Almost exactly four years ago, I flew halfway around the world to spend 10 months abroad in Barcelona, Spain. At 20 years of age, I had never lived outside of California, my Spanish was approaching – but still lacking – fluency, and I was still emotionally, financially, and physically quite rooted in my youth. Like many who studied abroad, my transition from native to foreign soil was a clusterfuck of logistical bewilderment, cultural embarrassment, total lack of relevant common knowledge, and staggering immaturity. Suffice it to say that when the shit hit the fan – and it did often – it splattered terrifically and in all directions. However, it was precisely my multidimensional naivety which succeeded in vindicating me when disaster struck. “He was young! Ignorant! Confused! Drunk!”, declares my shoulder angel in my defense, when I relive my fondest and most cacophonous memories. Yes, my excuses were manifold and undeniable. In nine days, however, I will be unable to make such claims. On August 11, I will be soaring across the country in seat 28A of Delta Airlines flight 32, destination: New York City.

In all honesty, I’m nervous. I’m anxious. I yearn to begin the adventure like a gourmand about to try a new recipe, and yet I have no clue what to expect on the other side. Also paradoxical is that my apprehension is at once dense and layered, and yet unsurprising, even to myself. I realize that my preoccupation is a healthy excitement, and that I’ve been here before. Indeed, it might actually be beneficial. Cognitive and evolutionary psychologists have long recognized that humans developed a sense of anxiety in order to prepare ourselves for the task at hand, whether it’s killing a mammoth or studying for an exam. What makes this instance unique is that things are different. I’m different. This time around, I’m far less emotional, far more sure in my abilities. I have an additional four years of experience behind me, plus the common sense one supposedly garners from those years. And the scenario is different. My destination is closer to home, geographically and psychologically, and the language spoken there is my own. I’m an adult, financially independent and stable. And my purpose is my passion.

It is precisely these generally positive elements, however, which leave me no excuses for failure. This is the root of my anxiety. Not the fact that I’ll be several time zones removed from my family, or that I will be arriving homeless, or that I can count my NYC connections on just one hand, or my first, rapidly-approaching winter. It’s my knowledge that I possess the skills to prevent calamity, and that nonetheless calamity will befall me. It’s the fact that I can no longer blame my blunders on my youth or regional language barriers (unless I’m in Queens). It’s because I am throwing myself into the world, and I am solely responsible for everything I do.

Is there a cure for uncertainty?

On Saturday we met up with my friend Destini, who’s studying law at NYU, for lunch and a little tour of the Village. Together we enjoyed a quaint breakfast at Sullivan Diner just south of the university, and grabbed a tremendous cannoli at Bruno Bakery before she had to return to studying. We cruised back uptown to Columbia to take another look at the campus and explore the area a bit, and I definitely learned a valuable lesson about uptown geography. For example, in taking the A train rather than the 1 Train up to 116th St., I learned that there is a huge valley that begins just east of Morningside Dr.  Who does that? Also, that is officially the start of Harlem. As my cousin so subtly put it: Always stay west of the park. Below, for your convenience, is a map to illustrate. Find Morningside Park. See crime west of the park. See crime east of the park. Dear New York City: Don’t fucking disappoint me.

Saturday night, our last night in the city, was perhaps the most glorious of all. After savoring my first slice of New York pizza at Slicebun near the School of Social Work (do check out their menu), I got to experience the wonder that is Brooklyn, with Kevin (who you may remember once wrote for this blog) and his entourage of fine female companions. After wandering a bit through Williamsburg and practicing our map-reading skills, we ended up at Marlow & Sons, a small bodega-type eatery serving up quintessential New American cuisine. Known primarily for their meats, cheeses, and oysters, Marlow & Sons only offers 3 entrees a night and 3 beers a night. Nasya and I enjoyed the beer-braised spare rib atop polenta, served with a salad of fresh parsley, fennel and arugula. If I recall, Kevin and mom rocked the brick chicken, and Kate partook in the sea bass. Absolutely splendid, great atmosphere, good prices for the quality we got.

Not to be outdone by my Friday night, we escorted mom to a taxi back to Manhattan and cruised up Bedford to Zablozki’s, a much better dive bar than Whiskey Town. This place seriously kicked ass. $2 PBRs, other good beer, too, great music, lots of space, attractive people. No wonder Williamsburg is the new Greenwich Village. And what a perfect way to end my trip to New York.

