Embrace the struggle

Aud Land Struggle

2012-01-12T12:48:00.000-05:00

This is a taxidermy coyote in a rain slicker. Like you do.

So, for some reason blogger wouldn't let me post this last week, because it's seen the title of this blog and decided to contribute to my continuing pain and sorrow. Like blogging platforms do. But enough about that, happy 2012, people! Assuming the Mayan calender is wrong (I mean, can we really trust people who could figure out about chocolate but NOT about adding sugar? That's like inventing paper and then being like, this will be perfect for clothing!) I think this is going to be a great (strugglesome) year and that the world will not (possibly) be ending. Why, you ask? Well, honestly, at lot of that has to do with the fact that I've gotten really into some new TV shows and looking forward to them is pretty much the only thing that keeps me going. I kid. Do I? Yes (no).

But most of it has to do with my new mantra, which I straight up stole from my friend Kate (thanks Kate!). It's, "Let things go, or you will be dragged". It's simple, it's effective, and I have pretty much a 1% chance of keeping it. I am just not a person who can let things go. For example, last year around this time I was having a conversation with someone and I brought up Fredrick Jackson Turner's Frontier Thesis from the 1893 Chicago Worlds Fair (like you do, over drinks, you know) and he (the person, not Turner) was like, yeah, but that was over 200 years ago. And I was like, I feel strongly that that is incorrect, but I didn't say anything, I just internally cringed. AND I'M STILL CRINGING. Somewhere that knowledge lives inside of me, and if I might be perfectly candid, from that point on I've always thought less of that person (again, the guy, not Turner). These things LIVE inside of me, somewhere, grating against my nerves like a spoon playing a washboard in a hillbillie band. I am, on many levels, the Vendetta Kid.

And obviously this is not a particularly healthy way to live your life. In theory I truly believe that if you just breathe and give in to the universe, good things will happen. I've just never actually be able to do that. Instead I write bible-length emails about the 1893 Worlds Fair which, and this is very VERY important, NEVER GET SENT. It is the only way I've managed to avoid being tarred and feathered by angry villagers. So when I have a strugglesome vendetta I just spew all of that out into a notebook or an email or a handy google document and then there we go. Oh, don't mistake me, I still have black-out moments of mindless rage and fury over an insult I received a good 10 years ago, but it's lessened, somehow, by the knowledge that somewhere out there is a 14 year old's notebook with a well crafted scathing response to "Dude, your sister has more underarm hair then I do" (I was 14! And I wasn't aloud to shave yet! God, what a JERK!).

Still. Someday, when future generations find said notebooks and google docs, no doubt they will publish them like the brilliant pieces of personal petty grievances they are. In which case, Cosi salad guy who put blue cheese on my Greek salad instead of feta because you want to make me CRY, you will finally get what's coming to you.

Yeah. I'm totally going to get dragged, aren't I. 2012. Already a great year.

Fall Into Struggle

2011-10-28T17:00:00.000-04:00

You know how life can get away with you? My life has totally gotten away from me. I thought I was cool and keeping things together and then I realized that I haven't posted on this blog since August. AUGUST. Holy hell. August. I don't even remember August. I can barely remember August Osage County and I saw that, like, two weeks ago. What the hell happened to me?

Well, I'll tell you. I went on Birthright (that's a trip to Israel, for all my goyim in the audience). Then I came back, moved out of my parents house into my own apartment, started a new job and started directing a play. All within one week. And since then it's pretty much been "go-go-go" that gets briefly interrupted by breaks for sleeping and drinking water (i.e. booze).So the struggle, oh, it continues, does it ever continue. A highlight reel? You got it. With photos that have nothing to do with anything but are still hilarious? But of course!

Struggles have I known, Autumn Edition:

1. I almost got arrested by airport security in Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv, upon departure back to the mess that is JFK because I had organic date honey in my bag and apparently there is a thin line between condiments you were bullied into buying on a kibbutz (Pushy Israelis? No! Say it ain't so!) and bombs. I politely explained to the nice (horrible) woman at airport security that if I was a terrorist, wouldn't it make more sense for me to be bringing things INTO Israel rather then sneaking them out? She was not amused.

2. I moved into my new apartment and had an incident with my smoke alarm, and by this I mean that it just went off one day and would not stop beeping. Literally WOULD NOT STOP. At 10pm. On a Sunday. So then when I tried to fix the central alarm box in the common hallway, I locked myself OUT of my still-beeping apartment, in my Pajamas. I couldn't go to my parents house to get my spare key because not only was it raining, but I wasn't wearing shoes. Or appropriate undergarments. So I had to call my father to come and help me out. That's right. I called my daddy. Struggle.

3. The day before my Fringe Show opened, my sound designer quit. And despite the vodoo dolls and fist waves at the sky, I still had to actually figure out a solution and run the damn sound myself. Just another name to add to my death-list book.

4. I went to the theater and a complete stranger told me to punch my new boss in the dick. That one was pretty funny, actually.

5. My hair still doesn't know what it wants to be when it grows up.

So, sorry for the delay, anyone who might be reading this, but I promise, I'm back, and struggling more then ever. But hey, you probably called that, right?

A Struggle Is Worth a Thousand Words: San Juan 2011 Edition

2011-08-17T17:48:00.000-04:00

I don't even know what to say about Puerto Rico anymore, I really don't. You've heard about all the crazy there is to hear, right? Hahaa, oh, silly reader, of course you haven't, such a thing is foolish. There is ALWAYS more crazy in the Caribbean. If they can't find it locally, they import it.

A few years ago when we visited San Juan we were informed, upon arrival, that all of the water was off. As in, the water company, in what is apparently a rotine move, will periodically shut off water in various parts of the city to repair/maintain the pipes. So if you happen to visit during such times, don't worry, relax, have some rum, but don't expect to be able to shower, use the bathroom, or get some water. That's fine, though, really, I mean, who needs it?

I thought that was the worst trip ever. And really, it was. But this time when we went to Puerto Rico for your favorite Struggle's birthday, the electric company had surged our home and left us with no power. Okay, yes, we got it back eventually, but not before a week of anxiety, many broken bulbs, a fridge full of spoiled food and a broken microwave and dryer. Oh, and HOURS on the phone being passed between people who don't know what they are talking about. And if you think that's bad in English, you might want to try it in Spanish. Just saying. Sigh. I still had fun, though. It was probably the rum. And of course, I saw some strugglesome things. And I like to think that the universe works hard to make my birthday a complete struggle every year just because it can. I appreciate it, even, I think it's nice. At least is something special, right?

For your viewing pleasure, struggle in San Juan 2011, a photo display:

There's a lot to think about here. Plantain soup in a bag. Hedgehogs as spokespeople for soda. Pulpo. Prado. Struggle. I'll leave you to it.

Struggle has just one thing to say

2011-07-01T01:08:00.000-04:00

My foot is 100% better. All clear. So today, TODAY, I win, struggle. I beat you. Enjoy the sweet taste of defeat, my friend. you've earned it. And besides, I'm totally failing again tomorrow. Maybe I will break the other foot....dream big, baby.

Struggle Waits It Out

2011-06-14T23:55:00.000-04:00

I am not great at being patient. It is not one of my many virtues. Don't get me wrong, I'm a super virtuous person, I got em all, charity, simplicity, big hair, sturdy extremities....but patience, no, that's not really my bag, baby. Which is really a problem when you have broken a part of your body and you are waiting for it to heal. Because you kind of need patience while the bone cells regenerate and knit themselves back together. And yelling at your foot to "Heal faster, you jag!" doesn't actually work as well as one might think it would. So I present to you for your reading pleasure and deep edification my tips and tricks for fast foot healing. At the very least, they can save you. It may be too late for me, honestly, I'm thinking about just scrapping the thing and putting a wheel there.

1. Double up on your calcium. Hell, triple up on your calcium! Shotgun milk, slurp down yogurt, or do what I do, and chew on Calcium supplements the size of horse tranquilizers. It has the added benefit of being extremely attractive to members of the opposite sex.

2. Use your crutches as weapons, indicators, cat prods, make things fun for yourself! The nice people at the hospital gave a physically unbalanced person long pointy metal sticks. Clearly they want you to USE them.

3. Febreze your walking boot. I don't care what time of year it is or if you think you among all the people on earth are immune to sweating. People in your life will thank you.

4. Do not say "my boot is so smelly!" and then force friends and loved ones to smell it. Trust me, they will not appreciate being a part of your healing process in this way.

5. Do indulge in as much Law and Order as possible. This is just a general life/sick/bored/snow day/heat wave day rule. Nothing makes you feel as good as watching Ice T fight crime.

6. Do offer to help around the house, and then pathetically be unable to do so. This provides a constant reminder to others that you are in pain and special and need their constant devotion and care. Try whimpering gently as you fold laundry or attempt to wash a dish. People love a good whimper.

7. Do make up interesting stories about your injury. I put my foot on the ground and it broke? So what, it's boring. I heroically rescued a baby tiger from poachers, only to have it turn on me? I'm a rock star. Other alternatives include knife fight, hooking, and falling meteor. And no, you can't use those. They are mine.

8. Do not drink and hop.

9.When you drink and hop, make sure no one is around to see how foolish you look.

10. When you finally get off of the crutches and out of the boot, don't be an idiot and break your foot again.

Just to be clear, that last one was mostly a warning from me to me. Come on, little foot, keep it together, don't fall apart on me again!

Struggle Goes Down For The Count

2011-05-17T12:37:00.000-04:00

It seems that I am destined to hurt myself in really mundane and uninteresting ways. When I was 16 I broke my right foot literally tripping over a shoe. I've burned myself many times grazing up against too hot stoves and too scalding pans. On time, in Arizona, I walked right into a Saguaro cactus, and my mother spent the evening with a pair of tweezers and a flashlight picking spikes out of my head. Aren't family trips the best? But what I did yesterday might be the least intelligent way I've ever damaged my body. In my defense, however, do you really expect to fracture your foot by placing the thing on the ground? No? Well, apparently you need to START, folks, because yesterday I placed my poor left foot on the ground and broke it. Like you do. When you are a huge struggle.

Picture a stoplight, and a girl on a bike, wind in her hair, stains on her shirt, just trying to get to her offices to show some apartments. The girl, in accordance with the laws of Philadelphia and, you know, gravity, stops at the light, placing her mid-sized elegantly shod left foot on the street below. And it promptly crumples, pulling her body down with it. The girl feels a gentle snap. That's interesting, she thinks, and continues biking. She then shows several apartments to an older gentleman who comments that she may more may not be limping. Limping is for losers, the girl explains, and continues on her way. However, her foot seems to be swelling at an exponential rate, which doesn't seem all that normal, and when she shows it to mother, Mama Struggs says that thing is broken. Strugglemano says her foot looks FAT, which is a very Los Angeles statement and therefore can be ignored. Padre Struggle just laughs, which is way the girl asks her MOTHER, the only supportive person in the WORLD, to take her to the emergency room.

Once at the emergency room the girl is asked all sorts of questions like Does She Feel Safe At Home (yes), Does She Have An Eating Disorder (no), Is She Pregnant (given her complete lack of a love life, the girl just laughs at this one. The nurse is not amused) . X-rays are taken, a nice comforting lead blanket covering her reproductive organs to ensure that if she ever gets herself a love life she might actually be able to GET pregnant, and the break is, indeed, revealed. The girl is whisked to the orthopedist where after a brisk two hour wait she is fitted with a neat little black bootie, and told she has had a perfect break. What joy! thinks the girl, a pefect break! One does so love to achieve in all directions. She is then sent home with her black bootie, a pair of crutches, and assurances that this recovery will take about four weeks until she's back on the bike that first brought her to the hospital. In the mean time she can keep her appendage elevated, "listen to her foot" for when to start putting weight upon it, and be the fascinating spectical hopping around and sliding up and down the stairs that her family and cats will marvel upon. Oh, yes, and watch her foot turn interesting colors. If you think about it, it's really a gift!

Or a huge struggle. Any guesses as to how I'm thinking about it? And so, there you have the epic saga of how I totally broke my foot by putting on the ground. Watch out for that ground, people, it's a sly minx. When those jetpacks finally happen, I'm buying twelve. Of course, knowing me, I will probably be the first person to set themselves on fire with my jetpack. Wish me luck with my foot, Strugglenation, and with daytime television. I feel like I'm going to need it, on both counts.

Struggle is the Cruelest Month

2011-05-01T19:34:00.000-04:00

Struggledelphia is by all accounts a fantastic city. This is a fact, and anyone who wants to dispute it can come over here and FIGHT me. No, they can't, actually, please don't, I bruise like a peach, but the point is, I love this crazy strugglesome city, I think it's tops. I think it's amazing. It only has one tragic flaw, one horrible element, one bad apple spoiling the bunch. Is it our widespread obesity? No, of course not, that's crazy talk. Is it our complete lack of real public transportation? No,no, that's charming. No, it's the Wharton School of Business. And it's bringing us all down.

Let me explain something to you about business school students. They are, perhaps, the worst people with whom you may ever come into contact. Look, I don't know your life, you may be hanging out this dictators and child molesters and clowns all the time, and in that case, maybe it's time to make some better choices, but do what you must, I suppose. However, for the majority of us who actually like decent human beings, Wharton students may be as bad as it gets. Because there is no one as entitled, as argumentative, as straight up horrible as a Wharton student. And in April, they descend. They fall upon Philadelphia like Locusts, searching for apartments, evaluating West Philadelphia, generally acting like the worst possible versions of ourselves.Picture people who are more entitled then Prince William (Royal Wedding!), more aggressive then Margaret Thatcher (I'm on a roll with this British thing) and more unpleasant then, um, English cuisine. Then multiply them. Then picture them running all over the city, ruining our bars and restaurants with their stupid whining selves. It's enough to make you sick.

Look, I recognize that sometimes people need to go to business school. Maybe you aren't attractive, maybe you can't whittle worth a damn, maybe you have some sort of childhood trauma that makes you incapable of doing any other profession, again, I don't know. I just don't know. But what I do know is that if you by some chance find yourself being introduced to a Wharton student, you slap them, and you run in the other direction. To be fair, of course, my own father was at one time a Wharton student, as was my grandfather, but these nice gentleman are exceptions. The majority of them? Are just the worst.

Or at least that's what I thought until I went to a street fair on Saturday and was confronted with a collection of horrible human beings pushing, shoving, and leading their wretched little children about while screaming about the crowds. What is it about street fairs that makes otherwise normal people start acting like vicious hose beasts? I'm just trying to walk down the street here, people, you really don't need to make my life the most painful thing ever just because you prefer to stop and stare. Are you Wharton students by any chance? Yes, you are? How shocking. But at least I got to see this:

Wharton Students aside, totally worth it. Obviously.

The Feast of Unleavened Struggle

2011-04-20T18:28:00.000-04:00

It's that special time again! The time that non-Jews coo over large square crackers and Jews groan over the thought of a week without bread (I don't know how they do it in Asia, I really don't).That time we celebrate our last vacation in Egypt (it...didn't go well) and enthusiastically devour large quantities of disgusting fish. Incidentally, the woman at our favorite fish place in Redding Terminal Market charged us 4 dollars per fish head and frankly, we were robbed! Who the hell else is buying those fish heads? Passover must be the prime time for fish head price inflation, I swear. And as I celebrate this so delicious festival (I really do love gefilte fish. Honestly, being Jewish is like 75% liking weird fish and 25% everything else) I want to share with you a step by step guide to a strugglesome Seder, just in case you want to host your own. Because nothing says celebration like a holiday devoted to flat bread products and collective guilt!

Step 1. Buy the criminally expensive fish heads. (PS, the butcher gave us the lamb shank for free. Thanks, guy, like you were going to use it for ANYTHING).

Step 2. Invite over some strangers, anyone you want to torture with a long involved ceremony before a meal without rolls. Make sure they bring wine, this is important. Do NOT let them bring Manischewitz, unless you hate your mouth and WANT a vicious painful sweet wine induced headache. Hey, you might, I don't know your life!

Step 3. Rid your home of all bread products. I personally have never actually done this, but it is what you are supposed to do. Give them to people on all carb diets or toss them to the birds, whatever you like. We just hide ours and feel comfortable with this decision.

Step 4. Make a meal. This can include several things. Traditionally we make a lamb dish, something with potatoes, some vegetable, obviously Chicken Soup with Matzo balls, and some dessert that we all pretend is decent even though it's made with ground Matzo. Unless of course you have the excellent luck to be Sephardic, and then your meal is awesome, and we all hate you.

Step 5. Welcome your guests. Welcome the Prophet Elijah. Get everyone drunk, including Elijah. Trust me, drinking only improves the taste of cardboard crackers. I promise.

Step 6. Repeat the next night. Then spend the rest of the holiday gripping about Matzo and staring at bakery windows like it's pornography and you are a....man. What? Some stereotypes are true.

Happy Passover, everyone. And for those of you who celebrate Easter, you enjoy that too. I see you rabbits who lay eggs and rising from the dead and I RAISE you parting of the Red Sea and manna in the desert. What's your next move? Marshmellow birds? Weak.

Struggle Gets Dishy: Just Ducky

2011-03-23T16:52:00.001-04:00

Every once in a while I get the urge for new foods. I mean, like, entirely new, I want a new bird or a new animal or a new vegetable or something. Not just something I haven't eaten in a while or tried before and I certainly don't intend to eat bugs and pretend that's awesome or what have you, but an amazing new type of food. Like a new thing that isn't chicken but works like chicken. That would be amazing.

Of course, I have yet to find such a thing, and given that I'm not taking any deep space journeys any time soon (though not for lack of trying...stupid NASA), I sometimes have to fool myself with foods, I hide them or wont buy them for a long period of time to try to trick my palette into forgetting about them so that when I encounter them again I can almost believe that this is true novelty. I've read about how cats normalize themselves to toys and then lose interest, only to rediscover them with the joy of a new exploration, but I had to stop reading about it, because when you get to the point in the day with you envy your cats it's time to take a long look in the mirror and maybe pour yourself a drink.

This normalizing thing can backfire, though. Because sometimes you re-encounter a food, say, cherries, and then all you want to do for like two weeks straight is shotgun cherries and you even consider a move to Wisconsin because wouldn't that just make perfect sense? This is another point in time when you might want to take a shot of something bracing and shake it off. Just saying. So when Ben and I made duck a few weeks ago, it kind of got me going, and now all I want to do is eat duck. So as it turns out my last duck post shall be one in a series of three. Welcome to the second of three tales of marine ornithological adventures. Get excited.

Pasta with Duck and Asparagus and white wine:

2 duck breasts

1 pound of asparagus, ends cut off, cut into 2 inch pieces on a bias

2 shallots, sliced

3 cloves of garlic, minced

1 cup of white wine

olive oil

salt, pepper

Parsley

Water

As much pasta as you and your family, guests or pets care to consume.

I'm going to include a lot more photos then usual because A. I like photos and B. I have the photos and C. this is a visually lovely meal, so you deserve to see it frame by frame.

The issue that I have with duck, in fact, one a lot of people have with duck, is how fatty it is. Duck, especially duck breast, is basically a fatty no friends, which is excellent if you are an aquatic bird who lives in chilly waters and wants to stay alive and execute your biological imperative, but less useful if you are a human being who doesn't want to consume huge amounts of duck fat. And it is, of course, delicious, most things that are horrible for you are. When I was in London last year for New Years, Andrew and I (hi, Andrew!) had a discussion then went like this: Duck Fat? Love it! But my god, we will be the fattest people ever, and we will die alone. Can we take that risk? Well, maybe just this once.....

Or twice. Or 20 odd times. It's fantastic, but it's not for every day. So this recipe, we will cut off all the duck fat and keep it in reserve:

And this would be a good time to boil it in a small saucepan with a little bit of water and then cool it to congeal. And that will look like this:

This does not look magically delicious. Don't worry, just cover it up and put it in the refrigerator. We will deal with it on another occasion. Fill up a large pot with water and make sure to salt the water generously. Cover the pot and set your burner to medium-high. This will be for the pasta, so make sure to time things out so your pasta is ready when your sauce is.

Now take you duck, which should look something like this:

Heat two tablespoons or around that neighborhood of corn oil or any vegetable oil in a large saucepan and brown the duck:

Then remove the duck from the pan and set aside. All together, you should be looking at something like this:

Large scary knife is not required, but it is recommend. When the duck has cooled you are going to chop it up and this will look something like this:

Meanwhile, throw the shallots and garlic into the saucepan over a medium heat:

Once the shallots have softened and are growing golden, throw in the asparagus, the wine, and some parsley. Cover and turn the heat down to low or medium low. Your water should be boiling by now, so cook the pasta according to the instructions on the package. I usually use this kind of pasta:

But you should do whatever your little heart desires. I like pasta al dente, and I consider it a great crime against humanity to over cook pasta, but everyone is different. And some people are just better. Once the pasta is done, season the sauce to taste and serve it over the pasta. I like to sprinke on some parsley at this point:

I also like cheese:

And that will look something like this:

And this is absolutely delicious.

But you don't have to take my word for it. Go make it yourself, you lazyface.

Fall Back, Struggle Forward

2011-03-16T16:48:00.000-04:00

I don't know about you guys, but I find this time change business extremely rough. Look, I know it's only an hour, and I've certainly faced worse and greater jumps in the time space continuum (you try flying from London to Dubai to Shanghai being chased all the while by an Icelandic volcano and you just tell me how you like that), but I feel like it's different when you travel. For one thing, you are traveling. so you can justify the lack of sleep and complete confusion as to what day it is by saying, well, everything is foreign here, and time is no exception. Time hasn't actually changed, I'm just one French time,and bound by the laws of cigarettes, or English time, and bound by the laws of tea and class warfare, or Chinese time, and bound by the laws of....never mind, China has no laws, just suggestions. It's much like Italy that way, really...

But this whole hour ahead hour behind thing has really got me rattled. For one thing, I resent the syntax that tells me I'm losing or gaining time. How did I lose that hour? Is there a hole in my time-purse? I was so careful with it, too! Can I replace it? No, it just returns to me in the Fall, like a prodigal son. And I don't even have any children! See, right there, that all sounds like the crazy person who sits outside of your local 7-11 and asks you for change. But I'm not that person. I don't even know where the nearest 7-11 is! (This is a lie. It's on 22nd and Lombard. And it's creepy. Don't go in there.) Time is not a pair of socks or a debit card, you can't just let it fall out of your pocket or lose it in the dryer. But SOMETHING has happened to that hour that disappeared on Sunday morning, and I miss it. I want to put up signs, have you seen this hour? Do people put things on milk cartons anymore?

Or maybe that's just the exhaustion talking. Because why my clock says 4:40pm, my body say 3:40pm. So when my clock says 12:40 in the evening, my body says, silly brain, it's only 11:40, stay up, read, you have all the time in the world! But body, my brain says, the time, I've lost it! You can't lose time, silly brain, that's crazy talk. But, the farmers, my brain queries tentatively....Farmers? Says my body, What farmers? What is this, the feudal system? And then my body and my brain start to fight about the validity of an agricultural based time system in these modern days, and I stay up even later. And then I think about what it would take to reserve myself a spot behind the 7-11.

So I haven't really caught up yet with this whole Spring forward business. But as it grows miraculously lighter, and ever so slightly warmer (never trust a groundhog, people, they get you every time), I start to believe that maybe, just maybe, someday I will finally grow accustomed to this hour forward thing. Though, knowing me, that will be just in time for fall.

Please, Sir, I Want Some Struggle

2011-03-03T00:21:00.000-05:00

What do you do when your are home alone? Do you run around naked? Do you dance around to loud music? Do you throw wild parties? Do you re-paint? Or do you, in fact, cook large meals for yourself and a good friend? Can you guess into which category I fall?

Yeah. I make large meals with my friend Ben. Obviously. Ben and I got together this past Saturday night and prepared ourselves a simple meal of spice rubbed duck breast (Ben) brocolini blanched and sauted with garlic(myself) and curried saffron rice (more of myself).

