girlfriends

Picking up my college roommates from the train station, the first thing M says is: Look at A's boots! A is sporting a pair of resilient chunky ankle-high hiking boots, prepared for our hike at Sleeping Giant. She has small hands and feet for her size, and the combination of petite and hardcore in the shoes give immediate amusement (and continual throughout the day as we talk about how to maximize the use of her boots during our hike).

I haven't seen these girls for a few months, and there's no need for hello, only laughs.

On our hike, I naturally read the map wrong, but we do manage to reach our destination. Along the way we talk and talk, and I'm reminded of how different conversations are with different people. There's a certain silliness and inappropriateness and openness specific to my interactions with these girls, these girls with whom I went through such a defining period of growth--not just the confusion of college but the daze of post-college and the feigned maturity of post-post college.

And it's with them that a weekend of girlfriends began, a weekend where I'm deeply reminded that I am a girl, and that it is amazing to be one. With M & A, we run through the gamut of past and current boys and flings, past and current fashions; the quality of kisses (and so on), the quality of our own bodies and how to be self-accepting; the irrationality of moods and ups and downs, and how we cope. We share the insecurities that come with being female and a person, freely and honestly because we know it's common among us and because in the end they will be sweetly funny and not damaging.

It is nice to share the trees with them, and a part of my life with them, and they appreciate it too. It's a long hike that tires us, but we reach the tower I keep telling them is the destination--it's a short tower that is anticlimactic as we approach, but it holds the view with the breeze as they fit into the arches of the tower's windows. We reward ourselves with ice cream (two scoops, which proves to be too much), and some napping at home before dinner.

The bed is where we gather before their departure, in the cozy style of a sleepover. Which lends itself to sharing photographs, commenting on male facial hair and body odor, talking about people from college I haven't thought about in ages, wondering whether people notice when you wear the same outfit ("I don't judge, but I notice"), comparing our stretch marks. In between these there lies what's more conventionally considered substance--jobs, future plans, philosophies and approaches to day-to-day and to things broadly. But when they leave I'm aware that there is incredible weight to everything we share, the kind that makes me paradoxically, wonderfully feel full and light.

*

It's this lightness that carries me through the night, where three of my med school girlfriends and I go out to dance. During dinner with M, A, and the wife, we tell M & A about our dance plans.

M: You're going to dance, just the two of you?
Wife & me, simultaneous: *shrug* we do it all the time!

(This night there are four of us, but we have gone out with just two many a good time). It's an eclectic crowd, the four of us girls, but we share the strong desire to dance that precludes caring about being the only ones on the dance floor. At Barcelona, this means having the entire space to ourselves, and I'm again so happy to be a girl. At Black Bear there are more people and songs that bring out the inner excitable. Being with girls who move with distinct styles and without any thought other than to have fun, and whose fun is so apparent in their faces and bodies, is a constant source of energy, and the fun grows exponentially with every second.

It feels so good to go all out, to both be aware of our physical selves and to let go of self-consciousness.

*

On the next day, with these same girls we make dumplings and watch Shakespeare's As You Like It as the Cabaret. I get sleepy during the play, in which I pay more attention to the use of space and creation of atmosphere than plot. And I think, what range of experiences I can have with the girls in my life, and what depth I reach in each one.

These ladies make me feel that at baseline we're something to be grateful to be: people who are capable. Of having all sorts of negative and positive feelings, from silly and jealous and insecure, to confident and affirming and persistent. It's not any one thing but more the spectrum, that I love.

outdoors

Last Saturday, I went on a retreat organized by one of the professors here, an internist who teaches the patient-centered interviewing curriculum. He wears a long braid, glasses, and sandals, which makes him easy to parody in our Second Year Show, but also makes his warmth and openness sincere. Like the pastures of the abbey where the retreat took place, he shares with and accepts from anyone. To get there, I drove an hour through woods on both sides. The theme of the day is Ora et Labora, or prayer and work. The idea is to make one like the other, or an indistinct continuation. To work at prayer, to make work more mindful. I'm not at all religious, but medical school people and experiences have really made me value both mindfulness of the present and a sense of things outside of the immediate. Physical labor is beautiful when it's a choice. Clearing the landscape, in this case a grassy field freshly green and lush with smell and color, is pretty naturally therapeutic. Part of doing that required gathering branches lined with thorns, and I learned how damn annoying tenacity can be, when imbued in compactness. The thorns penetrate clothing, and cling to areas on, behind, around you as you try to maneuver them. It was frustrating work, tedious, forcefully thoughtful. That made it a good experience, to tuck away for future writings and perspectives, but honestly I liked loading heavy firewood onto trucks better. The nuns are hardy, of course, and on the assembly line of log holders, they would toss the logs to me. An older man would bend over, pick them up, and unable to hold them long enough for someone else to take them, set them back down, a bit closer to the next person in the assembly line. We took a break with the best hummus I've ever eaten (homemade; could have eaten it plain with a spoon). The evening prayers took place in a wooded church, that smelled and looked like fresh unpainted wood. The wood was interrupted by continuous glass panels, for effortless sunlight. The day was shared by a group of people in different phases of their careers, all still incredibly open with their points of view and their feelings, all still incredibly kind, welcoming, warm.

This past Sunday, we had our first rock-climbing venture outdoors, in a little park off the side of the road, 40 minutes east of here. It was very different from indoor climbing, to not have a route to follow, but indoor climbing has given us an intuitive sense of where to place our hands and feet. I also felt something similar to what I felt hiking on glaciers in New Zealand--a feeling of how dynamic, organic the environment is. It sprinkled and showered on and off while we were climbing, and the wet changed the rocks, made the same climbs different. When I was up on one particular climb that we all tried, and failed with extreme frustration, the sun came out and warmed the rope, the face of the rock, and my own face. Elements evolve with seconds, and nothing can be experienced the same outside those slivers. The woods were lightly greened with trees, which made for bright contrast to gray clouds, with jarring breaks of sun.

M and I talk a lot about sacrifices made for medicine, how the intellectual can take away from the environment. I understand and have felt the danger and consequences of that. But I also feel strongly about how medicine, and the people to whom I've connected through it, make stronger, more poignant, more full, the tie between outside and internal. I think the openness medicine pushes you to give, if you want to enjoy it and value it, begins to apply to everything. And this opening can create a path between all that you do, so that things meld, the strength in one supporting vulnerabilities in the other, much like working on land to connect labor with prayer, or climbing a rock to connect routes with freedom.

bike riding

I've been in a moody rut since coming back from Vietnam, conceptual anchors loosening into the framework of physical disorientation. Things that normally ground me feel heavy. My knee throbbed after a run yesterday, climbs that used to come easily feel frustrating. Instead of being excited by the recent experiences that compel me to write, I'm paralyzed by the stack. I get even more easily upset than usual, wallowing in trivial petty things, and staying irrationally there. M tells me to give it time; I trust him and the sentiment, so I am letting things happen. This doesn't mean I overcome the moodiness, I let that happen too, but I trust that the stifling character will break, leaving a baseline moodiness which I can handle, and appreciate.

On Saturday, after a morning of moping in moodiness, we entered a a sunny crisp not-yet-spring day, and he said, let's get you on a bike for lesson #2. Lesson #1 entailed sitting on a bike for the first time and having him hold the bike and me up, running alongside as I got a feel for pedaling. It served several purposes. I learned that it's scary, and hard, to be on a bike for the first time. I fell, the scruff of my pants opening to scrape my skin; having been holding me, he fell too. We expected lesson #2 to proceed in similar increments of progress. I know he wanted me to move, to try something new, to make me feel better, and the thought was enough to slightly jar the heavy air fogging me. He said, even if you're just on it for five minutes, it'll make next time easier.

So we drove to get a bike pump, which didn't really work, but I got on the bike anyway. I pedaled in the parking lot of the mall, him again holding onto the handlebars and running alongside. The first thing he emphasized was to steer into my leans, because I'd lean to one side and would've fallen over and over if he hadn't been there to correct for me. It was too much for me to think about, to correct my leans and pedal at the same time (two things, too much). So because I couldn't, he steered for me as I pedaled. This let me focus on the motion of pedaling, and it also let me subconsciously absorb the hand motion of steering, to feel the handlebars under my fingers. Then he made me try to push off on my own, to start pedaling without him holding. I'd push off with my right foot, but wouldn't trust the bike enough to push hard enough to make it work. Each time I tried, I had to consciously breathe in and suck it up; sometimes the fake courage worked enough to push hard enough to bring the left pedal up quickly enough so that I would actually move forward. To our surprise, after some struggle with this, I could keep pedaling for a few seconds, before I leaned too much or pedaled too slow, and stopped myself.

We returned the faulty bike pump, drove to Wal-Mart to get another; he pumped the tires with success this time, and we started again in the parking lot of Wal-Mart. Realizing that I could continue after starting, he helped give me a push to start, and shouted to me from our starting point to keep going. Back and forth down the length of the parking lot, I stopped as I got scared or worried that this strange capacity to steer that I unconsciously acquired would slip. He made me keep going until I'd gone down the length of the lot, each way, without stopping, and I think we were both pretty surprised. I was surprised not just by the concrete happenings but by what it did for me.