Despite my great experience at NYU, my final decision is Columbia. Its program is simply a better match for me. Though I do enjoy the clinical stuff, the emphasis that everyone I met put on the clinical was a little overwhelming. Like Boston University, Columbia’s program is urban-based but also strong in the research category. This means that I’ll get the clinical skills and experience I’ll need to facilitate real change with clients, but that I’ll also get the macro picture, too – community organizing, planning, and management. And that fits better with my vision of where I’ll ultimately end up: back at a burgeoning non-profit helping them better serve their clients, while keeping a watchful eye on the therapeutic/clinical issues. CUSSW has a specialization called Advanced Generalist Practice and Programming, which is broader than their Clinical focus, but closer to what I want to do than their Policy focus or Social Enterprise Administration focus. All in all, I’m excited for the opportunity and cannot wait to be a student again.

That night we had the honor and pleasure of dining with the one and only BFC. After only getting slightly lost, we rendezvoused at MAX in the East Village for some bomb-ass lasagna and great conversation. Despite my sleep-deprived state, I couldn’t spend a weekend in New York without enjoying it properly, so we dropped mom off at the subway and booked it to Whiskey Town to show our faces at the birthday party of one of Ben’s friends. Whiskey Town is a nice little dive bar – pool table, juke box and all – with disappointingly un-divey prices, but a really great vibe, great music, and attractive clientele. See the picture below? Yeah that just about sums it up. After spending sufficient time there, we headed to our final destination of the night: Ben’s most recent haunt, the Blue Owl Bar. The Owl is an impeccably designed lounge on 2nd Ave and 12th St, with drinks that rival those mixed at The Association in DTLA. The crowed was perhaps a little douchey (chalk it up to being Friday night) and the prices – again – high, but the Owl does not disappoint. Now, I’m not normally the type that orders drinks in martini glasses, and definitely not the type to be sporting froo-froo mixed drinks, but with Ben’s recommendation we both got Cosmos and HOT DAMN were they good. Do yourself a favor and try one when you go.

To be continued.

We had planned to do lunch with some family friends in Midtown after the tour, but timing simply didn’t work out, so we took the subway down to 4th St to get some food before my appointment at NYU. For my first New York sandwich experience, I chowed down on a killer pastrami sandwich from Village Clubhouse Deli Inc on Bleeker just east of Sullivan. Packed with moist, thin-cut pastrami, spicy deli mustard, Swiss cheese, sautéed onions, and bright red jalapeños on a thick roll. We walked over to Washington Square, found ourselves a nice bench near the doggie park, and people-watched to the tune of gorgeous, sunny 75-degree weather. Ah, the simple pleasures.

In all honesty, my actual experience at NYU was far superior to my visit to CUSSW. First I met with the admissions director, who showed me around and displayed an almost-tangible interest in wanting me to choose NYU. She even got in contact with a professor for me, whose class I ended up sitting in on. The class itself was a Policy class – ie, terribly boring (not aided by my sleepiness) – but I immediately developed this great rapport with the professor based on the fact that we’re both from LA. Then it turns out that we’ve both had experience working in palliative care, and her interest in me immediately transcends the “come to our school” level and moves into the “we should most definitely keep in contact, regardless of which school you choose” echelon. She says: who knows, maybe I’ll have a giant grant next summer and will need someone to help me collect data? And there are so few people in the world with passion for palliative care that you’ve really got to hold on to those people who share that interest. Yaaay potential job next summer in NYC.

Then, as if the visit couldn’t get any better, as class (the penultimate lecture of the year) was ending, this professor then says, hey, let’s all go out for a beer…there’s this stellar beer garden down on 4th. My treat. UM YES. So I talked 3 blocks south to Vol De Nuit Belgian Beer Bar to shoot the shit with a few students and the professor. Please tell me that grad school is always like this.

Nobody likes to hear carping and complaining, but I feel it’s important that you know what a pain in the ass the first 10 hours of this trip were. So I’ll tell the tale as I would if I had Twittered it:

