dear mr. mcalpin

What's the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish funeral?

-the last joke my grandfather told my mom

One less drunk.

It's hard to say that I was *close* to my grandfather. When I was little I spent a lot of time at his and my grandmother's house, the one my mother had grown up in, but he was usually in his room watching television, eating Fig Newtons. He wasn't one to play with the kids in the same way my grandma would. But he was there, always, whether it be at home or a school play or on a family vacation.

One time we'd gone to Fire Island with my aunt Linda and uncle Jean-Jacques. I'd been basking in the glory of having introduced myself to a group of older kids on a peddle boat. They were nice, cool, fun. But then I got bit by a crab. I stumbled out of the water, fighting back tears, and was relieved when I saw Grandpa in the distance. I waved to him for help. He waved hello and then laid back to sunbathe. My grandmother wasn't thrilled with that response when she found me crying. He hadn't realized, of course.

He was the one that took me and grandmother to church all those times. I could often convince him to take us to the diner after, or if I'd spent the rest of the morning and afternoon with them, out for ice cream. On that note, summer Fridays were a surefire way to get a trip to Carvel because they had the vintage car show in the parking lot, which my grandfather loved.

While he still had his boat in the Long Island Sound, he'd pick me up early morning (I'd better have been ready!), grab deli sandwiches and sodas, and take me out fishing. My grandmother only occasionally joined. It was the kind of quiet activity you might picture a grandfather doing with his grandson, but I was the eldest and my brother was too young. It only made me feel more special.

I brought him straws whenever I could. He collected and chewed them, a habit he'd picked up after he insisted they stop smoking before my birth. Occasionally, I'd go see what he was tinkering with in the garage. That garage filled with tools and duct tape and a single poster of Lunch Atop a Skyscraper. If my grandfather was in a good mood, he'd entertain my questions about why they were up there and if he knew them and what it was like to grow up in New York City. He'd been born there in 1928.

During the wintertime, he and my grandmother would escape to Florida. I remember how exciting a day it was when they came back; especially when my sister was a baby and we weren't sure if she'd remember them. She always did.

Years later, when my aunt MaryAnn was in labor with my first cousin, he took me down to the cafeteria for a snack. We'd been at the hospital for hours. I was 13 years old. I asked him what could be taking so long. Without flinching, he replied that my petite aunt's hips needed to widen so she could push the baby out. It was a lite-medical explanation, for sure, but looking back I admire him for being so candid. I had friends at the time who'd be embarrassed to ask their moms such things, let alone their grandfathers.

My grandfather loved old music. He'd listen at home and in the car and even sing out loud sometimes. His lyrical memory was entertaining (even if his voice wasn't). He had an impressively dry sense of humor, and no matter how much he would repeat a joke, the seriousness of delivery managed to keep it funny. He wore suspenders. He carried a camera, and a hankerchief, everywhere.

He softened with age. I recall calling him to wish him a happy 84th birthday—my uncle Walter had reminded me. He'd had a very good day and, when I mentioned I was strolling through Chelsea to meet a friend, he started talking about how different his childhood neighborhood had become. I remember being so touched by our collective family memory. He closed by telling me how proud he was of me and thanking me for calling. I'd made my grandfather's day.

He moved in with my parents while I was abroad in grad school. Though a lot to handle, it was a cherished opportunity for my mom to get to know her father in a different capacity than she ever had before. I, too, learned unexpected snippets on visits. And my gosh was he was funny! One time, I was critiquing my mom's new haircut: "It makes your head look like Frankenstein's", I said (neither tactful nor kind). "What can I say, I have a square head. Look where I came from," she retorted, pointing at my grandfather. He'd been sitting on the couch, assumedly not paying attention to our superfluous conversation... and yet at that moment he slowly stood up, put his arms straight out in front of him, and groaned, just like Frankenstein. My mom and I broke out into laughter.

Last fall, I visited him at a veteran rehab facility in Upstate New York. Though his memory was foggy, he was still sharp—telling jokes and stories, taking photos, commenting on the black and white film they were screening. I'm eternally grateful for all that time.

My grandpa was hardly perfect, but he adored my grandmother, helped my parents purchase their first house, and, if the number of men and women from AA who attended his wake is any indication, touched more lives than we'll ever know. He passed away at home at the age of 89 on May 30th after an especially tough few weeks in Hospice. May he rest in peace.

trying to harvest

"But that's just the thing," I told him, "you don't exist in a vacuum." And from the bottom of my heart I hope the sentiment resonated.