And wine. And cheese. And gossip. And maybe I'm crazy, okay, I'm definitely crazy, but it was a really lovely evening! No clubs, cabs or critical hook up moments, no embarrassing statements or stranger danger, just a nice evening with a friend. Because here's the thing, most people I know? Are struggling. At least, most young people I know are struggling. I mean, obviously, I'm struggling, it's right there in the name, but I mean in terms of the nightlife. Between the job situation and the social stuff and the constant fear that you are missing something on TV, things can get a little rough out there. So while my peers may feel the need to fill every evening with a constant stream of activities and location changes (BEN), I really enjoy nights that have one, maybe two main attractions. Honestly, much more then that gives me sensory overload and the extreme need for a snack. I know we have the fountain of youth pouring through our veins and whatever Romantic era metaphor you prefer, but doesn't anyone want to save some of that up for middle age? Every night isn't New Years, guys, you can take an evening off and wear sweatpants. No one will know but me, I promise, and I wont tell. (Yes, I will. Do it anyway.) I mean, good lord, people, don't you get tired? It's all well and good to say you will sleep when you are dead but....I REALLY like sleeping.

See? Don't I look happy? All well rested and happy? And with a nice glass of wine instead of a horrible but calorically conscious vodka and soda water? Ben brought, in addition to duck breast, his usual heavy snark, which pairs excellently with my own generous helping of sarcasm, and together we gorged ourselves on olives and political commentary (read, pop culture references) until Ben had to bail to go out for the evening. And me? I nestled my way into my pajamas, curled up with some USA network shows (as one does) and enjoyed my evening off of being 23 years old.

This is how is all looks before my expert plating. The brocolini is the easiest thing in the world, blanch it, saute it with chopped garlic, sprinkle some red pepper flakes and salt and pepper over that sucker and you are DONE. Ben used a combo of spices and brown sugar with the duck breast, which we pan seared and then finished in the oven. The brown sugar gives it that deliciously crispy crust of caramelized goodness, so whatever combination of things you rub on the duck, make sure it includes brown sugar. In this case, it's like foodie crack, I swear.

The Struggle Hill Mall

2011-02-25T16:14:00.000-05:00

Thought it pains me to admit it, sometimes I can't get everything I need in one place. I wish I never had to leave the warm comforting arms of Struggledelphia for any reason at all. I wish I could have unlimited wealth and access to a never ending store of cupcakes as well.But given that I work in the arts and I don't want to end up on one of those horrible weight loss shows, neither of those things look like they are going to happen any time soon. And neither can I stay in Struggledelphia forever. Sometimes the winds of fate and sands of destiny (why....would destiny want sand? It gets in everything. Just saying.) compel me to to seek my fortune elsewhere, and so I must venture forth and explore the wilds of civilization beyond the reach of our fair city. And so it was, with a heavy heart and a warm coat, that I ventured, last weekend, to the Cherry Hill Mall.

The Cherry Hill mall is located, surprisingly enough, in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, the sight of many white collar crimes, 50's style diners, and single level shopping centers. Plus they also have a Wegmans not too far away. Basically, it's everything you could ever want without anything you actually need. As an urbanite, I'm fascinated with malls, and I always have been. Plants! Mall walkers! Hot Topic! (Have you ever seen a Hot Topic outside of a mall? Think it through.) Malls seem to have a plethora of stores and businesses that do not exist outside of their air conditioned climate controlled food courted halls. I certainly have never thought about the Mall as a social activity. I thought people only "hung out" in malls in movies, Fast Times at Ridgemont High springs to mind. Oh, gentle readers, I could not have been more wrong....

This is a mall modeling talent search. It looks like they got some winners.

This is not good parenting.

This does not seem like a great deal.

This is how New Jersey does hair.

This is not a store I've ever seen in real life. This is a man, on the verge of the silent scream.

This is another way New Jersey does hair.

This is another imaginary store.

This is what Betty Friedan was talking about.

This is me. I am not amused.

I really hope Struggledelphia gets a Forever 21 soon. Because I'm not relishing going back out to New Jersey and living through that grotesque carnival of human misery again....I'm completely kidding. I love that place. Bring it on, New Jersey, I can take it.

Struggle Gets Dishy: Side Benefits

2011-02-11T15:30:00.002-05:00

So, good old Puxutawny Phil neglected to see his shadow, which means an early spring for all of us! Good news, right? A cause for joy and celebration? Ah, my friends, you could not be more wrong.

Why? Well, for starters, I don't care what that deceitful little rodent says, it's still dangerously cold here in Struggledelphia. And why are we trusting our fate to a small ground dwelling mammal anyway? I mean, what does he know about meteorology, he doesn't even have a weather based name or a bow tie or any of the things I expect from my local news carrier. Trusting the weather to a groundhog is like saying my cat can make prophesies about the future. And considering that my cat's favorite activities are sleeping and licking itself in it's swimsuit areas, I'm not so sure that we want to live in that future, frankly.

And don't even get me started on Staten Island Chuck. To think, New York calls US the second class city...

Additionally, after this long and painful winter, is anyone REALLY ready to strip down to their daisy dukes and halter tops and bare all that pasty pale skin to the light of day? Of course not! It's not time for that sort of thing! It's time for snuggling up into fleece blankets and not moving until an animal of slightly more intelligence then a groundhog tells you it's time. When a dolphin let's me know about the weather, I'll be happy to listen. But not before then.

With all this in mind, my crusade for carbohydrates continues, with a potato based recipe sure to fill you with enough fat to insulate those pesky little organs without which you would expire. So, this Valentine's day, give you sweetheart and yourself the gift of starchy root vegetables. It is truly the gift that keeps on giving. And what could be more romantic then that?

Roasted Red Potatoes and Leeks:

I love this side dish because its pretty, filling, and fantastically easy. There's a double entendre there somewhere, but I'm too cold to make it.

1 pound small red potatoes, rinsed, eyes removed (if they exist. The eyes of the potato are the little sprouts which may have been allowed to grow if you, like me, buy things and then forget that you own them. It happens.)
2 large leeks.
Salt
Pepper
Olive Oil

Preheat your oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Slice the potatoes into 1/4th of an inch thick rounds. Thinly slice the leeks (both white and green parts, personal issue of mine, I hate when people just use part of a leek, use the whole leek, people, pretend this is the frontier), on a diagonal, and toss the potatoes and leeks with olive oil, salt, and pepper. Spread potato and leek mixture on a baking sheet. Make sure that there is a single layer of potatoes and leeks, if the sheet is too crowded neither will roast properly. Treat yourself to a second baking sheet if needs be, you deserve it, I promise. Roast vegetables about 30 minutes, or until potatoes and leeks are browned and potatoes flake apart when tested with a fork or knife. Season with additional salt and pepper, if that is your desire, and serve. Enjoy!

Delicious.

Give Us This Day Our Daily Struggle

2011-01-31T12:19:00.000-05:00

I walked to work this morning. I had a meeting part of the way between my job and my home and it didn't make sense to go all the way to work first, and this city is basically bereft of public transportation so I walked. I walked through mountains of snow, because even though it has been almost a week since the last storm apparently it's been decided that the sidewalks of Struggledelphia should remain as scale models of the Alps. And I walked through rivers of ice, because salt is for pansies and the city government would prefer that us Struggledelphias bravely take on the elements with nothing more then our bare hands and Quaker determination. And I fell. Right on my knees. At the corner of Struggle Garden and 11th street. Thank you, good people of City Hall, for teaching me that valuable lesson about falling down in public.

But on some level I'm glad I walked all the way in because my path took me through all kinds of struggle, and as I always carry around my camera, I can now share some of that for you. Enjoy. Happy end of January. If February has this much snow, I'm moving to Mexico. Who's in?

Struggleslovakia

2011-01-28T11:32:00.000-05:00

I was driving in downtown Struggledelphia the other day when I came upon a deeply perplexing sight. Cold the wind was, and icy breezes blew through the city. Wrapped in fleece and down, the noble inhabitants of my fair struggle hurried on their way, faces turned from the bitterness of the day. None of this, of course, is surprising, it's been insanely cold here in Struggledelphia, the kind of weather that makes you understand why so many Colonial beverages mix hot liquids and alcohol (Have you had mulled wine lately? A hot toddy? Cider? It's all working for me right now). But what WAS surprising was the large typically vacant office building at the corner of Market and StruggleFirst street which was festooned with pictures of actor Bradly Cooper's face in some kind of pseudo political campaign. But the weirdest part? That political campaign was for the city of New York.

Now, I'm fairly certain that Struggledelphia is not, in fact, New York. I know for a fact that there are at least 5 people in our Chinatown who speak English, which is 500% more then New York has. Also, we barely have a subway system. Also, a bottle of water costs under 5 dollars. So it seemed unlikely that the two cities had in fact fused together overnight and that I was at the corner of Struggledelphia and Broadway. Although that would be an awesome Twilight-zone....

And then it occurred to me, none of this was real! It was, in fact, a movie. A movie being shot in here in Sturggledelphia but set in New York. Right, Because the two cities look EXACTLY alike. We have a Statue of Liberty as well. It's called the Benjamin Franklin Bridge. Looks exactly the same, if you squint. And have glaucoma. And it's nighttime. And raining. And all the power is out. Right?

And then I realized, as I dodged Bradley Cooper fangirls (and boys, let's not be heteronormative) and tried to make it to my pilates class in something approaching on time, they have been shooting a lot of movies in our fair city. Last summer they shot the completely unsuccessful "How Do You Know", and the as yet unreleased "The Best and the Brightest". The movie that has prevented me from punctuality recently is called "Limitless". And apparently the trailer for "Ceder Rapids" features the Struggledelphia skyline, even though the movie is supposed to be set in, well, Iowa. Thanks, guys, that was kind of you. Next time you are here, we are spitting in your stupid cheesesteaks.

So what does this add up to, pray tell? Why, it's obvious! Struggledelphia is the new Prague! Think about it, Prague is the stand in for every European city ever. Movies are shot in Prague all the time, because it's cheap, it's beautiful, and stupid American movie audiences will never figure it out. Unless they actually go to Prague...but of course that's crazy talk. Americans don't travel. We are literally incapable of being outside of a 50 mile radius of a Starbucks and/or a McDonalds. Everyone knows that. But really, think about it some more. Prague has never been bombed. Struggledelphia has never been bombed. Prague is famous for it's history. Struggledelphia is famous for it's history. Prague was the capital of Bohemia. Struggledelphia has a naked bike ride! Prague has had not one, but TWO defenestrations. Struggledelphia recently got a Barney's co-op! I could go on like this all day, but I think you all get the picture. Struggledelphia is the new Prague. Come visit us quickly before we convert to the Euro and all the cigarette prices go up.

Struggle Gets Dishy: Mambo Italiano

2011-01-12T23:25:00.000-05:00

I don't know about all of you, but when the temperatures drop and it starts to rain white crap from the sky, I personally can dispense with the salads. I love gazpacho as much as the next girl (assuming the next girl REALLY loves gazpacho), but wintertime, especially wintertime here in Struggledelphia, the not-quite-Northeast, means substance. It means style. Hell, I'll say it, it means pasta.

Remember those few awkward years (not that that narrows it down) when everyone was all about carbs being the devil? First of all, the Devil is the Devil, people, stop trying to make the Devil into bedbugs or reality television stars or Christine O'Donnell (though obviously that last one is some kind of minor minion, a sub-demon, perhaps, something along those lines). He is that he is, folks, he's not hiding in your bagel. So I don't care if this causes a group of priests to come down on me like a load of bricks, exorcise all you want, folks, I'm eating pasta. And I'm eating in all sorts of different ways. Why? Because it's filling. Because it's delicious. And because if animals can get all fatty-no-friends and store up winter fat then, by God, so can I.

Considering that the horribly cruel local news stations had spent the weekend predicting doom and gloom and more snow then a cocaine dealer would know how to handle, I thought it prudent on Monday evening to whip up a dish that would give me the warm fuzzy feeling of carbohydrates, the solid strength of protein and the mildly superior sensation of having eaten something vaguely healthy. A tall order, perhaps, but it's all in a day's struggle:

Orecchiette with Spinach, Peppers and Sausage:
Serves 4

Water
Enough dry Orecchiette for four people (depending on your appetites and pasta needs)
4 turkey sausages (or pork, should you not be a chosen person)
4 cloves of garlic, minced
2 red peppers, diced
1 large bag of spinach (about 6 cups)
Salt, pepper
olive oil

Bring a large pot of salted water to boil. Meanwhile, heat up olive oil under medium heat in a large heavy saucepan. Cook sausages until almost completely cooked through and browned. Remove sausages from the pan, set aside to cool. Maintaining a medium heat, add the minced garlic to the pan, and saute for one minute. Add the diced peppers, saute together for several minutes while pepper starts to soften. Slice sausage into long diagonal slices about 1/4 of an inch thick each. Add sausages to the saucepan, then add washed spinach and salt and pepper (according to your tastes/sodium requirements). Cover the pot and lower the heat to medium-low, allowing the spinach to wilt and cook and the flavors to meld. Add pasta to water once the water is boiling, and cook according to the package directions. Remove pasta from heat when it is still al dente. Spoon sauce over the pasta, and serve with Parmesan cheese. Enjoy the sweet sensation of added layers of lipids insulating your winter-prepared body. Not everyone does.

How the Struggle Stole Christmas

2010-12-23T14:54:00.000-05:00

First of all, I want to apologize to all you, my loyal readers, for my sudden drop off the face of the earth. What with my job and my search for a more interesting job and my life and my search for a more interesting life and all this business with the red and the green and the birthday party for an infant (I don't know why people bother, really, I mean, it's like taking your kids to art museums or Europe or really nice restaurants if they are under the age of 8, they aren't going to get it and they are ruining it for the rest of us. Yes, I just said children ruin Europe, and I stand by that. Fact.) I haven't had a chance to chronicle my struggles, which is a real shame for all of you, as they have been PLENTIFUL. Ah, if we had world enough, and time...but we don't and we live in a culture of speed, so instead of giving you the Russian-classic length story of my comings and goings (and fallings...) of the last month, I'm going to enumerate them in list form for you instead. So sit back, relax, and hunker yourself down for a litany of someone else's bad decisions. After all, tis the season.

My Naughty List:
1. During the whirlwind rush that is Hanukkah (which came way too early this year, I mean, that thing practically arrived before Thanksgiving. Thank you so much, ancient harvest calender, for having me stuff myself with Turkey AND latkes in the space of one week. You're a peach.) I went up to New York for a reading of a new play I wrote. The reading itself was a mixed bag, the good being that I go to hear the play and the bad being that it would of been nice to have people who can actually speak English reading it. But my friend Gabriel (hi, Gabriel!) was in it, so that's a win.

2. In New York, I stayed with my friend Michael (hi, Michael!) in his apartment (tiny by Struggledelphia standards, a veritable Palladian Villa by New York estimates). After running up and down the West side like a maniac trying to see some so called friends (is it too much to ask that people drop everything in their lives and come find me the second I arrive in New York? Oh, it is? Crap.) Michael and I celebrated by making dinner, drinking copious amounts of Trader Joe's Finest vintages and braving the elements to see our extremely white, Jewish, well bred friend Aaron (hi, Aaron!) rap at a bar in the East Village. And you know what? He was secretly awesome. And Michael dropped me on the dance floor. Thanks, buddy.

3. Upon my return to the fair city of Struggledelphia, I found myself at a house party in Fishtown the very next weekend with my friend Kate (hi, Kate!). One look inside the converted garage/performance space/living room up in the heart of blue collar white supremisist Northern Fishtown, and Kate and I realized we were way too dressed up for this. Not only were neither of us sporting awkward facial hair, chunky thrift store sweaters or tights and shorts (no. just...no) but we had committed the cardinal sin of cleanliness. If you think about it, there is something really bizarre about the icon of the dirty hipster. Hip away all you want, folks, but if you are going to be in a confined space for any amount of time, at least consider sporting a pinch of deodorant. Isn't that what Toms of Maine is for?

4. Decided that I'm in no place to drink PBR, even if it's meant to be done ironically, I curled up with a hot toddy (nothing says Struggledelphia like a colonial themed beverage) and enjoyed the spectacle and the scream band. After enjoying ourselves for a few hours and bowls of vegetarian chili, Kate and I realized our lack of hand rolled cigarettes weren't making us any friends, so we absconded with our clean hair still intact.

5. The next evening, I won quizbowl. That's right, true story. So despite the fact that my not-Yale education has yet to procure me a job in my field, a handsome and extremely successful trophy husband, OR world dominance, at least I can still earn the respect and envy of my peers by answering questions about Christopher Marlow quotes and the population of Latvia. Happy Holidays to ME.

My Nice List:
1. Um, I give money to same charities....

Oh, screw it, I've got nothing. Happy whatever-the-hell you do this time of year, and be safe. Make me jealous with your New Year's plans in the comments. Me, I'm thinking about renting a movie.

Farce, Thy Name Is Struggle

2010-11-23T14:21:00.000-05:00

Sometimes life is lovely, wonderful and shining, full of possibility. But most of the time? It's not. For example, I SHOULD be out there, enjoying the the gorgeous fall weather here in Struggledelphia, frolicking amongst the leaves, wearing cute sweaters and drinking pumpkin lattes (of course, I would never do that last one because I dislike pumpkins and really really dislike lattes) but instead I'm sitting in my home shotgunning tea and getting really into Make it or Break it (it's seriously hilarious, I can't stop watching it. I hate you, Hulu.) And how did this happen, you may ask? Well, that's sort of a long story.

I should back up here, and explain that I am of the opinion that life is like one of those Rube Goldberg machines, that is, it takes about 8 million steps and reactions before the chicken hits the ball (or spills the water or lights the lamp, whatever, Rube Goldberg was a sick man). So the story of how I got sick (first cold since Hamburg in March, not to shabby, Franqui!) is therefore not just point A to point B, but involves many little steps in between. And the steps are as follows:

1.After a stressful week I lose my debit card AND my license while attending a truly painful production of Uncle Vanya with Mama Struggs. Killed my wine buzz from dinner, luckily left my bank account intact.

2. Poor Mama Struggs rolled over something (Broken glass? Stick with a nail in it? Switchblade? Scythe? You never can tell in my neighborhood!) and two of our tires suddenly underwent an air-reduction. That was fifty percent of our tire, right there.

3. Then Mama Struggs got sick. In a valiant effort to avoid illness I tried to create a three foot barrier around us at all time.

4. Unfortunately, because I live with and work with my parents, that proved more difficult then I had previously imagined. And what with the arrival of Strugglemano for my favorite holiday, the planning of said favorite holiday, and all the stress of, well, struggling, I woke up yesterday with the clogged nasal passages and throat on fire feeling indicating less then perfect health. Super.

So now I'm blearily staring at a computer screen, lightly congested, gently delirious, wondering when it would be acceptable to dive into the day's third bowl of soup. This better clear up before I have to spend the day arms deep in a turkey carcass. Although, that would give me the perfect opportunity to make the REST of my family sick while I'm well on my way to recovery...Something to think about.

Struggle Takes A Napa

2010-11-05T17:22:00.001-04:00

There are many ways in which I am nothing like an early 19th century prospector/explorer. For one thing, my greatest fear isn't dysentery or rattlers. I'm certainly not interested in forming my own polygamist religion featuring terrible hairstyles and bunkers, nor am I often found searching the soil for gold. I bear no ill will towards Native Americans (or is it first peoples, now?) and while buffalo is DELICIOUS I can usually resist the urge to kill one when I see it. So clearly there is a strong divide between me, Leah Franqui, strugglextrodinare, and, say, Louis and Clark. Nevertheless, I recently found myself unable to resist that great and wild urge present in all members of the United States (at least according to Fredrick Jackson Turner). That's right, my friends, I went West.

More specifically, I went to San Fransisco. Apart from the fact that Padre Struggle had a hankering to see some free lovers-turned-litigators (can you imagine California Law Schools in the 1970s? It's like, guys, guys, guys, look at this legal brief, but really, LOOK at it. It's beautiful.), Strugglemano only lives a brisk 6 hour drive south (you can cross five state lines on the East Coast in the same time it takes you to get from Los Angeles to San Fransisco. I cannot understand California).

On day one the trifecta of struggle found itself awash in the salty breezes of the Pacific, climbing up hills, more hills, some other hills (we took a walk around the city and it was uphill BOTH WAYS. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?), peering at charming Victorian homes and their filthy hippie residents (thank you, Haight Ashbury, but I would not like a hit of that), stuffing ourselves with Dim Sum in Chinatown, dodging gangs in the Mission, and generally having a wonderful time. We walked so much on that first day that my shoe literally fell apart, and when I bought a new pair and asked to dispose of the now-derelict sneakers, I was advised to give them to a homeless person. They were accepted gratefully, I'll have you know, which just goes to show that one man's trash is another man's treasure.

Having all pulled leg muscles exploring the city, we decided to spend day two relaxing in Berkley. First we went to Chez Panisse for lunch, and the only appropriate word I have for Alice Water's flagship enterprise is FOODGASM.

Then we saw the university. Maybe it's just because I went to not-Yale which, despite it's many graduate programs and hugely inflated ego, is really rather small, but Berkeley seemed enormous to me. I mean, I can't understand how students navigate the place without becoming extremely lost! We comforted ourselves with Ethiopian food and South African wine, as one does.

Day three had us wandering the hallowed halls of Stanford, whose golden buildings and palm trees made me think of the University of Salamanca crossed with Hawai 5-O. At this point Strugglemano and I also learned a new life rule, that every major university in the United States has an Alexander Calder. Every. Single. One. Any evidence to the contrary is merely an illusion. I then spent the evening hanging out with high profile lawyers in their late fifties/early sixties. If I ever recover from that experience, I will let you know.

Day four, ah, day four, a day that will live in my dreams, day four, we went to Napa. Glorious Napa, fragrant with the stench of fermenting wine and expensive brunches, filled with rolling hills of grapes and, well, nope, that's it, grapes. Strugglemano, being our resident wine expert, arranged three tasting for us at three different wineries, and may I just say, there is nothing quite like the buzz of wine you will NEVER be able to afford consumed well before 5pm (East Coast AND West Coast time). Dear lord, it was glorious.

And so, several thousand pounds heavier (give or take), Padre Struggle and I boarded the plane back to Struggledelphia, while Strugglemano contemplated the long drive back to Southern California. Take heart, Strugglemano, car beats wagon trail hands down. Nothing like a Westward Ho! interlude to refresh the soul, eh? Or at least get it drunk enough so it forgets about work on Monday.

San Franstruggle Volume I

2010-10-26T15:58:00.001-04:00

I just got back to Struggledelphia from San Franstruggle. It was my first trip to the Fog City, and, to be frank, I was not expecting to love it. After all, I have very negative feelings about the OTHER city in California (if you can call a place where a car is a non-negotiable a city...) and didn't expect to find a town built by robber barons and gold prospectors to be that interesting. However, I don't know what the hell I was thinking, because obviously anything built by robber barons and gold prospectors is BOUND to be awesome, number one, and number two, it was Padre Struggle's law school reunion, and number three, Strugglemano took a one-man six-hour road trip to meet us, and as a result, hilarity ensued. And while I will be happy to break down all the crazy in due time, for now, I'm just going to give you some images, and let you imagine the rest. The best story will get a large prize! And by prize, I mean bragging rights. Come one, don't give me that look, there is a recession on!

Struggle Cuts It Out

2010-10-01T15:46:00.000-04:00

Liminal seasons as they are, fall and spring seem to be the times of year in which we most crave change. Call it spring cleaning (or fall dirtying? why doesn't fall get a thing?), but I always feel like doing something new when the weather changes, like changing my nail polish color or shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die or something. You know, something festive and fun. And normally I would be eagerly anticipating the change of seasons with joy, but this year, well, I can't really get into it. Why, do you ask? It's the silence.

