extra baggage

Moving really makes one take stock of her life, as measured in material possessions. When I left New York at the beginning of the year, maybe never to return, I was overwhelmed and drowning in boxes and styrofoam peanuts and packing tape. I must've spent the equivalent of a small country's GNP on overweight luggage, shipping and storage costs. At the end of it all, I once again swore that upon my next inevitable move, it will never be this painful again.

my little lane on Wualai St

Then I was transported to Chiang Mai, a land from a whole different time period, like perhaps, the days before modern civilization (exaggerate much? nah). My house was simple and my closet minuscule. Suddenly I was hard-pressed to find a reason to break out my 2 pairs of high heels and bother with flat-ironing my hair, as in "what do you mean there are no society parties here?" Or perhaps more devastatingly, "what do you mean there are NO CUTE BOYS here??!" I was surrounded by hippies and backpackers everywhere! OK, there was the occasional well-groomed, well-styled, clean-smelling boy here and there, but for the most part, di ko type, or just not for me. Or they were gay. And then the joke turned on me, when I had to start buying hippie clothing in the local street markets that was more appropriate for sweating all day in the Thailand dust. And then I actually grew a fondness for long flowy skirts and wearing the same flip-flops everyday. I even had a flip-flop tan on my feet.

Not that I was a total ultra diva pre-Chiang Mai. I mean hey, I've been camping once! I knew how to rough it, sometimes! But this was kinda new to me. This house full of girls who expected that the contents of one backpack would last them 4 months and 6 different countries. That's when I had to learn to let go of all that wasn't important. Without forgoing my personal hygiene of course. Or sacrificing my lipstick. I still need beautification products! But within some reason.

Now that I'm finally unpacking my suitcases into a real closet in a real apartment again after half a year, I'm wondering how I've accumulated so many things when really, all I needed to get by on everyday was the contents of just one (OK fine, 3 suitcases OK!). I'm fixing up my new apartment, thinking about drapes and new ottomans, and flipping through Ikea catalogs wondering what kind of dining set defines me as a person? (as the pre-Brad Tyler Durden wonders in Fight Club) And then again, I stop and realize that I don't... really... care.

It's a new mantra that's permeated other facets of my life as well. Not the stoner/slacker kinda apathy. But more like, give importance in your life to things that really matter, and less to those that don't. And somewhere in my dim little dome, a lightbulb went off, like... duh! Seems simple enough. But not as simply executed in real life.

My happiness is important to me. So if that means tossing out material goods that are weighing me down, boys that break my heart, distractions that hold me back, frenemies that are more drama than love, then I do it, and I've stopped looking back.

But once in a while, the battle within resumes, between rationality and my irrepressible weakness for hot new shoes. Shoes make me happy. Shoes, and of course plane tickets. If that's how it has to be, so be it. And I'm happy.

must... find... job!

I only had a vague idea of what I was looking for when I left to travel across the globe a few months ago. I wanted to find an escape, but mostly some perspective and inspiration. I was sick of the somewhat structured life I had created already. I was falling into a rut and didn't know how to get myself out of it. I was so bored but was getting too numb to realize it. Then out of nowhere, circumstances upset that boring balance of mediocre ordinariness. There was a shake-up at my job, my office could no longer keep me, and with that I became one of the first victims of this season's U.S. recession. I could sink or swim. Instead I flew... to Thailand. I wanted a new direction.

I didn't want to be chained to a desk forever, bitching about Mondays, cheering on Fridays and watching the clock everyday until it hit 5pm. I didn't want to work at a job that made me dread waking up in the morning. I didn't want to stress about things that don't really matter in the grander schemes of the universe, like how to make the spreadsheet freeze panes. I didn't want to be living to work. I didn't want to be puttering away behind a computer, losing all sense of human contact and the people I'm supposed to be working for-- the "public" in "public health"-- when I could be in the trenches with them myself. I didn't want a flat office butt. Easier said than done right? But I've paid my dues, and now I want to be on a path that I know I have chosen for myself with all the tools given to me.

So when I get discouraged now and lament about what a drag it is to find a new job, I try to remember what I do and why I get excited thinking about it. Now I not only know what I don't want, but also what I do. In concretes, not abstracts.

I received this email from my old division chief (i.e. big boss) back in New York while I was traipsing about Asia.

Erin,

It was great to hear from you and to see the pictures that you sent. We miss you here and I’m thrilled about your adventures. I have tremendous respect for all that you do and learn much from you by the way you bring “public health” to life.

Enjoy and let us know when you’ll be back Stateside.

Dr. E

And now that I've found inspiration from the outside, I can also find it within.

hearting NY

Reason number 253 to heart New York: The summer time.

(stupid puggle just licked my whole face!)

• Summerstage at Central Park: picnic blankets on bare grass under the trees, sunshine, dogs, friends, and copious amounts of wine and champagne. Oh, plus your buds Gilles Peterson and Jamie Lidell performing live as your soundtrack to the perfect lazy summer Sunday afternoon.
  
• Rooftop parties.
  
• Outdoor dinners with the sun still up.
  
• Never-ending happy hours.
  
• Beers are ok pre-noon time, or anytime for that matter.
  
• There is *always* something to do and the hardest decision is fitting everything in.

Reason number 254 to heart New York: You could live a lifetime here and still never have enough time to do everything.

• Kanye West concert at Madison Square Garden. I'm not even really a fan, but tickets were offered and I couldn't pass them up. And hey, it's Kanye, self-proclaimed "biggest superstar in the world." The pleasant surprise for me though was when N.E.R.D. opened. God bless Pharell.
  
• Discovering new haunts and old friends. Old friend Anton spun at new club Love in the West Village, with its sprawling dance floor, waterfalls-as-projector-screens, dark beehive-like caves with cushions, all of it combining to induce a coma of nightlife downtempo.
  
• The Wackness at the Angelika Theatre. Coming-of-age story of a teen drug dealer, his pot-smoking psychiatrist, and the city itself, against the backdrop of the pre-September 11 NYC (one scene features the brilliant Ben Kingsley sitting on a Brooklyn bench across the Twin Towers), and the then-incoming Guiliani era that set in motion a wave of changes to result in the safer and less gritty NY we know today, all set to the beat of thumping 1994 NYC hiphop (think Biggie).

I laughed, I cried, I drank, I danced, and I fell in love with New York all over again.

no sleep til...

I don't know what I expected to be so different. As if I could disappear for several months and everything would suddenly change positions or close down. But no, every direction I looked, everything was just as I remembered. But with renewed vibrancy.

I slid back into the grind so seamlessly, and was instantly absorbed into the city's throbbing bloodlines (otherwise known as "the subway" and "traffic"). Arrived at the station and was glared at by a cranky old woman. But then a stranger helped me with my bags without even asking. The cab driver lies and tells me he doesn't know the way to Brooklyn. Are you freakin' kidding me? Fine, I'll direct. (Do I still remember?) Along the way, ensnared in the aluminum crush, I point out to myself the old archetypes of New York that I so fondly remember: rocker-junkie (track marks, check), East African immigrant, Indian cab driver, Middle American tourist with big camera, fashionistas in Jimmy Choos, Wall Streeters, the ubiquitous hipster, and the black-cowboy-slash-soul-brotha-in-skinny-jeans-and-Superman-cape... wait, huh? Unusual, but not for this town.

I arrived at the new/old apartment. Took a walk around the neighborhood and promptly picked up 2 perfect giant wooden picture frames that someone else had thrown away. Picking up other people's garbage- old New York survival skills coming back strong!

Hi New York, I'm back. Party.