The surprise, a childhood moment given to me as a near-27 year old, the dislodging of things in their proper place, facing loss of balance during a period of inward shakiness, the doing of something new--did me a whole lot of good. Being pushed to let go of ground, we find new holds, and that seems like good reason to keep traversing across moodiness.

recharging

In the past week, I've had to replace my phone charger, my iPod charger, and my computer adapter (though my computer just died altogether, so it may not have been the adapter that was the issue). My phone charger has been acting up in the past few months. I have to wiggle and bend and contort its attachment to the phone, to reach a precarious position where it will charge the phone. For awhile it only took a few seconds and a book for pressure, to get it working. And per usual this is an inconvenience I can willingly put up with indefinitely. But it got to the point where ten minutes of adjustment didn't do the trick, and even if it worked eventually, there was no standard way of adjusting; it'd be a different trick each time. I've been content charging my iPod via my iPod stereo or my computer, since the charger that came with the iPod broke a long time ago. This was back when Apple still gave a charger with the iPod (that's right, first generation iPod packaging). This also gives you an idea of how old everything technological I own is. Anyway, I would've been fine without a wall charger, except now my computer is dead and I can't go without charging my iPod for three weeks while abroad in Vietnam. And my computer has been having issues with its adapter, where none would charge it up anymore; I'd found a new one at home that worked for several months, then wasn't working; so I got another last week. But looks like the computer needs more than that, because it won't start up.

So as many have told me, it seems that I probably need new things, rather than continually trying to recharge old ones. But even if I replace everything, I'm left with my old sometimes worn self, and I'll always have to find ways to recharge. Thank goodness for running into people at exactly the moment I need cheer, for stubborn climbs, for him in the evenings and how he makes me value not just his presence but my own, and for new travel to old places.

schedule

As I'm apt to do when confronted with large blocks of free time, I've developed a semi-schedule for my weekdays. It's very broad in its division of time, and loose in obligations, and makes me pretty content every day.

Morning: Run or climb. Running makes for good alone time that gives energy for the rest of the day. Climbing in the morning means quality time with my classmate/friend Caitlin, who also gives energy for the rest of the day, and it means a mostly empty gym with lots of room.

Afternoon: Write and/or research. On some days I have interviews for research. Most days I spend long afternoons at coffeeshops, sometimes with other friends doing work. I have long stretches to write; I don't spend much of the time actually writing, but it feels like a process.

Evening: Spend time with M. We divide active activities between squash and climbing. He usually makes food, and now that he's taking classes, we spend some time studying. During that time I also do stray work that I don't like to do during the day, and that I find more bearable in his company. If there's not much work to do we watch movies, and regardless of what else there is to do, we talk.

Meals are often spent with friends, and evenings mixed up with friends too, and as I've been thankful for the past several years, I continue to feel lucky for the balance and perspective they give. And I feel lucky for the balance of these times of day, and how much they give me, so that in the future I can share. In the meantime, it's nice to just absorb.

anniversary

I like anniversaries for the thought of remembering and reflecting, all that's happened between two points in time. Which is a lot, and considering how many days go by without significance--to feel that one year with someone has given you this much to feel and consider and grow, is nice. We went through a long phase of uncertainty, intermittent phases of awkwardness, a phase of closeness through distance, a phase of travel, and are in something good at the moment. I've always thought it was valuable and important to experience different stages, as we're different in different contexts. Through these with him, we've tried to be honest and open, and more than ease or sap, this is what I've loved best.

crown 14A

For the last two years, here lived three goofy guys, and here a part of me was made and kept. I know we'll continue to see each of you and all of you together, but not in this place and this space anymore. I will miss so much about this--

The dirty kitchen floors. The mismatched chairs taken from different rooms for gatherings, a chair without a back, a wheely desk chair, some with cushions. The South Asian spices, and the blender where anything goes, where juice can be bright purple (beets) or conventional. The impromptu fruit salads, multiple colors eaten with condensed milk; or an all-orange salad of oranges, mango, cantaloupe. And mm, cantaloupe juice. How they never let guests wash the dishes. The balcony, for eats and smokes. The made-up songs about fruits and family and inappropriate things, the electric guitar and the acoustic guitar and the belt-out voices. The room with the gadgets where the "practicing" of video games takes place. The rooftop with sunsets, on clear nights and foggy nights, where we sit on ledges and crouch in corners to escape drizzle. In the room with the balcony: how he was always rearranging the furniture, the posters of nature and quotes. The door open and the half-clothed tall boy walking by ("that's the apartment"). The laughs, how we grew to know and identify each one. The odd potlucks, delicious and distinct items, a glass jar of kimchee and a plastic jar of yogurt because he loves yogurt, and discussions like yogurt or cheese? The planned gatherings, the spur of the moment invites, the random passings-by. The meals that are made as he goes along and can't be replicated. The big pots of rice, corn on the cob dipped in salty water, the rows of yams in the oven. The long talks, the quiet naps. The honesty and vulnerability, the disinhibition. The addition of lemon to water, and to anything. The wind through the windows on hot days, and the sun warming couch and carpet on winter afternoons. The bareness of that room, the sparse bathroom. Taking off shoes, and the too-big sandals for guest use. That one day the room exploded with clothes, to be placed into piles and piles. The ready spaces to fill and the complete acceptance freely given. The no need for apologies and thanks, and the response of gratitude to gratitude.

Thank you. Thank YOU.

birthday

Some people think birthdays are silly, and like most socialized celebrations there is an element of that. But I really enjoy celebrating people's birthdays. I think it's a nice idea to be thankful for someone being born, for existing at a time you can know them, for continuing to be there. This year I felt particularly loved, and knowing what that feeling is like, it's natural to want to give that.

Like first year of med school, this year G. and I celebrated our birthdays together, mine on the 22nd and his on the 23rd, both of us turning 26. I wanted an excuse to eat a lot of sugar, and so we had a desserts & drinks party, in which we baked and guests brought drinks. A dozen girls (and a guy) contributed baked goods: brownies, red velvet cake, macadamia nut & white chocolate (with cookie), oatmeal raisin cookies, three kinds of pie (apple, pecan chocolate, key lime), carrot cake, lemon squares, cheesecake, and pumpkin bread. I baked for three days in a row, the first with one friend, the second with two, and the third with a gaggle. M&A came down from NYC for a morning and part afternoon to help bake, and they brought champagne and orange juice for mimosas. My best friend from high school came from CA by means of NYC and in transit to DC to New Haven, to share. She integrated seamlessly into my day to day life, helping me clean, set up, and clean again. To have people from my sequential periods of my life in my kitchen, making things and sharing cups--it was meant for a polaroid.

A small, close core of our friends came early bearing delicious chicken and chickpeas, and we ate together before the larger crowd trickled in. The party expanded past the kitchen into living room and bedroom, and my bed again became innocent nest to parties of five or six friends. We received wine made from frozen grapes, each one contributing one richly sweet drop. Lots of wine, beer, and milk, and cards and candies tossed in. In the midst, acts of thoughtfulness that spoiled us. Waking up early despite sickness and overwhelmedness to make a beautiful red velvet; introverts arriving to share; cooking for the first or rare time; searching three stores for my favorite sweet; songs sung under pressure and songs sung cause they just can't help it; a piggy back ride despite aching bones.

Then the surprise of something I've so wanted but haven't been able to get myself to give myself, from the people who have made the past three years so good. The sensation of hearing The National flow from a record player encased in a soft brown trunk is ineffable. There's no other way to say that I was incredibly touched. Not only do I get music but it will be forever connected to these people.

I'm glad also that G. ended up really enjoying the big party; we are both more used to more intimate get togethers. It's hard to talk to each person in this atmosphere, but there is something to be said about so many people you enjoy in one space. There are many classmates who I may not see all the time or talk to often but whose characters I value and whose presence make for the fullness of my life here. And to have all my closest simply spending time together is a continual source of gratitude. And in the end that's what it's been all about, a day to remember how lucky I am to have known these people who I admire, respect and love so much. It's hard to describe them without sounding corny, and that's because they are why cheesiness was made. They listen, they pay attention, they see past themselves, they make fun, they hug, they look out, they wash dishes, they take pictures, they seek outdoors, they perceive brokenness and they fix without judging. It's their world that I celebrate being born into.

naturing

Spent Sunday's daylight at a waterfall in Woodbridge. A. brought curry he'd cooked, sliced pineapple, and cold clementines. I brought leftover rice recently reheated in the microwave. The short drive was spent becoming acquainted with silence, and living through the open windows and open sunroof. Entering the narrower roads, the fluffy green of spring, so light and nonchalant as the car wheels crunched along, made silence easy. I'd forgotten how green it gets. I'd forgotten the way you forget photographs from last year's trip across the world even though you spent weeks after that trip flipping through the same pictures over and over. Upon arrival, we surveyed the contents of his trunk: two chairs, a cot, a sleeping bag, and a wheelchair. "What do you think we need?" "One chair and a sleeping bag," I decided, for once making a decision.