• 9:01PM PST – Gate 26B announcement: “Er…..we’re experiencing some technical difficulties with the cockpit window, folks…er…expect delays.”
• 9:44PM PST – Finally fixed the window. Thank God for duct tape! Taking off ½ hr late…could be worse.
• 5:56AM EST – Finally landing at JFK Airport. Total hours of solid sleep: 0.5. Total pages of The Fountainhead read: 121.
• 7:03AM EST – Just got our luggage. Eff you Carousel 8. Time to score a shuttle to Manhattan. Meeting at 10am…we might not get a quick nap in, but at least we’ll def make that appt.
• 8:32AM EST – Our very nice Colombian shuttle driver: “¿Pero qué? 330 WEEEEST 40th??? my friend dees here paper it say it 330 EEEEAAAST 40th. Jeeeesus. Ok. Ok. Ees ok my friend. I gots to drop dees other people off firs before I can gechoo to WEEEEST 40th. OK no problem, no problem my friend.” fml.
• 9:10AM EST – This traffic is miserable. If I never drove a car in this city, I would not be sad.
• 9:14AM EST – Finally got to our hotel. Let’s move, people!
• 9:36AM EST – Leaving to find the subway and get from 42nd St. to 125th St. Easy peesy.
• 10:19AM EST – Walking into my informational session at Columbia School of Social Work 20 minutes late. Total people in room: 8. Total males including self: 1. hahaha awesome.

So as you can see, it was a bit of a stressful adventure, but what adventure doesn’t push you beyond your comfort zone? The important thing is that we made it safe and sound. The fact that I only got 30 minutes of sleep on the plane would come back to haunt me, but it’s New York City – the one That Never Sleeps – right? When in Rome…

To be continued.

After lunch on Friday we headed back to Back Bay to Simmons College, whose financial aid department was also less than generous. There I met briefly with Carlos Frontado, the Venezuelan Director of Admissions, who informed me that he had arranged with a professor for me to sit in on a “Human Behavior in the Social Environment” class. He was clearly a busy man, but was – in the Latino spirit – very welcoming and helpful. He led me to the third floor where I had the pleasure of participating in a class discussion of the psychosocial development during adulthood, meeting some very cool people, and remembering how much I enjoy being a student.

I think that if I took one lesson away from this weekend, it’s how much I miss the world of academia and how ready I am to go back to school. Not that work is without its benefits. Through it I’ve gained invaluable experience, developed new skills, made much-needed money, gained some great acquaintances, learned more about my own passions, and been challenged in new ways. But there’s nothing like the intellectual and social opportunities of studenthood, plus the fact that I’ll be in a brand new city, completely cut from the 60 mile radius to which I’ve been tethered for so long. Nineteen weeks and counting.

Friday evening I had the joy of reuniting – after nearly 10 years apart – with Simon, who you may remember as being one of this blog’s contributors! Based purely on the recommendation of Yelp! Boston, he, my dad, and I met up at the hip Silvertone Bar and Grill in Beacon Hill, where we enjoyed a delicious and dirt-cheap dinner. The restaurant’s décor harkened back to the speakeasy era with its checkered hexagonal tile floor, low red lighting, dark wooden paneling, and reproductions of black-and-white photographs from the 20s in prominent brass frames. The tone of the restaurant made you feel risky, like you could sneak out the back for a whisky and a cigar. The whole establishment had an aura of mystery about it. We were greeted by a man who may have been part of the staff, although by his salutation and demeanor one couldn’t be sure whether he was the doorman or in charge of mixing up the moonshine. He was silver-haired gentleman whose resemblance to the Captain from Jaws was uncanny, and I swear the indent of a flask marked his jacket pocket.

My warm spinach salad with bacon, goat cheese, red onion, grilled citrus-spiced shrimp, and cilantro-orange vinaigrette was absolutely killer (although the dressing was notably lacking in cilantroiness) and a spoonful of my dad’s clam chowder made me regret having never in my life tried the dish (for shame!, I know). The restaurant also had a unique selection of special drinks – including Happy Meal #3 (PBR with a shot of Chartreuse) and The Kit (Miller High Life with Maker’s Mark on the rocks) – which I will be sure to sample next time around. After dinner we hit up the originally-named Beantown Pub around the corner to watch the Red Sox’s unexpected 10-8 win against the Orioles. After dropping my dad off at the T station, Simon and I took a long walk down Boylston to a crowded but very fun bar, not far from Fenway Park, where I succeeded in not sobering up. Luckily, Boston’s subway system is slightly more reliable than my ability not to get drunk, and getting home was a cinch.

The rest of the trip took me on a far-from-comprehensive-but-informative tour of Boston. Saturday dad and I took a run along the Charles River despite my minor hangover/dehydration, and then I went to Back Bay to meet up with an old friend from my internship at UCLA who is now a first year law student at BU. We walked back to Beacon Hill and had a decent lunch at a pub called Sevens. The chowder was not as good as the previous night’s, but the waitress did ask if I wanted some Tabasco sauce, whose kick, along with the crackers, provided a trifecto of contrasting flavors and textures.

