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In cities with public transportation, a subculture of completely random people exists.  There are neighborhoods of people; families, cliques and groups, housemates, coworkers, students, mysterious strangers. Most of these people do not interact with each other, and yet the train is a social network that connects people in a special way. It’s my hope, through this series of short stories, to bring light to the tunnels below our feet, and discover the subculture that defines our cities.

I started riding the MBTA subway (a.k.a. “the T”) in Boston when I was a freshman in college. For locals to that area, it was the Green Line B train. I got my first tour of the city on that train as a pre-frosh in orientation. Some of the students I was with had never been to Boston, let alone the United States. It was a thrilling experience for all of us. Things seemed a lot bigger back then.

The trains looked old and heavily used. There was a “subway” smell of burnt rubber and hot metal that resonated. The sound of the electric current pushing the train forward was unique, almost unearthly. I took it all in as we got on the train like wandering tourists. People of all makes and sizes were already there, watching us enter the train with cautious yet indifferent eyes. The girls looked at the guys, and the guys looked at the girls.

Our orientation guide took us to Newbury Street for ice cream at J.P. Licks. I wandered off to a small bistro down the street with a guy I got chummy with that first day. That friendship was short-lived; we took different programs at school, and rarely saw each other after that.

The T fare used to be tokens before it changed to electronic cards and paper tickets. I remember the sound tokens made when dropped on the ground, like quarters on brick stone, echoing. Our guide gave us tokens that time around, but a monthly pass was essential later on to see every inch of Boston. And I would learn over the next few years, every inch of the city was different, and worth exploring.

Within two weeks, I was comfortable riding the T.

San Bernardino, CA
2/23/2011

Before I knew it, I was at the train station in San Bernardino, and Barnhart, my host out there, was ten minutes away with his girlfriend, Gigi. “Don’t go exploring, you’re in gang territory,” says Gigi over Barnhart. “Gang territory?” (It kind of felt like a shady place to stick around.) “Yeah, you know, the Bloods and the Crypts do business out there. Don’t wear anything red.” I look down at my red plaid shirt, and I start to panic. “I’m wearing red. Come find me, now.” Gigi takes the phone and says, “Get yourself inside somewhere. We’re on our way,” and before the line cuts off, I hear her say “shit” under her breath.

I waited at the Doughnut King nearby. The nice Asian shop owner gave me some extra doughnuts with my egg, ham, and cheese sandwich order. It was terrible. I picked at it enough to get my fill just as Barnhart and Gigi arrived. I was so glad to be leaving that area; some kids were loitering outside the shop, giving me funny looks. Barnhart was driving a big white truck, holding a 64-ounce cup of diet coke from Circle K. We had a quick hug and shake, and I threw my bags in the backseat. Barnhart had a ruffled look about him, as if hadn’t slept much lately.

Barnhart used to work in real estate back east, but was originally from California. After a two-month solo adventure in Cambodia that almost got him arrested and killed, he returned home to begin more lucrative ventures. He started a delivery business that covers most of the area, and that has been his most recent passion project. For as long as I’ve known him, he has always worn Berkenstock sandals, in every occasion. Even in the midst of winter, he’d wear those sandals.

The drive was comical. Barnhart kept the 64-ounce cup of diet coke in his lap, and while driving with his left hand, he played the drums with a bound bundle of chopsticks in his right. The radio was not on, but still he kept a beat while asking me how things were going. The conversation was nice enough. On occasion he would drift into a separate conversation with Gigi, who sat in the back. The highway drive was dangerous like this, but I didn’t mind. My eyes were too busy looking out at the mountains ahead.

San Bernardino, CA
2/23/2011

I feel a cold coming on. The lack of sleep, water, and nutrition is catching up with me. The last couple weeks have kept my body in a state of fast-moving culture shock, and at last, I’m starting to crack under the pressure. Maybe it’s the air. I was told by a couple people on the train that LA’s pollution can make people sick. It didn’t take long for the microbial bacteria to find another sucker to infect. I felt it give me a sore throat. I tried drinking lots of water while I was on the Metrolink to San Bernardino, but I was distracted by the need to capture the sights I saw. It was not always pleasant to see the transformation.