It's a short walk and a slight descent onto the rocks, where the sleeping bag was spread, the chair placed still folded on another. We ate first, and bites through my fourth or fifth clementine I realized that I'd have to pee at some point in the day (twice, it turned out). He threw the peels into the water. It was still five or six hours until daylight would slip. The first hour was spent meeting feet with water. We saw a couple of frogs, and I looked down the creek for minutes. I cross-legged onto the chair with my book, which I finished late that afternoon; he laid on the rock spread with sleeping bag and hours passed. Somewhere in those hours I slept deliciously, sitting and thinking that it must be raining because the water was streaming by in steady slushes and waking up intermittently to the pleasant surprise of being dry, warm and sunned and closing eyes again. We woke to eat again. I walked along the banks, up on the slopes and down by where water made dirt mud, and spent a full two minutes blowing the fluff off a lone dandelion. I made it back to the parking lot and tried writing into a rock with another stone. When I made it back to our rocks he'd moved, and I took his spot atop the sleeping bag. I was closer to the water here, and it sounded different, just a few feet from where I'd been there before. The police woke me, to ask what we were doing; apparently it is unusual to find people sitting at the base of a waterfall and sleeping on a rock up the bank.

When they left, we began staring at each other. He had suggested this as an activity months before, and it'd recently come up in conversation with a stranger newly met, and I thought of it again, as something I'd now be ready to try. I only laughed for the first couple seconds. From watching him I understood we were allowed to move, so long as we kept eye contact; and the mosquitoes kept us swatting about and the rocks' edges kept us shifting legs and feet. I didn't imagine the activity as meditative; I imagined it as an interaction between people. So for a long time I was frustrated; I felt a barrier more than an entrance; I don't know any better what he was thinking or how he was feeling. I've often thought that not seeing is a result of not trying hard enough to look and see. But this made me feel that you can look and look so long and hard, and still not see. I only felt more strongly how much I didn't know, and once the frustration reached its peak, I slipped into a groove where I felt I could do this for a long, long time. It was then that I felt something give; the barrier remained the same, but I felt patience come. And I felt that the best I could do is be patient, to keep looking without expectation or return, and so a very long time did pass.

The day was slow and languid; when I look back I envision a movie montage with scenes moving from one position to the next, but the experience of it wasn't a series of clips. It was a natural flow of feeling a sense and letting it take its course. It's a little cove of elements, not a postcard or even a picture, but better; a space to fill and then leave, that gives without effort on anyone's part. Maybe it defies laws of physics or whatever, because I really don't think the reaction is equal in force, though its direction may be opposite; it is an insensibly generous thing when you are so still and things envelop you so hard.

weekend

The posts of the past few months have largely been reflective of the intense weeks, neglecting a part of this summer I've appreciated just as much--the glorious weekends.

Started a little early on Thursday, when J. and I cooked dinner (J. made a new wintermelon dish) for a classmate. She's the kind who is nice to everyone, so I've been friendly with her throughout school and have exchanged a few emails, but we've never talked for more than a few minutes at a time. So this was the first time I spent substantial time with her. She started conversation about real things like how this year has been and how the past couple years of have been, without my having to ask, and I was grateful to know that time and routine doesn't have to wear away natural openness.

On Friday J. and I went dancing, by ourselves. We dressed up, black on top and jeans on bottom, and shared the bottle of sweet summer blush I bought when I went wine tasting with the college blockmates in Long Island, back in June. Being hermits, we considered staying in after that, but got ourselves out. Our first and longest stop was at Bar, where I haven't been since first year. The cover was $3 and the drinks cheaper, so we made the most of it and danced on elevated surfaces, causing some guy to ask us if we were "girlfriends." We hopped to Black Bear before realizing we were danced out, and wandered over to Hot T's and caught up with a friend I hadn't seen since before the summer. When the place closed we migrated home, where they finished the summer blush and I ate leftovers.

After my usual Saturday sleep in, we watched District 9, which was jarring and pretty fantastic. Though afterward it led me to be my annoyingly argumentative self, we declared peace over Jamaican food at a place I hadn't been before. Then it was off to see a play with a friend I've seen more substantially this year. We saw Henrik Ibsen's The Master Builder, at the Drama School (kitty corner from the Repertory Theater). I didn't know anything about it except that it's about an architect (he never uses that word to describe himself), and it was good. More abstract and conversation than I anticipated, which allowed ample opportunity to be immersed in the set, the best part of the play. The floor was constructed like the side of a house, with the windows flat on the floor and the shutters opening and jutting up into the air. The roof extended across the floor into the back of the stage, and looked like it extended into the backdrop, a gorgeous swirl of blue that dipped into deeper blues. From the ceiling, another roof hung and represented the outside of the house; at times a strip of orange red connected the two parts as people entered or left, at other times one simply remained there as the other entertained the characters. Such that you felt in and out at once.

On Sunday, was woken from an unpleasant dream by a phone call from A., with whom I was supposed to have breakfast. We'd planned on going to a place north of Cheshire, but the directions and locations and our motivation were vague, and after a bit of haphazard googling and yelping, he says, let's just drive. So we drive down Whalley, and at the intersection with West Rock Ave, find a farmer's market. He sniffs from apple to apple, amusing other browsers who comment that they should follow his sense of smell. "That's all I know to go on." He teaches the names of vegetables, and buys a watermelon and heirloom tomatoes, and we purchase the most delicious almond croissant from a bakery claimed by Martha Stewart to be the best in Connecticut. "Martha Stewart never lies."

Various turns later and arriving in a small town called Bethany, in beautiful late summer/early fall sun, we decide to stop at a small farm stand to ask where there might be a diner. They tell us that their town has one diner--Country Corner--which is next to their one ice cream parlor, near their one pizza place. They mention one bank but don't specify a location. He looks around, grabs cider, and at the counter finds some honey that my roommate had requested before we left ("only get it if it's from the side of the road"). There he asks the woman about her life: what are the hours like? is it hard work? is it satisfying? She tells us that she works seven days a week; animals always have to eat, and during harvest she'll go 44 days before a day off. Her husband works 15 hours a day, and she 12 but not including housework, and their kids helps out. It's a lifestyle. Not just a way of making a living but a way of living. The pay's not great, but the eats are good.

In the car leaving the place, he hands the bottle of cider for me to open as he backs up...I hear a big clank, and we've hit a pole.

He ties up his loose trunk with some netting, and we continue to the Country Corner Diner, which makes me happy because diners are all the same with their big menus and cheap fatty foods and cushioned booths and stools. On the side I finish the stray almonds at the bottom of the brown bag in which the croissant was packaged. Afterwards we go next door for ice cream, even though I'm stuffed, because it's ice cream.

On the way home he says he likes how pine trees are poofy, and we pass the waterfall he likes; he says he wants to go but doesn't want to walk to it. "You could rest first"--he turns around. The narrow path, lined with lots and lots of tall thin trees, feels open with the windows open, and the temperature is so perfect I'm amazed. We park and chat intermittently, and then nap, and never make it to the waterfall. Sun spilling on face and soft breeze from one window to another, and far enough to hear the steady hum of water flowing past, too far to hear the drops clash--I feel surprise at the ease of sleep right before I fall into it.

little ones

It's been sprinkling or pouring with a spurt of sun after stretches of gray since I've been back in Connecticut. The weekend before orientation we went to the beach at Lighthouse Point and shielded ourselves from water splinters underneath a large warm blanket Ali carries in his car, along with a portable bench of sorts and lawn chairs. We smiled at A. and B. sitting past the shore in the ocean, their chairs in wet sand, few inches deep in salt water. Then we went on the swings; I’d never swung on a beach before, and just like flying a kite in the sea in Puerto Rico, these whimsies are made magic by the blue or bluish gray of the beach. Swinging back, you’re immersed in a jar of lighweight sand, grains you separate like the beaded curtains you find in hippie homes, and swinging forward, you burst through the sand, crash lightly through glass to see water seamlessly meeting sky. We were also laughing hard.

Moving from this to my pediatrics rotation required less destitching and sewing up than I anticipated. Two weeks into working on the schoolage-adolescent team (5-18 year olds), I feel ablur. I know as little as I suspected, and the pace is fast and learning wide. My stethoscope heard its first wheeze and crackles. A little one shields her hand and says, I’m too afraid. Video games make his face light up one day, less so as the days pass. I press the fingernails of a ten year old who has been through too much, to see if they blanch in the right amount of time, but they’re painted red and I can’t see underneath. A girl, whose words spill forth from her mouth like water, sees Ali bid farewell and drive away on his scooter and proclaims “Niiiiiiiiiiice” with vehement approval and tells me she’s going to get him and me both Hannah Montana shoes. We taste different medicines, some of them tolerable, many gross but started to blend together as I had one after another, and the last left a long long aftertaste of rotten eggs that made us gag. We also had our lungs uncomfortably scrambled by vibrating vests and pseudomassagers, which are used to disrupt the mucus in patients with cystic fibrosis and bronchiectasis. The boy in a red wagon calls for help from his room, and I sit him on his chair and place his new red shoes on his feet. It’s hard to understand what he says, but he doesn’t give up until you give some sign that you get it, taking the shoe and mimicking several times before I know to tie the laces twice. He points outside, wraps his arms around his chest and shivers, and shakes his head until I ask, you want to know if it’s cold outside? He’s overcome with glee when I tell him it’s warm, and when I look at a picture of a truck he’s colored and notes that it looks like his wagon, he pats my back excitedly, and somewhere in the subsequent pride that I feel for figuring it out, I realize again I’m as much kid in all this as the one who colors.