You see, I've been applying for jobs for a few months now, and, things being what they are in the world, etc, I've found myself facing a flurry of rejection, a handful of awkward interviews, and a giant void of silence. The rejection I can deal with, I mean, I went to high school in the United States, so, I've got that down. The awkward interviews don't faze me, awkward is, frankly, my calling card, so I make it work, taking each one with a grain of salt, (and, later, a shot of tequila). It's the silence that has begun to get to me, though, it's the silence that is bringing me down. You pour your heart and soul and the better part of an hour into a cover letter explaining in great but succinct detail how you would be the perfect development assistant/fry cook/baseball coach/mayor, and you check that everything is correct and that everyone possible has been thanked for their consideration, and then you carefully send it off by email/mail/carrier pigeon, and you wait. And wait. And wait. Godot himself walks by during your time spent waiting, he says hi, you two have some coffee, he moves on. And all you are left with is silence, nothingness, the sound of one hand clapping. No wonder they called it the Great Depression, because this is painful.

Look, I know that in this situation the companies and businesses and clown troupes have the power; there are ten million of me and only a few of them, I get it. And I'm certainly not expecting a hand written thank you note every time I send in an application. But really, is sheer silence the only option? Can't there be any kind of acknowledgement that I have, in fact, made an effort and you have received the fruits of my labor? Because as it is I can't help but imagine my job applications floating out there in the universe, blowing the wind, disturbing sleeping homeless people and amusing squirrels. I don't like squirrels, and I really don't appreciate the image of them getting acorn pieces all over my cover letters and mocking my special skills section on my resume. I'd like to see THEIR resumes, stupid squirrels...

In times like these when you find yourself confused, concerned, and contemplating squirrelicide, the best solution is to breathe, try to relax, and find yourself something else upon which to place your focus. And if you can't change your career path and the authorities wont let you hunt squirrels in public places, there is no better place to go then to your appearance. And so I cut off my hair. Well, I say I did, but really it was a nice man with expensive scissors and more product then that one character in Glee. After all, if change wont come to you, you might as well go out and find it.

So, I'm still applying for jobs, I'm still living in the huge hit of silence and suffering, and I still hate squirrels. But I look good. So, you know, net gain, I say. Happy October, people.

All the world's a struggle

2010-09-21T17:59:00.002-04:00

Oh, man, I can't believe that the Live Arts/Philadelphia Fringe festival is over! It seems like only yesterday I was leafing through the Gutenberg Bible that is the guide, and now it's gone, with the wind, but without the southern accents, obviously. I saw punk rock musicals and telenovelas and children's stories and dance and music and all kinds of delights, and that was just in one weekend. And while there was just SO much good in this year's festival, there was also a large ratio of struggle.And I'm going to focus on that because, well, petty as it may seem, it makes me feel better to point out the short comings of others. Yes, I know, but at least I have the guts to express what we are all thinking, right? Happy Yom Kippur to ME.

And so, without further ado, I present my rules to you for how to avoid making bad theater. You know how they say only a very good actor can play a very bad actor? You will be interested to know that in my experience this is not always the case...

1. Don't offend the costumer. Seriously, don't do it. She/He/They will make you look so bad that small children will run, scared, screaming from the theater. And anyone who manages to stay and watch will be consumed the entire show with the question of what the hell you did to the costumer to PUT YOU IN THOSE SHOES. They will construct elaborate theories of how you ran over their puppy while holding their grandmother hostage and seducing their significant other and remaining at least ten pounds thinner then them at all times. And whatever else you are doing on stage will not at all matter because all they will be thinking about is that poor puppy. I promise you, this can all be avoided if you just buy the costumer a cup of coffee and compliment their shoes. Be cool, okay? Don't offend the costumer.

2. Don't write a play that is solely about your last failed relationship/job interview/search for the perfect pair of skinny jeans. No one finds it as interesting as you do, and the fact that you sit in the front row crying during each run is a dead give away. Living well is the best revenge. Setting your last personal tragedy to the music of the Beach Boys isn't.

3. Don't assume that just because it's a Fringe Festival no one will notice the lack of lights/sound/plot just because you've included nudity. They totally will notice. They may not CARE, but they will notice.

4. If you absolutely must do a pure improv show (and the jury's still out for me on this one, unless we are talking about my friend Ned, hi Ned! who is legitimately great at improv) please be legitimately great at improv. Otherwise it's like watching a young boy's bar mitzvah, it's awkward, everything is cracking, and even the after-party booze doesn't erase all the memories.

5. Don't do anything by David Mamet. Admittedly, this one might be a personal preference, rather then a real rule. Nevertheless, I'm allowing it.

So that's my advice to you. Stick to these five basic rules and you should be okay. Or, make a show that is entirely composed of these five elements and let the chips fall where they may. Who knows? It might be so deeply bad it's secretly awesome, like, say, the new 90210 or Vegemite . If that turns out to be the case, can you score me a ticket? Because I totally want to come.

I pray thee, good Struggle, wither goest thou?

2010-09-08T16:39:00.001-04:00

If I were to be completely honest with myself, I would say that I am a person of supremely eclectic tastes. For example, I enjoy both Klezmer Music and the stylings of Jay-Z, I like a cool crisp glass of Sauvignon Blanc and well whiskey, I like quiet foreign films about relationships and I like Star Wars. Simply put, if my tastes were a vehicle, they would be the town bicycle, and almost everyone would get a ride. But if I can combine things, for example, listening to Klezmer, drinking wine and watching Star Wars, that's the optimal situation. So imagine my surprise and delight when Padre Struggle suggested that we spend our Labor Day NOT burning steaks on the grill or fighting through crowds of shwasted individuals of Italian American descent at the Shore, but rather attending the Pennsylvania Renaissance Fair. I, to be frank, kvelled.

Let me explain something here. I love the Renaissance Faire. I have always loved and will always love the Renaissance Faire, and no amount of public ridicule or private humiliation will ever sway me from my vast abiding love of the Renaissance Faire. I should make Greensleeves my RINGTONE that's how much I love the Renaissance Faire. And as fairs go, Pennsylvania has a pretty amazing one. Not only is it 30 years old and ridiculously well attended, but it has it's own winery and includes at least 25 different theatrical and musical shows, including swordplay, jousting, and wenches galore. I mean, what isn't to love? They have enormous turkey legs and funny hats! They have mediocre Chardonnay and jesters! They have glassblowing and a human chess match and at least seven stalls selling WINGS! It's a strugglers paradise! I mean, good Lord, it's such a struggle that it passes through the struggle barrier (that's just before the sound barrier) and actually goes through to the other side and becomes not struggle but success! Do you know how rare that is?

And so, as I enjoyed a hearty meal of Ye Olde Pannini and the Queens Greens, I found myself twisting my head with delight like a hysterical owl, desperately trying to take it all in. And my god, was there a lot to see. There are so many people who travel all the way to Lancaster, PA to watch people in Elizabethian outfits mangle UK accents, it's insane. And who I am to judge, really, since I'm clearly one of them. But considering that judging is like a form of breathing to me, may I just raise one point of censure, not to the Faire itself, but to the other guests of the event. As everyone knows, the Ren Faire (as those in the know call it) is an opportunity to dress up in period clothing and escape the realities of 2010 while still enjoying the amenities (period clothing, yes, period toliets, not so popular for some reason). But it's called the RENAISSANCE Faire, people, not the Elven Dr. Who Battlestar Galactica Belly Dancing Victorian Goth Slutty Vampire Disney Princess Faire! I mean, how could you even fit that name on a commemorative cup? Shape up, Pennsylvania residents, and when you come to the Faire, make damn sure you come prepared. That being said, thank you so much for the Hot Topic fashion show, that was fun. But maybe I should just relax, and take some advice from one of my favorite fictional characters, Howard Wolowitz:

Howard Wolowitz: Renaissance fairs aren't about historical accuracy. They're about taking chubby girls who work at Kinkos and lacing them up in corsets so tight their bosom jumps out and says "howdy".
Sheldon Cooper: Bosoms would not have said "howdy" in the Fifteenth Century. If anything, they would have said "Huzzah!"
Howard Wolowitz: I don't care what the bosoms say, Sheldon. I just want to be part of the conversation.

Wise words, indeed, fine Sage, wise words indeed.

Struggle Gets in Gear

2010-08-29T14:16:00.000-04:00

There are a lot of things I don't understand about the world. For example, why does the media still want me to care about Lindsey Lohan? Jennifer Love Fricking Hewitt has made more recent films. Why does this blog get so much Chinese Spam? Is there something about how I write that attracts the Spam of China? What's up, China? Why do people use emoticons? What's that about? Does a sad face really comfort me in times of stress? What is a hedgefund? No, seriously, what the hell is a hedgefund? I googled it. It didn't help.

As you can see, I've got a lot of questions about the universe, and I don't know that I will be able to answer them any time soon. Especially not right now, because right now I'm getting myself mentally, physicaly, emotionally and metaphysically prepared for my favorite time of the year. Is is Christmas? No, silly strugglesome readers, that's my LEAST favorite time of the year (damn tinsel getting all over everything....) That's right, it's the Philadelphia Live Arts and Fringe Festival! And I couldn't be more excited. Or, for that matter, more terrified.

You see, the thing about the festival is, it always reminds me of that expression, a kid in a candy store. And while for children this might be a very appealing vision, the practical side of me recognizes that children in confectionary shops do not, in fact, have a delightful time, but do, in reality, stuff themselves with suger, rot their teeth, scream, vomit, and, if they are lucky, meet creepy older gentleman and their small orange friends. While not as caloric, in every other respect the Live Arts/Fringe Festival sounds a lot like that. There are 200 shows in total in the festival, and that includes music, improv, dance, dance theater, clown shows, happenings, maybe even a straight play or two if people really want to get crazy, and, frankly, I kind of want to see it all. And this year? I think I'm finally going to be able to do it. Just as soon as I hook this caffine IV up and learn how to give up eating, sleeping, and my entire bank account balance.

At any rate, while seeing everything may be an impossible dream, seeing nothing is completely unacceptable, so I'm going to have to find some kind of happy medium there. Of course, given that my sense of balance in life is akin to my sense of balance in yoga class (that is, I have absolutely none...) I'm sure I will fall more on the side of struggle then sucess, putting aside things like a social life or proper hydration in the name of the THEATAH. Whatever, man, it's worth it, this is the FRINGE we are talking about! I just gotta hack it. Just. Gotta. Hack. It.

Apart from dancing around to the Final Countdown in an effor to get myself ready, I will also be blogging reviews of shows AND stage managing a show (cue the shameless self promotion). If you want to see what I think about the many artistic expressions I manage to squeeze into my busy schedule you can see my reviews here. To buy tickets to MY show, go here. To save me from myself, find me a good therapist. Or buy me a cup of coffee. Both work just fine.

Struggle Gets Busy

2010-08-18T17:25:00.001-04:00

Oh, my dear darling readers, where does the time go?And why doesn't it take me with it? As August moves on at a pace a race car driver would envy, I find myself considering the nature of time. Time flies, time waits for no man, time is on my side, thyme is excellent in a marinade... it's all getting a bit convoluted for me. Maybe that's because I haven't been getting much sleep.

The trouble is that I've been a touch, well, busy. I've been very busy. I've been out of control busy and I don't know what to do about it. I can't even imagine what to do about it because I don't have the time to do so! It's such a quandry....And I can't possible think about stopping because then I will lose all focus....

People say you can sleep when you are dead. To be fair, such people are morbid and a touch crazy (and therefore have free reign to just come sit by me) But it's always been something I've taken to heart, and though it conflicts with my deep seated love of sleep. The truth is that I just can't imagine not be horrifically busy, although lately it seems to be catching up with me. Between my job, restraining myself from hitting people in the face, applying for other jobs, being rejected by other jobs (it's almost like there is a recession on or something!), restraining myself from laughing at people right in front of them, shaving my legs (sometimes I hate summer), stage managing a Fringe Festival show, and restraining myself from screaming in public, I just don't seem to have time to sit back, relax, enjoy my netflix cue and unwind. And because I don't fancy the concept of falling down and passing out in public (so hard to find a good fainting couch these days), I let my father convince me to take a day off and drive over to New Jersey for a day at the beach.

Okay, confession time. I've never (gasp) seen a single episode of the Jersey Shore. Not one. Not even once. In my defense, I was traveling during it's premiere season and so I missed all of the screen-printing and social vomiting delights I've heard ran rampant in favor of art, culture, and the joys of fried desserts (thank you, England!). And furthermore, I live in Struggle-fricking-delphia. I don't need to watch a television show about New Jersey. I can just GO to New Jersey and LIVE the madness of strange tattooed men with great abs and a wardrobe by Ed Hardy saying stupid things. And I can bring my father along with me.Those of you out there who live in other states? It's okay to be jealous.

So, woefully ignorant of bump its and spray tans, Padre Struggle and I packed our car, waved goodbye to our cats, and drove two hours to Island Beach State Park, which is, frankly, the nicest beach New Jersey has to offer. I don't care what you say or how much you love Sea Isle or Ventor or Cape May, this beach is nicer. It's clean. You can, on certain occasions, actually see the bottom of the ocean. Frankly, that's a Jersey Shore miracle! Moreover, it's generally free of trashiness and trash, and therefore is actually a pleasant place to spend the day, rather then a debilitating attack on your nerves and body (that's right, Atlantic City, I'm aiming that at you). The day was fair, the winds breezy, the water bracing, and our picnic lunch was sandy but satisfying. All in all, it was a delightful interval.

That is, until I returned home and had 25 messages and innumerable emails and a long rehearsal and more things to do then hours in the day. Oh well, I thought, I'd better buckle down and focus all over again...

Holy hell, I just met someone with those Japanese Anime character contact lenses. Wow. That just happened. And all of a sudden none of it matters. No matter how busy I am, that's something worth taking a break about.

Struggle Gets Dishy: Lets Go Tropicana

2010-08-03T23:59:00.001-04:00

If you are anything like me (and I'm just solipsistic enough to assume most people are), then you love the summer with all the abandonment of a small child, dashing through the sprinkler, gorging yourself on ice cream bars (I love that they are called novelties, I mean, how cute is that) and collapsing into a happy heat stroke at the end of the day (what's summer without a trip to the emergency room?).

But there is something about the heat that seems to make other people a little nutty. The other day while browsing a favorite vintage store down on Fabric Row (nothing like spending a day among cheap bridal fabrics and bric-a-brac to make your social life seem more exciting then it otherwise might appear), I heard a radio announcer declare that in this heat you should be sure to check on your older friends and relatives, just to make sure they are still breathing. How very encouraging of them. Motown hits and "make sure grandma's not dead" reminders. If that's not a Struggledelphia radio station, I don't know what is.

So, in an effort to assuage those people out their who are more into cold showers then humid afternoons, I thought I would provide a nice little tropical side dish recipe the ought to help with the heat. You can bring it to all of your elderly friends and relatives, it's a good excuse for dropping by.

Grilled Yucca with Pineapple Salsa:

Pineapple Salsa:
1 large ripe pineapple, diced
1/4 cup chopped Thai basil
3 cloves of garlic, minced
1/2 cup finely chopped red onion
1 jalapeno pepper, seeded, diced
Salt
Pepper
Cilantro (this is optional. While some people worship at the alter of the god Cilantronus, others find it tastes like soap. This is actually a genetic predisposition, rather then a preference, so stop making fun of your friends when they crave or disdain fresh coriander!)

Combine all of the above ingredients and let sit for at least an hour. Because I first made this in Puerto Rico, I added a splash of rum, which works wonders. Of course, how could it not...

Grilled Yucca-
1 large yucca (most of them come large. I've actually never seen a small one) peeled and sliced into rounds. Soak rounds for at least an hour in a bowl of water. Coat yucca with cooking spray and pre-bake yucca in the oven for 30 minutes on a lowish heat, between 250 and 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Coat with another round of cooking spray or oil and grill until the outside is crispy and the inside is flaky and tender. Smother with pineapple salsa and enjoy, assuming you haven't fainted from the heat. If so, do let me know, I'll eat the leftovers.

Struggle y su avion

2010-07-23T17:29:00.000-04:00

The worst thing about a vacation is having to come home. I recognize that this isn't a particularly original thought, but most essential truths turn out to not be original, for example, Love Hurts, No shoes, no shirt, no service, gravity is a rule, not a guideline. All true, all cliche, all painful if you find yourself on the wrong side of them (especially that gravity one, trust me on this as someone who falls down a lot).So I don't know why the hell I was so cheerful and optimistic when I stepped on the plane departing from San Juan heading back towards Struggledelphia. After all this time, you'd really think I would have learned that struggle dogs my every move, wouldn't you? Alas, my friends, just like the possibility of me tripping over a loud Puerto Rican family's luggage, the eventual epic failure was inevitable.

The trick with an epic failure is the build up. You can't fall from grace until you actually all up on top of grace, you know what I mean? In order for the fall, you have to have the pride goething, or it's not hubris, it's just ho hum. So as I was gently tucked into my soft, plush, fully reclinable first class seat (thank you, US Airways upgrades, you truly are amazing!), and plied with wine and warmed cookies and moist hot towels (I don't know why they do this, but I LOVE it. I want this service as part of my every day life. Note to self, marry rich...), I hummed gently with pleasure and curled up with Gogol's Dead Souls to enjoy myself. In the three and a half hours that it takes a plane to leave the Luis Munoz Memorial Airport and arrive in Philadelphia I had covered two hundred or so pages of the book, enjoyed two enormous glasses of cheap white wine, and stolen the majority of my mother's cookie. In short, I was really enjoying myself. And that's when tragedy struck.

Just as we were circling the landing strip, our valiant captain informed us that there was a storm directly over the airport. He also mentioned that the storm had come unannounced, which surprised me, as most storms send me a short email at least an hour before their arrival, but I went with it. He then mentioned that the plane didn't have enough fuel to continue circling the airport. This, frankly, terrified me. What the hell, enough fuel? What would he have done if we had been delayed in the air on the way? How was there no contingency plan? Come on, people, it's a giant metal object hurtling through the air, it's not going to propel itself! But instead of a fiery death in a heap of wreckage, instead we got the next worse thing. That's right, they decided to land us in Atlantic City.

I can't tell you anything meaningful about the Atlantic City airport because I wasn't permitted to enter it. Instead we sat on the plane for 2 hours (with nary an offer of more wine in sight) waiting for weather conditions to improve. Well, most of us did. A full 11 people actually opted to leave their baggage behind and get out in Atlantic City. I honestly didn't know you could really do that, treat a plane like a local bus line, but, hey, what do I know?

When we finally landed in Philadelphia, having been delayed for a full 3 and a half hours (for those of you playing along at home that is the exact amount of time it takes to get from Puerto Rico to Philadelphia, so it was double or nothing that night, apparently), my poor little family and I found ourselves waiting patiently at the baggage claim, dodging other passengers in their gladiator like attempts to wrestle with their luggage. Out came piece after piece after piece, but no bags marked Familia Struggle did we see. An hour later, my mother finally gave up and went to the US Airways baggage center, where they told us that our luggage was patiently waiting for us at a completely different terminal. Sure. Of course. That makes perfect sense that our bags would be seperated from those for the rest of our flight and we would need to hike through a universe of car rental stops and concrete Escher-wannabes to find it.. And there they were, waiting patiently for us to find them, and finally, FINALLY, go home.

Upside to all this? I couldn't even remember my vacation to be nostalgic and sad about it. It all felt so far away...

Palm Trees and Strugglesome Parrots

2010-07-13T23:49:00.001-04:00

I'm going to be 100% honest with you here (when am I ever anything but), I really love the beach. I always have. As a wee little struggle I could be found spending my summers padding about in the water, filling my hair with sand and, this being Atlantic City where I spent the summers of my misbegotten youth, avoiding beer cans and hypodermic needles as I trotted along the shore. My father, Padre Struggle, has always shared this affinity for sun, sand and surf with me, and to this day as our paler family members shroud themselves in cover-ups and sunscreen and hide in the shade of a nearby cabana, we two wander the beaches of the world bronzing in the sun and scaring fish. So when we decided to take a weekend trip down to San Juan, Puerto Rico, finding the steamy Struggledelphia summer just a touch too cool for us, it was only natural that we would find ourselves oceanside.

Now, the beaches of Puerto Rico are famous not without reason. Apart from the fact that the waters of the Carribean are so insanely clear that you can see far more of your fellow bathers then you might actually want to (plus, you know, animals, and whatever), they provide a welcome respite from the more, shall we say, colorful aspects of my fellow Islanders. In a culture with more hand gestures then an interpretive dance group and more deep-fried objects then a McDonald's test kitchen it can be nice to get away from el tapon (while a literal translation of this might give you plug, the denizens of Boriquen know it best as traffic jam) and spend some time relaxing with the sound of the ocean trilling in your ears. Of course, as it happens, in the months between May and September, you might not be the only person with that idea in mind.

For example, when we strolled up to our favorite beach, El Escambron, a scant twenty minute walk from Viejo San Juan, ready to spend a little time getting to know skin cancer intimately, we realized somethings very quickly. Number one, every single other person who lives in the general area of San Juan had arrived there before us. And number two? They had brought the entire contents of their homes.

It must be said that my family and I do indeed bring quite a few things on any excursions we take ourselves. I personally am capable of packing a small suitcase for a less then 24-hour trip. And that's when I'm restraining myself. So I understand that when you take a beach trip you need sunscreen, towels, your sarong, your sunglasses, a book, another book if you think you might get bored with the first book, a notebook, a camera, a snack, a second snack because you burn so many calories burning in the sun, and a chair. At the very least. But compared to almost everyone I observed on Saturday afternoon, I'm like one of those Tibetan monks with 5 possessions.

Walking around, I noticed the following, none of which would have ever occurred to me to bring with me, well, anywhere: Multiple charcoal grills, a gas grill, several shopping carts filled with food, at least five full-scale infant play pens, tents, family sized coolers, three kitchen tables, and last, but in no way least, a sofa. Yes, that's write, a real living room sofa. Right there. On the beach. Because beach chairs? Just don't cut it any more, I suppose.

Now look, I'm all for comfort and convenience. I mean, as I currently type this I'm debating whether it's worth it to climb a total of two flights of stairs go get food (glorious food!) or to stay in this comfortable spot, and I can honestly say I have no idea which impulse will win. But bringing your living room and kitchen with you for a trip to the ocean? That's just crazy.

They did look comfortable, though. Maybe if I got a pick up truck? With some reggeton blasting and some bumperstickers on the back, I might fit right in!

Struggle Crosses Over Volume I

2010-07-02T11:28:00.000-04:00

And, finally, after much back and forth and several tearful ice-cream eating sessions with my cats, I can present you call with a conversation between myself, struggle extraordinaire, and my friend Ben, of E. Plurbus Moron, gentleman, statesman, lover, documentor of our insanely strugglesome nation. I can only hope that you enjoy our little cross-blog pollination attempt as much as we did. Who am I kidding, of course you will, because YOU, like both of us, continue to embrace the struggle!

Ben: Well Leah it is hot as Satan’s taint in D.C. now and we all know what that means: The Real Housewives of New Jersey are back! What’s fun is that most of the women in that show are filing bankruptcy. Now Leah, pretend for a second you’re a normal 22 year old and watch something other than 1980s British crime dramas on PBS, and tell us your thoughts on the Real Housewives. Do they deserve to be punished for their capitalist ways? Power to the reality TV proliteriate!

Leah: First of all, Benjamin, D.C. doesn’t corner the market on hot humid summers, Philly is the mid-Atlantic too, remember? As I write this my shirt is sticking to my skin so deeply that I’m concerned the two might fuse into some kind of shirt-skin hybrid, and isn’t THAT just the crappiest superpower ever? Second of all, I’ll have you know that I also watch the Disney channel, ABC Family, AND Law and Order reruns on USA, so how is that for hip? (Hep? How are the kids saying it these days?). But about this “Real” housewives business, honestly, can’t these ladies just defy convention and get a job? I just want to go hit them in the face with the Feminist Mystique. Of course, knowing them, they might think that was a feminine hygiene product….