Mountainous valleys are surrounded by wispy clouds. Lots are full of disassembled cars, parts, steel girders and rusting industrial leftovers. There are graveyards full of junk. Neighborhoods without end are full of track homes and swimming pools. Some of them are crystal clean, and others are murky, green, or bone dry. A lot of good and bad graffiti decorate the walls surrounding these track home neighborhoods. A small playground sandlot is in the middle of a dangerous area. A storage lot the size of several football fields holds a closet full of someone’s life. So monotonous.

A patio table and umbrella rest between two cars in a warehouse parking lot… A Zen rock garden rests next to basketball courts, next to an outdoor hockey rink, next to tennis courts, next to an open field, next to a parking lot, next to a gas station, next to a gentlemen’s club… A man stands around a barrel bonfire, under a tree, surrounded by children’s toys. A junkyard has a special hanger meant solely for car bumpers. A few first-generation trees remain in an empty plot of land. A dead bird cooks on the ceramic tiles of a Spanish shingle roof. I can stare at the sun because the clouds cover it just enough to look like a full moon in a clear night sky.

El Paso, TX
2/22/2011

I don’t think my uncle wanted me to leave. I think he would have benefitted greatly if I stayed a couple months and helped him cope with loss, and possibly expand his business. I’m confident that my brief stay showed him that he has family that loves him in more places than one, and that he’s capable of so much as a bachelor. The sexual element of his freedom is not important; the prestige of independent success is worth fighting for. Again, he will do what he must to reconnect with his family. I’m but a catalyst in a post-divorce return to society, and he welcomed the gift of my presence as much as I welcomed all the things he taught me. Like a ripple effect in a great body of water, he and I made motions that would have never occurred if I didn’t take this journey. The need for our entire family to reconnect has never been more paramount. I left around 5pm, and ate a home-made burrito as the sun went down over New Mexico.

El Paso, TX
2/21/2011

My uncle was well enough to work while I drove around El Paso. He suggested the main strip by UTEP, the University of Texas, El Paso. I took the CR-V (he bought two identical models, one for him, one for his ex-wife) on a brief jaunt through back roads that all looked the same. When I reached the UTEP district on North Mesa Drive, the advertising orgy was well underway. Franchise after franchise blocked my view of scenic panoramas. It jaded my experience because nobody seemed to care. The roads and parking lots were full of trucks and sport-utility vehicles and customized muscle cars and hot-wheels. The sidewalks had an occasional young professional or student couple visually swearing off consumer trends. Everything was Spanish; the shops, the colors, the street names, the murals, the music, the food, the fashion.

Kids here adopt a cultural vibe from Mexico, and while their families try to inherit the American Dream, they rebel with tattoos and piercings in tattered clothes and vibrant tributes to gang mentality. In this way, they are breaking the barriers, much like the physical barriers a few miles away. No matter where you go, people will talk about the battles against normalcy while drinking coffee from Starbucks. The great battle of El Paso is advertising your oasis in the desert. If it weren’t for that beautiful Thunderbird mountain with its beautiful colors watching over the valley below, I would lose myself in the expansive pavement terrain of suburban sprawl.

El Paso, TX
2/20/2011

El Paso is an expansive suburban sprawl. Between mountains and valleys are ubiquitous mini mansions built with palm wood, stone, and red clay. The opportunity for unique, independent, interior design is lost in the faceless repetition of homes. Lawns with burnt-yellow grass are redeemed by epic Italian pines that seem anything but indigenous. Everything is spaced out and requires transportation. The roads are unrestricted playgrounds for billboard signage. Driving down I-10, there are as many ads on the highway as there are on the internet. Couple that with aggressive drivers who drink while driving, and I’m not surprised to hear how high the driver-fatality rate is.

But that’s just El Paso and its massive roads. The heart of my experience here belongs to my uncle. While we drive, observe the scene, and see the evolution of his achievements, he is coming to terms with divorce. He talks of mistakes that feel like opportunities left to wilt. Quotations from a former life begin to resonate with us, such as “nothing ventured, nothing gained,” and I get the feeling he would give it all up to show his family how good a father he is. Instead, he now belongs to a community of bachelors who have a fringe-like influence on their children.

“You got to teach them how to shave,” I tell him as we drive away from the park where his ex-wife and kids are hanging out with other single mothers and their kids. He and I brought them doughnuts from Krispy Kreme. Minutes out of the day belong to bonding experiences shared between him and his two young, impressionable sons. He doesn’t blame his ex-wife. He blames himself. His work and his hobbies filled a void that family simply couldn’t. That was before he realized how important family is. In the absence of love, he would likely say, there is a void. To fill a void, you need a vacuum.