You may have heard "people come into your life for a reason"? Well, I'd argue that's too romantic a notion. Perhaps we're simply fortunate to be able to connect at all; to cross paths in this life and in this universe; to grow through our encounters with others; to know that we can learn from each other, and in the space between two flawed human beings, we can even find support, understanding, hope, maybe love. It's a powerful privilege and responsibility, which makes disregard so hurtful.

My roommate hosted a viewing party for 13th—a chillingly powerful documentary by Ava DuVernay—a few weeks ago. The premise was based at the cross-section of slavery, our criminal justice system, and the evolving yet all the while inaccurate and negative characterization of African Americans... mostly by white men in power, and then reiterated by everyone else. Much of the film is disturbing in its familiar truth; and it is so well done. I highly recommend you seek out 13th on Netflix if you haven't already.

As you may be able to infer, I was heartbroken by the presidential election results. All those hateful comments and policies had been embraced, or worse yet, overlooked; and so much of who I am and what I believe in felt under attack. How, after all this time and progress, did we still live in a world of bigotry, racism, sexism, and bullying? And yet we do. Inequality and resentment are rampant. It's probably awfully appealing to find comfort in prejudice. There's just something about having someone else, the Other to blame.

So, what now? Dave Chapelle encouraged us to give him a chance, John Oliver reminded us that accepting our democratic process should not equate to normalizing his behavior, but what I find to be the most encouraging advice is to counteract with more not less support for each another—listen; stay engaged; give more kindness, empathy, time/money to places like Planned Parenthood, the Center for Reproductive Rights and the International Women's Health Coalition; the NRDC; the International Refugee Assistance Project and IRC; the NAACP, Southern Poverty Law Center, and ACLU; The Trevor Project; MALDEF and American Friends Service Committee; the Anti-Defamation League, Facing History and Ourselves. (More to add? Please comments below.)

It has been a lovely fall season (in New York especially—see above!), and Thanksgiving is coming up quickly, and I'm blogging from Europe where I'll soon be visiting my brother and reconnecting with friends. Let us please take stock of our blessings now and exercise our individual agency to promote good in this world through thought and spoken word and movement. It is as much our privilege as it is our responsibility. As far as I can tell, we need each other more than ever before.

a new york holiday

{The Rad Trads}

“And now let us believe in a long year that is given to us, new, untouched, full of things that have never been, full of work that has never been done, full of tasks, claims, and demands; and let us see that we learn to take it without letting fall too much of what it has to bestow upon those who demand of it necessary, serious, and great things.” --Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters of Rainer Maria Rilke, 1892-1910

california, here I come

Before my grandma left to visit my aunt in Belgium, she told me she'd wanted to live in Los Angeles. There was so much more space and sunshine than in Queens, she said; flowers and produce, too. She savored those 9 months helping her aunt. Decades later, my mom took me to see her cousins. It wasn't her first time (and apparently not my own either--we'd visited while she was pregnant) but I remember it specifically because I brought Elmo with me... and promptly forgot him on the shuttle bus. I was devastated as you can imagine. And though watching "Seepy Booty" did help, it took me another 18 years to get the nerve to go back myself.

{Leslie & I's Airbnb - Biarritz, France} 

Now, when my flight lands this afternoon, I'm returning to live. I'll first enjoy the weekend with K and her husband. Next, I'll visit my office for the first time, and see my apartment, and meet my roommate. My mom will arrive a few days later. We'll pick up my car and bedroom furniture together, as well as celebrate the Fourth. By then I should feel like a Los Angeles resident, right? Words cannot express how anxious and eager to make myself at home--mostly because this New Yorker is hoping for that je ne sais quoi... eek! Be in touch as soon as I'm barely somewhat reasonably settled :) see you on Instagram in the mean time.

la pause new-yorkaise

Can I complain for just a minute, please? Because all the "...before you leave again"s are becoming unbearable. C'est trop.

If only they knew how much I wish I'd been able to settle; to have stayed with comfort and ease in a familiar setting, enjoying the countless benefits of having family and friends consistently close by; to have appreciated New York for everything it is and isn't, and to not have longed for something different. I have no desire to be a nomad nor gypsy, despite how far my "globetrotting tendencies" have taken me. I'm simply working towards a destination that includes roots and routine alongside great love and adventure. Or at least trying to. And so few parts of the journey have been simple at all, and more often than not, the experience is isolating, but I do think I'm getting closer to contentment. I truly want that. And I hope with all my heart that the life I've created is leading me there.