Ben: Haha do you mean the “Feminine Mystique” or “Feminist Mystique”, Countess Luann De Lesseps line of erotic body jewelry?

Leah: What makes body jewelry erotic? Oh, god, please don’t answer that.

Ben: Speaking of famous ghouls with really bad debt problems, this past weekend was the first anniversary of Michael Jackson’s death. Where were you when this news broke, Leah?

Leah: Jesus, I don’t even remember, I think I blocked that out in a shame spiral of whiskey and one-woman reenactment’s of Bad. But then, who didn’t?

Ben: Certainly not me! But now that we have a little perspective on his death I have to say that the whole idea that his death was shocking is kind of ridiculous, no? I mean when Elvis died it was the first time people realized that a Rock music icons were mortal enough to die on the toilet and not in just in a freak accident/overdose. But Michael Jackson? People were weeping over the death of a man who weighed like 40 pounds and didn’t have a face. Was it sad? Yes. Was it the most shocking thing MJ’s every done? God no.

Leah: I know! What about the baby on the balcony? The Surgeries? The marriage to a (wait for it) POSSIBLE female! Honestly, in this case death is probably one of the most vanilla things he could have done.
Ben: That’s not to say Michael Jackson didn’t change lives. Leah his music taught you how to dance and be yourself. And he taught me a little game he ~sob~ used to like to call ~sob~ “Naked tickle fun time” ~sobs hysterically as Leah slowly finishes her coffee ignoring Ben’s weeping~

Leah: Yeaaaahhhhh, can we not wander down the memory lane that was your time at Neverland Ranch? It gets awkward for everyone else when you talk about the toys and the outfits and the totally consensual non-sexual acts that totally didn’t happen not even one time.
But seriously, think about this for a second, Michael Jackson is dead, Madonnna may secretly be the Incredible Hulk if her arms are any indication, everyone else is reduced to making fun of themselves on VH1, what happened to that generation of music? And they wonder why we like this indie-rock business so much, unwashed and pretentious it might be, but at least the artists don’t seem quite so mentally unstable. I say that, of course, but then you have GaGa….

Ben: Leah…please….you’re overloading me on pop culture references. I’m not strong enough. Can we please discuss politics?!?

Leah: FINE.

Ben: I guess I was wondering if you had heard that Jan Brewer, the governor of Arizona who totally isn’t a racist who hates Hispanics, said that “Most immigrants from Mexico come over as drug mules.” As a Mexican, how do you feel about this Leah?

Leah: Wow, Ben, I’m just going to breeze straight past your racist ignorance of geography and just remind you that Puerto Rico is actually not a part of Mexico. ANYway, I couldn’t agree with her more! It’s just like how most Chinese immigrants strolled in all “please, for the love of god, let us build your railroads and, eventually, populate your universities!”

Ben: Right. It’s like saying that Jewish immigrants came to this country to run our banks/media and add vigor to our meat sandwich culture.

Leah: Wait, isn’t that true, though? I mean, my ancestors, the non-drug mule ones, obviously, escaped a pogrom and crawled into Ellis Island with a copy of Adam Smith in one hand and an entire pastrami in the other. Didn’t yours?

Ben: This country was founded on the idea of freedom from drug mules and fatty beef sandwiches! And I will be damned ~sob~ if these Socialists ~sob~ try to stop Jan Brewer from ~sob~ keeping America White, er, constitutionally grounded. Wow if I’m turning into Glenn Beck I think it might be time to shut this conversation down.

Leah: Yes, I’m feeling a little dirty right now just from listening to you. Well, there you have it folks, reality television, 80′s pop stars, blatant racism, Ben crying twice. Happy 4th of July. This is just how the founding fathers must have spent it!

Struggle Goes Whole Hog

2010-06-29T20:26:00.001-04:00

First of all, I want to apologize for the lateness of this post. And then I want to do what I was taught to do as a proud US Citizen and completely pass the blame over to someone else. In this case, that would be my friend Ben. You see, Benny-boy had this grand idea that we should do a joint post, rather like a conversation piece. Fine, I said, because in theory it seemed like a fun thing to do, and besides, I was still waiting on my next Netflix. Our email conversation started off really well, we had a solid back and forth, worthy of a few laughs at the very least. But what began as a steady stream of struggle ended up a tiny trickle that dried away into nothing, leaving my last response cold and alone out in cyberspace, waiting for Godot, and an email back. Lost, confused, a little betrayed, I wondered, was it me? Was it Ben? Was it the struggle? Sure, it's definitely that last one. But it's also something more. Because the more I looked around me at my peers, the more I could see a trend. I saw energy, excitement, a fresh approach to everything (even to pants. But tights? Not pants. You aren't an innovator, you are an idiot. Subject closed). But what you don't see is completion. So much build up, so little finale. There is a "that's what she said" joke in there, but I'm in no mood to make it. Because here is my grand revelation about most people in their early twenties: Excellent start, no follow through.

As I sat, fuming at Ben, and, of course, the mailman who had neglected to bring me my Netflix, I considered this strange phenomenon. After all, it's not just Ben, who couldn't follow up on an email, but it's all of us! It's all around us! We can figure out how to have sex, but we can't figure out how to use condoms! We can avoid an actual call by texting in abbreviations! And if I cared at all about the World Cup, I might bring that up too! I mean, is it any surprise that our generation is the one that has brought back leggings AND rompers, the two most half-assed garments you can possible find? I don't think so, people!

But me? I'm not going halfway down that road and stopping! No, my friends, the struggle isn't something you embrace just a little bit, with one arm, or maybe giving it a subtle graze on the buttocks! You have to get all the way in there, hug it out, throw both arms around the thing and just squeeze! So I am, from now on, all about the follow through, and you should be too! After all, they do say in for a penny, in for a pound, and while we may have thrown off the shackles of our funny-talking dry-witted former landlords in other respects, that little aphorism about their strange monetary system remains. So to inspire you to, as my father says, "finish the job", the following is a list of some current young people who I consider all talk and no action:

1. Amanda Bynes. Girl is retiring from her "acting" "career" at the age of 24. I call foul on this one. Faye Dunnaway has an acting career. Isabella Rossini. Helen Miren. Hell, I'll even give Cathrine Zeta Jones more credit then Ms. Bynes. Because Zeta Jones isn't best remembered for humiliating Colin Firth and Saturday night on Nickelodeon. Yet. You need to HAVE a career in order to retire from one, right? Because if that's not the case, I'm telling everyone I'm a retired Navy SEAL.

2. Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson. Not only are they making horrible Mormon-propaganda films about sparkly vampires and the bad actresses who love them, but they NEVER WASH THEIR HAIR. I know that hundreds of thousands of people are standing in line to throw money at films that would make Sergei Eisenstein weep, are you telling me you really can't afford shampoo?

3. Gossip Girl. This show started out all sexy and fun but now it's gotten awkward and weird. That's usually the way it works when you go to college, but, you know, in REVERSE.

Don't get me wrong, I know there are plenty more out there. But I'm going to solider on, and preserve the thin slice of hope I have that for all the Gossip Girls and Bynes' out there there is a Carey Mulligan or a Regina Spektor whose clean hair and actual talents and jobs prove that my generation really can get something done. Otherwise, what's all the struggle for, then?

I can't condemn Ben completely, by the way. He did finally get back to me, and our experiment in joint-blogging will be up soon. So maybe follow through is something that can be learned and developed with proper encouragement and care. Still, I'm not holding out any hope for the Twilight cast.

Socratic Struggle

2010-06-19T10:01:00.001-04:00

I pride myself in the fact that I avoided most of the common pitfalls of college. Oh, sure, I had my fair share of less-then-collegiate moments at not-Yale, most of which involved a bottle of Cuervo and a sudden obsession with a capella , and, on one occasion, the loss of a friend on a midnight falafel run (hi, Ned!), but by and large I missed the classics, the hospital visit for alcohol poisoning, the waking up in a frat house, Econ, Psych, dread-locks, starting a band, writing poetry, sleeping with a professor, and, of course, this being not-Yale, the joining of the GOP. But I did make one fatal mistake by cliche standards, and that was my enrollment in a little thing they call philosophy.

If you want certainty in your life, if you want absolutes and rules for how to live, do yourself a favor and don't take philosophy. If, on the other hand, you want doubt, you want uncertainty, you want, in fact, to question the very fabric of the universe to the point when your brain feels on the point of explosion, filled to the brim with Wittgenstein, Kierkegaard, Kant and Aristotle (that's a dinner party worth attending...) to the point when you snap and, obviously, reach for the Cuervo, then sure, by all means, go nuts. Take a philosophy class. Be my guest.

No, that's not entirely fair. The truth is that I had amazing philosophy professors and learned a great deal in their classes. But most of what I learned concerned how impossible the act of learning really is. I think. I'm not sure. Hang on, I have to go check that with Nietzsche.

If I had to guess, I would say that what concerned me the most about my philosophy classes was how subjective morality became for me. And why am I even thinking about this now, at least 4 years since I last put down a copy of the Republic and decided it was all Greek to me? Well, as part of maintaining my real estate licence (which I got before I was legally able to drink....true story), I recently found myself sitting in an office building on Delaware Avenue with a gorgeous view of Camden on a Wednesday morning well before 9am being instructed on ethics. Specifically ethics pertaining to Real Estate. Which, frankly, is a subject I didn't know warranted an hour, let alone seven! Ah, ZING, I'll be here all night! Tip ya bartender!

The sad thing is, most people just assume that real estate agents are unethical sharks who are trying to steal your money and deceive you into buying houses made of cardboard. The even sadder thing is that a lot of real estate agents really ARE unethical sharks who are trying to steal your money and deceive you into buying homes made of cardboard. And apparently, all of them were teaching me on Wednesday morning. Seriously, that had to be the group of least ethical, slimiest, sketchiest purveyors of houses I have ever met, and I have been doing this for a solid four years. Forging your client's names, deception, cash only deals, blockbusting, undisclosed dual agency, private interest, you name it, it was represented. Here's a hint, dude, if you want to teach a room full of people how to be ethical it's not a great idea to ply them with stories about how you committed, and got away with!, fraud. It's bound to be more of an inspiration then a castigation, if you know what I mean.

I can't really decide which I found more troubling, my year of philosophy classes or my seminar on Real Estate ethics. I left my philosophy class confused and concerned about the state of the universe. I left my Real Estate ethics class needing a silkwood shower. So I guess Real Estate class wins on the scale of more mind blowing life experiences, and not really in a good way. Worst thing of all? They served us terrible pizza. There has to be something morally wrong with that.

Dinner for Struggle

2010-06-14T20:28:00.001-04:00

It's been very clearly established that I feel fairly negative about most people most of the time, and it's true, I do. However, I feel very positively about most FOOD all of the time. And while I'm perfectly capable of eating large amounts of food all by my lonesome, I tend to try and get someone involved in the process with me, in order to, you know, fulfill social protocols, avoid drinking alone, and dispel all those nasty rumors that I'm building bombs in my basement. So when my friend Jacob (hi, Jacob!) announced that he would be coming into Struggledelphia for a brief interlude I saw no reason not to kill two birds with one stone and have a dinner party, giving me an opportunity to make an enormous meal, invite over tons of people, and, and this is the genius part, avoid actually having to deal with any of the guests.

You see, I'm a little controlling when it comes to cooking. Maybe it was the five years I spent working at a chef right here in Struggledelphia (and as a result if anyone needs a new acid dealer they should let me know, I know at least three!), or maybe it's my secret belief that if I put a knife in the hands of a stranger it gives them a tactical advantage over me should something go down, but I have spent at least 65% of every dinner party I have ever thrown sweating my make up off in the kitchen cooking and cleaning as outside on my patio youthful revelers carouse and quaff. And, to be perfectly honest, part of me really enjoys just that, the act of preparing and creating and watching other people enjoy the product of that process. And another part of me enjoys the fact that whenever I disappear for too long, my friend Mariel (hi, Mariel!) starts to call for me like a baby bird, and then everyone else notices I've been gone and drags me back out to ply me with wine and, (horror of horrors!) socialize. Well, if you can't avoid people, at least surround yourself with the least dreadful of the bunch. And make sure they bring the wine.

So to help out all those who are in search of dinner party guidelines, I've included a few helpful tips, along with photographic illustrations. After all, if I can manage to make it through a night with other people, open flames, food, knives and a gin-based Sangria (don't ask), YOU should be just fine.

1. Be an excellent cook. Or hire one.

2. It's not the 1950's and 60's anymore, please avoid making Jello-based desserts. I love Mad Men as much as the next sane human being, but come on, people, there's love and then there's crazy. You wouldn't just go around stalking the object of your affection, would you? Walk that same line with pastry, and you should be fine.

3. I know there is a recession on, but serving your pet as the main course is tacky. At least have the class to capture and kill someone else's. It can be a group activity, and thus solves the problem of bored guests should that come up.

4. I don't care how bad you are in social settings, resist the urge to try and escape by any means necessary.

5. Finally, give your friends some love. Especially if they are the ones keeping your wine glass full, and not making fun of your apron.

Struggle Vs. Saturday

2010-06-07T16:36:00.000-04:00

Some days I don't know why I even bother getting out of bed. And I don't mean that in a depressive, sad, the state of the world is so bad kind of a way, but more in an angry yet laughing to avoid slapping someone in the face kind of a way. Though, if I really think about it, a lot of the frustration I feel may be entirely my own fault. Here is the thing, I'm a planner. I love plans. Hand me a plan and watch me start to glow. Itineraries? I adore them. Building blueprints? I gush. Step by step instructions? That's my happy place. And while people may tout the glories and delights of the spontaneous, the random adventures, the unexpected pleasures, I would counter with the fact that those out of the blue moments are often accompanied by things like food poisoning, getting horribly lost, and prison. Sometimes all at once, in fact. Ask me how!

But sometimes, despite my membership in the church of plantology, I have to wonder if there is some kind of cosmic memo that goes around but passes me completely by. Something along the lines of: "Denizens of earth, please do your best to derail our favorite little documenter of the struggle today by any means necessary, use force if you must, the goals is a complete mental breakdown. Hugs and kisses, the universe". Are you guys all getting that? If you care, can someone please forward it to me next time? At least that way I will be slightly better prepared!

I suppose I should more fully explain. You see, all I wanted to do yesterday was attend the Northern Liberties Music Festival. Call it the fatty-no-friends in me, but I just wanted to enjoy a pleasant afternoon of day drinking and kebab chewing while listening to truly horrible bands serenade myself, my friends, and Strugglemano, who has abandoned the West Coast for a brief respite in the balmy Struggledelphia humidity. But the struggle, my friends,what did it do? That's right, it abounded.

First of all, Strugglemano, who is like a 19th Century French Heroine in this respect, has once again twisted his ankle. Granted, he did so jumping a fence in a stadium parking lot rather then, say, trying to breathe in a corset, but still, his Madame Bovary like accident has left him more useless then Tiny Tim. Because he finds walking in crutches to be quite a work out (and who DOESN'T, those things are rough!) he is confined to a 1 mile radius or less for the time being, and you have to allot time for breaks.

Second of all, for some reason these pesky people keep wanting to see houses even though it's the weekend and I'm tired. Some people have no consideration for others. I found this to be especially true as I biked away from one showing and almost immediately found myself being clothes-lined across the neck by a rubber coated wire tied between two telephone polls. As I lay on the ground with my bike gently crushing my left leg I caught a hand-written sign out of the corner of my eye. "Road Closed". Illegal much?

Third of all, of the many people I invited to enjoy this hard won afternoon of fermented hops, bright sunlight and sticky little children dancing to metal bands, only two of them showed up, and one of them happens to be related to me. So, while Kelly (hi, Kelly!), Strugglemano and I risked skin cancer, heat stroke and the perils of experimental artisanal beer (lemon grass, ginger and wheat, it's not all it's cracked up to be) to enjoy a neighborhood festival, well, we did so alone. The few, the proud, the sun stroke victims.

It's moments like this, my clothing sticking to my body like flypaper, passersby asking me if I've recently showered or been caught in the rain, abandoned by all those who had sworn to stand by me (or rather, slump by me in the shade), when I wonder, is it me? Should I not be so excited by plans, if the plan is going to let me down, die before it comes to fruition, leaving me as a footstool for my brother's swollen joints? Do I expect too much of people, by assuming they will fulfill their promises and actually show up to things? Is expecting anything from anyone a fool's game? Maybe it's me, I think, maybe it's me.

But on second thought, I realize, that's just crazy talk. It's not me, it's everyone else. Step it up, people. Follow the plan.It's our only weapon against the struggle, take it from me. And at least now, thanks to Saturday's adventures, I'm struggling with a tan.

Happy Strugglorial Day!

2010-05-31T16:30:00.000-04:00

I'll be the first to admit that some things just pass me by. Take, for example, Justin Bieber. I have no idea who this person is. Seriously. No concept. Is he a type of toaster? One of Madoff's co-conspirators? A character in the popular comic strip Get Fuzzy? Is he the secret revealed in the final episode of Lost? More importantly, is he the secret to why people actually watch Lost? I really couldn't tell you. And, moreover, I'm perfectly comfortable not knowing. I like a mystery in my life. Though of course, there are instances when your ignorance can screw you...

Take, for example, major holidays. I sort of always forget that they, well, exist. Now, as a follower of the protocols of Zion, I think I can be forgiven for being occasionally caught off guard by infant birthdays, resurrection parties and hunger fasts. But the fact that I can't keep national holidays together means that at best I'm a space cadet and, at worst, I'm letting the terrorists win.

So, while other people are, I'm assuming, running around at backyard barbecues or auditioning for this season of The Jersey Shore, I myself had a fairly typical Monday, showing apartments, attending my pilates class, returning some emails, watch three guys try to steal a car...Oh, is that last one not typical where you live? The things you miss out on if you aren't existing in this beautiful city. You see, this morning when I went to show a property I was greeted by the most interesting sight. Three men were peering into the windows of a large car, leaning up against it like a sailor in a brothel, and generally putting the sketch in sketchtacular. As I locked up my bike and sat on the front steps of the building, one of the men approached me.

"Excuse me, Miss, do you have a hanger?", he said.
" A what?" quoth I, completely perturbed.
"A wire hanger. We need one", he said.

Resisting the urge to make the obvious Joan Crawford reference, I politely informed him that I don't typically bike around the city of Struggledelphia with hangers in my bag, but that I would start doing so in the future, just to be better prepared. To give to strange men. To help them steal cars. As one does.

It was just around this moment when the fact that today is a holiday crept back into my head. I sighed as I watched the three co-conspirators attempt to break open the car door as I waited for my prospective tenants to come see the place. I have to start keeping better track of time, I thought. That, or learn how to bike with a hanger handy. As I biked away, I couldn't help but wish those three men luck. After all, it is a holiday. Maybe they just wanted something to celebrate. As for me, now that I've finally remembered this day is special, I may just have to reward myself with a nice, strong, way-to-resist-the-urge-to-commit-a-felony drink. At the very least, it's a celebration of the fact that they didn't give up on the car and go for my bike. Celebrate the victories, right? Isn't that what this holiday is all about?

Happy Memorial day, my little struggles! And remember, if you want a car stolen, don't forget to bring all the appropriate tools. If my story proves anything, it's that you really can't depend on the kindness of strangers, at least when it comes to hangers. Consider that your free life lesson for the day.

Struggle Has It Covered

2010-05-24T20:47:00.001-04:00

If you can introduce me to someone who actually enjoys the act of writing a cover letter, I will in turn point out that that person is a serial killer waiting to happen.Seriously, there are probably people out there who get a perverse glow out of describing themselves on paper in a manner that is both arrogant and humble, but I personally hate writing cover letters for the same reason I hate Pretty Woman, because it's unrealistic, at the end of the day you still feel like a product to be sold, and I don't get the appeal of Julia Roberts. Okay, that last one may only apply to Pretty Woman. Still, I'm fairly certain you understand me.

However, it does seem scarily appropriate on this, the first anniversary of my graduation from not-Yale (which, my research says, is the paper anniversary, but one wonders if it mightn't have been better just to let this one go rather then giving it the lamest gift idea ever), that my current hateful obsession is the dreaded job application. After all, it was my tragic graduation from that institution that thrust me into the job market, and despite a year of ex-patriot existence, it seems that here I am all over again, seated in from of my computer, desperately trying to seem both interested and interesting on paper. Come to think of it, I take it back, in this situation it's perfectly acceptable that this is the paper anniversary, after all, I'm using so very much of lately.

The thing is that the more I search and apply for positions and internships and any opportunity to leave the world of Real Estate, the more farcical it all appears. I've seen the term "self starter", "highly motivated" and "attention to detail" so many times in print that they've actually lost all meaning for me. And while while some ad copy reads like the kind of thing that would make Peggy Olsen weep, some of it seems deliberately mysterious and opaque. For example, my friend Andrew, (hi Andrew!) was recently applying for a job whose advertisement asked applicants to name their salary price. I mean, what does that even mean? I want ALL the money, how about that? That's my salary price. All the money. I mean, let's be reasonable here, I'm a recent college graduate in an economy so in trouble that I find myself re-reading Grapes of Wrath for life tips, and there are, like, hundreds of thousands of other people out there who are just like me (though obviously lacking my sparkling personality and rapier-like wit, duh), I'm just thrilled you don't want me to pay you!

However, in the spirit of our great nation, I will persevere, and while I won't be fulfilling the promise of my forefathers by slaughtering indigenous peoples or eating my weight in fast food, I will indeed continue my struggle to find gainful employment in something at least a little closer to my chosen field. Though to be fair, getting through the day without smacking a prospective tenant directly in the face but instead pretending their questions are meaningful is in and of itself kind of a performance...

And for all of you struggling alone with me in this painful job application process, I present a few helpful hints to aid you in your construction of your cover letters. After all, if you are going to whore around, you might as well have a pimp to help you through it!

1. Remember, it's a job application, not a dive bar. Desperate is not in fact an asset in this case, and ending a letter with "please please pretty pretty please" is not as persuasive as you think it's going to be. A good rule of thumb is that if it worked in pre-school it's probably not going to work now. It's a shame, really, because that was my move...

2. While talking up your talents is acceptable and encouraged, straight up lying seems to be frowned upon for some silly reason. Something about hospital liability or some nonsense like that.

3. Do try to avoid mentioning how many followers you have on Twitter. It's not impressive, it's awkward. Unless you are actually applying to Twitter, in which case have at it, but believe me on this one, whoever is reading your letter? They've got more.

Good luck with your applications, gentle readers. And for anyone who themselves graduated this past weekend, or any weekend in May, congratulations, and welcome to the Dark Side.

Ice Ice Struggle

2010-05-16T23:25:00.003-04:00

There are many possible alternatives to an ice pick. A thin sharp knife will work, or a wooden spoon or spatula. Anything plastic is less then efficient, it's something about the material when it meets ice, please don't tell me the chemical-physical reaction, I don't want to know. Metal tends to be the key, in my experience.

And what exactly is my experience, you might ask? Well, it's recent, but rich, and it pretty much involves me attacking an ice floe inside a freezer for at least 25 minutes and contemplating how this moment became a part of my reality.You know when you have those moments in your life when you can't help but think, wait, stop, how did I get here, how did this happen, how did this all go so wrong so quickly? I've been having a few of those lately.

