A Loner in the City

In my hometown, I never felt like a local. Even on my street, I never felt like a neighbor. In New York City, mostly southeast of 14th Street, sardined with the offbeats and mavericks, the bohemians dressed as gypsies, the washed-up vegans, the addicted Wall-Streeters, the everyones' who ever wanted to be anyones, the whatchamacallits, and the might've-beens, I felt at ease.

I was reacquainted with my style here, the fad that I was born with before my time. When my lips are stained red, I look like a flapper and live like a modern classicist. I wear silky, baggy shirts salvaged from second-hand shops, scuffed up boots barely fastened by their rotting laces, with a new pair of skinny jeans that occasionally make me look brawny, and my hair is big. Like the big pin curls the women admired in the 1920's. My facial skin is ageless and not perfect, revealing a childlike sense of adventure through an instant gaze into a pair of quarter-sized eyes and confused demeanor. Generally, I appear well put together. But my nails are always chipped with decaying cuticles, bad judgment slips from under my tongue sporadically, and I'm a chronic sufferer of failing romance. As a rule, I rarely flaunt my well-earned figure because I have a peculiar ability of finding a way around this. My heart is stitched on a rolled-up sleeve, gravitating up and down with every bend, movement, or endeavor. I lost my innocence a long time ago, way before I moved to New York, and after my heart was broken. That's a good thing. Because only the Frank Sinatras' survive here.

You have to know how to function alone in this city. As an individual. As an anonymous.
It's not a place for tender-heart rocking or closed-minded foolishness. The legacy of cultural tolerance is not for the unadventurous, incurable bigot. But, here in my city...color is silently pertinent. Having the facade of a multinational is a fast track to joining the medley. But, if you want instant conformity, be true to yourself. New York forced me to acknowledge my sufficient eccentricities. I grew up within the confines of Texas, south of the Mason Dixon line; even when forced, refuse to use "nigga" as a pronoun or invite like-skinned people of similar socio-economic backgrounds into my world. I don't wear racially-distinguishable garments; and my social circles are of Benetton nature. It's a shame that my character difference is mistaken as deviance.

This is me, unveiled. I'm an over-analytical oddball, a three-dollar bill, an idiosyncratic, a case, a rarity. And my name is too often found next to a parenthesized weirdo. I bullied a pigeon today in Cooper Square; one time, I made three mistakes in two hours; the word "mad" has inadvertently slid into my vocabulary; there are times when I don't believe in myself; I dream about reality, but my life is not a storybook; and I live in a city that fully embraces my creativity as an artist. As an individual.

I'm a self-proclaimed New Yorker inspired by invention and freedom.

My Dazzling City

I am a rather eccentric person. The nature of my avocations for the last 20 years has brought me to the capital of nostalgia. I found my voice on a long crowded island called Manhattan. If I bargain a job in this depressed society, I plan to die here. Bury my soul in the overpopulated cemetery in Queens. I want curly bamboo sticks on my grave. Please don't mourn over my headstone with fresh-cut or artificial flowers that lack originality. Because this city is all about having character.

It took a long time to get to New York. The eternity of the ride into the city is where I met my irrational love for the place. New York is a city of perpetual filth, occasional hatred, daily tests of individuality, and a daring amount of energy to fully appreciate its dollops of charm. It's mysterious allure is epidemic, like love. I came to this soaring madhouse to discover love. Not just a well-wished romantic companion, but to marry my passion. This compacted and beautiful segment of America is my muse, my feel good, my gem. Waking up on Third Avenue is a daily indulgence, like sex. My proclaimed affair I have a metropolis is real. I consider myself a native newlywed.

The interval between my fourth-floor address, create contrast, and so much more. The direction of my window commands attention to the curiosities of humankind. I romanticize the unobstructed view of neighbors from my desk chair. I accidentally eavesdrop on drunk weekenders from the uncarpeted interior of a red-bricked mini skyscraper.
"Dude, I can't tell if she's hot or not. She's wearing too many clothes," a city character once said, crookedly passing over the gum-spotted and worn sidewalk, marching to the 4 a.m. beat of the village. This city is tolerant.

