Things you learn about yourself whilst airborne.

As someone who has done her fair share of international travel, I feel it is about time I own up to a lesser known fact about me: I am a terribly introverted passenger. I avoid eye contact with fellow passengers, flight attendants, and security personnel. I speak only when I am spoken to, and I take comfort in my absurdly heavy load of unread literature.

I know, it goes against my otherwise 1000+ friends on Facebook extroverted nature. But after boarding my 100+ flight I realized it’s a oxymoronic fact– when aboard a plane, I am become an airborne recluse. And this is perhaps most pronounced with a friendly passenger seated beside me attempts to engage me in conversation. I provide monosyllabic answers in the hopes of dissuading said passenger from pursuing a conversation at greater length.

And believe me, with antsy passengers, if you give them an inch, they take a mile. One time on a flight home from Mexico City, a young American hitchhiker who had just completed his Central American backpacking tour, sat beside me on a rather empty flight. Eager to share the details of his four month long journey, he approached me for chit-chat. I resorted to my general one word answers until he tripped me with a simple question, “So what do you think of Mexican coffee?” Suddenly I couldn’t contain my syllables, and subsequently I was subject to four hours of the hitchhiker’s experience propelling down the Mayan ruins sans harness. Did I mention I am not an athlete?

The obvious question here is why I display a Jekyll-Hyde persona when traveling. And yesterday, while on the eight hour journey home from London, I sat pondering this very matter. Well, actually, I probably only spent about four hours on the matter, as I watched Drive and the 2011 version of Footloose for the first half of my flight. But once I had my fill of trashy cinema, I resorted to good old introspection.

And this is what I discovered: I am more like my mother than I generally care to admit. Now I love Mama B dearly, but I greatly value my individual identity– one that is quite distinct from hers. However, like Mama B, I must admit I have a great distaste for small talk, run of the mill schmoozing, and otherwise banal chit-chat. And let’s be honest, any airplane talk is meaningless jibber jabber.

I am willing to engage in it when it serves a greater purpose– when it’s part of the “networking” game. But when I am traveling, I am on vacation. I have no need to play the name game. Instead, I am taking some personal time to be alone or to be with people who inspire, engage, or challenge me. While I may try to silence the hyper-intellectual part of my mind, I am not particularly good at playing the role of the brunette bimbo. I am on the hunt for adventure– for interesting places and people. And frankly, the 20 year old girl touring with her college band in Edinburgh is not one of those people.

Call me elitist. I’ll admit it. I have a bit of it in me, and I suspect most of my fellow Wellesley biddies share my sentiment. We want our season 2 of Grey’s Anatomy, but we also want our collector’s edition of Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.

“Get ready, cause here I come.”

I’ll admit it, when I’m down and out and in desperate need of a transcontinental vacation, I turn on The Temptations and bust a move. You might just say “Get ready, cause here I come” is my anthem du jour. And given that I depart for the Land of Scones and Earl Gray Tea in only a couple of hours, I thought now might be a good time to share my love of a Motown classic with my greater blog following. Enjoy this fabulous foray into 1960s doowap– the only non-Jewish genre I was permitted to listen to before my Bat Mitzvah:

You should note, after my Bat Mitzvah, NSYNC stole my heart, and if my pub trivia’s team winning streak is any indication, it pays to have been a teeny bopper at some point. And with that I bid you, “Bye, Bye, Bye.”

 

With long skirts come great responsibility.

One of the best parts of being everyone’s babysitter below 14th Street is that I have insider access into lifestyles of the rich and the famous. And when you win over one rich and famous family, you are soon introduced to others. Take, for example, my babysitting gig with a certain music producer. That quickly translated into several sitting sessions with the musician himself.

And while I appreciate the referrals, it is always quite startling when I discover how one family pitched me to the other. In fact, last night I learned that one mother had written another saying, ”She only wears skirts so I expect she is fairly religious. But that’s neither here nor there. I just mean I think she’s responsible.” Apparently skirt-wearing individuals are more trustworthy than those who show the division between their legs.

When I recounted the story to a friend (after seeing a hilarious production devoted to retelling the “Missed Connections” section of craigslist), she remarked, “Duh! That makes perfect sense. Religious girl= reliable, responsible, and experienced– at least in the baby department.”

I protested, “But I am an only child. I never had siblings to practice on.”

“Ah,” she said, “but you have plenty of peers with babies to gain experience from…”

I suppose she is right. Though I do not sport the skirt for the purposes of employment, I do exert a certain level of motherliness when I wear it. I appear to be a young woman who isn’t afraid to follow a few rules, abide by a strict code, and exert a little Mama B affection. Simply stated, I look like a [future] mom; the kind who packs a home-cooked lunch for her kid everyday. The kind who sticks a love note in her child’s lunchbox. The kind who cuts off the crusts of her kid’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Now before you roll your eyes at my 1950s housewife depiction of myself, consider the following visual: a woman in skinny jeans, a Rolling Stones t-shirt, and a pair of spiked stilettos. Would you happily leave your children in her care? Or, would you dial the closest available skirt-wearing 20something you know?