Here's a funny thing about me: I spend a lot of my time in the apartments of strangers. Am I a stalker or a serial killer? No, not yet at least. No, I'm a Real Estate Agent, more specifically a Rentals Agent, and as a result I spend my days fielding questions from idiots and explaining away the messes of people I've never met. I run, or rather, bike furiously, from apartment to house to apartment, wandering through other people's spaces like I'm trying on the contents of their closets (which I've also seen, by the way), and I observe their kitchens, bathrooms, bedrooms and living rooms (their dirty laundry, their dishes, their family photos, their jewelry boxes, their shoes) like the most detail oriented voyeur possible. And in my wanderings across the city of Struggledelphia this past week I found myself confronted with an adorable studio apartment, hardwood floors, tiled bathroom, separate kitchen, miniature polar ice cap. That last one? Was from the freezer. Noticing the freezer door slightly ajar, I tried my best to close it. No dice. Not only had the freezer created an ice storm of epic proportions around the ice cream and fat-free frozen dinners, but it had extended beyond the bounds of the freezer, reaching out, creating a Mr. Freeze style ice bridge which in another context might be a real challenge for Batman, but for me was just another Thursday afternoon.

Shooing the possible new tenants out with an awkward clenched teeth smile, I found myself, knife in hand, using a freezer full of ice like a session of aggressive physical therapy. Just another day in the life, I thought to myself. Nothing to worry about. I'm just doing my job.

After days like this, I need the meal I cook to be as simple as possible. My caramelized cauliflower with onions is a recipe so deceptively simple most people think it took me hours. Little do they know, after a day wrestling with an aggressive freezer, I've earned the cheap and easy calories.

Caramelized Cauliflower with Onions:
1 Head of Cauliflower
1 Red Onion
Salt
Pepper
Cooking spray

Heat the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Cut the cauliflower up into small florets. Slice the onion, and mix the onion in a large bowl the cauliflower, cooking spray (or olive oil), salt and pepper. Spread out on a baking sheet and cook until the mixture turns golden to deep brown and appears crispy. Enjoy.

Struggle Gets Old School

2010-05-12T16:46:00.000-04:00

The thing about homecomings is that they almost never go smoothly. Something about the culture clash, the mixture of people, the gap in time, it's a recipe for disaster. But while movies and books and Harold Pinter would have us think of homecomings as dramatic and traumatic affairs, in my own vast and varied experience, i.e., my experience this past weekend at my high school reunion, I can honestly say that homecomings aren't disturbing or destructive as much as they are awkward. Deeply, deeply awkward. Though of course, 90% of that might have been me.

However, to be fair, 10% of it at least was the fact that this was my five year high school reunion. Now here is the thing about a five year period, I really don't know how much you are able to get done in one, especially considering that four out of those five years you were probably spending your time at another academic institution and, if movies teach us anything, trying to forget high school as much as possible. (Maybe that fifth year too? Maybe even right now? Those of you reading who have made it past the five year mark, please don't tell me you still think about your time in high school, it will only depress me.) But five years is really the most pathetic of reunions, and the reason's why are threefold:

1. You probably still see and are in contact with at least half your graduating class. With the advent of facebook and the interweb and new carrier pigeon technology moving forward with leaps and bounds, keeping in touch with people is as easy as pressing a button or releasing a bird. In fact, I feel like I have seen more of my classmates since I left high school, and by this I mean, they have some slutty facebook photos. Put that away, people, my MOM is on there!

2. Unless you are an evil genius (i.e., myself) or have already found the time to inherit in a major way, you probably are doing one of three things, working at an entry level position which you grit your teeth through and tell everyone it's "a great networking experience", interning at an entry level position which you grit your teeth through and tell everyone it's "a great learning experience", or attending graduate school, which you can talk about all you want, but no one really wants to listen. If you've reunited with at least one person from each of these camps, you can leave your five year reunion happy, because you've pretty much fully caught up.

3. All of your residual high school drama and issues are still close enough to the surface that once you get a few drinks in you at the reunion bar these aren't going to be fun little antidotes of a bygone era but real, unfortunate, socially awkward (in my case) struggles that are either going to find you sobbing in a bathroom somewhere or waking up in an all too familiar person's bed. Of course the third option (and my personal favorite) is that you go home alone and fend off the attentions of your middle-aged Russian cab driver. Anyway you slice it, it's a flashback to a dark place.

With the acknowledgment of all these things, however, I actually had a pretty good time at my reunion, and I can now offer some fun and simple tips, to ensure that others do the same:

1. Anyone can be interesting for ten minutes, even the people you had declared your arch-nemesis and spent countless lunch hours and Friday nights plotting against. For ten minutes you can find yourself satisfying whatever mild curiosity you had about even the most vague acquaintance and pretending to care about their life. After ten minutes, well, if that's a risk you are willing to take, be my guest.

2. You can all legally drink together. Finally. And take it from me on this one, you're going to want to do so.

3. Remember that thing you always wanted to say to that person? Well, trust me on this one, you still don't have the chutzpah to say it, so don't even try. Besides, it's not like you can just say it, blame it on the henny, and get the hell out of there, after all, they can always post their response on your facebook wall. Wait at least until you ten year reunion, I know I am.

Thinking back over the weekend's events, I was thrilled to realize that the struggle was at least 50% the five year reunion and 50% myself. It's always nice to know it's not entirely my fault when everything get's awkward. Though of course, given that it's high school we are discussing, I really shouldn't have been so surprised.

Struggle Gets Oriented

2010-05-03T23:50:00.000-04:00

I recently spent ten minutes explaining to a café waitress in the Shanghai Pudong airport the concept of an iced coffee. Really? REALLY? Has NO one ever made that request before in this entire NATION? Is that possible that in a country that includes all four seasons, no one, craving both a refreshing cooling experience and life’s best and most legal drug, has asked politely to combine coffee and ice in order to create a more perfect union? Or is it, as I suspect, that people have asked, oh, how they’ve asked, begged, cried even, in all the languages of ever spoken from Babel and beyond, and the People’s Republic just doesn’t care. I bet you a dollar (that’s 6.8 RNB, by the way) that Mateo Ricci and Marco Polo were both like, Por Favore, café con ghiaccio, por el amore de dio! The British probably pleaded, the Dutch demanded, the French sneered, the Spaniards gesticulated, but China has stood firm. Coffee with ice in it? That’s just crazy talk. White devil juice. None of that for desendents of Khan.

So if you ever find yourself in the Shanghai Pudong Airport I would advise you to get some coffee beforehand. Not only will doing so aid you in avoiding an awkward interpretive dance enacting the term "ice", but you will have something to console you as you wait in the inumberable lines that seperate you, the traveler, from your gate. Or, like me, you will find yourself with a 10 dollar paper cup filled with hot coffee and rapidly melting ice while laughing Chinese people eagerly watch you to make sure you are (finally) happy. In such a case, it's best to just fake it, reguardless of how disgusting the drink is. Trust me on that one.

And so, horrible cup of coffee like substance in my hand, I departed from Shanghai and, 14 hours later, arrived in a much stranger and more strugglesome place (is such a thing possible? Oh, wait for it, folks!). That's right, people. I went to Los Angeles.

Now, I firmly believe there are people out there who love and delight in Los Angeles. I believe there are people who enjoy equestrian paintings and crocs and t-shirt's that say "Your Boyfriend Bought Me This Shirt" and the music of Justin Bieber. I believe these things are real and out there and that there are people who treasure them, and are grateful for their existence. I even believe that there are people who when told: Death is not an option and are placed in front of the Twilight Saga DON'T immediately scream "Death is ALWAYS an option!" and jump out the nearest window. I am just not among them.

I think I've made my feelings about Los Angeles pretty clear in the past, but just for all those who have joined us late in the game, I point you to the nearest Woody Allen film. Well, that's not quite fair. After all, Los Angeles has truely excellent food, and the weather is really nice. And if there is any other good quality... I personally have yet to find it. But Strugglemano lives there, and as I wasn't wild about extending my trip across the Pacific ocean to include a cross-country flight, I dragged my bags, still dusty from the sand blowing off the Gobi desert, into my brother's car and, scowling in the sunshine like the East Coaster I am, observed the most common Los Angeles view there is, that is, the one framed by a car window.

The thing about flying from China to the West Coast is that you gain 15 hours of time, so in many cases you find yourself arriving about an hour before you left the day before. For some people this might have seemed like a perfect opportunty to hit the sights and check out the museums. but having spent the last 5 months of my life doing exactly that, I was honestly eager for some downtime, and if you can't count on the United States to find places to stuff your face, where the hell can you? So, in deferance to my wishes, Strugglemano set out to find me the best of the best of the worst possible foods for you. And here is something I noticed on our gastronomic journy, and I have to say, maybe it's our arrogance, or our ignorance, but when it comes to dining we in the US sometimes act like we are inventing the wheel. We are always "discovering" things like cupcakes or couscous or chicken and then carrying on like no one has ever heard of this item before. This year seems to be the year of bacon and whiskey, despite the fact that the Chinese consider it to be the year of the tiger. Sorry, China, tiger meat is just too expensive these days, though apparently whale is just fine...

So in keeping with these exciting new food discoveries, Strugglemano and I made it our mission in my first 24 hours back on US soil to consume them both in large quantities. Starting with the bacon-maple donut from the Nickel Diner in downtown LA ( I know it sounds disgusting, but I have to tell you, it was glorious, every articlogging bite of it) and moving on to murkey but delicious burbon Derbies at the speak-easy style Edison (has to be one of the coolest bars I've seen in a while, it's not every day you get to sip bootleg gin surrounded by silent movies and turn-of-the-century machinery). We ended the day stuffing our faces at Animal, a resturant specializing in little plates of delectably prepared meats. I guess America has found meat this year as well. Thank goodness, too, it coincides with our recent discovery of fire.

I will say this much for Los Angeles, when I walked into a coffee shop, be it the painfully hip Intellegetnsia or the bubble tea house in a mall complex in the San Gabriel valley, they knew what I wanted when I asked for iced coffee. It's almost a shame, really, I was getting really good at miming.

A Struggle is Worth A Thousand Words: Beijing Edition

2010-04-29T23:49:00.001-04:00

Here's the thing about me: I'm a super creeper. When not challenging strangers to trivia contests and whiskey drinking races, I'm the person at the edge of the party, taking pictures, catching uncomfortable moments and suprise instances of double chins (a tragedy common to all but maybe Kate Moss, and I dislike her, so she doesn't win this one). And here's the thing about China, it's practically made for staring. It's like New York Fashion week, all kinds of crazy things are going on, everyone is wearing heels, and no one seems to have heard this rumor about "pants". You replace Anna Wintour with Chairman Mao and you are in business, baby. (By the way, if Beijing had a Fashion Week next year, you heard it here first. I'd say China would owe me money, but I think we all know how that nation feels about copyright laws...)

Anyway, considering that not only did I elicit looks everywhere I went, especially in Beijing, and will be included in more then one chinese family's photo album ( I'm not going to tell you the number, but I was asked to pose with quite a few smiling Chinese families and even had some solo photos snapped of me with various camera phones. I now know how Brangelina feels, obviously), I decided it would be perfectly socially acceptable for me to retaliate in kind. Turnabout is fair play, right?

Sino-Strugglet Relations

2010-04-25T23:13:00.001-04:00

Everyone talks about travel as an education. And by everyone, I really mean the people I meet who don't travel very much at all. They ask me what I'm doing and I tell them I've been traveling for the past year and they say, oh, how wonderful, what and experience, that's so amazing, I wish I could do that, and all of it comes out in the tone of voice that let's you know that these people would be lost like Gilligan if they ever ventured anywhere outside of Blackberry wireless service and Starbucks range. And while some people might then spend the time after that revelation wondering if they are a Ginger or a Mary Anne (personally I think I'm a Professor...) I decided that I didn't have time to invent a coconut radio, and so, phone-less (let alone Blackberry-less), and uncaffinated (I, well, I don't know how to order coffee in Chinese. It's an issue), I stepped out into the world. Or at the very least, into the China.

But of course, when you visit a major city in any nation, from Kenya to Kuwait, it's always going to be a little easier then anywhere else. The thing about cities is that they are magnets for people, for immigrants, for languages and for English Menus. Traditionally cities were built on major waterways, take, for example, Egypt, as evidence, or the Roman Empire, or however the Vikings made it past the frozen tundra of Scandinavia and into our hearts and minds. But a fun fact about Shanghai is that while these days it may be one of the two cities people can actually remember exist in China (The other one is NOT Hong Kong. Come ON people, is history just something you learn from The Tudors? Please don't answer that..), if you think back about 80 years ago or so, Shanghai was a one horse town filled with ex-pats, opium dens, and young ladies from the east who wanted to look more like they were from the west. These days however, well, I mean, subtract the horse, add thousands of cars, bikes, and poorly designed scooters, and, frankly, keep the rest of that definition, and you have Shanghai in 2010. And while Shanghai these days may be mad, bad, and dangerous to know, it's not so very different then it was less the a century ago. It's bigger, richer, and more important, but it's got no fewer foreigners (if anything, it has MORE), and it's still a place where a girl can get herself around and, despite more then a few misunderstandings, make herself understand. But you know where that's NOT possible? Beijing. Or to be more specific, it's not possible on the 13 hour train ride that connects Shanghai in the south to it's more northern facing counterpart, the Big Dragon. (I don't think anyone acctually calls it that, but I'm going to make it a thing. Spread the word.)

Now, given that the trip between these two cities is so long, and given that if you go to China, you go Great Wall or you go home (to be fair, you go home either way, the People's Republic isn't a fan of long stays, residence permits or anything that would keep subversive Western ideas like "human rights" or "seated toilets" in the country), one might think that the methods to get to Beijing from Shanghai would be large and various. Not so, my friends, no so, let's not forget, this is China,
and China is a country where they figured out the least efficient way to do things and just decided to model everything on that. So you can book a flight from Shanghai's Pudong airport, if you like, and you plan it in advance, or, if you want to be a complete struggle (which I obviously always do), you take an overnight train. In an ideal world such a train would be comfortable and reasonable, and you would spend the evening sleeping away as the countryside breezes by outside, unobserved and unsung. But this is not an ideal world, to be fair, and it's made an even less ideal one by a little thing I like to call the Shanghai Expo. The expo is supposed to be a cultural event opening the city to the world but what it actually is is a huge pain in everyone's collective buttocks, raising prices everywhere and, if in any way possible, actually making traffic worse. And it hasn't even offically begun yet. So I couldn't get a bed, and I settled for a seat, figuring, well, it's wouldn't be the first uncomfortable night I'd had in my life nor the last. How bad could it be, right?

Well, not entirely wrong, Bad would be a misnomer for my 13 hours spent in a seated position, clutching my bags on my lap to deter potental passport thieves, and confronting the stares of the entire train car. Amazed by my pure dazzleing differentness, my fellow passangers spent the entire long and sweaty evening watching my every move, some covertly, some blatently, all curiously. When one of the ventured to give me a hesitant "hello", my rejoiner of "hello" caused ripples of reaction spreading out through the car, possibly through the entire train. Maybe they were suprised that a white person had taken one of the cheap seats. Maybe I look wildly hot as I drool onto my seat cushion at 4 in the morning. I really couldn't say. All I know is, when I was awoken at 6am by the dulcet sounds of Chinese pop-power ballads and the call of the wheeled congee cart, the stares were still there. Oh, well, so was my passport, so I really can't complain. Every part of my body aching from the ride, my clothing and hair emitting the sweet odors of the chili-beef ramen and green tea that had been consumed by my seat mates during the trip, I finally found myself blinking in the hazy dirty light of the Beijing afternoon.

Better enjoy standing up while it lasts, I thought to myself, in three days, you have to get back on the train and do it all again. And this time, I reminded myself, you really need to try and dress better. Apparently people are watching.

A Struggle is Worth A Thousand Words: Shanghai Edition

2010-04-23T12:43:00.002-04:00

China is the future, people, and not just because it's at least 12 hours ahead of the Continental United States. No, China is the future because it's huge, inexplicable, the people dress like chaffing is something that happens to other people, and no one knows what the hell is going on. Ever. And if you've ever seen an episode of the Jetsons, I think you'll find this is pretty much exactly what we all thought the future was going to look like. OH! And everyone has a maid. So, yeah. Welcome to the future, hope you know how to eat with chopsticks, because they will MOCK you if you don't, and you wont even understand them, or worse, you will, and in your flustered embrassment almost knock over an entire box of sausage stuffed onion buns when all you wanted to DO was get a CUP of COFFEE. Or something. Not that I'd know.

And so if China is the future, Shanghai is the capital of what is to come. I had always hoped the future would hold jet packs and flying cars and mandatory silver uniforms to make my morning outfit battle easier. What a fool was I, therefore, to expect anything other then struggle. I'll say this for Shanghai, though, in the future, the struggle moves at the speed of light.

Struggle Gets Shanghaied

2010-04-17T00:39:00.003-04:00

Let me tell you something you might not find surprising about the Peoples Republic of China. Now, to be fair, there are indeed many things that ARE surprising about this here country, it’s visa fees, the fact that you have to register with the police upon arrival, it’s curious lack of other ethnicities… but that’s enough of that (and people may be reading this, so…). And besides, when you go to visit your friend who has moved to China because of all “opportunities”(Hi Lisa!) because there just aren’t enough real jobs at home, you have to expect a certain amount of crazy, if only because as a US citizen you don’t feel super great appearing in public in pajamas (one of those pesky little puritanical rules that sticks with you). But to return to my original point (feel free to scroll up, I tend to wander) this place is not easy to get to, and I will be more then happy to tell you just how not easy it can be.

Those of you who have been playing along at home will recall that my last port of duty was a small and remote little town that the locals call London. I spent a bit of time in this London place after my stay at the not-Yale that is Oxford, indulging in amazing Indian food with my friend Andrew (Hi, Andrew!) and watching amazing disturbing Italian melodramas and dodging French tourist while staring at Mesopotamian artifacts in a British exhibition case. You have to love a post colonistic country, they have the best of everything. They should, after all, they stole it.

So, having watched the sun indeed set on the British empire, (and, to be honest, it looks like when the sun sets everywhere else. Please don’t tell India, Rushdie will be SO out of a job) albeit from the Gatwick aiport, I boarded a plane to Dubai, on United Arab Emirates Airlines. Let me tell you a new life rule, if you have the chance, ALWAYS, and if I didn’t make myself clear, ALWAYS take United Arab Emirates Airlines. The air hostess outfits alone make this trip worth it, but the combination of halfway decent food (the best you can hope for on a plane) hilarious safety demonstrations, movie selection and free booze make this trip the best that 15 hours with a stop in Dubai could possibly be. Having done my best in my 3 hours in the Dubai airport to marry rich (hung out in the duty free, helped several asian tourists buy cigarettes, left without a ring, you tell me the modern age has no great tragedies), I boarded another plane to Shanghai, and after an addition few hours (or 8, or 9, or so…) I finally reached the beginning of the Silk Road, from whence all raw materials begin. That is to say, as western visitor, I couldn’t help but create my own sphere of influence. In other words? How do people who are not from China look at China in anyway other then predatory? Our money, for the time being, is worth more, and this is indeed the place to buy, to buy whatever you want, whatever you can conceive, whatever is made by hand it made in China. You can’t get a glass of wine here for a reasonable price, and bread is like some kind of precious gem, but silk made gowns or slippers, ceramic bowels or rubber shoes, cotton, linen, hair ties and glasses, rugs and watches, fake designer, well, whatever, shoes, ties, bikes and wallets, my friend, you want these things for cheap? You want these things from China. And darlings, let’s be real, these things from China? I’m buying them.

Today, Lisa and I, and by the way, this Lisa character I keep talking about? She is a saint. She speaks this lingo (and who else really does, I mean, a pictogram based language? COME ON), and, well, we went to a fabric market. I had, at Lisa’s recommendation, brought a favorite blouse of mine to get remade by Chinese tailors. We picked out a few bolts of silk (as once does in China) and bargained (she bargained) the saleswoman down to the lowest possible price to get things tailor made for me in what seems to be the garment district of Shanghai. I am now, by the way, the proud possessor of a bathrobe, 5 boxes of cookies and 3 imaginary but assumed shirts. I really think this is how I’ve always imagined China to be. Irresistible, but full of imaginary things. Let me assure you, this is not untrue. Come to Shanghai. It’s worth the Struggle.

Planes, Trains, and Strugglemobiles

2010-04-09T18:21:00.001-04:00

Traveling, my friends, is not without it's downsides. Sure you see exciting things, catch interesting diseases, take some nice pictures and meet, well, let's just call them characters, why don't we, because anything else is just offensive (and indeed it WAS offensive to meet such people, but mostly just, you know, for me). But the issue that I find most troubling about travel is the element George Carlin discussed so often in his work, and that's the issue of stuff.You see, when you travel, whatever else you might be experiencing can be totally over shadowed by your concern about your stuff. Where is my stuff? Is my stuff safe? Did the nice man I asked to look after my stuff while I go to the bathroom steal my stuff? Or, if I took my stuff to the bathroom with me, how do I get my stuff, which weighs exponentially more the longer I carry it around, back up that flight of stairs? Am I missing any of my stuff? Did my stuff get lost somewhere between Berlin, London and Guam, and, in fact, is my stuff going to be used by a small indigenous tribe living in South America for bartering? Are they mocking my underwear? How dare they mock my underwear! Are they going to separate my whites from my colors when they wash my clothing? These are, in my opinion, the primary questions of humanity, not who am I or does God exist, but where the hell is my luggage, and how to I get it from point A to point B.

Now, this has been one of the primary issues in my mind for the past few months, because the more you travel, the more you accumulate, and the more anxiety you have. For example, I'm currently sitting in a dorm in Oxford's Magdalen college (Thank you so much Anna, and for those playing along at home, that's pronounced Maudlin, because the Britsh have never met a word they could completely alter via pronounciation, I attribute this to their envy and rivalry with the French, but that sort of talk could get me burned alive here, so keep mum, wont you?). I'm surronded by my stuff, which has, against all odds, arrived here in the United Kingdom intact. This is, in fact, quite an accomplishment, and here is why:

In the last two days I've taken 6 trains (including metros, tubes and s-bahns) one bus, one plane, and one taxi, all so I could get to a place that, well, looks almost exactly like the university from which I recently graduated. I traveled from Hamburg to Berlin by train and S-Bahn, and then, after a delightful day in a blissfully warm and springy Berlin, at the ungodly hour of 6:30 in the morning (can you believe there are people who actually work at that hour? That's barbaric!) I made my way via train to Berlin's Shoenefeld Airport (thank you, EasyJet, for all your cheap orange wonders, your ridiculously archaic flight attendant outfits and the fact that you charge extra for everything but the BATHROOM). Two hours in the air saw me sleeping on the shoulder of a nice young British man who was too polite to make me move, and after the Luton immigration officer determined that I didn't seem like a likely person to wire bombs to London Bridge (fooled HIM) I was off again, boarding a bus, a train, the tube, another train, and a taxi (which terrified me by driving on the wrong side of the road, it's better just to shut your eyes when you come to this country and think longingly of interstates) all so I could get to Oxford. I suppose in the long run that was the easier option, apparently I saved myself from something called the A Levels, which is how young British people get themselves to this school, so being out some 20 pounds sterling or so and a few hours of the day has to be an improvement on that, right?

Of course, my next major move is going to be a 15 hour flight (give or take three hours in Dubai, anyone want a Porsch from the airport?) from Gatewick to Shanghai Pu Dong. Consdering all of the things that could happen to my stuff in the meantime, this past day and a half was gravy. At least when I'm here in Oxford, I sort of speak the local language, and, after all, I know where I'm going, I've been here before. Sort of.

Das Struggle

2010-04-06T18:26:00.000-04:00

When I was but a young struggle, innocent and naive, filled with the flush of youth (so, you know, two years ago) I spent some time in Russia, eating blini and pilmeni and looking for a motivation, as one does. And during my time in the artist formerly known as the Soviet Union, I had to take a film class on Russian cinema, which was very good, very bad, and now is very good again, because such is life in a system in which the FILM watches YOU! But of the good and bad and straight up bizarre Russian cinema I watched every Saturday morning for three months while outside, you know, snow happened, one of my personal favorites has to be The Fall of Berlin. Now, this is not a good film. This is in fact a terrible film, it's cliched, it's pure propaganda, and every single person in the movie is in love with Joseph Stalin, girls, boys, farm animals, everyone. But despite the fact that this is terribly acted, directed and filmed, and believe me, it is, this movie is just hilarious. Leah, you ask, how can a Soviet propaganda film, made after the Great Patriotic War, featuring one of Stalin's favorite Stalin impersonators (you read that right, he had several), a love story between a steel worker and a teacher (a marriage of labor and education), which portrays Hitler as a crazy McCrazy, Eva as a ho and a half, and the United States as a German ally be hilarious? Well, did you read that last sentance? Um, yeah, I think I just explained it perfectly. Picture "Springtime for Hitler" but without the irony. Yes, that's it. What's not to love?