When I come home, some days I cook dinner with J. and most days we talk a little about our days and those are good moments. Last night was the first I didn’t have to sleep early, and A. and B. cooked a delicious, delicious dinner of a tuna noodle salad, cornish hen, red cabbage and rice textured with potato. Most of their meals can’t be duplicated, because they make it up as they go and add innumerable amounts of spices and sauces they can’t recall afterwards. We ate on their balcony in the cool summer night, then closed the sliding door when it got cold and listened to them make music the same way they make food, while the girls listened and laughed. He strummed Michael’s Song from the Godfather, and sang acappella the Italian one from Part III, sung by Michael’s opera-singing son. When J. asked him to sing about fruits, he sang, some girls are like bananas, others like strawberries, I want to make a smoothie. He sang a silly tune about mom, sister and wife that earned him a hug. B. controlled mood and speed with the guitar and chimed in, carrying the last words of A’s phrases, like “louder,” with impressive timing. I love music and these people. The room was dim, it was raining sleet black outside (we caught a flash of lightning), and I fell asleep.

Today we were outdoors again, driving beneath a canopy of green trees to rest beneath the waterfall at West Rock, climbing what was called a cave and what was more like some rocks with crevices that went in one way and went out another, and grabbing a view of the city before rain splattered down. We shared red bean & jelly popsicles, nectarines, and strawberry jam and nutella sandwiches in the car, and smelled over and over some honeysuckle that Ali found.

At night, I did another thing I've never done on the beach: watch fireworks. West Haven is a small town, and the beach is a popular place to celebrate July 4. We parked a good ten-minute walk away from the beach and walked through the residential area to get to the sand, and summer was palpable. The streets were packed with families, and the beach densely peppered with the same. People were selling cotton candy, people were carrying lawn chairs and towels. We arrived just as the fireworks began, and we could see them shoot from their source up to their destination; we were close and they felt huge. At some points there would be a steady stream shooting a short distance up while others sporadically went higher, and at the end they were insanely bright like snaps of lightning. The sounds were louder too, than I've heard in the past, and some had distinct sounds, just as their colors and trajectories and lifetimes are distinct. A small group of small girls frolicked with glow in the dark sticks, singing "land of the free, for you and for me," attempting cartwheels and screaming "fireworks!" while generally paying no attention to the lights underneath which they were dancing. Afterwards we walked to the shore's edge, and Allison mentioned it reminded her of Puerto Rico, the last time she saw the water at night. That time the bay lit up as your brushed your hand through the water or dipped your oar into it, from the light of microorganisms. The first time I moved through water at night.

As we stood people continued to set off fireworks, in all corners, such that standing in one spot you felt the sparks in every direction and couldn't see them all at once. Families set them off in the sand and water, and the ocean picked up the colors and melted them. We walked away as the fireworks kept going, and drove home with the windows down to keep the cool summer air.

One thing I've yet to do at the beach is swim. I do as I do in the hospital--I wade, I move with the waves, I jump the waves, I sink into the waters and gaze up and down, but I don't know how to swim. I'm scared to learn, but I want to and have to, and when I do it, I trust that the ocean will again make the sensations of what's commonplace as strong and sharp as those that little ones feel.

present

Recently reminded of the value of being fully present in each minute even as we scatter here and there, I list all the things that made me feel today in the order they happened. Specifically, things that made me very happy, for balance and because that's what I have.

1. Got an email from G. about art/photography in response to inquiring how he liked the Nicholas Nixon exhibit yesterday.
2. Watched the video of the Goodies/Rizzilicious danceoff from Second Year Show. I messed up timing several times but it was nice to see from the other side, and feel again pride and affection for our class.
3. Despite already knowing how perceptive he is, was impressed anew by a good friend's ability to pick up on how I am.
4. BB sent an email to organize a potluck, complete with a link to a website where we can post the days we are free and list what we're bringing.
5. Ali turned bright red while arm wrestling Nupur and we laughed so hard everyone in the cafeteria turned to look and laugh.
6. Found out that my youngest brother Binh is in the final ten of what was originally 696 players in a World Poker Tour Tournament. At one point he was #1. I'm so so proud! Of his dimple (prominent in the video clips I watched) and smarts. I feel privileged to have been his poker guinea pig as a kid.
7. Laughing too much at the library with the family.
8. Dinner with Ali: he was made incredibly happy by Ben & Jerry's raspberry chocolate chunk ice cream; he asked me questions like what kind of person I'd like to marry and what was my favorite thing in the whole world (when I explained, he burst into a smile and said That's beautiful! I never would've thought of that in a million years); he rode his bike slowly next to me as I walked (when I said, just go home it's cold, he said, I got my clothes on). This item should really just be: Ali...an extremely strange, extremely kind person.
7. My mom's wonderful voice advising me to go to sleep, when it was 10 PM.
8. Finally having time to do questions on our endocrine module, and feeling like I'm learning even if not retaining.
9. Taking out the trash.
10. My two brothers in CA wanting to go to LA tomorrow to see Binh play poker.
11. The Magnetic Fields - "The Way You Say Good-Night."

Good night.

changes and happenings

A lot of things have happened. While not everything has been smooth or even pleasantly rocky, I feel the heaviest kind of lucky. It's quite sappy how consciously lucky I feel every day to have everything I do, how much it holds up even the worst days. To inadequately recap. I spent the summer in Vietnam to work on a public health project. I traveled to the center and south, and lived in the north. I stayed in a rural town for a couple weeks, visited my dad's old village, and lived with my uncle, his son and his son's family in the city the rest of the time. My cousin's wife, quite possibly the sweetest person I've ever met, cried at the airport when I was leaving.

I spent three full days at home in which my dad told me how he planted a near dying cherry tree in the middle of our yard and my mom armed me with hoisin sauce to bring to New Haven. You know how parents are cute to everyone but their own kids? My parents are so cute even I think so. I'm looking forward to Thanksgiving, and having a full week with them (and all the brothers, so I think it might be our first full family Thanksgiving ever). My mom keeps reminding me we'll make the turkey together (she made her first one only a couple years ago) and that she'll make my favorite meal too. She and my dad keep asking me if I need funds, something they haven't done in years. I'm guessing they're asking now because they think I've run out, which I was worried about too, but it looks like I'll be able to ride out at least this next year on residual income and aid, which is another part of the luck. But it's funny to me that my mom tells me not to worry about buying a dress for the semi-formal because she doesn't want me to "suffer" (literal translation).

I drove cross country with Allison. We stopped in Tahoe, Lovelock Nevada, Salt Lake City Utah, Denver Colorado, Wall South Dakota, Madison Wisconsin, Rockville Maryland, Lancaster Pennsylvania and arrived here after ten days, 72 hours which were spent driving. We saw lots of rocks and castles, real and figurative. We saw salt and sunsets and my new nephew. We talked a lot, and laughed an unfathomable amount. We played lame games and took pictures of nothing (on the hour). Silly things happened, like our Wisconsin adventure which included bruises and a flooded bathroom. Beautiful things were seen, like Utah and the beautiful beautiful Badlands, which are not castles but make you feel royal, but also small. I'm so so glad that we took the trip and that Allison was the Thelma to my Louise, because how often do you get to do that and more rarely, have it be quite perfect? When in your life you feel both brave and unsure and open to emptiness, drive across your country with your Thelma.

Upon returning to New Haven, I embarked on a scrambled unique honeymoon with the wife, traveling in a 14-foot U-Haul to retrieve and move furniture. First time I've bought real furniture, first time I drove a U-Haul. It took me a full week to get everything and unpack, a week in which I ignored all things school while realizing in class that we were already supposed to have learned in that week what would've amounted last year to a month of material. But it doesn't matter, because I love our new home almost as much as I love the wife. We live on a street lined with restaurants and little shops like the camera store and the random stuff store and the art store and the Art School, and two coffeeshops, including one that's half a block away and owned by Asians who already know how much I love chai. We're on the first floor of an old brick house with hardwood floors and white walls encased in darker wood, with a big kitchen and the homey feel I knew I wanted when we were looking for an apartment. It's just that much farther from school, and that much closer to downtown. Jen and I cook, and Nupur has a bread machine.

School is intense. I can't learn this much this fast. We're learning in modules this year, and we've started with the heart. One of the most interesting, and complicated. Apparently in a month we're supposed to understand the diseases, know the treatments (what do you give first? what's a last resort? what do you give to diabetics?), comprehend how an EKG works and what it's supposed to look like in every kind of dysfunction of your heartbeat (do you know how many different ways your heart can beat?). All this makes me again grateful for being here, without real exams or grades, so I'm still able to appreciate how intellectually satisfying the science is and remember how lucky and awesome it is to pursue something that works your mind and heart. The year's going to be a bit insular, all of us cooped up studying, which sounds kind of sucky but there will probably never be an excuse again to just be cramming in knowledge (hopefully) without other obligations.