I’m just saying if you’re unemployed or just in need of a little extra cash, invest in a knee-length skirt. You’ll thank me thousands of untaxed dollars later.

Miami Boys Choir: the Original Boy Band

Years before Justin Timberlake was even a thought, the first ever Jewish boy band was launching its first album (yes, it was the 70s). And when I say boy band, I mean it in the literal sense– a group of pre-pubescent boys who had just the right vocal squeak to make them simultaneously endearing and effeminate.

Yours truly was a particularly obsessive fan of said band, dragging my mother from one concert to the next. In fact, at age eight I succeeded in attending five Miami Boys Choir concerts in three major cities. Now I know what you’re thinking, girlfriend needs to get her mind of the [Orthodox] ghetto and recognize that choirs do not count as boy bands. But a quick look at a Miami Boys Choir video and it soon becomes clear that we are not dealing with your run of the mill religious chorus:

These boys, in matching suits, sing, dance, and flash their pearly whites at every adoring tweenage girl. And as any pop culture expert knows, the key to boy band success is the adoring tweenage girl.  At a typical Miami Boys Choir concert, one could expect to encounter hundreds of girls, in ankle length skirts, crying their respective eyes out as their favorite Choir boys came forward to sing their solos. I, myself, distinctly remember informing my mother that she either marry me off to a Miami Choir boy or else I would resort to a lifetime of spinsterhood.

Now flash forward fifteen years, and I still get as giddy with school girl excitement as I did in third grade when a Miami Boys Choir song randomly plays on my iPod. But even better than the sudden choral surprise is the discovery that a Miami Boys Choir member has gone solo. In typical boy band fashion, he has ventured beyond the group in an effort to achieve independent stardom.

Yaakov Shwekey is one such alum who has achieved unbelievable success within the confines of the Orthodox Jewish community since embarking on his solo career. And I’m not going to lie, I own every single one of his albums. However, it is his most recent release that has me going googoo gaga. “Cry No More,” a critical reflection on modern day terrorism in Israel, is blowing up both religious and secular charts in Israel.

With a beautifully cliched title track, the record draws on every emotional heartstring. And I cannot stop listening to it. But rather than feign music critic credentials, I will leave the remaining meaning to those willing to venture into the world of Jewish music. Or those who perhaps get a rush from seeing a guy in glasses sing.

The six year old reprimand.

“Yaffa, you can’t have a play date with that Yale boy.” Aldie, my favorite six year old, informed me that I– a young woman– could not have a casual foodie date with my best guy friend in the city. “It’s simply not natural,” he exclaimed.

“I can play with Isaac [a fellow kindergardener] because he and I are both boys. But you and that boy are not the same gender. And you can’t be platonic and play.” While I paused to contemplate if Aldie actually had used the word “platonic” in casual conversation, Aldie went on to explain that men and women are biologically engineered to procreate… not casually coffee.

And in that moment I was reminded of every high school rabbi I had, every one who informed me that there was no such thing as being “just friends” with a boy/man/not a boy, not yet a man. It went against every hormone in our bodies.

But unlike my high school rabbis who I simply disregarded, Aldie actually made me think perhaps there was some truth to his madness. Before I studied abroad, I can safely say I had no [straight] male friends. And even today I can count on one hand the number of gay and straight male friends I have.

Blame it on the years of women’s only education, but I am beginning to believe that subconsciously Aldie, my rabbis, and I are all aligned. Somewhere deep in my psyche is the belief that men and woman are lean, mean baby making machines.  They are meant to propagate, not be playmates.

And yet since returning to New York, I have made every effort to dissuade myself of such adolescent notions–to diversify my social circle, and to watch a basketball game or two with a guy and beer or two.  Does it feel natural? Certainly not. I must make a conscious effort to move beyond my sisterhood ways, but if the last eight months of my life are any indication, it is possible to be friends.

I say possible, not probable. Age, estrogen, the inevitable urban loneliness all pose challenges to this possibility, but over time I believe I will achieve a happy equilibrium. Or perhaps just arrive at a point where I can have a proper comeback on hand when Aldie challenges my fraternizing ways.

The right age to introduce your children to coffee.

As an employee of city government, I am theoretically forbidden from kvetching about the incompetencies overt within the system. But every so often I find myself standing in line in some local government office for three hours at a time, watching as precious minutes of my life pass me by, and think, “Seriously, G-d, is this regarding the time I lied in second grade about having a house made out of knishes? Because I thought we worked that out 15 years ago.”

Today was DMV Day. And true to Murphy’s Law, everything that can go wrong, did go wrong, including yours truly forgetting to bring critical paperwork with her and having to board a train to Mama B’s home to reclaim said paperwork.