So why am I bringing this up now, one might ask? Well, here's the thing, strange as this may sound, whenever I think about Berlin, I think about this movie, which, at the very least, is just SO unfair to Berlin, and more then a little weird for me. But in just two days time I'll be leaving the peaceful and beautiful city of Hamburg for busy and bustling Berlin for a night, which I'm expecting to be just the way it is in another propaganda piece, though this one is less beef borsch and more apple pie.

Now, if you ask around, most people who come to visit Germany don't look to Hamburg as a vacation destination. It's famous red-light district is more slimy then sexy, and since some boy band played here back in the 60's it hasn't exactly been the center of the music world. But the truth is that Hamburg is a graceful and interesting city, and the wealth it's citizens amassed during Hamburg's heyday at the end of the last century means that the city hall is a gaudy gorgeous little overcompensation for whatever was lacking in the lives (and pants) of Hamburg's then prominent merchant class. Moreover, Hamburg to this day remains a shopper's paradise, and if the exchange rate didn't cause me physical pain you can bet I'd have accumulated enough for a second suitcase by now. Sadly I've had to restrain myself to art postcards purchased at the Kunsthalle, Hamburg's Expressionist-heavy art museum. And, you know, some H and M. What? I have needs!

So I will indeed be sad to say goodbye to Hamburg, but I can't say I'm not excited spend a day in Berlin. After all, I've had hamburgers from the best. I can't help but be excited to be a jelly donut for a little while.

A Brief Essay on the Northern Renistruggle

2010-04-01T16:54:00.000-04:00

Italy talks a good game (and when it does, it soundsa likea thiiis) about the renaissance being a purely Italian innovation. Who needs Albrect Duhrer and early Franco-Flemish development when you have Michelangelo, Raphael, and a whole host of other crime fighting reptiles? So in the grand scheme of History (it deserves a capital letter) most people who don't look too closely will find themselves ignoring Holland and it's troubled little cousin, Northern Belgium.

But see, here's the thing, such people are fools, FOOLS I tell you! Because there was a lot going on in Northern Europe at that time, and, despite a few odd wars and modern architects (hard to say which is deadlier) it's still pretty great to see. While painting a chapel might get you some press in the southern countries (and, really, you want some painting done? I know like five painters, reasonable rates, and they aren't going to take YEARS to do it, come on), the north has seen such a back and forth of will-they-wont-they Catholicism that walking through a town in Belgium is like walking around with an argument between Martin Luther and St. Peter on your shoulder. And while the rest of the world might still be waiting with bated breath for those two crazy kids to work it out, as a member of the chosen people, I'm just enjoying the ride. The wild and crazy, Hieronymus Bosch themed ride. (Oh yes, that's right, while the South is carving out a statue and getting all excited about the stars or whatever, Bosch is busy inventing new ways to be crazy and scare children in the process. Beat this, Di Vinci)

This is not to say that Flemish Belgium today feels like it did 500 years ago. Back then, a walk around Flanders was all about decrying the Reformation, avoiding the Plague and burning the Jews (because it was believed that they had magically created the plague. We can't catch a break, I swear). Today Antwerp is all about chocolate, fries, Thai food, castles, and taxing the Jews, given that we are the major diamond cutters and polishers in that part of the world (and while it might seem like an upgrade from burning to taxing, I wouldn't be so sure...). But while the culture might have changed, the city itself honestly doesn't seem to have altered at all. And it's not just Antwerp, either, it's Bruges and Ghent as well. These three towns resemble nothing so much as medieval Disney World. Seriously, I kept expecting to see rides along the lines of "Ye Olde Torture Rack" and signs for "Buye one, Save Thy Immortal Soul for Free!", and I walked extremely fast through the cobblestone streets (pathways) of each city because I couldn't help feeling like once you stop you are likely to be hit in the face by falling midden. Of course, I somehow doubt they had Burger King and H and M five centuries ago, though I can't be sure, never underestimate the power of corporations.

As charmingly feudal as Northern Belgium was, and believe you me, any place that looks like a Renaissance Faire just threw up all over it is bound to be charming, it was something of a relief to return to Holland, and to move from Holland to Germany, which is where I am now. Honestly, that much history was giving me a headache. Luckily, I wont find any of that here in Germany, right? RIGHT?

Struggle Gets Dishy: Netherlands Edition

2010-03-29T17:54:00.002-04:00

You know, people keep talking about how people from the United States eat like pigs. To this I would reply, right back at ya, Europe. And while you mock us for the McDonalds and the Taco Bell, may I please draw your attention to the frit shops that litter Belgium like greasy little dandilions. Judge not, baby, lest ye be judged.

However, if you aren't worried about your waistline but do enjoy a nice bite, and you find yourself in Holland ( a lot of requirements there, but bear with me) take the time to go to Haarlem (or Delft or Leiden, any of the little Randstad towns bordering Amsterdam) on a Saturday, where cheerful towheaded Dutch youths will explain to you every aspect of cheese production and you can find, thanks to Holland's rich colonist history, loempias (spring rolls) lachmaju (also known as turkish pizza), delicate french pastry, greek salad, and bread originating the world over. (Don't go NOW though, if you are a chosen person, because, well, Happy Passover, though I never see much that's happy about giving up the BEST THING EVER for like, 8 whole days. How did Atkins Dieters DO this?) These weekend food markets are delightful and informative, and will challange your weight but not your wallet, which is a rarity here in the Netherlands, a country that invented the first stock market and has only gotten pricier from there.

Resting from your travels and munchings, have some restorative mint tea. Served everywhere in Holland, they make it with fresh mint leaves and honey and it's suprisingly divine. Just the taste makes you feel ready to go and eat something else.

New Amsterdam Vs. Old Amsterdstruggle (Cagematch)

2010-03-21T15:44:00.001-04:00

As I wandered about Amsterdam and the surronding areas for the past few days, I was struck by the strangest feeling. It wasn't deja vu, not quite, but something more worrying, not quite a sense that I'd been there before, but something close. As I surveyed the adorable streets and canals of Amsterdam, or perched on my seat on the various trains I took during my wanderings around and outside the city, I knew that something about it all resonated with me deeply. This is not to say that I've ever lived in a town that was adorable and sleezy at the same time, Struggledelphia is more straightforward then this. No, it reminded me of somewhere else I've been, somewhere else I've wandered, some other struggle I've witnessed....

Oh, that's right. It reminds me of New York. Now, before you scoff, those of you who have seen both cities and know that Amsterdam is drastically cleaner and nicer then that so delightful city de Pomme Grande, bear with me for a moment. As we all know, having suffered through at least a year of American History (though we so rarely discuss, say, South America in these classes, has anyone else noticed that?), before New York was a cheap imitation of an English City, it was a cheap imitation of a Dutch city, known as New Amsterdam. And anyone who has a taste for history or Martin Scorsese will recall that while Struggledelphia and Boston were trader's capitals and cultural meccas on this side of the pond, New York was a swirling mess of awful, characterized by uneven streets, entropy, and Cameron Diaz's terrible Irish accent. So clearly between the best land deal before the Louisiana Purchase and Leonardo Dicaprio, something dreadful happened to New Amsterdam/York, something that only Mad Men could do anything about.

Nevertheless, while New York and Old Amsterdam may have grown apart, there are still quite a few things that connect them in my eyes. New York is famous for it's cramped houses and apartments, due to rising real-estate prices and a desire for many people to live in the center of the universe (these people clearly haven't seen The Core). Old Amsterdam is also famous for it's narrow houses all connected in a row, but this was, of course, a building choice made by rich merchants and Burghers. New York is known, at least in the more god-fearing bible-belt of the USA as a place for drugs, homosexuality, and other things that killed the dinosaurs. Amsterdam, well, we've all seen Eurotrip, we know how that works. And New York is famous for it's Jewish Population, it's Jewelry District and it's dinners. Amsterdam? Famous Jewish population, most of whom were diamond cutters, and popular dishes include pancakes and waffles. I know. I just TOTALLY blew your minds.

The comparisons are certainly endless, and have started to give me a headache. So I headed off to Haarlem yesterday for a brief respite from big city life, I smiled. At least New York doesn't have one of THESE. Oh, wait....

A Struggle is Worth A Thousand Words: Amsterdam Edition

2010-03-19T18:34:00.000-04:00

Yeah. There is a lot going on here in Amsterdam. A LOT. And I don't just mean in the drug and prositution areas, though of course, that is where most of the tourist population flocks, year round, undetered by the Dutch Winter and Spring (or lackthereof). Though, to be fair, apart from that, Amsterdam is lovely, tranquil and adorable. Yeah, I take it back, 99% of the struggle lies in the drugs and sex. Though, honestly, when DOESN'T it?

Istanbul was Constantistruggle

2010-03-16T19:21:00.000-04:00

Well it took me approximately 9 hours (most of that waiting in one airport or another), but I made my way out of Istanbul and onto my next location. But before I delve into the trials and tribulations of Amsterdam, of which I can just bet there are going to be MANY, I mean, given what we know about the Dutch, I feel that I would be remiss if I didn't discuss the crazy and cool that is the city of Istanbul just one last time.

From the Blue Mosque to the Hagia Sofia, from the Bosphorus to the lesser traveled Asian side of the city, my family and I struggled through the majority of the major sights and sites in Istanbul. We took a river tour, we waded through the Basilica Cistern (a must, by the way, if you ever get to travel to Turkey, it's an amazing leftover from the Holy Roman Empire), we saw the Dervishs whirl, and let me tell you something, we got completely ripped off at every turn. Don't get me wrong, Istanbul is a wild and wonderful city, and I have to say, the Turkish people as a nation are unbelievably friendly. They are so friendly, in fact, that they smile with delight and warmth as they take as much money from you as possible. They laugh with joy and excitement as they welcome you to their fine city, as they pour you glass after glass of raki and give you plate after plate of food, food which you didn't ask for and couldn't possibly- well, maybe just a bite. You yourself are pleased as punch about all the lovely things you bought that day, and what good deals you got on all of them. Thrilled with your immense bargaining skills, you get yourself another plate of baklava and compliment the city. They beam with pride as you tell them how much you love Istanbul, how glorious it is, how colorful, how loud (all nice ways for saying Ethnic, you'll notice). And then the bill comes. Tired, full to the point of bursting, your head spinning with the horrible liquorish scented liquor, you fumble for your wallet and lay down bill after bill of Turkish Lira. After all, it basically looks like monopoly money went on a trip to the middle east, it can't be worth much, can it? You stumble off to bed, sleepy and grinning. Why can't the people where you are from be so nice, you wonder, it's such a shame, really.

Then you wake up. And you realize you just spent the entire contents of your wallet (and possibly your bank account) on four scarves, a leather jacket, two plates (which will inevitably break in transport), a carpet, and dinner for three. What's more, you have the sinking feeling that people who are actually from Turkey pay approximately one tenth of what you paid for the same exact items, plus a free lamp. Because the reality is, as charming and delightful as Turky and it's people may be, the thing they seemed to be most delighted by is the interior of the tourist's pocket.

On our last day together in Istanbul before Strugglemano headed off to LaLa land and mis padres returned to their own daily grind, we decided to visit a Turkish bath. So famous and praised are the baths of Turkey that we felt we couldn't leave the country without sampling their charms, at least once. Excited, and, given our inabilities to speak any Turkish, a little freaked out, we each headed to our respective parts of the bath, and my mother and disrobed and were lead into a larged steamy room lined with sinks. Through a great deal of observation (and people yelling at us in Turkish) we were able to figure out that you douse your body with water and then lie on a large marble slab that is the heat source for the room, so rather then the dry heat of a sauna you are indulging in a wet humid heat that opens your pores just as well. Because we had paid for the basic package, we found ourselves kicked off of the slab and forced to "relax" on the sidelines as we watched other women being scrubbed down and massaged by the baths surly elderly female attendents. A kind Turkish woman asked us why we weren't being scrubbed, and we answered her honestly that we had just gotten admission to the bath. She told us that the scrub and massage were just 5 lira (about 3 dollars) more, and started to explain before she was quickly interupted by a bath attendent. A rapid exchange in Turkish followed, and the woman turned back to us, her face red. "I'm sorry, it's 25 lira for you, to get the other things." My mother and I nodded sagely, wrapped up in our towels, un-scrubbed, un-massaged, unsuprised. 500% mark-up for foreigners? Yeah, that seems about right.

Of course, now that I've hit Northern Europe and am gazing at the price tags here, I long to be ripped off by the Turks again. Even if I was paying more then any Turk for evil eyes and eggplant appitizers, at least I was paying in Lira, right?

More on the Dutch and their most laid back and hash-heavy city soon. Right now, I'm just recovering from the flight, the sleep loss, and the currency exchange. Come on, dollar, you're killing me here. It's almost like there is something wrong with the economy...

Struggle Gets Dishy: Istanbul Edition

2010-03-13T17:40:00.001-05:00

Sadly enough I can't provide you with any of the recipes for the following dishes, mostly because I have no fricking idea how they are made. But I would be remiss if I didn't express to you, gentle readers, how awesome I think the food is here in Istanbul. While Strugglemano might not agree (he has VERY exclusive tastes) I really enjoy the food here, the eggplant, the peppers, the stuffed grape leaves, the lamb, it's all working out for me. This might be because I grew up with a grandmother who, due to her own life spent wandering the world, had a kitchen filled with Armenian, Russian, Persian, Ukrainian and French specialties, and as a result, the idea of a meal which included grilled chicken, babaganosh, matzoh ball soup and lavash seemed like a perfectly natural way to spend an evening (or morning, the woman didn't really do breakfast like the rest of us do). So I love Turkish food, and my palate for yogurt, broad beans and spinach has been duly satisfied by my time spent here in Istanbul.

While the elaborate dishes served in the restaurants in Istanbul are indeed marvelous, it's the street food and little snacks I find most beguiling about this culinary capital. This is a culture that really works for me, food-wise, because noshing is not only allowed, but encouraged. A big part of Turkish cuisine is the meze, or appetizer, which can be cold or hot, and when cold is like a little salad, while when hot seems to inevitable consist of fish or something wrapped in phyllo dough. There don't seem to be any hours in which lunch or dinner are formally served, and the citizens of Istanbul seem to be eating all the time, a practice I can only admire. The food served on the street, of which there is a TON,(all of which seems TOTALLY suspect, but to each their own bacterial infection) seems to act as a stop gap between, say, the 2pm meal and the 5pm meal, which is just a preview for the 7pm meal. It's genius.

It's nobody's business but the Turks. And Struggle. Struggle and the Turks. But that's IT.

2010-03-11T18:23:00.000-05:00

There is a lot to buy in Istanbul. A LOT to buy. So much to buy that it might be a little painful. Here in Istanbul you can find at least 50 men (always men) in a 5 block radius who will be willing and eager to sell you the following: rugs, Turkish Delight, spices, tea, scarves (silk, cashmere, cotton, wool, sometimes all at once, but those are extra) evil eyes, evil eye necklaces, bracelets, earrings and wall hangings, candle holders, inlayed boxes, tunics, t-shirts, pillows, jewelry, perfume, designer and otherwise, wall hangings, towels, robes, jeans, "Rolex" watches, "Prada" purses, boots, soaps, cheese, ceramics belly-dancer costumes and other important items that will help you live better. But more interesting then what is for sale are the people doing the selling. I heard more languages spoken in the Grand Bazaar in downtown Istanbul then I do in the New York Subway, and I think we all know that that is saying something. The number 1 language of course is unfortunately English (not the prettiest in the world, we all have to admit). There is nothing more hilarious then hearing a Chinese woman and a Kurdish man bargaining over silk scarves made in Tibet in broken English. And they say the USA is a consumer culture. I guess no one told Turkey...

In the World Of Strugglemon the Great

2010-03-08T17:40:00.001-05:00

Well, here I am, reporting on the struggle from downtown Istanbul, or rather, from crosstown Istanbul, as the case may be. You see, when we travel, my family prefers to live in a country the way we imagine or would like to imagine the people of that country actually exist. To that end rather then stay in a hotel in the heart of the tourist quarter, we tend to rent apartments in various interesting parts of cities (because who visits ANYWHERE other then a city, you know? We just don't see the point). We buy our groceries and make our morning coffee and grit our teeth through the inevitable schlep (check your Yiddish to English dictionaries for that one, goyim) over to wherever all the action is because at the end of the day, all of the famous stuff is all well and good to see, but we go for where the food lives, and our bellies always thank us, if not our figures.

And this trip is no exception. Here in the land formerly known as the Ottoman Empire, my parents, let's call them Padre Struggle and Mama Struggs, and my brother, Strugglemano, and I are staying in Belgoylu, one of the unpronouncable neighborhoods across the section of the Bosphorus river known as the Golden Horn, a channel of water away from all of the main attractions of this wild and wonderful town. So each morning that we have been here we have arose, still jetlagged (thank you, United Airlines, always the opposite of a pleasure) and taken a tram across the river, using a token or jeton that feels more appropriate to an arcade game at Chuck E Cheese, to some of the amazing things that Istanbul has to offer, like a mosque, or another mosque, or maybe a third mosque, if you are feeling crazy.

In seriousness, one of the most interesting things about this city is that despite the fact that you can't turn a corner without seeing a minaret here, most of the population seems to be basically secular in nature. Some women wear headscarves, some burquas are visible, but for a country that has spent the last several thousand years teetering between Europe and the Middle East this place is surprisingly secular and, dare I say it, well adjusted. To be fair, I speak approximately no Turkish (and honestly, who the hell does? This language is like Russian and Arabic had a child and then abused it to the point that it became an insane sociopath and decided to punish the world with silly sounding words), so this could all be speculation, but the Turkish people, or at least the Turkish people residing here in Istanbul, seem to be doing okay.

So this morning, after our intensly crowded tramride across the river, which made me consider once again the many virtues of deodorant (though to be fair, all public transport outside of the United States reminds of that, come ON, rest of the universe, step UP!) my family and I found ourselves, after a 15 minute walk of confusion (steet signs are apperently out of fashion in Turkey these days) at the gates of the Topkapi Palace. This palace was the home of the Turkish Sultans for four hundred years, which, given how poor the majority of the Turkish population is and has been, makes you wonder why these people never picked up a copy of Marx. As a tourist I can't be sad that they didn't, because while the palace itself is no Versailles, the Harem of the palace is rather amazing. Wandering through the clean marble and tile halls which this time of year are unheated and windy, it's hard to imagine this space as a sultry sex palace filled with nubile young women and stern eunichs, but it's not hard to see that this is where the imperial treasury lost a significant amount of it's earnings. Luxurious and spacious, I suppose if I personally had some 100 ladies (apart from the four wives allowed to the Sultan by Islamic law, can we say it's good to be the king?) I didn't want anyone else to get a glimse of, I would certainly shut them up in a pretty ceramic cage. After all, you never KNOW what women will get up to when unattended...

The rest of our day was a blur of fish and Turkish string cheese and shops selling evil eye icons. These Turks will try and sell you your own shirt if they can, all while smiling and insisting they are your best friend in the world. After the fifth shopkeeper started following us down the street, claiming to have everything we could ever want or need, all I could think was, honestly, the harem's not looking so bad. At least it's pretty, right?

A Struggle is Worth A Thousand Words: Istanbul Edition #1

2010-03-06T10:59:00.001-05:00

I just, I had no idea that Istanbul and struggle were synonims. I will be writing to the OED when I can. I've seen more mannequin and gun stores today then I've ever seen in my life. It's my first day in Turkey. Someone in the Grand Bazaar literally called out to me, "Let me sell you something you don't need!" More to follow, right now, I have to lie down for a while with a glass of cherry juice (it's a thing) and some wine and just let the crazy pass. Or at least until I learn to say "go away" in Turkish.

Those who ignore History are doomed to struggle it

2010-03-02T20:30:00.001-05:00

People say that insanity is the process of doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results. So, I guess it's official then, I just might be a little bit insane.

See, I'm about to embark on another long and meandering period abroad, traveling, staying in hostels, observing foreigners and mocking local cuisine. What, you say, is it September 2009 all over again? No, gentle readers, alas, I never could get that Delorean working. So hard to get a dependable lightening storm these days. And while I know I spent the majority of my time in Spain with my mouth wide open, marveling at the struggle of it all, I'm actually getting fairly excited to dust off my passport, say farewell to my Netflix, and get back on the horse (or plane, or train, or whatever).

Now, I know what you are going to say. You are going to scream at your computer screen, Leah, you strugglesome little person, are you insane? Don't you remember the last time, the farm, the jamon, the Spaniards as a people? Well to that I respond, yes, vaguely, but I've been trying to forget. And I know that traveling is stressful, uncomfortable, and full of strangers who don't speak your language (yes, even in the UK, snogging? Loo? Cheers? COME ON), that's honestly sort of part of the fun of it. I mean, if it was comfortable and easy, wouldn't it be just like home? Granted I live in Struggledelphia, so the levels of comfort and ease have yet to be determined, but the point remains that it is the difficult aspects of travel that make it so interesting and so exciting, and so painful, in a sense, because the rest of the world is not nearly as convenient as our very own US of A, and there's these things like clean water and bribing officials and the necessity of claiming to be from Canada, all of which come with a very steep learning curve. But it's learning that is the key word there, because at Casa Franqui we don't take vacations to relax or to enjoy our time with each other or to stroll serenely down the avenues of life. No, we plan on packing as much art, culture, eating, drinking and struggling into whatever short amount of time we've allotted for our adventures. And this week my whole strugglesome family is heading to Istanbul for 10 days together, because you CAN spell Turkey without "intense family dysfunction", but why would you ever want to?

So we are off to bargain for carpets and spices and concubines for a little while, finding the bizarre in the bazaar, so to speak. And believe you me, it's going to be epic. And once the rest of the clan abandons me for this "job" business the papers talk so much about, I'm on my own again, and I'll be heading north for a little while, stopping by the Netherlands, Belgium, Germany and England, and then, like a European explorer in the 15th Century, I'll be making my way from the West to the Far East, and that whole visa situation? Well we will finally get to see if that works, or if I end up doing time in a Chinese prison. Either way, you're laughing!

And as I pause here, at the precipice of my next 7 weeks of travel, I do hope you'll all stay with me as I struggle all over again. If anyone has any travel tips, please let me know. Don't worry, guys, I promise I wont make the same mistakes this time. New ones, sure, by the thousands, but the same ones? Well, that would just be crazy!

Struggle Gets Dishy Volume 3

2010-02-26T20:48:00.000-05:00

In honor of my upcoming trip to Turkey (more on that later), I've been getting really into lamb, yogurt, conversion by the sword, geometric patterns, Byzantine mosaics, and the works of Salman Rushdie. Ha, I'm just kidding with that last one, I'm not trying to start no trouble with the Ayatola. Fatwa free is cool with me. Anyway, my point is that I've been experimenting with yogurt in my mutfak (Turkish for kitchen, you're welcome) and I couldn't resist whipping up a side dish (or main dish, if meat isn't your treat, man, I'm on a ROLL today with the rhyming, rap career here I come!) using the key staples of Turkish cuisine. Foolish, you say, to gourge yourself on roasted eggplant with yogurt mint sauce right before a ten day stint in Istanbul? Well, I say to YOU....that's something I probably should have thought about earlier. Oh well. I'm a struggle for a reason.

