The Long Way Round

January 16, 2013 marked one year since I arrived here in South Africa. I am, admittedly, a month late, but in this last year, traveling from one side of the planet to the other, I've tried to document as much as possible on video, and I've cut all those snippets of my travel together here. 

My travels took me from the economic powerhouse of Africa in Johannesburg to the red sand dunes of Sossusvlei in Namibia; deep in the jungles of the Democratic Republic of the Congo (jungles which, two weeks after we left, would be invaded by rebels) and over the undulating canyons carved into the plains of Zambia by the mighty Zambezi, terminating (for now) at the Smoke that Thunders, Victoria Falls; on the beaches of Mauritius, in the middle of the Indian Ocean or Hawaii in the Pacific; and into the wonderful jumble of past, present and future in the land of the rising sun. And I made a quick jaunt to the three other places I've called home so far in my life, San Francisco, Los Angeles, and New York.

Sometimes it's better to take the shortest route to a destination, but then sometimes I prefer to revel in the journey, to be surprised by the people, the places, the mishaps, and the unexpected encounters that breathe vigor into life from taking the long way round. It's a great, big, beautiful world out there.

Perspective

I took a cab to my friend's apartment the other day, and I had no idea what address to give to the cab driver (I never do.  It's one of the side effects of the Age of Smartphones: forgetting addresses, forgetting phone numbers and brain cancer).  He was clearly agitated with me until we finally figured out where I needed to go, and then he apologized.

"It's one of those days," he said.  It was an oddly defeated note to escape this large, stocky, bald-headed man in his 40s, a man who looked like he could probably bend a steel girder by merely glaring at it.

love is love

If, by one simple act, you could bring happiness and celebration to millions of people at no cost to yourself, would you do it?

The New Yorker

Every so often, my roommates and I wonder whether we look like New Yorkers yet.  After all, we've lived in this city for nearly a year.  In that time, we've conquered the worst winter here in two decades, and we're well on our way to coasting through what I'm told is a relatively mild New York summer (and I'm reminded constantly of how mild this summer is when I still complain about the humidity or the thunderstorms and people tell me about how much worse "last year" was, as though I care).

Spring Fever

As April is wrapping up – I’m not sure how, as it seems to have only just begun – one part of life in New York that I’ve come to appreciate considerably better here than I did in California is the relief that comes with Spring.

Furry Pretty Things

I have decided that the unbearable cold of the Northeast makes you wear things that anywhere else, you wouldn’t be caught dead in. Only weather that drops into the single digits several times a month can cause you to look at a fox or a rabbit gallivanting through Central Park and think, “That’s cute, but you know what would be even better? If I were wearing it as a coat.”

On the F

Now that I’ve moved to New York, I go to bookstores a lot — they’re like libraries, but without all the poor people. I go to bookstores a lot because, in New York, when you’re riding on the subway or walking down the street or taking the elevator up to your office, you’re not supposed to talk to people. Why? Because, I can only assume, then the terrorists win. There are a few exceptions, like a time when I was on the 6 train and a disheveled man walked into the car and, after the doors had closed and we were shuttling on our way, started to pace up and down the train and explain, quite loudly, how he was going to kill all of us.

None of my fellow passengers batted an eye.  Apparently, this was a rather common occurrence.

Homesickness

With only a few days before I left New York to celebrate Christmas in California, homesickness hit me quite suddenly. It's a disconcerting feeling, and I can’t exactly explain where I’m homesick for: I haven’t lived with my family in the Bay Area since I graduated high school, and, despite living in Los Angeles for the last five years, I never really considered it “home”.

I have an odd connection with the places I’ve lived. In high school, I wanted nothing more than to move as far away from the Bay Area as I could after I graduated. I couldn't really think of a reason why, except that I wanted something new, something exciting. And, in a stroke of self-delusion that even Bill O'Reilly would envy, I convinced myself of something that I knew to be very much untrue: that I disliked the Bay Area. So for college, I settled on Los Angeles as being a sufficient distance from home.

The Coldest Winter I Ever Spent

There's a saying attributed to Mark Twain, although that's very likely apocryphal, that the coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco. I've been to San Francisco in the summer, and it gets cold. Really cold. Sometimes it even reaches 50°. But I've just acquired new evidence, and let me be the first to say: Mark Twain was a liar and a whore.

The High Line

There is a nifty little park called the Promenade Plantée in Paris on the Seine’s Right Bank. But this isn’t just any park. No, sir. This is a park perched 25 feet in the air on a former elevated railroad line. This is a park that meanders four and a half miles through the city, beginning near the magnificently unforgettable Opera Bastille and snaking between buildings and over intersections and across tree-lined boulevards before finally making its way to one of Paris’s many gardens on the outskirts of the city. Gone are the railroad tracks that once lined this railroad, replaced by cobblestone walkways weaving through islands of flowers and trees, benches and trellises overgrown with vines. Gone are the passenger and freight trains running its length, replaced by aimless Parisians who can finally enjoy a park that puts them where they always thought they should be: above everyone else.

Hey, New York!

New York is a giant city.  Unbelievably gigantic.  It’s such a large city that when you’re in it, it’s difficult to imagine that there’s much else outside, or much reason to leave.  You want it, the city’s got it: grocery stores on every corner, 24-hour subways, pizza parlors, churches, cathedrals, synagogues and mosques (but, for the love of Christian God, watch where you put those things!).  In the mood for expensive clothes?  I give you Fifth Avenue.  Cheap clothes?  Here’s a Target.  Don’t mind if last season's perfectly good clothes have been shredded?  Here’s the dumpster behind H&M.  Or maybe you need a break, a walk through the woods.  Central Park has you covered.  Horses?  Prospect Park has those.  Water?  There’s the Hudson River (of course, I’m using the term “water” very loosely here).  Museums?  Yeah, we’ve got 86 of them.