So, please, don't playfully criticize the many mailing addresses. It's because I've tired of missing you that I need your support more than ever. You'll always have mine, you know. Besides, if it matters, I've never not wished you could've been there, too.

nos étoiles contraires

"I have a 30," my mom replied, "and a 45, and a 10. The first two are creams, the 10 is an oil, if you want it." "And I have a 30 spray" added Diane. We'd gotten to the beach early, and there was still a chill in the air; endless options for sun protection, too.

{Lake Tahoe, California}

That was this past Saturday, less than two days after I "officially" moved back to the United States.

Among other things, I'm going to have to get re-used to the plethora of choices in this country of mine. There are just so many--sunscreens, coffee orders, high fructose corn syrups, guns. We so closely align personal freedoms with the ability to independently choose what we take care of, and how we harm. It's quite different from particular French ideologies. This is not to say, of course, that the French don't fight their own battles with obesity, legislation, and the market economy... but differently, nonetheless.

Then there are other choices, at least for those of us who enjoy access to them. By mere chance, I've been lucky in that I was born in a country built on egalitarian ideals to a family that provided me with opportunities to develop my ideas about its imperfect realities. I've been lucky, too, to have had experiences to refine such criticisms abroad. They've made me want to come back, to do something about it, however small my individual prowess; and I can because forward-thinking ingenuity and innovation is rewarded here; encouraged even, with the support of those who I'm fortunate to have love me. That said, it makes reintegrating myself into Amurica all the more challenging. Reverse culture shock is such a thing. So this is where choosing how we perceive and react to that which we cannot control comes in, I suppose? I do hope I'm able to choose as wisely and softly as humanly possible.

The decisions that we so often define our lives by can be overwhelming. In my case, they've also been stressful as I'm almost always concerning myself with the right and wrong, better and best. Even still, I'm finding that these concerns were never meant to be part of the equation. Maybe what matters most is that we choose at all, to keep cultivating our selves and potential. Albeit thoughtfully.

By the way, I read a book on the beach: The [much acclaimed] Fault in Our Stars. It was kind of perfect reading; John Green's easy writing style with heavy subject matter that allowed me to make the most of my transition-amplified emotional tendencies. Not to mention it spoke to certain choices that are and have been close to my heart. "You don't get to choose if you get hurt in this world, old man, but you do have some say in who hurts you." (Side note: I recently shared my thoughts on marriage on my friend's rooftop, how the trick is to keep choosing the one you love. I simultaneously realized how good of a friend he is to entertain my unmarried opinions). And thus, ideas were further sparked about what else we have the privilege in choosing. I ended up with SPF 30.

le mois de mai

This just in: I'm very happily overwhelmed in the midst of my hectic schedule. The mariage is next. My flight leaves New York at 6am tomorrow morning. I'll have waterproof mascara in tow. In the mean time, I've unpacked half of my Parisian apartment, coordinated outfits for their wedding events, made reservations for my parents' visit, and chatted with potential next city roommates.

Before any of it though, I spent one responsibility-less day in Paris. I met Amy for coffee, went to a museum with Lorelei, and stopped by "Rachael's bar" for a drink. I thought about how grateful I am to have lived this unsustainable experience in La Ville-Lumière. Two days following, I awoke at home to blue skies (see above) and a holiday. It's been crazy. Crazy, and wonderful, too.

P.S. So, so sorry for having accidentally deleted your comments from my blog posts of the past two months. Please know I've read and still appreciate every single one.

on letting go

A little more than four years ago, I wrote the following email to a friend. I'd just gotten back from a visit I hadn't enjoyed nearly as much as I should have. I wanted to try explain to her why that was, hoping she'd forgive me for not having at all been at my best.

It's like a dull agony.

artsy ambitions

Roughly a month ago, Zócalo posed this question in Los Angeles: Do the arts make us better people? My own thoughts remained provoked by it as I flew farther away from the event itself. Mostly because I've always considered myself artistic; to the point that I was sure I'd pursue a career in design. Then I changed course. And yet, I don't think it's a coincidence that collecting art is at the top of my "oh, now I've made it" checklist, nor that I'm committed to finding a socially-conscious job with ample creative freedom.

On my last full day at home, Debra and I went out to lunch in Tarrytown. We soup and salad-ed at Sweet Grass Grill, picked up coffees to go from Coffee Lab Roasters, and wandered throughout the many galleries in town. It was my kind of perfect afternoon.

A couple sunny afternoons later, back in Paris, I met Sasha for lunch at the new Haï Kaï. I felt like we were dining in the cafeteria of a contemporary art museum. The space felt that cool, and cold. The food was anything-but-cheap and so absolutely beautiful.