In a move sure to anger and infuriate Turks the world over, I've used Fage Greek yogurt in my recipe. In my defense, however, when was the last time you saw Turkish Yogurt on the shelves at, say, any supermarket or grocery store? It's this kind of quick thinking that defeated Xerxes during the Persian Wars, and it's that kind of availability that means you can make an exotic seeming dish trading any camels to do so. And in THIS economy, who really has livestock to spare?

Roasted Eggplant with Yogurt Mint Dressing:
1 large Italian eggplant OR three medium sized Japanese eggplants (Japanese Eggplants are a lavender color and are generally sweeter and faster cooking then their bulbous deep purple Italian counterparts)
5 cloves of garlic, minced (3 for the eggplant, 2 for the sauce)
1/2 cup Greek yogurt (or plain yogurt if your allegiance to the Turkish flag prohibits such a thing)
1/4 cup of chopped mint leaves
the juice and zest of 1/2 a lemon
salt, pepper
olive oil or cooking spray

Heat the oven to 450 degrees Fahrenheit. Slice the eggplant into rounds between 1 and 1/2" thick (depending on your eggplant choices these will resemble Hannukah gelt or small coasters). Toss the eggplant with salt, pepper, 3 minced cloves of garlic and oil or cooking spray depending on your preference. Lay the slices out on a baking sheet, making sure that none of the slices overlap. Roast for 30 minutes or until done. The Japanese eggplant may take less time and the Italian more, but you will know the eggplant is ready when the outside is dry and a little browned and the inside is soft and gray.

Meanwhile, combine the yogurt, mint, lemon juice and zest, and the garlic. Mix well, and season with salt and pepper to taste. Set aside. The sauce is honestly better when it has some time to blend, so make it the day ahead or that morning if you can count on yourself not to spread it on everything possible before you even buy the eggplant.

Serve the roasted eggplant with a generous dollop of (or all of) the yogurt sauce. Savor the taste of Turkey, enjoy, and try to beware of Greeks bearing gifts.

Struggle Takes Five

2010-02-22T13:40:00.000-05:00

Part of maintaining one's Real Estate license in the fine state of Strugglevania is the abominable and painful task of continuing education, which occurs once every two years and requires 14 hours of mindless, boring and totally redundant classes which make you want to stab your eyes out with a fork. Not that I'd had that thought or anything. And while I personally will be doing my continuing education classes online, preferably with old episodes of 30 Rock and Parks and Recreation playing in the background. But some of us, and by some, I mean my entire office, seemed to feel the need to sit through actual classes for 7 hours, so this past Wednesday and Thursday I was alone in the office, fielding whatever problem came my way.

Now, let me tell you something about real estate. The selling and buying part? That has it's issues, but in general, in comparison with the property management part, it's a WALK IN THE PARK. Because managing properties, that is, dealing with apartments and the people who use them, well, I have to assume that that is some kind of punishment for something my family and I did in a past life. Were we murderers? Cossacks? God help me, rodeo clowns? Well, whatever it was, I'm really sorry, universe, but I think you've had your just desserts, because you've saddled us with a set of task that has us dealing with people at their absolute worst.

Look, I have nothing but sympathy for people who arrive home at their apartments at 7pm and find themselves confronting real, actual, unlivable problems, like, for example, their pipes have frozen and burst, or their ceiling has collapsed, or their closet opens into a snowy kingdom that's a metaphor for Christianity. These are all real problems, though that last one might be fun if you dress warm and stay away from the Turkish Delight, and we would be happy to help you with them as soon as is humanly possible. But really, and you can trust me on this, true emergencies only take up about 30% of my time, and that other 70%? It's chock full of crazy.

Here's one for you. While I wandered around the halls of our darkened office, the printers and copiers silent, the computer monitors turned off, only the quiet sound of the footsteps of little mice to keep me company, I received a phone call so strugglesome, so insane, so stupid, that I continue fume about it even now. The caller, who shall remain anonymous just so that no one becomes as enraged as I am, hunts them down, and hits them in the face until they look like they just won the big fight with Apollo Creed, was extremely upset because, apparently, a post man was daily entering the building in which they rent a commercial unit and using the (public) bathroom. And this was NOT their regular postman, but some strange postman. And he takes up a spot in the PARKING lot. And he brings a NEWSPAPER in the bathroom with him, so you know he's going to be taking his time. And this is a DEEPLY upseting and serious problem, and just WHAT do we plan to do about it, the caller would like to know? Oh, the postman is black. Does that help?

When I asked this person why they themselves didn't, I don't know, call their local post office or confront this wiley postman before or after he did his daily business, they were shocked and affronted. WE couldn't possibly do anything, we have to protect our anonymity! Postmen TALK! (I suppose that's true, I mean, I've never met a mute one.) We must get our MAIL!

Now, in the face of all of this ludicrous insane strugglesomeness, did I scream? Did I laugh? Did I imply that this may be one of the ten thousand reasons to look into this whole "email" thing so popular with the young folks these days? Did I even hint at the fact that this at the end of the day was one of the most worthless complaints I've ever heard? No, I did not. I took the nice crazy person's information and promised to do all I could do about the defecating public servent who is, apparently, ruining this caller's life. Because I am a professional. I am a grown up. And I am getting paid for this.

Whatever we were in a past life, I can't wait until we've made our karmic restitution. Because if hell is other people, then greetings from the 7th circle, and Dante has nothing on us. Clearly, the man knew nothing about Real Estate.

Struggle Gets Dishy Volume 2

2010-02-15T09:52:00.000-05:00

Whatever else it may imply, having friends in town is, frankly, an awesome excuse to cook all fancy like. For example, when I visited my friend Andrew (hi, Andrew!) in London, we roasted a chicken, made risotto, two kinds of soup, and Andrew rocked a tiramisu so hard it's like the Pope itself had blessed it. Now, are we big food geeks who wanted to save some money? Mayhap, gentle reader, mayhap indeed. Nevertheless, it was awesome.

So when my friends Ben and Jon (Hi, Ben and Jon!) decided to venture back up to the great city of Struggledelphia this weekend, I wanted to pull out all the stops. For a dinner that is sure to impress, without hours of labor and time spent in the bathroom sobbing because your soufle wouldn't rise and your sauce wouldn't reduce and no one will EVER LOVE YOU, or, you know, whatever, I can always recommend Tuna Steaks. Simple and tasty, as long as you get good quality fish the dish just speaks for itself. Here is one recipe I tried this weekend, which I served with roasted potatoes, red wine, and no mention whatesoever at all of being single on Valentine's Day. Not even the one time.

Provencal Tuna (Adapted from Bon Appetite):
2 tuna steaks of 1" thickness ( I like Ahi Tuna, but do whatever works)
2 zucchini, cubed to 1/2" cubes
1 medium eggplant, cubed like the zucchini
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 cup grape tomatos
1 tablespoon Herbs de Provance (it's a mix of herbs, a popular gift to bring home from trips to France, Thanks, Lisa. If you can't find it, you can use a combination of equal parts dried thyme, basil, savory, and fennel seeds.)
3 cloves of garlic, minced
1 small white onion, chopped
salt, pepper

Combine the zucchini, eggplant, 1 tablespoon of olive oil, herbs de Provence, salt, pepper, garlic and onion in a small roasting pan or baking sheet with raised edges ( just so nothing falls out, burns up in your oven, and causes an awkward morning in the burn unit). Broil mixture on high heat until the zucchini and eggplant are cooked through and the mixture begins to brown, about 15 minutes or more, depending on your broiler. Once the mixture is cooked through, add the tomatoes and mix well. Heat the other tablespoon of olive oil in a saucepan. Dry each tuna steak well, to brown, and sprinkle each with salt and pepper. Sear the steaks, about 3 minutes per side for rare centers. Serve steaks topped with vegetable mixture and starch of your choice. Entire bottle of wine and good company optional, but recommended.

Mira la Struggle!

2010-01-28T17:04:00.000-05:00

It has snowed for the past 12 hours here in Struggledelphia, and this weekend I was literally stuck in my home, unable to leave, unwilling to put on real pants. As I indulged in my 3rd (5th) cup of coffee of the day, and contemplated my frost-imposed fortress of solitude, in one of the snowiest winters this town has seen in a long time, I couldn't help but reflect on the weekend before this past one, and how very different that was indeed.

You see, my cousin Elyse, (hi Elyse!), is moving from Buenos Aires to Bogota, because, apparently, a life lived free of the shadow of the Colombian drug cartel is just a life wasted. No, but seriously, after three years in the land of Tango and cheap beef she's making a life change at moving on to the land of Salsa and cheap cocaine, which I personally would consider an upgrade, but then, I'm sort of sick that way. Also, there is a serious tostone factor to consider. Anyway, because Elyse lives a hemisphere away from me, she can be, shall we say, a bit hard to get a hold of, at times, and when she told me she had a stop in Puerto Rico for a few days, well, I jumped at the chance to see her. Puerto Rico and Philadelphia may not be exactly neighbors, but, hey, I'll take what I can get, and besides, when it comes down to it, I tend to avoid going to places where I have a 75% chance of being shot (sorry, Bogota).

Now, those playing along at home will recall that I have a place down in San Juan (and no you cannot crash there. Stop asking.)So while it was below freezing here I hopped on a plane full of Puerto Ricans and headed down to Viejo San Juan, to the land of palm trees, coquis, and luchitas every where you turn. Because I had a couple of days without Elyse, between netflix viewings and cocktails, I found myself wandering around the tiny city, chasing stray cats, yelling at pigeons and generally being amused.

The truth is, while it's known as a vacation destination and a navel bombing site, in MY mind, a strange and twisted place, to be sure, Puerto Rico is known for being a crazy land of crazy-filled crazy, and one that I always adore. There are a lot of hilarious things just about San Juan, and while we no longer dance fight on fire escapes (so 1961), we DO do a series of other bizarre things, the top five of which I will now relate to you.

1. Everyone flies kites. It's weird, it's strangely wholesome, and I always think that giant birds are flying down to attack me for at least a minute before I figure out what's going on. I don't know anyone other then Charlie Brown who flies kites, so it's Charlie Brown, and the citizens of San Juan, Puerto Rico. That's quite a club.

2.There is a Polo Ralph Lauren outlet. And a Guess outlet. And a Burberry outlet. And a Marshals. And only one supermarket.

3. There is a small section of the city called "La Perla" which is literally on the sea and outside of the jurisdiction of San Juan. That's right, it's a LAWLESS neighborhood. And it's funded by a potato chip company.

4. There is a Bacardi factory. I've never actually been there, but it's a life goal of mine to go. It's right up there with making it through an evening in high heels and watching every episode of Stargate SG-1. I'm dreaming big.

5. There is a Taco Bell. Now, that's just, that's offensive, is what that is.

As I hugged Elyse goodbye at 4 in the morning so she could catch her flight to Bogota and begin her new life as a drug baroness, I was glad to have been able to share this special little strugglesome world with her. And besides, compared to Puerto Rico, Columbia's going to be a piece of plantain, right? Right?

More snow is predicted for this Tuesday. It was 80 degrees and sunny when I left San Juan. I think I deserve some days without real pants.

Struggle Gets Dishy, Volume 1

2010-01-26T15:19:00.000-05:00

Among the things I love best in the world, food is pretty much at the top of the list. And I don't mean that in the "I like food, and water, and breathing" kind of way, but more in the, "If I could marry food I totally would, and then I would (obviously) pull a Saturn and eat my children every day" way. But it wouldn't be weird. It would be awesome.

So in light of my love of food and my 5 years spent wasting my youth and drudging in various restaurants, I'm adding a weekly recipe component to my posts. Let me know if there is anything special you want a recipe for, say, something new to do with turkey breast, or a fun way to cook the flesh of your enemies. I'll be sure to make it strugglicious.

Polenta Pizza Pie (adapted loosely from a Self.com recipe. Shut up.)

1/2 a cup of corn meal
2 1/4 cups of water
1/2 a cup of red onion, thinly sliced
1/2 a cup of red pepper, diced
2 teaspoons olive oil
2 teaspoons fennel seeds
2 tomatoes
4 cloves of garlic, minced
1 3 ounce turkey sausage (or pork, if you are not a chosen person)
1/2 cup shredded mozzarella cheese
salt and pepper

Heat the oven to 450 degrees F. Boil the water and add corn meal in a thin stream, along with about a 2 teaspoons of salt. Whisk the mixture until the cornmeal has dissolved (it will initially be lumpy, don't get upset). Continue to whisk until the mixture is thickened and well blended. Pour the polenta into a greased pie pan and chill for about 20 minutes.

Remove the skin from the sausage and cook in a saucepan with cooking spray, or, if you want to be a fatty-no-friends, olive oil. In a separate saucepan, saute 2 teaspoons olive oil, the onions, peppers, two cloves of garlic and fennel seed, until the onions and peppers have just begun to soften. Place polenta pie base in the oven and bake for 15 minutes. As you are baking the polenta, dice the tomatoes and cook in a small pan with the other two cloves of garlic until the mixture is a thick, chunky sauce. Spread the sauce over the pre-baked polenta "crust", and then spread the sausage and the pepper-onion mixture on top. Place in oven and bake for 15 minutes. Spread cheese on top, and bake for an additional 10 minutes. Serve with salad, or eat it straight from the pan as you watch a Law and Order marathon on USA. Whatever feels right to you.

Struggle Plays Around

2010-01-21T10:35:00.000-05:00

Since I've joined the ranks of the working girls (no, not THOSE kind of working girls, get your mind out of the gutter!), I've discovered something miraculous. While the daily grind doesn't just extend to my coffee, and while the work week can seem endless at times, one of the most amazing things about working, rather than being a student, is, with some exceptions, your nights and weekends are fairly free. Now, this might not sound that revelatory, but stay with me here. For the last 22 years, excluding the brief respite given by vacation times, my evenings were occupied, initially with piano lessons, play practices, vocal jazz rehearsals (am I painting a solid picture for you concerning both my dorkiness and my mother's saintliness?) and later, as the years went by, with part time jobs and meetings and always, through it all, the endless homework, coursework, paperwork and schoolwork, designed to turn the average human being into a pedantic philosophy quoting machine. Or, you know, teach us something. Whichever way you slice it, it took up most of my time, so between classes during the day, working in the evenings and chasing this elusive "sleep" creature all weekend (between drinking bouts. What? Not-Yale was tough!) , I pretty much kept myself busy.

But now that all of that is behind me (at least for the next few years) I'm discovering this amazing thing known as "doing things during the week". Wild and unconventional as this concept is to me, it seems to me that I may be a little behind the times on this one. For example my friend Jon, (hi Jon!) Has drinks and dinner dates with people all the time. When we trade stories about the previous evening, I regal him with tales of Netflix and Sleepytime, while Jon counters with exciting stories about his dating adventures in the Capital. Once I started asking around, it seemed that all of my friends had ceased to reserve their "out of the house" moments for the weekends. So I thought, why not?

Now, given my innate uncoolness and my deep seated need for sleep, I figured I couldn't do anything that crazy on a Monday that might mean I couldn't make it to work on a Tuesday. So body shots, Roman orgies and road trips to Washington were all out, (Sorry, Jon), as were assassination attempts on Latin American dictators were all out. (Just ask the CIA, that last one can take YEARS.) So what was a girl to do to fill all her new found time? The obvious choice, attend two different one-man plays about the lives of Truman Capote and James Baldwin, respectively. Duh.

The Maukingbird Theater Company is a small but prolific company here in Struggledelphia who produce work which looks at questions of sexuality and gender in a new and often striking way. I've seen a great deal of their work, and for a new company they are interesting in tackling some of the most disturbing and perturbing questions facing society today. Their current work is kind of a two parter, two separate plays, each a one man show, each with the same set, but each with a different subject. "Tru", a blustering and meandering 2 hour Odyssey, is told from the perspective of an aging Truman Capote, whose tenuous status in society is quickly plummeting due to his indiscreet, if acute, descriptions of the socialites and dilettante around him. "The Threshing Floor", a singing, zingingly tight hour long chronicle, probes into the life of James Baldwin. While Capote made a career of being the ultimate hanger on, Baldwin exiled himself from the United States in every possible way, I mean, the man practically put the ex in ex-patriot. Perhaps I preferred the piece on Baldwin because of my own recent regression to US soil, because of my own concerns, post graduation, post travel, post life as I've come to know it, about what to do next.

Or maybe I just liked it because it was shorter. Now that I know weeknights are an option, I'm going to fill them just as high as I can. After all, I've got 22 years to make up for. Just don't tell my choral teacher, okay?

Struggle Does if for the Mortgage

2010-01-12T15:49:00.000-05:00

You know what's a huge struggle? If you answered me, then you are indeed correct, but that was the easy answer, so no points for you. However, if you instead answered "growing up and joining the human race", well, go ahead and pat yourself on the back because you won.

Now, I am fully aware of how difficult it is to get a job in today's market. However, despite "la crisis", or perhaps because of it, most of my friends are, surprisingly enough, gainfully employed, if only because the people my age are willing to accept lower salaries and longer hours then, say, a parent of two. So here we all are, fresh out of college, filled with the vigor and promise of youth, our whole lives ahead of us, and then we jump straight into a world of heath insurance forms and taxes and early bedtimes. I mean, did you know that based on your commute you have to wake up by at least 8 to be somewhere and caffeinated by 9? Which means you have to go to BED by at least 1, which means you can't watch adult swim, which means what the hell are you going to talk about with anyone ever? I honestly don't know how adults do it!

And listen, this isn't just hearsay, I really do know what I'm talking about. For the next two months I myself am working what I believe the kids call a 9 to 5, answering phones, filing papers, selling my soul to the company store, the usual. And I have a few observations from my long hard days in the salt mines (and by salt mines I mean Real Estate Company. And by long hard days, I mean my father buys me lunch every day) which I would like to share with you, as a way to aid my fellow compatriots, young and old. And by compatriots, I mean drones.

How to make a 9 to 5 a "Nothing but Fun":
1. Use the time when you are being paid to be "working" as covert opportunities to catch up on some serious reading. May I suggest observing the social habits of others? Boning up on the news? Or, you know, stalking?
2. Construct a suit of armor out of paper clips. It worked for my brother in the 6th grade, it can work for you. Ladies, don't be gender normative, armor on up! Only you can defend middle earth!
3. Make long distance phone calls on someone else's dime. Come on, don't you have some friends in New Guinea you could be catching up with?
4. Set up an internet dating profile. The sketchier the site, the better.
5. Fill out magazine subscriptions and catalog offers in the names and addresses of people you dislike. Penile enhancement offers always sweeten the deal.

I'm sure you've all got more at home. And if you do, would you mind sending them to me? I seem to have a lot of grown up time I need to fill.

Struggle Turns 1!

2010-01-06T17:27:00.000-05:00

Well, it took me about 18 hours, three bottles of water, two enormous cups of coffee, a glamour magazine (shut up), one evening in Heathrow airport, two friskings, one 8 hour trans-Atlantic flight, one 40 minute trans-USA flight, three customs declaration forms (I really should stop using pens), and one screening of "Love Happens" (life lesson, no matter what, don't EVER see "Love Happens"), but I am finally back on the Western Side of the Atlantic ocean. And when I GOT back, after communing with my cats, watching something like 20 hours straight of netflix and Hulu ( I had to catch up!), and indulging myself in wine and microwave popcorn (a concept that has yet to reach Europe in a popular sense), I made a startling realization. Was it that despite it's heavy sense of procedure I still love Bones? Well, yes, yes it was, but that wasn't the main thing. No, the real and really scary thing I discovered was that I've been keeping this blog for a year now. Which means that some of you have been reading about my strugglsome struggles for a year now. Which means that YOU must be exhausted. I know I am.

That's right, it's been a full year since I realized the struggle had to go public. A full year since I sat in the Art and Architecture Library of not-Yale and first began to consider my life through the lens of struggle. And since that time the world has seen two Twilight films, one band of pirates (not the fun Caribbean kind, though, which just goes to show, everything is better in the Caribbean) , several massive snow storms, an unprecedented number of celebrity deaths, an economic recession (known in Spain as "la crisis", a more direct moniker, I must say), the marriage of a Jonas brother (viewers of the Disney channel weep), and the first ever Olympic games to be held in a South American country. Now, as that country is Brazil, well, the Olympic athletes might have to play with switchblades in their sports bras, but, hey, progress, right?

But on a more personal note, it's been a pretty full year for me as well. I graduated not-Yale, I farmed organically, for about two weeks, I traveled around Europe, I subsequently mocked Europe, I did yoga, I read Rushdie, I recycled. I was also kicked by a horse, got lost in major transit stations in at least 5 European cities, yelled at by tenants, contractors, strangers and Germans, caught strep throat, caught 4 different colds, caught many trains in the wrong directions, and struggled, struggled, struggled. But then, didn't we all. And perhaps I'm not so different as I was a year ago when I published my first post, still a mess, still can't figure out what to do with my hair, still technically living with my parents.

So as I look ahead to the new year, with all it's promise and hope, I recognize that I still have some struggling to do. After all, I'm only 1 year old. So happy anniversary to the struggle, and to all of us who continue to do it. And hey, at least my parents have cable. Things seem to be looking up.

Struggle Travels in Style

2010-01-03T07:36:00.001-05:00

First and foremost, let me wish all of you a healthy, happy and struggle-free New Year. Since I myself am fully aware of the impossibility of my own year/existence being devoid of struggle, the least I can do is wish good things on others. Now, I'm sure you are all desperate to know about how I spent my New Years Eve, if only to, you know, point and mock. But before we get there, I think it's only fair that we jump back and talk a little bit about the build up.

As you may recall, the day after the that whole Christmas thing I found myself running out of Madrid like a bat out of hell, bound straight for Berlin. Well, Berlin, by way of Palma de Mallorca, so, you know, 10 hours of travel just to get to an umlaut, but, you know, I'm not bitter. I finally arrived in Berlin, after the weirdest and, honestly, more ghetto series of plane rides of my life (at one point we were shuffled onto a bus and just taxied around the runway for a while until the plane was ready for us. Standing room only. Smelly smelly European people. I think you get the idea. Now, as for Berlin itself, well, Berlin is, honestly, weird. It's a weird place, it's a huge struggle, it's exactly what you'd expect of a city that was divided by a giant marked up wall for several decades and then re-united in the modern era. The most edible naturally German food to be found in the city is called currywurst, and is a sausage served with ketchup and curry and fries. Sure. There is even a museum devoted to it, but given that I only had three days in Berlin, I had to give that one a miss. However, I did get to spend my days wandering around some of the riches of the ancient world (so graciously and kindly ripped out and stolen by the Germans, thanks, guys), and observing some "Bruegel" guy and his "art work" , apparently he's, like, famous, or something? I don't know, all the signs were in German. Go figure. The upside of Berlin is that everyone, and I really do mean everyone, from the cab drivers to the coffee shop waiters, speaks English. Given that this is not the case in, say, Spain, for example, this was something I found really quite exciting. The downside of this turns out to be that, and I don't know why this is, but when Germans speak in English, well, they just tend to sound, how to put this, amazingly, astoundingly, totally, well, RUDE. Really really rude. Honestly, downright mean. I don't think that they MEAN to, per say, or that there is an intention for cruelty, but they just YELL at you, it's unreal. At a VERY nice Austrian restaurant I attended with Ben and Michael (hi, guys!) and their family the oh-so-proper maitre'd actually barked at us "hurry up, hurry up!" as he shepherded us to our table. Now, granted, there were, like, 12 of us, but STILL! If only we tipped here in Europe, then it could reflect that treatment. I suppose that's why we don't. Just one more reason to blame the Germans.

Waving auf Wiedersehen to Germany I jumped on a flight and made my way over to the sunny shores of England, to bask in the balmy weather and get myself a tan. Much to my shock and despair, it was foggy and rainy! Who would have guessed it? Here in London I celebrated the New Year with a bunch of public school boys, my friend Andrew, (hi, Andrew!) and some fairly disturbing British Art. I must say, as much of a struggle as I am, I can't help by like London, with it's delicious Indian food and it's horrifying social systems. Outside of New York I've never heard so many different languages spoken on public transportation, and you kind of have to love that, don't you?