At the very least I like the people I'm cooped up with, and through everything else I feel most lucky for the sheer quantity and quality of the people in my life. My college blockmates are all really happy and kicking ass in their respective areas of work/study, and that makes me really happy, to think of everyone growing through the ups and downs of the post-grad years with such grace. It's even crazier to think on the growth with my high school friends who are still some of the best people I know. And in New Haven I have the family I adopted (or who adopted me), people who really love me and at the lowest points (which have indeed already been experienced in the past few weeks) remind me I have absolutely everything I need. Anything that's been hard reminds me also of how there are things I still don't know about myself, and how the more painful experiences force you to know yourself. How you're built, what you value. I know better that honesty matters to me more than acts, that there are things I know I deserve even as much as we hate to use that word on our own behalf, that for as much as I communicate there's a whole lot I miss about even people I know really well and so I need to work on that, that even if you're supposed to pick your battles I will never be able to give up on a person that gave me reason to start trying in the first place. In the end, even if what you find makes things harder--not so much the realization but you yourself--there's good reason for being how you are, and good reason for how each person is.

Reading this over confirms the sap that gratitude makes you produce. But another point is just--so things are quite different. I don't think I'll be blogging much from now on, because I started writing a tiny bit over the summer and I think I want to try as much as I can to continue that, and this year forces me to choose. I'm not sure what happened, but I think it's been this accumulation of gratitude that's pushed me to finally put some things into stories, or rather, clumps. I'll return somewhere in between clumps.

thank you

Every blog seems to have an obligatory list of things to be thankful for, not necessarily always at Thanksgiving. I've never made a public one, mostly because I often write when I'm happy for something and I assume that comes across. Lately though I've been feeling a bit of an ache. While there has been as much to be happy for as always, instead of appreciating those things, I've entertained that ache more than I'd like. So here's to being grateful (though nowhere near adequately) instead of self-pitying (whose threshold of validity has been surpassed long ago).



I am glad for:

public transportation
It's not so alarming to get lost on a subway, because there are really only so many places to go and there is one map with solid lines and colors and only so many directions. You have little responsibility once you get on except to remember when to get off. I spent a fourth of my time in Chicago on trains and buses, and walking short distances, and count all of it as seeing the city. Thank you for keeping me still and taking me places.

things that keep you warm
Tea. How the flavors can be a intricate mix of spices and things but still taste smooth and simple, and thereby, comforting. How it holds lovely things like milk and honey and sugar. Fireplaces, books by the fireplace, and winter music like RHCP's By The Way and Radiohead's In Rainbows and The Cure's Disintegration. Large groups of people you love in one place. Coffeeshops. Winter accessories that you lose, mourn, and never quite replace. Blankets borrowed from friends. Hot pies.

the uniqueness of people
As I re-meet old friends and make new ones, I find each one to be irreplaceable. It's overwhelming to think of what each one offers, how each person gives me something different and compels to give them something different. I miss my friends from home. I miss how Victoria is part of home, how Aud understands my introversion, how Tanvi laughs at everything and makes me laugh at everything, how Kristina speaks with a fiery passion that somehow brings out her core gentle kindness, how Sarah lets me be whatever I feel like. I miss my college friends. I miss Andrea's questions and listening, Jackie's genuine caring of everyone, Jen's sensibility to things around her, Amy's honesty, Melkis's quick propensity to laugh and cry, Steph's warmth, Chris's elusiveness, Henry's love which he extends so naturally, Frank's contagious positivity, Courtney's love of quality things like NYC and coffee. Hi Albert, I miss you too and your empathy. On Thanksgiving break I missed my classmates--Allison squatting in my room and how easy it is to talk to her about whatever, Bibhav's silliness cheering me without fail, Don's nightly milk stops and how he seems to appreciate those few minutes, how Guson both echoes my thoughts and makes me consider new things, Macdale's tangible humor, my awesome PCC group. And everyone I see in class and don't even talk to regularly, I missed them too. Thank you for Andy and Connie and Gina who I saw in Chicago and make me think once people enter your life they stay in some form. And I miss you; I think I will always miss you. You are in everything beautiful, and there is much beautiful.

having things to miss
Thank you for things and people so worthwhile that I consciously miss them.

yale
Thank you for keeping me busy and fulfilled but not too stressed, for being an unexpected fit. You're not without your flaws but neither am I and I think we understand each other okay. Thank you for making me feel this is a privilege and that I need to keep deserving it each day, and understanding when I can't quite do it because I'm a bum. Thank you for the amazing financial aid that makes me fear less postgraduate debt and gives me some leeway to pursue what I want.

loves
Thank you for the joys and pains of the first, and for the formless idea of an unknown second. Thank you for the constant ones: Mom, Dad, Hoang, Bao, Duy and Binh (all the names for those of you who try to remember those brothers of mine)--for how I don't have to miss you because you always feel close.

my memory
I know it makes me think too much and things linger longer than they should and it makes things hard for me. But thank you for letting me keep everything in one place.



I feel the need to say thank you rather than to just give thanks, just because it's nice to think of directing all this toward someone/something. To think that there's something out there enveloping the thanks we give, like the catcher in the rye that Holden Caufield imagines catching those bodies as they're thrown. Some things for you to catch.

new year

new year
I don’t usually reflect on past years or think much about new ones come January. Mostly because the calendar year seldom signals any change for me. I think more in terms of the school year, or my age. This year is the first that I’m not in school, and the first in four years that I haven’t been busy with exams and papers. 2006 was also an “important” year: we graduated, I left a city and group of people that were my home and love and escape and reality for four years, I committed and applied to medical school, A. and I loved and traveled and broke up, I moved into an apartment in San Francisco, I started my first full-time job and derived a new sense of failure and also a new kind of fulfillment, I found myself more distant from my family than when I was 3000 miles away. I was able to organize my photographs and mementos from the past couple of years, I had more time to keep in touch, I had to choose what I wanted to leave at home and what to take for my new place. It was difficult, because I wanted my place to feel different from college but I hadn’t accumulated or done anything new yet, and I felt a step behind my new life. For these and other reasons I can’t quite discern, this year is the first that feels like a new beginning, or at least a time to think about what I’ve been and what I want to be.

Perhaps this comes from learning more about myself and people this past year than I have in a long while, maybe ever, and growing in ways I didn’t anticipate. It’s scary, and comforting, to think there’s so much we don’t know. So what is it that I learned? Nothing novel or anything I haven’t thought before, but the thing that was special about 2006 was it wasn’t mere thought, it was actual experience (even if much of that experience happened internally).

The last stretch of Harvard in 2006 was so much more difficult than I foresaw, and so was post-graduation, not because it was bad but because it was so full of everything and many times I felt too small to hold it. No other year have I seen my flaws more deeply and clearly, things that worked against me and what I wanted for others. Getting fixated on little things, being stubbornly self-contained, not being able to get past things and improve, taking advantage of some love and not even recognizing other forms. It's amazing how you can be so aware of your faults but still struggle so much to change. I do think that this happened because of the challenges I accepted and created, and so, it was a byproduct of something necessary. And the faults aren't so bad when the ones you care about seem to like you anyway, and when you know that you, like everyone, are fine and can always keep trying. It was the best surprise to know someone who pushed me to make these efforts, not with pressure but with the steady force of just being there.

And I tried really hard this year. Seems like an odd phrase because I can't quite follow it up with concrete phrases of what I tried really hard to do. Sometimes to stay the same despite everything, and sometimes to be better because of everything. Vague. Through it, I found that I am capable of reaching out after all, and the people who you really love and trust will be there waiting for you. These are few and rare, and thus all the more deserving of the inner effort it takes for me to ask for them. It’s okay to need things from people. I didn’t feel weak, like I feared. It sounds so obvious, but I really did feel more human, at my most broken and torn and confused. I hope that I’ve given a lot of myself. It will always be my nature to keep certain things close, not because I don’t want to share but mostly because I’m not naturally good and open with explicit expression. I also find more and more that this is the way a lot of people are, or at least the people close to me, and that everyone wants/needs signs that you care and want to know before they reveal themselves. And I care and want to know, and there are other people who do too, and they’re worth it. There’s still a long way to go, and all this was the main theme of the story I wrote for creative nonfiction this past semester. It ended: “Still scared, but feeling more capable, I continue.”

At the same time, it’s okay to feel and be alone. During certain moments, it was hard to be away from the bustle of school and the cove of company that keeps me busy and warm. It was odd because before this I’ve always been fine with being alone, but I guess this was a different kind of alone. Feeling loneliness then was new, and though sometimes that did make me feel weak, I ultimately grew to see it again as a human vulnerability. As lonely as that was, I’m glad to have gone through it. Knowing that some things exist independent of environment and other people was something I couldn’t have really felt otherwise.

I’m also glad to have been immersed in college and then be removed from it in the same year, as hard as that also was. Because even though I can’t avoid defining some things as inextricably tied to the college phase and that time in our lives, I can see better now how we are beyond that, not just now after graduation but even within those confines. Yes, the people I know and love do define my college experience, but they themselves aren’t wholly defined by the experience, and neither am I. One of the things I’m most thankful for is the perception of life as a thing that stretches and expands. It helps me find the balance between appreciating what’s past and what’s now, and what can come.