As I'm finding in my research, a qualification for any nouvelle cuisine is the artistry with which the chefs create and present their dishes. I appreciate being able to very occasionally enjoy them. When it comes to visual feasts though, I still prefer galleries, street art, and museums; a much more financially-sound habit. Oh, I've decided to start sketching and collaging again, too... literally drawing inspiration from the works of famous photomontage artists on display nearby. We'll see if I become better. Bon week-end !

sunday supper

It's only Saturday, I know... but Leslie arrives from New York on this lovely March 1st! Yippee, and, already? I've been diligently working on my thesis so as to fully enjoy these next few days hosting. On the agenda: Sunday brunch at Cafe Madam, an afternoon along the canal, three days in Basque country (!), an evening at L'Institut Finlandais, an exhibition (or ten), and wine at Verjus, etc.

Now back to this whole "Sunday supper" thing; the Northern Spy occasion at which I last saw Leslie (and Anna, and Elaine). What a comforting treat that was. In between bites of mixed greens, lamb shepards pie, and chocolate panna cotta, we laughed through trials and tribulations of the twenty-something adventure. There wasn't a strand of doubt nor worry in my head as I took the train home.

Once safe and sound in my bed, I spent a few minutes reading Looking for Alaska. Debra had lent it to me. It was my first John Green book. And though I didn't absolutely love the story as she had, I was impressed with the ending; an essay by the protagonist on religion, faith, "the Great Perhaps." My favorite line: "We need never be hopeless because we can never be irreperably broken."

He's a wise one, that John Green (if Pinterest is any indication). This morning, I looked up more quotes from his other works and especially appreciated this Paper Towns one: "What a treacherous thing to believe that a person is more than a person." As well as: "What is the point of being alive if you don't at least try to do something remarkable?" from An Abundance of Katherines. So good. Alright. Well, I suppose that's enough deep thought for one day :) I'm off to meet my darling friend who's visiting me again.

under repair

Forgoing frugality, I treated myself to a cab ride from Gare du Nord yesterday. I typed in the code to my apartment building without thought, and 14 hours after saying goodbye to my parents at New York's JFK airport, entered my petit flat for the first time in two months. That is, once I'd walked up six flights of stairs with my carry-on luggage. Our rickety elevator is finally being repaired! Yay. It took me another three trips to lighten my suitcase enough to drag it up, too. Thank you for the warm welcome back, Paris.

The absurdity of my arrival made me laugh out loud. Since then, I've unpacked, cleaned, and dined nearby with the Rachael. It feels weird to be back; a good weird. Everything is so distantly familiar. (I phrased it in my head that way as I grocery-shopped this morn). Even still, as I readjust to time and Frenchness this weekend, I've also made plans to belatedly celebrate 'Galentine's Day'.

So, Happy Valentine's Day to you! I hope you delight in wine and chocolate [and pizza] with someone(s) you care about tonight.

Though I'll spend mine with Amy and Lorelei, my parents are probably technically my Valentines this year. They did thoughtfully send me off with perfume, chocolate kisses, these sneakers (in red), and the sweetest card. I basically miss them already. And now, to end on a not-so-sappy note, here are some charitable ways to spread the love today with UNICEF and the Case Foundation. À tout !

c'est normal

This time next week, I'll waking up in Paris. I can hardly believe it. These past two months have both dragged on and flown by. I've gotten used to "American" things that had startled me at first--the noise level, breadth of options, friendly customer service, and all-around enthusiasm. So soon I'm meant to settle back into my Franglish life while working on my nouvelle Americain thesis.

When we speak about culture, we usually refer to it as if it is inherent to both a people and a place. It's not. To put it simply: the cultures we know today have been created (imagined even) by repeated habits sprung from circumstances and resources; they've influenced norms we accept as Truth. Throughout my studies, while adapting to more than one set, I've questioned them as well.

I'm excited to critically dissect American identity from abroad. It might even be the most efficient way to do so--from the outside looking in, with an otherwise innate understanding. I hope to uncover something of value that lends itself to the complexities of how we define ourselves in a swiftly globalizing world. (Such a nerd). Only then will I graduate, move, and settle into stability.

Sometime this year, life will become significantly more normal. And yet, I know the very concept of "normality" is manufactured, too. My least favorite French phrase is: c'est normal. I've heard it said sarcastically, thereby eliciting a condescending judgement. But normal as defined by Ellen Goodman, for instance: "getting dressed in clothes that you buy for work and driving through traffic in a car that you are still paying for - in order to get to the job you need to pay for the clothes and the car, and the house you leave vacant all day so you can afford to live in it," isn't all that appealing. So I'll create my normal; one of adventure, comfort, frugality, and satisfaction. For the first time in a long time, whether by naivety or maturity, I believe it's not only possible, but necessary.

le mexique

Tell someone you're going to Mexico, and s/he'll probably hear you're vacationing with sand and sun soon. Most south-of-the-border trips are that simple. This one's different special though. My parents and I are visiting my dad's hometown; my dad's small, rural hometown tucked beside the Sierra de Mazamitía in the Mexican state of Jalisco. I haven't been there in 15 years.