And, of course, when I finally had gathered together all  my documents– proving I was neither an illegal alien nor a convicted felon– I was forced to wait in three separate lines. The first– to have my photo taken. The second– to have someone review the validity of my identifying documents. And the third– to inform me I would not receive an actual copy of my brand spanking new license for 7-10 day business days. Or as the DMV lady phrased it, “Good luck trying to get into a bar this weekend!”

Now I ask you, were three separate and distinct lines really necessary to carrying out the simple task at hand, which was renewing my license? If not for the assortment of colorful characters who both work and frequent the DMV, I might have gone entirely mad. But between the Chinese man who seemed uncertain of his permanent address (red flag!) and the old Jewish grandma, who had forgotten her glasses, and had therefore filled out her forms incorrectly, there was lots of noise and distraction.

My personal favorite, a.k.a. saving grace, was a seven year old boy who must have sensed I work in childcare, because he ran up to me as soon as I entered the DMV and announced, “You are my new best friend.” We talked about legos and Star Wars and the right age to introduce your children to coffee (I said 7, he argued 5). And at the end of our schmooze, I was already through line one.

His mother, sadly, had just completed line three. Hayden, my saving grace, was forced to depart, but not before bidding me farewell and asking his mother if I could “come over and play Risk sometime.” She winked and whispered, “I think someone has a crush on you,” oh so conspicuously pointing in the direction of her hyperactive son. Now if only I could attract men my own age…

A funny thing happened on the way home from Brooklyn.

Brooklyn and I are beginning to bond, and I don’t mean in the superficial sense. The borough that once seemed so (geographically) far away has been an accessible best friend, providing constant intellectual stimulation and hipster-inspired entertainment. Last night, for example, it shared a Grease sing-along with me.

And this morning– perhaps the more comical part of my stay in the outer borough– it provided me with a remarkable cab ride. In a desperate attempt to make my tutoring appointment, I bolted from my friend’s studio, only to miss the 2 train by a hot minute. The next train would not be arriving for 17 minutes, and I, a German-blooded Jew, could not stand the notion of being late to anything, let alone a well-paid gig.

Nor, apparently, could the young gentlemen caller who happened to find himself in a similar situation on my subway platform. Upset, enraged, and just generally frustrated with the rather pathetic subway service the outer boroughs offer, he asked if I would take a cab with him into Manhattan.

Instantly images of serial kidnappers flashed through my mind. I’d seen videos about this in middle school– a seemingly harmless man offers a young and impressionable girl a ride, and a few months later her face appears on a milk carton. I was not ready to be a bad statistic, but then again, I had my DA badge on me. I could always flash it like I was some undercover cop if he tried anything not too kosher. Simply stated, I acquiesced.

And then I hailed a cab, as only a girl with Kate Spade yellow taxi mittens can do. I informed the driver of the two stops he’d be required to make, and Brandon– the aspiring actor and aforementioned gentlemen caller looked stunned. “Wow, you really took charge there.” Well, I explained, when I know what I want, I go for it. I am a Wendy Wellesley, after all.

He seemed to respect that, but still claimed he knew very few girls who barked orders as quickly– and yet as innocuously– as I did. “I spend a lot of time with children,” I told him. “Oh?” he responded. At which point I told him about my crime-fighting day job, in which I care for adults who behave like small children with little understanding for the consequences of their actions. I could yell and scream and all together terrorize them, but honestly, firm straight talk is significantly more effective.

Little did I know that my professional revelation would spark an Occupy Wall Street conversation. Yes, Brandon, the struggling Brooklynite, was a protestor himself. And while he had managed to steer clear of the law, he had several friends who had been arrested and charged in the course of the protests.

I must say, it was fascinating to learn of the entire movement from someone operating within it. While he still maintained a day job at one of the most delicious restaurants in town, he spent his remaining hours working towards furthering the main objective of the movement– to change the way society sees itself. To force society to reexamine its taught behaviors and to move towards a less consumer, more communal driven condition.

While I wasn’t about to join him in the park, I respected his honesty, his sacrifices, and his willingness to speak to a complete stranger about his nights in Zuccotti Park– nights in which many of his belongings were robbed from him.  He provided a counter perspective, as only a true believer could. He didn’t sugar coat the reality of the situation, but at the same time, he still encouraged me to believe in its ability to move moutains.

And as a metaphorical mountain climber myself, his words really did resonate with me. As I searched around in my wallet for some money to pay the driver, Brandon stopped me and asked if this ride was just a “one time thing.” I asked if he wanted it to be, at which point he asked for my contact information, and I– convinced he was not a serial kidnapper– provided it to him.

I suppose that’s what my coworker Maya means when she says, “Don’t actively search for a guy. It won’t happen that way. But be open to one coming along. And Carpe Diem whenever the hell he does.”  While Brandon might never call, or he might but just in a friends-only context, it is wonderful to feel like I am finally doing something about my single status, aside for routinely kvetching about it.