My Manhattan has been my health and my allergy, my battlefield and playground, my bruise and my band-aid, my sweet lemon with salt on it, my fetish and my nuisance. It feels like there's no other place in this world that penetrates my creativity as a writer. All else is uninteresting.

And just beyond my glassed pane is an enlivened bus stop. The M101 is my night light. It has the kind of digitized, exterior advertising that would gloss your eyes in Times Square. Fourty-second street is infidelity. It's the face of New York, but not my source of adoration or comfort. My dazzling city is a diagnosed spastic. I support every symptom of eccentricity. It's most tranquil moments are hard to decide. It requires no prescribed lens to reveal the lurking commotion. I'm most comfortable in the gritty East Village where suburb-starved artists wear suspenders and Elvis Costello glasses, clinging hands, creating a portrait of Cupid's graces, anxiously searching for golden inspiration. I find restful peace in the rush of a yellow cab's wheels intersecting with street vents. The homemade cheese store across the street, that lacks all commercialized showiness, is poetic enthusiasm. I have learned to dream in a restless environment. When the sun sneaks into my city's overcrowded infrastructure, I wake up craving more, ready to embrace every beautiful moment of coexistence.

By winter, I still have the butterflies, even when all six trees on my block have been amputated of their springtime bio. They appear starved and shivered by the erratic falls of February's snow. My love grows through seasons, through every tear of rain, burst of sunshine, and gentle drop of snow. New Yorkers don't know how to appreciate everything. By mid-day, important business people their scriveners have trampled over every last piece of preserved flurry, leaving the scraps to the latecomers and call girls. January, February and sometimes chunks of March are winters that burn your skin, color your nose cherry red, erect your arm hairs, and seem partially miserable. But, I'm here until death do us part.

Oh America!

I'm officially back on American soil. I anticipated being jet-lagged, shocked and resistant to orthodoxy. There was no reverse cultural shock. There was no urgency to raid the pantry for hearty U.S. snacks. There was no speech stuttering or lingual confusion. There was no allegiance to religion. Instantly, I fit right back into the American way.

The first thing I did when I arrived home was take a bath in a bathroom that was built by an American worker who probably doesn't have state-given benefits. It felt just right. I arrived on New Year's Eve, but had no desire to socialize with the masses that evening. Most of my relationships with friends that I deliberately chose to not keep in contact with, changed. For the first few days, I was closely examining how things Changed since I had been gone. I know that I felt different, but if you were to ask me how different I am, I wouldn't be able to describe it. Everyones' life had gone on (imagine that), and I was completely out of the loop on pop-culture. It seemed for the past four months that I was acting out a dream and everyone else was in reality. I didn't get pregnant, pay taxes, or fail miserably at anything. Life gave me nothing but lemons these past four months.

Reality check inserted here.

Now that I'm reconnected with my Blackberry; impeccable Hi-Speed Internet; recordable HD T.V; a multi-functional washer/dryer; daily encounters with the SUN; the devalued American dollar; dishes that don't wash themselves; a dog that doesn't follow you leash-lessly; a non-recycling family; a career choice that doesn't show up on your doorstep; a few bad memories from the past; and all of my overdue relationships have ended. These are the publishable parts of my reality.

I'm off to New York City tomorrow to face the rest! I have dearly missed my dazzling city. Even though I haven't ever experienced love, I KNOW that I'm absolutely infatuated with my city.

Good-bye. The American way.

Tschüss Deutschland

I did Christmas the Deutsch way. My friend invited me to her house for a family setting. We ate kartoffeln (potatoes) and played Tabu in German. I never realized how much German I knew until I started describing words that were outside of my vocabulary. During my stay in Koeln, I was surrounded by Swahili, Spanish, German and English. Luckily, they all sounded completely different from each other. I'm going to miss multi-lingual people. In fact, I think my English has become more simplified over time. I stopped using big words like "onomatopoeia" in my daily vocabulary. (Does anyone Ever use this word?) I was asked to describe cake sprinkles the other day. That was an unbelievably difficult task. I got nervous and thought I would misrepresent them. Describing ordinary items to someone who has absolutely no idea what the fuck a sprinkle is presented a new challenge.