Valentine, TX
2/19/2011

Oceans of brush and rivers of sand exist everywhere out here. There are small dirt roads for dune buggies and motorbikes, but nobody rides on them. A mist covers the land all morning, and the cacti feast and make the most of it. Down the car, a mother scolds her child with threats of punishment that make me sad. There is a road following our train, and outposts every so many miles. Little towns exist near every outpost. A small, malnourished cow eats from a small, withering shrub. Everything misses the water. A small group of cows with visibly tough skin watch our train go by from a distance. There is no farm in sight, and no signs of domestication beyond the ubiquitous wire fencing that follow us on the left.

So many hills surround us on all sides. I imagine a grand body of water once existed here, and those hills were the islands that fostered primitive life. Now, they are the first thing to feel the sun’s hot kiss. Another small group of skinny cows gather around a small cement trough. The beauty in this vast open landscape is lost in the fact that, like a desert, it exists without end. The presence of water is very much like the hope of finding sustainable life. What you may find out here is more insular that you can imagine. A livelihood in the dry brush is a test of endurance. The air is thin, and I can see for miles, and all I see is an empty canvas for artists to paint in red.

Before arriving in El Paso, we stopped in Valentine, Texas. The conductor made a point to tell us Valentine has no grocery store, and yet it has a Prada outlet store. I shook my head in disbelief. You can’t buy food, but you can buy thousand-dollar handbags and designer shoes on a whim. There’s a mattress under a leafless tree nearby, and homes look just as run down as the ones I saw in Baltimore. We would soon move on to richer pastures. There is an abundance of tumbleweeds along the way, and I wonder why they choose to tumble alone when they go so well together.

New Orleans, LA
2/18/2011

I found an antique store on Frenchman Street. The walls were covered top to bottom in local folk art, wooden chairs, and flare unseen by many outside Louisiana. There was a glass window case with trinkets inside, and it was there I found a mechanical pencil from the early 1920’s. I bought it for $5, satisfied and convinced I got the better end of the bargain. My attention returned to the streets after a brief chat with the shop owner, a nice guy, who told me about the time he found that pencil. It was during the aftermath of hurricane Katrina, and he went scavenging in the debris. He found it in an old cigar box, along with a speeding ticket from 1916. We laughed at the idea of getting pulled over back then, and I later told him about my trip with candor. He, like many before him, wished me well as I left to collect my things and catch my train for El Paso.

Perhaps I hadn’t noticed it coming into New Orleans, but I noticed it leaving – our country is littered – there’s a lot of wasted space, talent, and resources out here. Only now on the train do I allow myself to reflect on that. “Step out into the world with your head high.” That was a public service announcement advertised on a billboard in the projects outside metro New Orleans. It was a motivational proposal for all those broken by poverty to simply “step out into the world” with a sense of confidence. How many of these people have heeded this advice? How many will ignore it, and resume their no-where, no-way routine? Vice has such a tight grip out here.

A black man is passed out on a train-side bench, his arm hangs off the end of it, as if it’s been there for hours, and a big white police officer approaches cautiously, as if he might walk upon a dead body on duty. Our train slowly observes before switching tracks West for El Paso and beyond.

New Orleans, LA
2/17/2011

The French Quarter of New Orleans is a wild place. It’s certainly not safe for young, solitary explorers like me. The lure of exotic, sensual pleasure does little to mask the danger that really exists out here. Despite all that, people are friendly and good-natured. Bourbon Street during the day has a wholesome attraction, much like the food you can find out there. I was warned not to venture far, so my miles walked were in circles, around the various Rues, each with their own handful of galleries, shops, and locals. Street performers entertain and artists create art in Jackson Square, in the midst of loud music and people, and everything is bubbling with activity.

Eventually I went to the riverfront, where a man was playing a famous blues song I’ve heard so many times before. A full moon was rising behind him, and casting a line of light across the rippling river. It was a perfect moment. I took a picture of it and gave the man a couple dollars, thanking him. A drifter sitting behind him stood up as we began talking about the little beauties of this town, and he said “I’ve lived and grown up here all my life” as he held out his hand to shake mine.