I’ve never made resolutions either. I always thought that kind of thing should be an ongoing process, but I can see the benefit of having a defined time and reason to say, I’m going to do something. I’ve also seen how unrealistically ambitious I tend to get when making lists of to-do. So this year I made some concrete resolutions that will be hard but not impossible: learn to (somewhat) play the guitar, cook a new recipe each week, and get to know San Francisco even more. And those harder conceptual resolutions? I resolve to try to remember all this, to be open, to be more patient and take things one at a time when I’m overwhelmed, to be good to other people and less self-involved, to be the “sort of person upon whom nothing is lost.” I suppose it may be a cop-out to say that my resolution is to try, but 2006 taught me that it’s quite a hard thing to just try, and I don’t want to overlook my own weaknesses in making too bold of a resolution.

So this year, in summary? It has been my happiest, my hardest, my loveliest, my saddest, my best, my favorite, my most. It’s not the last.

greece

Sunsets from the three different islands we visited, left to right: Crete, Santorini, Mykonos.

The eleven days in Greece with Andrew made up the most intensely full time I have ever had. To be in my favorite country with my favorite person makes for a rare kind of happiness that is intangible and concrete at once. Much of it was surreal, and after all the difficulties, it was continually hard to believe that we made it, that we did it for ourselves and that we were there together, just us. Even on our very last night we were in awe, not only of the place but of our closeness that brought us there. At the same time, nothing in my life has felt as real as experiencing each thing with him, far away from everything else we've known yet being so at home with each other. Absolutely everything went smoothly; any mishaps were minor. We got from city to island to island to island to city exactly as planned, and saw all the sights on our itinerary and more. We spent our funds wisely, and we didn’t go as broke as I had thought we would. I was so proud of our ability to navigate the country, quickly figuring out the subway, bus and airport systems. The combination of my previously planned course of action and his on-the-site directions made everything go so well. It would take volumes to make just a small attempt at describing it all, so I'll settle for a summary of events with a smattering of impressions and feeling. Our photos and these descriptions portray such a small part of it all, the place and our experience. That’s always the case, and as always, I have the urge to share just the bit I can express.

Athens
We flew into Athens from New York (spent a lovely night and half-day there, eating at a late-night diner and doing laundry at a laundromat and being mistaken for newcomers to the neighborhood). The airport experience was worsened by rude people and inefficient service, and the twelve-hour flight wasn't too pleasant either. Not getting much sleep on the plane coupled with the seven-hour time difference exhausted us, but seeing Athens from above made us too excited to care. After dropping our stuff off at our budget hotel, we immediately took off for Mt. Lycavittos, the highest point in Athens. The 360 degree view of Athens was the perfect introduction to the city, and we were completely giddy after seeing the sprawling white that went on and on, and the Acropolis from afar. We also went to Parliament and the National Gardens, and walked around the Plaka district in the evening. The vendors really spill out onto the streets there, very charming and festive.


The next day we got to see everything up close, and he pointed out the linked nature of our experience. From Mt. Lycavittos we could see the Acropolis and from the Acropolis we could see Mt. Lycavittos, and also the Agora, and from the Agora you can see the other sites and on and on. We were early enough that it felt like we had the Parthenon mostly to ourselves, and we spent a long time lingering there. Over the day we saw all the best ruins Athens had to offer—the Ancient and Roman Agoras, the Theater of Dionysus, the Temple of Hephaesteion, and our favorite, the Temple of Zeus. There’s something about the simplicity of ancient columns that I really enjoyed, and there was a lot of empty space around them, so you could really take in the sight in its own space. We also went to the National Archaeological Museum, which has rooms full of amazing sculptures and houses the Mask of Agamemnon, and the Benaki Museum of Islamic Art, which had the opposite feel of the National Museum. It’s small, subtle, not as ancient, but gorgeous. We were the only people there so it felt like a secret treasure. The ceramic tiles and tapestries were beautiful; swirls and bright colors made for such pretty patterns.


Crete
The next morning we took a short flight to Hania, Crete. We first saw the hills hugging the sea from the cab drive, down a steep slope. Our taxi driver enraged us by dropping us off a twenty minute walk from our hotel and trying to charge us twice the fair fare, but our hotel made up for it. It was by far the best deal of the trip, very cheap but quaint and beautiful. Our room’s name was Zeus, and we had a small balcony overlooking a narrow street filled with colorful buildings.


Hania is a city to watch and walk through. We first went to the Municipal Market, where we were amused and a little disturbed by the nonchalant display of lambs’ and bulls’ heads. After that we walked around the Venetian Harbor, whose image was hard to capture in a photograph. The buildings arched around the water, so the view changed with every step.


It was very leisurely, which was nice because we were tired from all the walking the day before and because we needed to rest up for our next day’s activity—making the five-hour hike down the Samaria Gorge, the longest gorge in Europe (about 13 km, and an extra 2 km afterwards to walk out to the city to go home).

We thought we’d die doing the hike, but we actually took it on fairly well. The hike isn’t smooth; it’s steep and very rocky at a lot of parts. At times you just focus on your feet and the land in front of you, which can be a soothing thing to do—concentrating on one simple feat. The path continually changed though, and the whole experience was amazing and a highlight of the trip for the both of us. The drive to the gorge was pretty scary; the bus went over two-way roads at the edge of high mountains at a quick pace, but it was a great way to traverse the landscape. We got there early so we had views of the moonset over blue-misted mountains before we began.

Descending into the gorge, we saw so many things—different hills, creeks, rock formations, bridges…and the same single kind of pink flower bursting in bunches at various spots among the green and brown. At the end there is a narrow gap between cliffs, that they call the Iron Gate, that greets you after a trek across flat terrain. That sliver of light peeking through the gap is the most sublime culmination to a day wandering in the depths of the gorge. It gave us the opportunity for quiet time and conversation, and I think it made us feel very close to take that journey together, small bodies gliding through this massive structure.


The next morning we took an early bus to the other end of Crete, to the capital Heraklion. There we went to the biggest known Minoan palace, Knossos, and went to the museum to see all the frescoes and artifacts people had found there.


A fun part of the day was seeing the city itself, and all the Venetian buildings. We also caught a view of the city from the Kazantzakis tomb, a simple but compelling site. We had a delicious seafood dinner by the waterfront, getting there at sunset and staying until the sea was pitch black.


Lights across the sea started twinkling; one area was completely dark except for one winding line of yellow light, whereas another was sprinkled with green lights. He mentioned how in rural areas, one light usually signified a life—the lamp outside someone’s home, for instance. That sense of life was very detectable walking back to our hotel later in the warm night—a lot of families out, restaurants packed, water fountains in full spring.

Santorini
We loved Crete, but I was excited out of my mind to go to Santorini. We ended up being the only passengers on our tiny plane to the island, so we pretended it was our private jet. This, along with the fact that the airport was abandoned when we got there, caused him to deem Santorini “our island”—it seemed to belong to us from the very beginning. We took a bus to Oia, and though driving on those cliffs scared us, seeing how the island existed right off the sea was beautiful. When we got to Oia, we were even more blown away. Seeing pictures does nothing to prepare you for this place—all the buildings fit snugly into the rocky cliffs, practically dropping into the sea, and they are all a bright painted white.


The buildings within the teeny town are vividly colored: oranges, reds, blues and greens everywhere rising from the cobblestone streets. Walk a few feet from the town and you meet the vast Aegean sea that is so crisp it looks like you can skate on it, with other islands floating atop.



In absolute jaw-dropping awe, we made our way to our hotel. Having gone budget on all our other lodgings, we saved to splurge on our one night in Oia, living in a traditional cavehouse hotel. We appreciated its unique character right away—we both thought it wasn’t worth it to go broke for luxury, but to go for character. This place integrated the natural beauty of Oia into its own structure; it had an arched ceiling lined with stones, rocks nestled in its walls, beautiful wooden doorways and window frames. And it had a balcony with the most amazing view of the caldera, which consists of the surrounding islands and volcano (the same view you get everywhere you go along Oia). We also got a free upgrade to their best room, which had a jacuzzi on the balcony. When we got there he and I stood grinning at each other for quite some time. Then we headed out for lunch, where we also could not stop marveling at the town and sea, and afterwards explored every crevice of Oia.


In the evening we staked a spot at the northern end of the city to watch the sunset. The Oia sunset is often deemed the most beautiful in the world, and I felt so lucky to be able to see it. Hundreds of people come out and line the streets to watch it. The sun becomes completely circular and contained; after a certain point its rays don’t disperse from it anymore, it’s just a wafer in the sky. Andrew took the photo below. Well, he took several of these photos but I thought I should point this one out in particular because I really like it and because he showed it to me right after and asked me whether I liked it, and I remember thinking it was sweet how he valued my opinion about that kind of thing.


We left Oia the next day for Fira, where we stayed for two days exploring the beaches and the volcano. Hiking the volcano across from the island, we could see Santorini Island in its entirely, and were able to look up to where Oia and Fira sat atop the cliffs. We rode donkeys from the port back up to town, which was hilarious and fun, though he vowed never to do it again because the donkeys looked so miserable. His in particular refused to do anything; it would stop for long periods of time without moving, paying no attention to the fact that he was supposed to be carrying Andrew up to the hill. I would look back to see donkey and boy looking equally bemused.


We also went to one of Fira’s famous black sand beaches and to the Red Beach. The sand at the black sand beach comprised of small pebbles that were pretty to sift through your fingers. The Red Beach, though, was the most amazing beach I’d ever been to. Your first sight of it is with towering red cliffs in front of you, with a stretch of white sand that grows distinctly red as it creeps toward the sea. There’s a very distinct line between the sections of white, red, and deeper red once the sand hits the water. Up close, you see the gradations of red, from red rocks to red pebbles to red sand.