We're escaping a snowy New York to spend a week at my grandparents' house. I distinctly remember milking cows with my dad and abuelo upon waking, retrieving fresh eggs from the coop, helping my grandmother make tortillas, and playing along the canal with my cousins. I'm excited to (again) experience the festive reunion in San Francisco. Wish me luck with, por favor! Living in Paris hasn't exactly helped my Spanish... at all :). See you in February with photos of our beach-less Mexican getaway.

defined by food

A master's thesis is a fascinating beast. I've quickly learned just how much it demands commitment, passion, and tireless effort. As such, my preferred mental break--besides writing an email to friends in Paris or crossing paths with another in New York--is magazines, those same ones I thought I'd wanted to work for just a few years ago. They're mostly light, inspiring reads. There is one common thread that's been bothering me in particular though: weight loss stories that begin with a women raised on food as love.

Food as love is not "the problem." Food is how we nourish ourselves and each other, share traditional memories, create celebratory moments together. Nothing about the affectionate nature of a meal prepared and enjoyed among others is problematic. Then again, I'm referring to a degree of appreciation for the experience that is often associate with the French; a secret cultural formula to being thin on wine, bread, cheese, and cream. What we may not realize is that the "secret" is literally taught, in the home and classroom.

At the molecular level, yes, food is fuel. But the human touch adds love, and we've been cultivating it into cuisines around the world for centuries. While in the Jura, I recall Claire telling us about French researchers that led a group of overweight men and women through a weight loss program focused, not on extreme exercise nor culinary deprivation, but a conscious respect for food itself. They learned how to taste. And in doing so, they also lost a healthy amount of weight and were able to keep it off.

We're privileged to be able to choose what we eat, where, and how. From most disciplines, academics have proven that “what kind of food one eats and how – organic, healthy, local, processed, vegan, or ethnic – is a serious cultural and political issue with vital consequences for one’s cultural lifestyle and identity,” (Hirose and Pih 1483). That's why I'm so curious to look at how 'global cities' define local cuisine and who participates in the process. It's also why I loved Saturday night's dinner with my brother. Before he went back to Arizona, we dined on delectable French dishes (a shared petit plateau from the oyster bar, bowl of chestnut soup, and lamb shank with carrots and potatoes), wine, and espresso at a restaurant with his namesake. We had such a good time. I told him all about my thesis research; he shared his judgement of the restaurant... :) he's become especially opinionated since working at Fortina's. He spoke about his spring semester schedule and hopes for the future, too. What if food is, and should always be, love?

bk twenty fourteen

Remember when it was New Year's Eve and I told you I'd "see you tomorrow"? I meant to check in with snapshots of low-key festivities, and then reflect on my Mom's birthday. Clearly nothing went as planned. Neither did the way I spent December 31st. But, I'm here now and woke up in an extra good mood and loved how my least favorite holiday's celebration turned out... so, yay.

Earlier that day, I sat down for lunch with my family: Italian wedding soup. According to my mom, it inspires good luck in the New Year. Cooked greens are said to resemble folded money and pork symbolizes progress and prosperity. With that said, there's not an ounce of Italian in our blood, so who knows whether or not we're accurate. Here's to hoping the placebo effect proves true anyway.

Later that evening, Debra and I drove into Brooklyn. First, I sipped wine as she and her friends got ready to go to a nearby party. Then I strolled over to Anna's with champagne and Buzzword in tow. Her, Leslie, and I watched midnight fireworks from the roof.

I'd hardly had expectations for kicking off 2014, yet it was perfect. Good food (homemade pizza!), good wine, great friends.

So much so, that I woke up extra-inspired on January 1st. Not in the "ohmygoshthisisgoingtobemybestyearever" kind of way, but in a significantly more realistic acknowledgement of lasting love and good fortune. I'm really enjoying being home right now, and I'm excited to delve further into thesis research, and I'm looking forward to discovering what else 2014 will contribute to my story.

The optimism spilled over into brunch at Kiwiana Restaurant--at which point I ordered lobster eggs benedict. Apparently having lobster on New Year's Day is "bad luck" because their backward movement signifies setbacks. I only recently found this one out. Let's hope it doesn't end up to be true for any of us this year :).