I spent the afternoon with my cousin Dave, who’s a senior at Harvard, walking around campus and Harvard Square and drinking. Ah, college. How I miss thee. The camaraderie, the intellectual challenges, the social opportunities, the beer.

That evening we visited historic Fenway Park to watch the Red Sox take on the Orioles, which was definitely one of the highlights of my trip. Say what you will about Bostonians, but ne’er doubt their enthusiasm for their sports teams. From the rowdy Bruins fans who crowded the bars on Thursday night to the die-hard Red Sox fans that surrounded us on Saturday – screaming at the ump, empathizing with the coach as he pulled the pitcher, and uniting in a camaraderie unmatched in Los Angeles sports arenas – these people celebrate their uniqueness in healthy boisterous revelation. Though I am certain that I will not end up living here come August, I can say with certainty that when I return to visit Simon, a sporting event will be on the agenda.

In the next five months or so, I will be leaving Los Angeles. Not everyone in my life knows this yet (including my boss, coworkers, or clients), but in January I applied to a handful of graduate schools of social work on the East Coast, and I’m proud to say that I have been accepted to all of them – Columbia, New York University, Boston University, Boston College, Simmons College, and University of Illinois, Chicago. Due to scholarship offers or lack thereof, and the infinite promise and mythical romance of New York City, I have essentially narrowed this list down to Columbia (ranked #4 nationally) and NYU (22). Boston University is a close third. Back in February, when each school was a likely contender, my dad and I made plans to visit Boston to explore the city and check out the programs. Though the original purpose of the trip is practically null now, we still decided to fly out to take advantage of the plans and enjoy some quality time together in a city that neither of us had properly explored in some time.

We arrived Thursday evening after sunset and were promptly swifted away to our hotel in a hybrid Toyota taxi. Color me impressed. Seriously. Boston is also proud to sport the nation’s first (?) solar-powered self-compacting trashcans. Let me say that again, so you can truly savor the mind-blowing concept that these receptacles not only compact their contents once the waste hits a specific weight, thereby reducing the number of trips made by waste management, but are also über-eco-friendly due to their source of power. Here it is: Solar-Powered Self-Compacting Trash Cans. Yummy.

So as to not ignore entirely the original point of the trip, I had emailed the Schools of Social Work at Boston University and Simmons College to at least meet with someone to chat about what the schools offer, and at most sit in on a class or two. Despite leaving our hotel at 9:15am, we were definitely 20 minutes late to our 10am Friday appointment to meet with Ed Greene, Director of Admissions at BU. Note to self: don’t be a putz by not giving yourself ample time for the first subway ride in a new city. While I should have known better, Ed was very understanding and the meeting was very worthwhile. I’m actually a little sad that BU didn’t offer me nearly enough money (and isn’t in NYC), because the program sounds perfect for me; they offer a Micro specialization with a Macro sub-specialization, which matches up really well with what I think I want to do, which is work at a Macro/Mezzo(?) level – non-profit supervision/management or community organizing – while focusing on and taking into account uniquely Micro issues, like medical/mental health/clinical issues, therapeutic interventions, etc. At any rate, meeting with Ed helped me better understand the difference between the Micro and Macro foci, and I even got a better idea of how my potential goals line up with the options out there.

My Aunt Joanie, who normally lives in Chesterfield, Missouri and works in neonatology/pediatrics at St. Louis Childrens Hospital, is on sabbatical at Massachusetts General Hospital to learn more about spirituality in pediatric palliative care, which is fascinating. We took the T (subway) back to Beacon Hill to have lunch with her a little place called the Grotto, which I highly recommend if you’re ever in downtown Boston and looking for a nice meal. As far as lunches go there are certainly cheaper options, but the presentation of the food and atmosphere of the restaurant seduce you into knowing that it’s worth it. Dark wooden tones and a sexy but tasteful collection of artwork pull you down into the garden-level dining room, whose crimson ceiling and soft lull of Coltrane makes you feel like you’re on a date even if you’re not. The wall of wine bottles beckons you, and the waitresses, dressed sleekly in all-black and sporting nearly-but-not-entirely-hidden tattoos, make you wish you were. It goes without saying that the food was excellent. I ordered the $9 Saltimbocca sandwich – a grilled chicken breast with provolone cheese, frisse (?) lettuce, and julienne-cut prosciutto between a homemade egg-bread roll, served with a salad of mixed baby greens and shaved parmesan. Wonderful. Romantic. Filling.