Or perhaps it's just that I love London because it's the last stop on my way home. And tomorrow night, just before the Tube closes for the evening, I will be on my way to London's Heathrow Airport, to while away the evening drinking in the airport bar and waiting for my flight to be announced. Is it going to be a struggle? Well, of course it is, have you seen the title of this website? Is it going to be worth it? Well, after a long period of wandering, gentle readers, let me tell you, that to get home, frankly, swimming the Atlantic ocean would be worth it, let alone flying over it. So, for all of you following along at home, I'll catch you across the pond. It's been 100 days in Europe for me, and I'm ready to say Adios, Ciao, Chuss, Cheers, and Au Revoir. It seems that for me, there's no struggle like home.

Struggle Tries Hibernation

2009-12-21T14:37:00.000-05:00

There are a lot of reasons to envy bears. They are adept at catching fish with their hands, which I haven't seen a human doing outside of Mulan, they are outfitted with a nice and quite fashionable coat that works with all seasons, and their diet of berries and honey works for me. Yes, bears have a lot going on for them, but I would say the best thing they do is hibernate. I mean, what a concept, you know? All summer you work up to being a fatty no-friends, gorging yourself on all of the wonders of the forest, getting chased by bees, all that fun stuff. Then, when the weather starts getting nippy, you find yourself a nice warm cave, kick out and wolves that happen to be in the vicinity, and just curl up and sleep. I mean, doesn't that sound amazing this time of year? As someone who doesn't do the whole Christmas thing, honestly, right about now I could use some cave time.

The problem with Madrid is, well, let me stop myself right there, because, when we start talking about the problems of Madrid you need a snack and a comfortable chair and a bathroom break and maybe a drink or two because that's like a whole day right there. But one of the MANY problems of Madrid is that as a catholic nation, Spain is all about the Christmas in a big way. Now, I myself have no problem with "La Navidad" back home in my native land. Sure, lot's of things are closed and, frankly, red and green looks good on approximately NO ONE (sorry to burst that bubble there), but as long as movie theaters and Asian communities stay open I'm pretty much good to go. The trouble is that here in Spain things don't actually work that way. This place truly does shut down for the birth of Jesus, everything just stops. Cafes, shops, supermarkets, pretty much everything but the churches, for some reason, are shut down from the afternoon of the 24th to the morning of the 26th. I know. Crazy.

So really, the truth is that I have no choice but the hibernate at this time of the year. And that is exactly what I have been doing. Curled up in my little cell-like room, gorging myself on Spanish cookies and endless cups of tea, I've honestly almost forgotten that the outside world is all about decking the halls with boughs of whatever. However, while bears sleep all winter, I myself will be exiting my period of self-imposed hibernation, and, in fact, the Spanish Empire, in two short days. That's right, gentle readers, I'm off to Bundesrepublik Deutschland, or Germany, for those of us not born with pretzels and beer in our hands. In the beautiful and, might I add, very cold city of Berlin I will be checking out museums, cafes, some famous wall-thing, and spending time with my delightful compadres in struggle, Ben and Michael (hi, guys!). So even as my struggle in Spain draws to a close I can see the next struggle on the horizon, glowing in the light of the northern European sun. Bring it on, Berlin. After my battles with dusty Spain, I think I'm ready. And as for Madrid, well, suppose I must bid it a semi-fond farewell. It's been, at the very least, emotional.

Tidings of Struggle and Joy

2009-12-17T10:01:00.000-05:00

So I recently had to explain to a room full of people what the miracle of Hannukah entails. In Spanish. Yeah. Are we having fun yet?

Look, it's not like I didn't expect for this country to be a little, shall we say, Jew-deficient. I'm neither crazy nor particularly stupid, and I've read, you know, at least one book about European history, like, ever. But to be fair to myself, it's not like I've ever really spent a long time in a place that had no knowledge of Jewish culture, practices or general sense of humor. I mean, after 5 years in an Episcopalian elementary school, which was, to say the least, slightly confusing, I ended up spending 10 years in Quaker School, so, well, in Struggledelphia that pretty much means bring on the bagels and shmear because you couldn't swing a dead cat around your head without hitting a fellow tribesman in that place. And while I myself considered not-Yale pretty damn Christian, 30% of the population does indeed, in theory, shun the pork products, so, really, not too shabby. So I suppose you might say that I've pretty much spent the majority of my life among the chosen people, and, hey, it's not like there is anything wrong with that. We generally tend to be funny, self-deprecating, and we nosh like no one else. All in all, I'd say it's been a pretty good deal, thus far.

However, the one thing a life lived in Hebrew hasn't really given me is the concept that there are large groups of people out there for whom the term "latke" means nothing at all. So when Hannukah came around here in Madrid I was, shall we say, at a bit of a loss. One problem is that the Jewish community here is, well, chicitita, as the Spanish would say. We as a people tend not to return to those places from which we've been asked to leave. Of course, the consequences of this mean that we are currently looking for a new planet. Still, I figured, if Mount Sinai wont come to Noah, Noah could go to Mount Sinai. So I decided to throw my own Hannukah party, in defiance of several hundred years of Papal decrees. And while I actually was able to convince a large group of people to come and celebrate the festival of lights with me, I ran into some trouble explaining to them exactly what it was.

To be fair, it's not as if Hannukah is really our most important holiday. While fun and chock full of fried foods (how can you go wrong), it's not nearly as significant as Purim or Yom Kippur, and it doesn't hold a candle (see what I did there?) to Passover. The only reason it's gained such popularity in recent years is because it falls so near to Christmas that we can pretend we've got something to equal the birth of the Christan Messiah. But what further hindered my celebration was the fact that here in Spain there is no cultural context for Judaism. It's not as though people have any kind of association with the term "Jewish". They don't consider us greedy money lenders screaming for our pounds of flesh, nor do they see us as lawyers and doctors who love a nice brisket, nor do they understand us as hilarious if neurotic comedians who marry their own step daughters. They've got nothing when it comes to us.

So when you are trying to explain the Maccabes and oil lamps and dreidel and gelt it's like you are speaking another language. And if you are in fact accustomed to speaking another language altogether, well, that, my friends, is what we call a struggle. Put it on the list you are keeping at home.

In the end I just sort of had to throw in the towel and tell everyone this was our version of Christmas. It's not entirely untrue, to be fair, and honestly, after some wine, it's not like anyone was listening to me anyway. I suppose some things are just untranslatable at a certain point. Upside? They really seemed to understand the concept of latkes. You have to take the victories that you can.

Struggle Fills the Time

2009-12-09T08:34:00.000-05:00

I've got a lot of grievances against Spain. Look, let's be fair here, this is a wonderful country. The bread is delightful, the wine isn't half bad, the people are certainly friendlier then the French (though for the love of God who ISN'T), and the people tend to dress so oddly that should you go out in a less then cute ensemble, well, you fit right on in. But in the long and uncomfortable history of Espana which includes but in no way is limited to introducing syphilis to native peoples of all sorts of lands, killing or deporting anyone with an interest in Elohim or, for that matter, Allah, and, of course, the fact that no one in the country can speak any other language other then Spanish because despite the fact that Franco has been dead for 30 years apparently we can still blame him, for, um, everything. Sure. Let's go with that.

And I wish I could be noble and say that my complaints against this place have anything at all to do with the history and persecution of the Spanish empire, but, alas, I am far to shallow. No, in fact, as I'm really all about the petty, my unhappinesses here tend to be of a far more strugglesome origin. You know, it's all the little things, the way the internet only works on oddly numbered days or how there is no good Asian food anywhere or how strangers just straight up stare at you in the subway. A cornicopia of little moments, really, each one more painful then the next. As the Christmas season, or, as they say here, La Navidad, draws closer, well, let's just say the thought I tend to have in my mind when viewing the city is along the lines of "What fresh hell is this". So when my friend Andrew, (hi Andrew!), arrived to visit me this past Friday, well, let's just say I was feeling less then enchanted with Spain's capital. The hundreds of people unironicilly wearing reindeer horn hats didn't really help.

However, if there is one thing that will renovate your enthusiasm in a place is seeing it through someone else's eyes. While I am at the point here where all I can see is struggle abounding like it's going out of style, well, Andrew sees jamon ibirico dripping gloriously off pieces of bread, rivers of Ribera and Rioja wine gushing through the streets and amazing pieces of art at every turn. Trotting around the cobbled streets and crowded avenues of Madrid I was struck again by the complicated and uncomfortable beauty of this city. I wouldn't say it's tranquil, or even charming, but it has it's moments of excitement and beauty, even when you are being harassed by strange beggars who implore you to buy a sprig of Rosemary from them for good luck. Yeah. Because there's a lot of logic going on there.

As I waved goodbye to Andrew this afternoon in the frantic and garishly lit Puerta del Sol, I couldn't help but consider just how lovely Madrid can be, or would be, if there weren't all these other people wandering about. I have to say, sometimes they sort of ruin it for me.

I currently have less then two weeks left in Madrid. That's probably a good thing. In a perversion of what Oscar Wilde once said, either I go, or this city does. Given how disorganized Spain has been since the fall of it's empire in South America, well, I don't really see it having much of a fighting chance.

The best laid struggles...

2009-12-05T14:42:00.000-05:00

Oh, my dear lord. Last night I legitimately spent the evening with a young man of my age and general demeanor who totally and without shame listened to his c-d player the entire time. From my apartment to one bar to another bar and every street upon which we walked, this kid was in his own world, with the c-d of his choosing. Naturally I was both enthralled and concerned by this action. Why, might you ask? Let me explain.

First of all, who the HELL has a portable c-d player in this day and age? My GOD that was odd to see. To be fair, this young man also carried around with him a small but substantial library of c-ds to switch in and out. Which is something that would be quite common to see in, oh, I don't know, the late nineties? Yes, well, welcome to Spain, a country where the concept of the Internet is still one that needs to me explained to the majority of the population. The other day someone told me that her parents refused to get the internet in their house because they insisted that they didn't have room for it. A second of all, who on Earth DOES that? Who listens to their music when they are with other people? Because I am a creeper at heart, at one point during the evening I found myself unabashedly staring directly at this person, as one does when something totally insane occurs. "What?" he asked me. "Nothing", I said.

Now, in another life, this incident would have totally baffled and confused me for days, maybe weeks on end. But since I came to and started living in Spain, well, this is just another day in the life. Now that I'm here I've come to realize that Pedro Almodovar isn't making fictional movies, he's making documentaries. The randomness of this country continues to amaze me daily. For example, yesterday I had planned and hoped to take a day trip to the nearby town of Segovia. I woke up, shook off my hangover, and headed to the train station to meet some friends and buy the tickets. Of course, as this is SPAIN, all of the trains for the day were sold out. How it is possible for every train leaving every half an hour to a town less then an hour away to be sold out, well, I have no idea, but guess it is. Just another fun fact about being here, I suppose.

This month at my favorite vintage theater here in Madrid they are showing a series of Charlie Chaplin films. When watching the hilarious and heartbreaking movie The Circus and observing the hijinks and antics of Chaplin as he ran, bowlegged, around a group of clowns, I couldn't help but relate strongly to his "little tramp". Lost, confused, mugging for the camera, honestly, that's like my Tuesday night here in Spain. If I had a mustache and a bowler hat, hell, you wouldn't know the difference.

Still. At least I take my headphones off when spending time with other people. I have to say, I don't think that's culture difference, I think that's just a struggle.

Madrid Makes Struggle Even Sicker

2009-11-30T07:42:00.000-05:00

Has life ever seemed to be a wild french farce to you? No? Well, it does to me, almost daily. Now that I'm finally settled into my apartment and my life in Madrid, now that I'm feeling the slightest bit comfortable and able to communicate fairly decently in Spanish, now that I really feel like I've got the metro system down and I know where to buy the cheap groceries, of course now would be the time that I once again get sick. Of course. It's only fair. Thanks, struggleverse, always a pleasure.

To be fair to the powers that be, however, at least this time I'm living in an apartment rather then in a hostel, so this time I can shut my door and cough away to my heart's content without worrying about drunken backpackers stumbling into my room at 4 in the morning. This is not to say that people aren't stumbling into the apartment at 4 in the morning, but at least they don't come into my room and turn on the light, so, you know, major improvement. And, given how much I've been coughing lately, I can at least be happy with the thought that I'm bothering my roommates just as much as they bother me.

So, this past weekend, while others were out at all hours of the night dancing to electronica in clubs and elbowing their way to the bar for mojitos (which are strangely popular here, don't ask me why), I myself was getting acquainted with some chicken soup and tea and forging a deep and personal bond with my bed. To keep myself occupied and, frankly, to prevent myself from downloading ever episode of 30 Rock ever aired, I started reading Sylvia Path's iconic novel The Bell Jar. As I traveled through the world of New York in the 1950's with it's bizarre gender relations and pressures, I couldn't help but consider through my dayquil and lemon-tea soaked haze, all that has changed and all that has stayed the same. The main character of the novel, Ester, worries that the only thing she is good at is being a student, and when she no longer feels motivated by acedamia she sinks into depression and madness. I'm not sure if this is a good book to read after your college graduation or a terrible one, but on the upside, well, it sure makes my life seem better by comparison. Sure, I may be in a similar situation, a little lost, a little bewildered, and I do so love my full skirts and cardigans, , but at the end of the day my generation of women have a lot more going for them then the ability to write in shorthand and at the very least no one I know is even thinking about getting pinned. All in all, I guess I would say that sick or not, I'm glad to be living in this age if 1955 is my alternative. I mean, does anyone actually use shorthand anymore?

I woke up feeling better this morning, and I'm almost done with Sylvia Plath. I also found a new song I like. Things are looking up, it seems.

Struggle Would Like to Give Thanks

2009-11-26T10:13:00.000-05:00

Ah, Thanksgiving, that special time of year where it's socially acceptable to eat so much that you either pass out and drink so much that it seems like a good idea to scream at a group of men in strangely tight pants as they throw a ball around a large field of grass. Well, to be perfectly fair, back home in the States both of those things tend to be socially acceptable ANYWAY, but I think you see my point. The fact is that I actually usually find something strangely comforting about this holiday, the food, the family, the copious amounts of alcohol (oh, dear, is your family not like mine? Pity). Despite it's puritanical heritage, it isn't a particularly religious holiday, so everyone can pretty much celebrate it as they like. As my mother reminded me, the true origins of the holiday really lie in a group of desperate and isolated people who were probably so thrilled to have lived through the year in that terrible and strange land we now know as Massachusetts that they were just looking for a little celebration. I'm sure they never dreamed that one day their distant ancestors would be honoring the tumultuous early years of settlement and slaughter by covering sweet potatoes with marshmallows and trying to eat our weight in turkey. How proud they must be.

Of course, this year I'm not spending Thanksgiving in the States, so I supposed it's a whole new ballgame. As turkey is one of the few native foods of North America it can be fairly difficult to find here in the land of smoked pig products, so that was out. And because my decision to come to Madrid was spontaneous, to put it mildly, I don't really know enough people here to cook a whole bird of any kind, I mean, considering all the people I know here, frankly, a cornish game hen might be pushing it. So what is an American girl in Spain to do? Well, the only thing she can, frankly, which is make a nice meal for the few people she can rope into bringing wine, and count her blessings. Frankly, considering how cheap wine is here, that's not so bad, all things considering.

There are a lot of things I'm thankful for this year. As always, I'm thankful for the big things, my family, my friends, my wireless internet connection. However, I've always said that it's the little things that make life worth living. Here is the short list, in no particular order:
1. Mad Men, Season 3
2. Impossible dogs, and the people who put sweaters on them
3. The fact that I saw an old man hit a waiter with a cane today in a Cerveceria
4. Modcloth.com
5. The fact that I no longer live in a hostel, though at times my apartment feels like one...
6. Free tapas with every glass of wine at basically everywhere in the greater Madrid area.
7. In light of the temperature fluctuations here in Madrid, the fact that I brought multiple layers to Europe.
8. The fact that I will be back in the US by the time Sherlock Holmes comes into theaters
9. Free entrance to El Prado and El Reina Sofia daily.
10. The fact that no matter where I am, my flourless chocolate cake still sames to taste the same.

I must say, while we in the States might think we know what it's like to love sports, but we have NOTHING on Europe. I saw a group of men crying the other day when Real Madrid won in a seasonal match with Zurich. Take THAT, Superbowl. To all you football fans who are offended, well, call me when you start crying.

As for the rest of you, Happy Thanksgiving! Eat some extra turkey for me. I myself will be contenting my stomach with chicken. Same difference, right?

The Road to Struggle is Paved with Good Intentions

2009-11-21T19:33:00.000-05:00

This morning I woke up at 11:30. While for some people this might not seem like anything out of the ordinary, for me it is a bit odd, as I make a solid effort to rise daily before 10. As I have school five days a week here in Madrid, I usually wake up around 8:30 to make it to class on time, so on the weekends my system tends to be accustomed to getting up at a respectable hour. And because I really really really like sleeping, I tend to go to bed before the sun begins to rise in order to be able to wake up at these early hours. While to most people this might sound normal, here in Madrid if you aren't drunkenly watching the sunrise daily then, well, you aren't living. I've actually met people who come to Madrid for a three day period, just to party, and never ever see the city in daylight. (And I thought MY friends were partiers, hi Jon!) Thought this amazes me, I generally try to think about it as a practice of an extraterrestrial, that is to say, I can observe and respect it without really letting it impact my life. Or at least, I thought I could.

The fact is that the last two weekends when I have arrived in my apartment with every intention of going to sleep, waking up early, and generally being like everyone else in the world, well, Madrid just keeps getting in the way. During the period of time I fully expect to be sleeping I might, for example, find myself having a heated debate over American fast food chains with a frenchman while fighting a german girl for the last shot of whiskey. Or I might be talking about the Italian government with a pair of syblings from Turin while observing a Spanish barman ask a Chinese couple to leave. (Have I mentioned lately that this place might just be a wee bit racist?) Either way, when I look down at my watch it's at least 3 hours later then I think it should be and I'm within the 4 hour mark of sunrise. And the strange this is that almost everyone I live with has remarked on how early I turn in when we go out.

Now, I recognize that as a 22 year old living in a foreign country I really should probably want to explore the discotecas and body-shots so popular with the young people these days. But frankly the idea of pumping techno music and aging Spanish lotharios taking a break from their wives for the night doesn't exactly appeal to me. Moreover, I happen to think that there are plenty of things worth doing in this city or it's surrounding countryside while there is still sun in the sky, regardless of what some guidebooks would have you think. But I don't want to be rude, and at the end of the day it's better to be talking to drunken Swedish people then no one at all, so I end up going out most of the night AND, because I'm just too compulsive not to, exploring this area of Spain all day. I honestly don't think I'm going to sleep a full night until I return to the States.

For a fun beverage when drinking socially here, they literally mix red wine with coca cola. It's called calimocho and it's a real thing. What is it they keep saying about how sophisticated Europe is?

Struggle Goes Medieval

2009-11-15T11:51:00.000-05:00

While there are certainly enough things to do in Madrid to keep a person occupied for quite a while, I mean, the street performers alone deserve at least a month-long tour, it can be nice to get out of the city, if only for a day. So earlier this week when wandering around Madrid and thinking for the 10th time that day that Madrid is bizarre, I decided that it was time for me to spend a day away.

One of the delightful things about Madrid is that not only is it a gorgous city in and of itself, but it's frighteningly well located. Within two hours from Madrid are at least 10 cities, five of which are worth seeing. Sorry, other five, but I think you know that to be the truth. So when you want to take some time apart you've got a lot of options. I myself, for my first day trip out of the city, decided to venture to the beautiful city of Toledo, whose winding cobblestone streets and golden stone buildings make the place look like it just time traveled from 1305. Luckily for those who visit Toledo today, they will not be required to invent the horse collar or do anything involving midden. Instead, what they will find is a claustrophobic little place with twisting turning paths and a 500 year old church around every corner. That is, if they can even REACH Toledo, because, as we all know by now, getting anywhere by train in this country is the equivalent of inventing the wheel, it's not impossible, obviously, it can be done, but DAMN is it a struggle!

When I arrived at Madrid's Atocha Train Station I made my way quickly to the ticket office. Now, it should first be said that Madrid is clearly a very modern city, and the Atocha Train station is a very modern train station. Clean, relatively, and full of signs in both English and Spanish, at first glance the station doesn't appear to be a mess on top of a struggle. How deceived I was, my friends, how deceived. As you enter the main ticket office, which issues all tickets for trains going outside of Madrid more then 20 minutes, you might observe what feels like ten million people waiting. After a few moments, you might also realize that everyone is holding small slips of paper with numbers on them. Okay, that makes sense, right? Taking a number? But where could the number machine be? Certainly it wouldn't be in plain site, in an easily accessible location, that would be CRAZY. No, it's got to be in the corner, half covered by a plant, an unsung hero living in the dark. And is the machine a nice clean new object that looks like it was made in the last 40 years and is being held together by more then tape? Why, of course it doesn't! When I finally got my number it turned out that there were 37 people in front of me in line. Say it with me, can you? STRUGGLE.

So perhaps it isn't that Toledo is so beautiful, but rather that after the ordeal of buying the tickets and waiting for the train and walking 20 minutes uphill to reach the city made getting there such a relief that it could have been Pittsburgh and I woul have been thrilled to see it. Luckily, Toledo is not Pittsburgh, so I'm going to give it the benefit of the doubt.

I spent the day strolling, or rather, climbing the hilly little city which is chock full of tiny Mosques, huge Churches and medium sized Synagogues. It's a regular monster-mash of sacred spaces, really, all beautiful and all chock full of tourists staring at maps. I myself was among them, to be fair, as I got lost no less then 5 times in the space of five hours. By the time I returned to Madrid Saturday night it was almost a relief to find myself back in a big city, because at least by this point I know the way back to my bed. Sometimes, well, that's all you can hope for.

Struggle Sweeps the City

2009-11-07T18:29:00.000-05:00

There is nothing quite like having a friend visit you when you are living alone in a foreign country. For those of you have have yet to have this experience, i.e., most of the world's population, let me inform you that it is a glorious experience, because in an desert of strangers a familiar face is like an palm tree oasis. (I've been thinking about Aladdin a lot lately. I like Abu, the little monkey, I like his vest. What? He's delightful!)

So when my friend Haley, hi Haley!, mentioned she might want to come to Madrid, I jumped at the chance to have her here. Because Haley is living the glamorous life in Paris (well for those prices it had BETTER be glamorous), it's not too difficult for her to jump across the border and enter the land of huge rice dishes and odd Franco references. It's frankly the MetroNorth of plane travel, to be honest. For those of you who don't get that, well, move to New Haven for, like, five minutes, and then you will.

Now, considering I live in an apartment with approximately ten billion other people, the chance to stay in a posh hotel with one of my best friends seemed like an ideal prospect, especially considering just how many of my roommates seem to be at the peak of their, um, stamina, let's say, in the mornings. What I didn't consider was just how strange it would be to experience Madrid as a tourist, strolling through the calles and avenidas like the American I try so hard not to be. Honestly, it was rather a relief to be walking around the city with Haley, gawking at all the quintessential Spanishness, being troubled by the increasingly pathetic street performers, marveling at the oddness at every turn. As Haley marveled at the beggars in the streets, the low prices (because compared to Paris Dubai is an outlet store, really) and the ability to smoke anywhere you please, I couldn't help but be grateful. There is nothing like having someone used to the French around to make you appreciate the Spanish. And you can quote me on that.

Now that Haley has returned to Paris and I am still living a life with one foot in the third world (Thank you, Spain), I only hope I can keep that sense of gratitude with me. Considering that I have yet to meet a friendly waiter, a kind shop owner, or any person who says "Excuse me" when they straight up run into you on the street, I'm thinking it's going to be a struggle. Oh, well, if there's one thing I do well...