We saw the sunset in Fira as well; much less people were out than in Oia, but the sky was a bit hazy so we never quite saw the sun disappear, only watched it slip into the haze.

Mykonos
We were sad to leave our island, but looked forward to a new kind of atmosphere in Mykonos, the party center of Greece. We took a three-hour bumpy ferry ride to the island, and were glad to see the harbor. The buildings there were also mostly white, but in a different way from Santorini. They were boxier, and also often had the same parts that were colored. Like a row of white houses whose stairway railings were painted different colors: one house blue, another red. The roads were the same throughout the town: squares of stone separated from one another with thick white paint (we actually saw a man painting the roads at one point).


We first set out to explore the town, seeing the churches, Little Venice and the five windmills overlooking the water. We caught the sunset near the windmills later, and it was a nice moment. No one was really out, and the sun set very slowly, sinking almost imperceptibly into the sea. It was very quiet in the afternoon, and we sensed that the town hadn’t woken up yet. During our wanderings we came across a giant pink pelican, a famous creature in Mykonos and sometimes rare to see. He was pretty excited about that, and it was nice to have a private viewing—the next day the birds came traisping near outdoor taverns where tourists flocked to them, taking photos and laughing at their peculiar silliness.


Anyhow, on our first night in Mykonos we went out, bar-hopping and dancing, running into a packed gay club by accident—it was fun but not quite as crazy as we had envisioned…we were probably a little early. Lots of clubs and places don’t even open until midnight there, and they stay open until morning. We only stayed out until 3 or so, because we had to get up the next morning to go to Delos.

Delos is a tiny island, now completely uninhabited but once the sacred center of the Cyclades. Seeing the ruins there was unique because it was an entire region frozen in time…walking through, we’d come across mosaics and temples and sculptures. We hiked a mountain to see the entire island, and it was amazing to think the whole place was a sort of artifact. It was a hot and tiring expedition though, so we spent the latter half of the day on Mykonos’s white-sand beaches, enjoying the clear clear and cold waters.


Athens
We took a short flight back to Athens to spend our last day in Greece. During the ride to the airport I thought maybe it would have been better to fly back to NY from wherever we ended in Greece instead of returning to Athens, but after the day was over I couldn’t imagine spending it any other way. We came full circle by revisiting Athens. The first day, we’d seen a panoramic view and the last day, we saw it up close. Because we’d seen all the major sights the city had to offer, we were free to wander. Instead of seeking out particular things as we had the first, we explored. We went to the port to find that it wasn’t anything special, found a delicious ice cream parlor (we had so much ice cream on the trip), and stumbled into the poet sandalmaker’s shop. The shop is a family business that handmakes leather sandals; they had a collection of sandals with different names, some of them named after famous people who had bought them (John Lennon, Jackie O, Sophia Loren). The poet sandalmaker refers to one of the owners (his son was currently manning the store when we got there) who creates sandals and poetry, who says that a writer must have another occupation in order to truly write. That idea, the necessity of experience in order to convey life in words, was personal and touching. We went in and out of the store several times before deciding to get sandals for ourselves. His had to be adjusted, so we got to see the person’s handiwork in play right in front of us. We hadn’t bought anything during the trip, but we thought the sandals would be the perfect memento. They get darker and more brown with wear and exposure to the sun, so that the artistry of the sandalmaker continues with time. We found that notion of continuance fitting for us, feeling that our experience here wouldn’t be bound by geography once we returned, but would stay with us as time passes and as we grow. The same goes for our relationship.


We did a lot of window-shopping in the Monastiraki and Plaka districts, as he tried to find something for his brother, and in the evening headed to dinner. We found a place with a view of the Acropolis and Agora so that we could watch them light up as night fell. Yet another way of closing our time—on the first day, seeing the Acropolis in light and on the last, in the dark. I love how in these places, it is so easy to find a view—so many things are visible from different points in the city. I also like how everyone eats outdoors, and how long the meals stretch—our last meal in Greece was a two-hour dinner…eating slowly, drinking wine, having dessert. The night was very alive, so many people out and vendors everywhere. Our table must’ve been approached about a dozen times by people selling roses. We sat and talked about our favorites of Greece—favorite meal, sunset, hotel, ruins, characters and so on. We put on our sandals, and read aloud the poetry that we’d been given at the sandalmaker’s shop. We wore our sandals on the way home, and I knew we both felt grateful for being able to walk in Greece together like that. The air was so vibrant, live music playing, restaurants still crowded late into the night, vendors with tiny lamps illuminating their products. By that time, we’d developed a habit of waving goodbye to the places we’d seen, and it was hard to wave goodbye to Athens since it was also a precursor to the goodbye to Greece altogether.


What a crazy thing to have done. We went through a lot to make it happen, to stay committed to our fantasy. A lot of things were against us. We’re so young, but maybe that’s partly why we were able to do it. I can’t remember ever feeling so fulfilled, so in awe of how powerful a feeling can be and how far it can take you. Halfway around the world, and back.

vermont (crossing bridges)

I used to be really scared of driving across bridges. It was fear intermingled with absolute love, or fear because of love, or something. Who hasn’t fallen in love with Golden Gate, with all that it represents and with its fiery hues against all that blue above and below. A lot of the things that fostered my attachment to it scared me at the same time. The slope upwards, the creeping towards the middle, frightened me most. So much water underneath, and I can’t swim. If in the outer lane, so close to that fragile edge. A sturdy structure, but such a short distance from surface to only air. If in the inner lane, the sounds of fast-moving cars going the other way, and sometimes the subtle shake of the road. As a passenger I unconsciously gripped my seat with one hand and the side of the door with the other. As a driver I alternately went fast and slow, never able to decide which was worse (though impatience usually won out). The instability, the unfamiliarity, the vastness, or my perceptions of these things; all of it made me lose my sense of ground. This normally doesn’t faze me too much, I’m not afraid of heights or roller coasters or anything like that. It’s something about the risk associated with beautiful things.

I grew out of it, at least the specific fear of bridges. I don’t know why or when, just one of those things like not talking to my stuffed animals anymore or not expecting the tooth fairy after awhile. But I still think about it sometimes, and the feeling underlying the fear more than lingers.

In Vermont there are hundreds of covered bridges. The question of why they’re covered came up, and I couldn’t think of a good reason. They span little creeks, and you drive through them in about two seconds. You can see through to the other side before you enter the first. All the ones we saw were red. Some of them smelled like paint. You could see every plank of wood forming their structure. You could walk across them without feeling the very slight elevation. They felt like playgrounds.

I can’t remember the last time I felt that safe, and I wasn’t sure where that was coming from. The smallness, the covering, the utter quietness and stillness—it didn’t really matter, just an illusion of safety, except there wasn’t even the illusion of danger. I had a flashback of how I felt standing on the Golden Gate this summer, cold, the wind blowing ferociously, buried in the fog and feet tiptoe on the ledge. And I thought, they’re not so different. The former, the wonder of my conception of beauty, of what’s worth crossing, how large and intimidating and formidable our minds make things, those excited and scared and naïve goosebumps. The latter, the indescribable comfort that comes from dispelling the fear without losing the immensity, or the image. Feeling the safety and the excitement at once.

I would like to hang onto October for a bit longer.

summer in cambridge

For various reasons I decided to stay in Cambridge for the month before summer school starts, instead of going home. It’s been busy, in a good way. The days have been completely full. I’ve had so many first-time experiences in the past month.

Week 1: Dorm Crew
Thrown into a pile of dust and grime, I was told to make it clean. Each day we took off another layer of dirt, moving from the top floor down. The complete procedure consisted of five steps: trashing, sweeping, damp dusting, dry mopping, wet mopping. There’s a lot of cleaning terminology, and whenever our team talked to one another about what we’d been doing or what we needed to do, the vocabulary made me feel like we were playing a game.

I liked the physical process of watching the dust bunnies disappear and making the wooden floors visibly shinier. There’s such gratification in being able to see quantifiable results. There’s almost a false sense of control. Scraping corners with hand brushes and attempting to scoop every last bit of dust made me think of what Steph says about the neverending fight against entropy. We collect dust so that dust could collect again, but somehow there’s slight pleasure in that.

Week 2: Day Counselor
Watching over a group of 9-10 year olds for a few full days was exhausting, but so much fun. I ended up with a group of all girls. Very different personalities, but they got along well together and, thankfully, with me. It surprises me how naturally and easily kids give their affection, and how nice it feels to be on the receiving end, when they hold your hand not because they have to cross the street but because they want to belong to you.

I liked the simple act of taking care of their basic needs. It reminded me of the talks Drew and I had during those five-hour chemistry labs, about that persistent question, why medicine? People never ask me that because there are so many common explanations, but I don’t think it’s at all a straightforward answer. One thing we talked about was how you’re taking care of people on such a basic level. I’m not sure why but it was so fulfilling to have a snack ready when the kids were hungry, and making sure they had enough water throughout the day, and putting on their jackets when they were cold. Not to downplay the frustration induced by constant pleas to repeatedly ride the teacups, inquiries about the time every two minutes, refusals to compromise, and the inability to get along with boys. Tired but not defeated, is how I would describe the counselors.