To be continued.

Case in point: Last night I was sitting across the table from my roommate and best friend Andrew, facebooking and reading my feeds while he sighed and scribbled big red Fs on his English students’ tests, when suddenly he starts cracking up and shows me this:

Taken from my trusty camera phone and uploaded to the computer through the magic of Bluetooth, here’s a shot of one student’s attempt to figure out his final grade…..written on the very same test.

Roomie: “You know it’s going to be awful when they try to calculate their final grade on the test, ‘So if I got 4 right out of 20, that’s….’”

The future of America, folks.

This morning I rode my bike to and participated in a Community Garden-building day in my neck of East Hollywood. The new Fountain Community Garden will be on Fountain just west of the 101, and from 9am-1pm I helped build it with members of my community. Mostly this meant manual labor – prepping and leveling the earth for the new gardening plots, shoveling mulch and dirt into the plots, and weeding (hoeing….hahaha) to ensure that dandelions and crabgrass will never attack my tomatoes – and it felt great to be outside, working with shovel and wheelbarrow, sweating and bleeding to help make my city a better place to live. I also made new friends!, including: Mike, a very cool Torontonian who is interested in Midnight Ridazz and whose wife is a social worker; Adele (Uh-day-luh, evidently it’s German), an indie fim producer/writer and fellow biker who is also interested in Midnight Ridazz, and with whom I may end up sharing a gardening plot; and Laura, an absolutely breathtaking Boston University ’06 alum / non-profit worker who is finishing up her MSW at USC and who seemed not only receptive, but enthusiastic, when I asked her if I could take her out to dinner after she’s done with midterms this week Like I said, GREAT morning.

Adele just happens to live near to me, so I rode her home while we talked about LA, biking, gardening, etc. It was a little out of the way, but of course I was happy to do it. And had I not gone out of my way, I would have never stumbled upon the best deal I’ll ever find:

As I’m riding my bike north on Kenmore, I see a small garage sale on my right. I pass it, but – wait – is that a bicycle? A road bike? A red road bike?? A 1997 Specialized Sirrus, to be specific??? MUST STOP. So I did. To be fair, this bike has seen better days. Dirt and grease and dust covered almost every square inch of it, and both tires were flat and fraying. Plus, the handlebars were awkwardly angeled (they were probably at 45*) and the dilapidated tape/electrical tape combo were an eyesore. But all the basics were there: original Shimano 105 components, fairly true 700c wheels, not too many scratches on the paint job, only the slightest bit too big for me, and – the best part – the $20 sticker on the seat. I talked to the owner a bit in Spanish and learned that he got the bike 5-10 years ago and simply has never found a use for it. So I did the man a favor and bought it. Even though I already own 3 bicycles. ::Sigh:: (of Joy).

Below is the result of $40 ($20 for the bike, $20 for the handlebar tape) and about 3 hours of cleaning, adjusting, and taping. Note that the front wheel is actually from my 2007 Schwin Prelude, because the original front tire and tube are wrecked to hell. Fortunately, 700cs seem to be pretty interchangable. And Wednesday I have an appointment at the Bike Kitchen, where I hope to swap out the pedals and/or add cages; figure out how to spread out the front brakes a bit; and buy new tubes and tires which I will install at home.

Her name is Ruby

***UPDATE***

Just when I thought today couldn’t get any better, I was considering how cool the Prelude front wheel looks on Ruby. And then I have this brilliant idea – can I just swap out the back wheel, too!? Then I would have two dope-ass looking wheels on my freaking sweet red and teal bike. The cassette on my Prelude back wheel is a 7-gear. How many gears does Ruby have in back? 7!!! Oh man it’s a festivus miracle. I cannot wait to switch it out!!!

***UPDATE 2***

Apparently online sources are not as reliable as actually looking at the bike. BikePedia, you are a scrupulous villain, telling me that my 97 Sirrus’s rear cogs are 7-speed, when they’re only 6. ::sigh:: ‘Tis OK, anything worth doing is worth doing right. Wednesday I’ll just remove the original cassette from the rear wheel, remove the cassette from my Schwinn rear wheel, and swap them. Priorities are: getting the Sirrus cassette on the Schwinn wheel, then fixing the spacing of the brakes, then the pedal cages. WORD.