had wasted pursuing a policy of inaction while the HIV epidemic promulgated and innocent individuals suffered.

I needed to redeem myself– to play the game of politics and manipulate my own words. I began research into the life of the health minister. It turns out he had some of his own problems and insomnia was just one symptom of those problems. In responding to the administrator, I explained that the egregious question in contestation was actually a reference to the health of the minister himself, who my research indicated might have some sleep-related issues.

Yes, I simply wanted to ensure he was up to the challenge before subjecting him to an hour long interview. And in a moment that reminded me why I believe in the One Above, the administrator believed my line of reasoning. I secured the interview and learned a valuable lesson: Never send an email before drinking your morning cup of ‘Jo.

Gimme, gimme more.

What Spike Lee and I have in common: We Wuz Robbed.

I’ll admit it. I listen to Rod Stewart more than I should. In fact, today, on route to Boston for work-related interviews, I was humming along to “Some Guys Have All the Luck.” And at the point at which Mr. Stewart sings, And it seems so unfair when there’s love everywhere, but there’s none for me, the unthinkable transpired: I was robbed.

My wristlet, containing my two most valuable cards– my debit and my Starbucks cards– was ripped from my arm. In true New York fashion, I began to run the rascal down, ready to introduce him to my little fist, but reason and paranoia soon gave way to rational thinking and I stopped midtracks. If he was armed, I was endangering my life. And I can’t die before I try the Starbucks trenta.

Feeling violated and more than a little annoyed that I would be unable to pick up a latte on my way back to the office, I began reflecting on the only other time I have ever been robbed. I was eight years old, and my mother and I had taken a spontaneous road trip to Washington DC. While in the Air and Space Museum, a bandit broke into our car and stole my CD collection, which included the greatest hits of Christina Aguilera, Jennifer Lopez, and Notorious B.I.G. (I’ve always had eclectic taste).

While my mother and I waited patiently for our car to be fixed, we glanced around at the neighborhood– homeless people, overflowing dumpsters, and impoverished faces abounded. As you may have guessed, the car repair shop was not located in Georgetown.

However, in those moments, I gained some perspective. Though I would not be singing along to “Big Poppa” on my departure from DC, I would have a home with a fully stocked refrigerator to return to. And, more importantly, my mother would continue to be a support system for me– regardless of how shaken by the experience she was herself.

In a similar manner, when I returned to campus today, I was greeted by a letter from my first grade penpal– Matthew– who lives in a downtown Boston project. He informed me he was a meat eater, who loves hot dogs and pepperoni pizza. He hoped someday I would leave my vegetarian ways behind me and join him in a carnivorous adventure.

And then he ended his letter by asking, “Do you have fish?” Without recounting my many failed attempts to keep a goldfish alive for more than 24 hours, I will summarize my response as follows, “No, I have something better– your friendship.” And as Matthew signed his card, “Your best friend and I send all my love to you,” I wrote, “With all the hugs and kisses in the universe, Yaffa.”

Matthew was my DC repair shop; he was what put into perspective my latte-less Thursday. And his picture is what will continue to hang above my thesis carrel until graduation.