I'm on my last (for awhile, at least) European train to Dusseldorf Airport. I love trains so much. You don't have to worry about Nigerian bombers or being busted for having toothpaste in your bag. Trains are relaxing, calming, spacious and easy to escape in case of derailment.?Yeah, I guess every institutional creation has its flaws. None the less, Koeln was a great way to top off four months in Europe. I've survived all of this time without BBMing and texting (among other things). This is a personal achievement.

I can't wait to be reunited with my better half (and my family, too)!

Winter Wonderland

There's a white blanket all over Germany. It's beautiful to experience from indoors. I have a decreasing desire for all outdoor activities. All I need is a glass of Glühwein (hot spiced wine), my snuggie and a cheesy romantic comedy for fun these days. I think I've grown out of excessive socializing and have become more of a bore - or commonly referred to as an Adult (pronounced with the long "-ai" sound).

The good news is, I made it to Köln without being re-routed into a snowy Germanic forest. The six-hour drive started off as unusual as the nature of any foreign-country Ride Sharing would be. Everyone was getting to know each other in German, and I was awkwardly tuning them out posing as a sleepy college Adult. After I comfortably settled into my window seat, another passenger was picked up to further reduce the European carbon footprint. I was sandwiched between a funky, black-haired photographer and a fat man who wouldn't let me lean on his arm that was invading my space. Europeans don't joke around when it comes to moderation. Americans are the ones who should be car pooling between states with our gas-guzzling SUV's and Hummers. My nation makes me feel fat sometimes. In Europe, I've been the one who cut a thicker slice of cheese at breakfast; requested more bread in a restaurant; opened a box of cookies in the grocery store; asked for extra sugar cubes for my cappuccino; and filled my glass waaaayyyy passed their measurement line. Overindulging is our way.

Meanwhile, I've been watching movies to pass the snow and hanging out with my two friends who have graciously lent their hospitality for twelve days. German people are so nice. I even have my own room and set of keys. I'll be experiencing my first German Christmas with a Ghanaian family. I bet the food will be amazing!

This travel experience has been unforgettable.

Final Days in Berlin

On a redundant note, studying abroad has been a wonderful experience. The semester is nearly over and my work load has topped off to a three-month compilation. My extensive semester of traveling and learning has wearied me. I'm just about ready to be re-initiated into my dazzling city of New York. But just about any American city will do that's installed with 120 watt plugs. I took (synchronously) plugging in my curling iron and hot comb for granted.

For the most part, I'm tired of hearing, learning and incompetently communicating in German. The language is hard. Don't let anyone EVER convince you otherwise. Although I've completely managed to slide with English, I don't imagine the German library being that accommodating. On Tuesday, I'm expected to reactivate my cryptic knowledge of how to use a library. This should be interesting, yet frustrating. I'm from the 21st Century litter. We don't use book repositories for research when Google has the e-book enabling me to wear my slippers and nightgown. If you ask me, Germany is a bit too nostalgic to the old ways of the world.

In my ONE favorite class, New York and Berlin as Knowledge Cities, all of my FIVE classmates and I were asked the reason why we chose to study abroad. It was at that moment when I realized the real reason why I chose an overpriced transnational education: I wanted to grow and mature in a foreign context. So far, I think its been working. My previous amounts of free time have allowed for a lot of self-reflection. In conclusion, I've had more of an Internal international experience than trying to master German, stuff my face with Currywurst or subscribe to the Berliner Zeitung (If you were bilingual, you would know that means "newspaper.") One thing I learned about myself: I like my space under all circumstances of daily existence. "Invasion" makes me feel uneasy. This may be subject to controversy, but Berlin has taught me how to live in semi-moderation. I've acquired awesome, new anal recycling habits where I don't let ANYTHING go in the wrong bin. I love how serious locals are about their throw-away-ables. They sit empty bottles near trashcans (never inside), and bring in multiple crates of recyclables to the grocery store with eco-friendly grins waiting to collect their stipends. Yes, Berliners get incentives to reduce their carbon footprints. This may be a good idea for America. I even keep my electronics (except my laptop) unplugged while not in use, while also rationing paper, food and hair products. I especially try to keep the lights turned off before dark. The contradiction of natural sunlight and artificial home lighting really bothers me for some reason. Not to mention, it gets dark here at 4:30 p.m., and the street lights only function on certain random occasions. I started sleeping with my curtains open to increase my encounters with the sun. When the church bells ring all the way through my glass-sealed windows, I know that's the cue to get up if I want to see a hint of daylight. I'm not going to miss those church bells.

