home, briefly. (lots of italics in this one)
during my last several weeks abroad, home was conceived of in terms of food, and since i've been here, i've done a pretty good job of packing in the quality American-style dining that you just can't get in England. besides the mother's cooking (i really can't begin to explain how good this is), there's been the hefty sandwich from Beli Deli in San Carlos and the gourmet one from Whole Foods, the frosted mocha at Boronne's, delivery pizza (yes from Pizza Hut!), burger, fries, and a proper milkshake at the Peninsula Creamery, and really good Asian food, repeatedly. the only thing left to do before i leave California is In-N-Out, but, i'm rather ashamed to say, i may not have the stomach for it in the next couple days.
jet lag + total lack of schedule has meant i get to watch World Cup, although i'm kind of embarrassed that i didn't do this while in a country that really cared. it's just that the essay-writing in that last week at Oxford kind of screwed up my days; i'm making up for it by cheering for England from here.
i guess the tone of this blog has tended towards the cheerful...i don't want to be a drag, but i had an upsetting, infuriating experience today and i think it's okay to write about it. (spotting this article in the Times made it feel even more pertinent.) it's not that i can't handle being talked to on the street...i've spent enough summers in cities (most notably, DC; i don't expect different from New York) to get used to it. it's annoying and even offensive, but it's also mostly harmless--i can ignore it, i can even find it funny sometimes. but today, walking around San Francisco, i felt really thrown, and humiliated, and furious. i'm apprehensive about writing this here, because it's vulgar and nobody wants to read that, but that's exactly the trap, isn't it? somebody else says something terrible to you, but you end up feeling guilty for it. so i'm going to be explicit. i was walking down Market St. and out of the blue some guy next to me says "you have beautiful nipples." obviously i'm shocked and disgusted; i frown and clutch at my hoodie. if only i could have gotten away then, it just would have been some crazy isolated comment, but it gets worse: he keeps talking to me. "well, don't let them stick out like that if you don't want people to look." my mother and i are looking for a store at this point, peering around the corner, and then continuing down Market, so i can't get away from him. "don't cover them up!" he says. at this point, i am so angry, and the shock has subsided enough that what i really want to do is stop, finally look him in the eye, and say "fuck you." but i'm with my mother, who hasn't heard any of it, who doesn't know anything's going on at all, and i don't want to make a thing, so we finally cross the street and i stride away. shopping, driving home, it's quite the struggle not to cry. i feel better now, the whole thing is less enormous and terrible than it was this afternoon; after all, the only way to win in this situation is to be able to shake it off. it helped that when i got home, i called a friend and had the aforementioned milkshake. somehow i feel like i should apologize for bringing this up, but actually that's exactly what i don't want to do.
and yet the blog has been bitterness-free thus far! oh well, it obviously wouldn't be me without a healthy dose of anger. i know you'll understand.
dangerous side-effect of watching the entire Sex and the City series in the last six months: i'm determined to bring only my most fabulous clothing and shoes to New York on Monday. but really--if i have eight weeks to pretend i'm a grown-up in the city, shouldn't i also get to pretend that i'm a fantastically well-dressed one? yeah, that's what i think. okay, so i don't even know what Manolo Blahniks are except for on Carrie's feet, but i'll be so busy traipsing around in my strappy Nine West sandals i won't even notice the dirty-mouthed assholes on the street.
things get exciting soon: new apartment, new roommate, two new jobs with new offices and bosses and co-workers, plus one entirely new city. downside: there is absolutely no hope for me and the New York subway system. i will get very lost, a lot.
jet lag + total lack of schedule has meant i get to watch World Cup, although i'm kind of embarrassed that i didn't do this while in a country that really cared. it's just that the essay-writing in that last week at Oxford kind of screwed up my days; i'm making up for it by cheering for England from here.
i guess the tone of this blog has tended towards the cheerful...i don't want to be a drag, but i had an upsetting, infuriating experience today and i think it's okay to write about it. (spotting this article in the Times made it feel even more pertinent.) it's not that i can't handle being talked to on the street...i've spent enough summers in cities (most notably, DC; i don't expect different from New York) to get used to it. it's annoying and even offensive, but it's also mostly harmless--i can ignore it, i can even find it funny sometimes. but today, walking around San Francisco, i felt really thrown, and humiliated, and furious. i'm apprehensive about writing this here, because it's vulgar and nobody wants to read that, but that's exactly the trap, isn't it? somebody else says something terrible to you, but you end up feeling guilty for it. so i'm going to be explicit. i was walking down Market St. and out of the blue some guy next to me says "you have beautiful nipples." obviously i'm shocked and disgusted; i frown and clutch at my hoodie. if only i could have gotten away then, it just would have been some crazy isolated comment, but it gets worse: he keeps talking to me. "well, don't let them stick out like that if you don't want people to look." my mother and i are looking for a store at this point, peering around the corner, and then continuing down Market, so i can't get away from him. "don't cover them up!" he says. at this point, i am so angry, and the shock has subsided enough that what i really want to do is stop, finally look him in the eye, and say "fuck you." but i'm with my mother, who hasn't heard any of it, who doesn't know anything's going on at all, and i don't want to make a thing, so we finally cross the street and i stride away. shopping, driving home, it's quite the struggle not to cry. i feel better now, the whole thing is less enormous and terrible than it was this afternoon; after all, the only way to win in this situation is to be able to shake it off. it helped that when i got home, i called a friend and had the aforementioned milkshake. somehow i feel like i should apologize for bringing this up, but actually that's exactly what i don't want to do.
and yet the blog has been bitterness-free thus far! oh well, it obviously wouldn't be me without a healthy dose of anger. i know you'll understand.
dangerous side-effect of watching the entire Sex and the City series in the last six months: i'm determined to bring only my most fabulous clothing and shoes to New York on Monday. but really--if i have eight weeks to pretend i'm a grown-up in the city, shouldn't i also get to pretend that i'm a fantastically well-dressed one? yeah, that's what i think. okay, so i don't even know what Manolo Blahniks are except for on Carrie's feet, but i'll be so busy traipsing around in my strappy Nine West sandals i won't even notice the dirty-mouthed assholes on the street.
things get exciting soon: new apartment, new roommate, two new jobs with new offices and bosses and co-workers, plus one entirely new city. downside: there is absolutely no hope for me and the New York subway system. i will get very lost, a lot.
2 Comments:
Ummm...your postcard from Korea will be nestled safely inside your home in Atherton, CA in a couple weeks.
And if it makes you feel any better (which I know you aren't trying to get via this blog), I've gotten 3 more hairy leg gasps/comments/exclamations. I'm a pariah in my own native land.
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