One of the best parts of the job was that I got to participate in all the kiddie activities. We went to Canobie Lake Park in New Hampshire, saw the Lions of the Kalahari at the Museum of Science’s Omni Theater, Fenway, the Aquarium, the Museum of Natural History, and we had field day and a dance on campus.

Most of all I liked getting to know them. It made me think a lot about what I was like as a kid, and what really happens as you grow up.







Row 1: Lizzy, Grace, Annie
Row 2: Lindsay, Hope
Row 3: Anna, Weezie, Sarah

The girls in one word, and in some sentences:

Lizzy: Independent. She was the most difficult one to watch, because she’d always stray from the group, and wouldn’t understand why she couldn’t walk faster or slower than everyone else. She wouldn’t let me do anything for her. Whereas the other kids were always asking me to do things for them, she insisted on getting her own food and drinks, and she even wanted to walk home by herself. When she did need help—like when she got locked out of her room—she rarely admitted it. She would always say, it’s fine, when it clearly wasn’t, something that I do all the time without realizing how unproductive that is. I feel like she’s going to grow up to be Cora Munro, as played by Madeleine Stowe in The Last of the Mohicans, because she’s so strong-willed and smart. She also had a younger, blonde-haired sister named Daisy who was less mature and more innocent, just like Alice Munro. Anyway…she made me rethink the things people, myself included, do in the name of independence.

Grace: Delicate/fierce. The things I love the most seem to embody this dichotomy, so I have a soft spot for Grace. She had this amazingly sweet voice, as though she was giving you a gift every time she spoke. She told me she liked tunnels; she liked how it became dark and “how you went through them.” She was the smallest one and seemed the most fragile, but she was the only one brave enough to go on the big rollercoasters at the amusement park. She was quiet and reserved, but she was intense about things she cared about. She had a younger brother, and at one point he was wandering off. The other girls tried to get Grace’s attention, yelling her name over and over, but she was so intent on watching over her brother that she didn’t even hear them. The girls gave each other nicknames and Grace was “Shinny,” a combination of shy plus skinny. Needless to say, I empathized with her, not that she ever saw herself as being at a disadvantage, which made me love her even more.

Annie: Tough. She’d broken her arm a week before she got here, and her parents didn’t even know until they arrived in Boston. She was still up for all the games and was really athletic. She never complained when she was thirsty or hungry; she didn’t seem to like acknowledging vulnerability. But being an animal-lover and vegetarian, she was frightened by the images of lions hunting prey at the Museum of Science and clung to me during the entire hour. To feel safe enough to admit your fear—it’s a rare feeling, one that I was grateful she could have, and one that I’m only beginning to let myself experience.

Lindsay: Adorable. This girl must be the cutest thing that ever existed. She wasn’t even one of my kids, but every morning when she arrived at our meetingplace I would wish that she was in my group. I was lucky enough to get a chance to spend time with her at the dance because as I was trying to get some of my more relunctant kids to dance, she happily joined in. Don’t let the cute pixie face fool you—this girl can really move and was my favorite dance partner. Later, when she told the other girls that she lived in London, she consented to saying “cheerio” in a British accent, and I so wanted to take her home to keep.

Hope: Introspective. She lagged behind the others, because she kept stopping to look at a pile of rocks or a random stick or a bird underneath an obscure tree. When I asked her about it, she said she liked “being a tourist.” When we played MASH, she wanted to be a scientist, geographer or world explorer. She only stayed for a day, but the next few days I found myself accidentally stopping the group to look back for her, only to see little things she might have been looking at if she had actually been there.

Anna: Beautiful. She’s a halfie and the prettiest eight year old ever. I told her I could see Kristen Kreuk in her. Amy says the most beautiful thing about people is when they don’t know their own beauty, and I see that in most kids, because they haven’t come to the point of self-awareness yet. Even more so in Anna, because she was the messiest, most accident-prone one in our group. She kept spilling things on her clothes, and the first day at the amusement park she scraped her arm and legs and injured her foot (her nickname was Boo-Boo). She was entirely oblivious to these external blemishes, and she gave no thought whatsoever to preserving an outer appearance, which made her all the more beautiful. She also had really small hands that were wrinkled and looked like they had been burnt. When one of the other kids asked her what happened to them, she said, “Nothing happened. I was born that way,” and smiled. When I think of her beauty, I think of her hands before anything else.

Weezie: Spunky. A million personalities piled into one active body. Weezie was the first of my kids who I met, and she was wearing one blue sock and one green sock when I met her. She spoke a mile a minute, and you had to pay attention because amidst the usual nonsensical kid talk she would say the most insightful things. When I spoke to her, I never doubted that she understood what I was saying. She encouraged me to be a photographer because photographers capture what other people think are pretty but don’t think to capture, and she told me that college is about experiences, and that being a doctor is about being nice. When nine years of life can give me so much, it makes me wonder at how much she’s going to give the world in the future.

Sarah: Precocious. She would pick up on things that adults think children don’t notice, and that’s the thing with kids. They notice everything. Seeing and understanding are different. We think that just because they might not understand something, they’ll ignore it, when really, they’re just taking it in, storing it and unraveling it later.

Week 3: HMS Premedical Institute
So for five days we worked with a simulator named Stan (short for “Standard Patient”) whose heart beat and lungs breathed. Without much instruction they told us to take care of him. We had to figure out what was wrong, and then we had to fix it. It was both an intellectual process and an emotional endeavor. It sounds simplistic, and that’s the fault of my expression, but I’m not sure the mechanics of it would really convey what it was like.

We performed practice surgery (virtual reality), and the idea of having to navigate the human body was simultaneously familiar and foreign (we all thought: Magic School Bus!). It’s funny how little you know about your own physical self. Then I got an ultrasound. How weird and awesome is that, to be able to see your insides on a screen? The doctor confirmed that I didn’t have gallbladder or kidney stones. Then I saw my heart for the first time. I had to hold my breath in order for it to show up, and I almost forgot to start breathing again. It was beautiful, in the way that art is beautiful. You begin to see everything as organic creations and programmatic systems at the same time, and it’s mind-blowing.

The group of people also made it really fun. I got to know my blockmates in a different way, and other Harvard people better, and people outside of our school. Being pre-med means that you’re often categorized by certain mentalities, certain courses of study, certain manners of doing things. It was nice to get at more meaningful ways of connecting people interested in medicine—a particular passion for people, for solving things, for being challenged.

On the last day they gave us a book called “On Doctoring.” It’s a compilation of stories, poems and essays on medicine, patient care, illness, death. The first thing I read was the last paragraph of the introduction: “Henry David Thoreau wrote, ‘To affect the quality of the day—that is the highest of arts.’ Both medicine and literature have the capacity to affect the quality of the human day. Resonances between these two disciplines offer us a unique view of the human condition that neither one alone can provide.” Ever since freshman year, after that brief but significant interaction with Artichoke, I’ve been reading a lot by and about William Carlos Williams. The figurehead for the doctor poet. The book includes a lot by him and by so many other writers I love and admire, and I was touched by how fitting an ending to the week the book was.

WCW writes, “The physician enjoys a wonderful opportunity actually to witness the words being born. Their actual colors and shapes are laid before him carrying their tiny burdens which he is privileged to take into his care with their unspoiled newness. He may see the difficulty with which they have been born and what they are destined to do. No one else is present but the speaker and ourselves, we have been the words’ very parents. Nothing is more moving.”

It’s amazing how long it’s taken me to come to a very simple conclusion, or to jolt myself into consciously knowing what my fingertips have always sensed. I want to take care of people, and I want to write. The how part will come later.

Week 4: Project HEALTH
I moved into Eliot House on Saturday. What a difference a five minute walk makes. Living here feels different from Adams in so many ways. We have neighbors, other houses. My room looks into the courtyard, our common room looks out on the river. It gets so quiet as you walk down Dunster St. away from the bustle of the square toward the cove of river houses. It makes me feel like I’m sharing a secret—with who, I don’t know.

Organizing the Summer Policy Institute for Project HEALTH has been a lot of work, and I hope it goes well. Though a bit intimidated by the responsibility, I like having the control to shape an entire program. Just in preparing for the weekly speakers, I’ve learned so much. There are so many people out there working on ways to improve other people’s lives, and even though the sheer number and immensity of problems that exist is daunting, it makes people’s desire to help so admirable. A bit more on this later, coupled with a movie update (which actually do relate).

It’s nicely surprising how different your life can become even when you remain in the same physical space. Harvard in the summer is nothing like Harvard during the school year, and not just because my classes haven’t started yet. The long days induce warm laziness. With less students you notice a different flow of people through the square. There are so many trees here. I can’t stop looking at them. Of course we have a lot of trees in California, but they’re not clustered quite in the same way. The palm trees in front of my house are always there. Boston trees seem to revive, all at once; they make you aware of their presence, as light and airy as they are. It’s a sudden discovery, but quiet at the same time. I try to think of ways to describe them, but I can only fall back on the simple, familiar, stock adjectives. Green and leafy. The funny thing is, these generic words suffice. Every time a season starts I’m convinced it’s my favorite season, so right now I’m in love with summer. The beginnings are so sweet.