With only seven days left in Berlin, I've made a few tardy discoveries that would have been useful three months ago. All the while, I could have been purchasing "short trip" train tickets saving a whopping €0.80 cents than paying €2,10 EACH way. I could have been having cocktails and curry at this cute Indian restaurant located 10 minutes away. I could have bought contact lenses out of a vending machine at Tegal Airport. I could have eaten less German chocolate. And come to find out, I do live across the street from a brothel - Club Sternchen. It's usually poppin on Friday and Saturday nights when the married men can get out of the house.

But most importantly, I've realized that I have had an out-of-this-world European traveling experience. The other reason why I wanted to study abroad was my deep desire to "feel" other places in this world. I had the opportunity to see a full moon in Paris; kicked acorns through a Germanic forest; climbed hills in Prague; witnessed the leaves changing colors in Amsterdam; sailed the Mediterranean; ate waffles in Belgium; star-gazed off my balcony in Berlin; and finally changed my Facebook status to: London is in London.

My odyssey isn't over yet; I'm headed to Köln on Saturday to reconnect with my German friends for ten days. I'll be riding in a car for four hours with a complete stranger that I met online. Don't fret, this is the European way.
Life's good.

Eight Hours in Paris

Random adventure found my footsteps during an eight-hour layover in Paris. I was unable to get a closely connected train back to Berlin on Sunday, so I spent the entire day in Paris instead. Darn?

I decided to explore the area near Gare de l'Est train station, when my flawless intuition guided me to Château d'Eau or in bilingual words: African town. It dawned on me that I was in A-town when black men scared me (so I grabbed my purse) with lines like "Would you like to get your hair braided, weaved, styled or how about your nails done in my shop around the corner?" Keep in mind that their hussle was in French. My incompetence of the language made me start walking even faster. A Nigerian man finally convinced me that I wasn't being harassed and COMMITTED (can you believe that?) to showing me the city for the day. Our encounter turned into a free lunch and coffee, swap of life stories, and I learned the ins-and-outs of the barber trade. He taught me how to hussle in Paris. There's not many techniques when you're black. Women think you're trying to harass them and men think you're trying to rob them. We stood next to the Parisian prostitutes (who were hussy-ing, too) at Strasbourg Saint Denis and my Nigerian friend talked to almost every nappy-headed black person who walked by asking if they needed salon service. Business was slow that day. Oh yeah, the prostitutes in Paris don't actually look like whores. They are dressed like normal deviant women. Their services are ridiculously frugal at 50 Euros for one session. I thought hoes were worth more than a penny.

The A-town husslers were on almost every block. Beauty salons and most French stores are supposed to be closed on Sundays. But this wasn't exactly the case. We visited almost every single African hair salon that had its door barely cracked with Yaky scraps and hair-sewing thread spilling out to the street. There was absolutely no disguise from the law that people were inside booming to level 23 American rap music, and clients coming in and out like a brothel. I didn't get it. I sat in on a few weavings and was thankful to be an African-American. In America, we seem to have more hair grease and do-rag options. All I recognized was Pink Oil Moisterizer and some poorly executed hair styles. But, I was ecstatic to see those nappy-headed men with tangled balls of hair on their cheeks to come in for a taper fade and trim. One man actually became more attractive when his village hair with flying dandruff was gone. I swear I had an extremely interesting day! I re-experienced Paris from a completely different set of eyes. I know where most of the best African spots and the Arabic cheap Internet-Taxiphone cafes are, too.

For tradition's sake, I went to Saint Michel to have a Greek gyro picnic on the Seine river again. The Seine and Paris are so beautiful by night. Eight hours in Paris wasn't so bad after all.

I'm on the train back to Berlin now...nine and a half more hours to go.