He took my hand and held it with a strong grip, preventing me from letting go. There was a moment when we locked eyes, and his friendly smile took on a more serious tension. I tried to let go. He had my hand and pulled me towards him. My heart was fluttering and I knew I was in danger. The guitar player simply sat there, looking up at me with a sad sort of look on his face that said, “What the hell are you doing, kid?” He didn’t interfere, even when the man exposed a broken glass bottle in his other hand. Things were in slow motion. I aggressively shook my hand free before he had the chance to try anything. Without making a scene, I left the riverfront, making sure I wasn’t followed, and returned to all the tourist attractions.

Greenwood, MS
2/17/2011

My impressions on the train begin to change in each passing mile. As if a picture caption was suffice, every new minute had a different title. We moved across fields of black-water marshlands. Trees grew out of water. Expansive bodies of farmland exist without crops growing; perhaps the harvest has passed. It feels like an underdeveloped Virginia landscape. There’s a unique smell of the swamp – profound and always present. Empty, one-lane roads belong to no one but the townies of rural America. Orange wisps of hair grow out of slivers in the prairie. A single baize horse grazes in a field meant for two.  Next stop, Greenwood, Mississippi.

A goose flies alongside a stretch of submerged electric poles that lead to a Viking warehouse surrounded by cars and trucks. Greenwood, home of unused trains and tracks, home to scores of shoebox homes made of wood and tin, cars on the front yard, barren, uncared for, and people loitering like they did back in the Great Depression. The roads are flat and made of cracked gravel. It’s one of many thru-ways for major American industry; smoke-stack cities in power-line suburbs.

As we continue southward to New Orleans, more sights manifest in the morning. Little wisps of dust rise off the ground in a parade of soft, white clouds. I see my first alligator, sleeping in greenish-brown waters, alone perhaps, resting among the rocks and algae and fish too proud to care. Small streams of sand lead into small bending rivers. Vast open spaces of prairie are just waiting for a roaming pack of wildlife. In between the seemingly empty stretches are marks of established agriculture. People on the train are friendly and outgoing, ready to tell you about themselves and their stories of travel, life on the move, and subtle abstractions in relation to how things were compared to how they are now.

Peter Bjorn and John @ Paradise Rock Club
Boston, MA
05/05/2011
Margaritas

Boston was once again the place to be for this year’s Cinco de Mayo celebration. The weather was pretty, and everyone of age was having some tequila, toasting “¡salud!” to the end of another year at college. I was at Sunset Cantina with a few friends, drinking margaritas with blue salt on the rim, eating nachos and catching up before the main event at the Paradise Rock Club.

Peter Bjorn and John – the indie rock trio from Sweden that spiraled upward in fandom when they came to the states – was a much-anticipated event. We made every sacrifice to see them play a Cinco de Mayo show together. The last time they did this in Boston was back in 2007, right as they were getting national acclaim for their third major album, Writer’s Block. They were making waves in the indie scene with their single “Young Folks,” and I was promoting them through a local radio station that fostered their rise to fame.  This year, the trio returned to show us something new.

Photo Credit - Diana Wong, Brooklyn Vegan

On one of Boston’s most notorious drinking holidays of the year, the trio (guitarist Peter Morén, bass guitarist Björn Yttling, and drummer John Eriksson) took to the stage and immediately dove into my favorite song, “Up Against the Wall.” It was serendipitous; my friends and I had discussed our favorite songs by them earlier in the night. I was glad this wasn’t just a tour of their new album, Gimme Some, even though that would have been amazing. The tracks they did highlight embodied an optimistic enthusiasm for live performance. They played a variety that spanned over several albums, giving me a taste of everything new and old. They brought a great, frenetic energy to the stage. Their sound was powerful, poppy, new wave and enjoyable all around.

Photo Credit - Diana Wong

Photo Credit - Diana Wong

There were occasional jam sequences that blew my mind, and Peter would sometimes grind into his guitar and improvise solos that made my head bang uncontrollably. He even jumped into the stage a couple times to play his harmonica, and Bjorn would rock the bass in wild support. Even John had his moment, playing his heart out, standing over his drums, banging incessantly while P&B offered instrumental backup. They played an hour-long set, left the stage, and came back with drinks in their hands minutes later, toasting and celebrating before returning to another great set. I regret not staying long enough to thank them personally for an awesome show. It went on until just about midnight, and I eagerly picked up a t-shirt before racing to catch the last train home.

Chicago, IL
2/16/2011

My exodus from Chicago was bittersweet. I was in love with a new city, and wasn’t ready to leave. I picked up my bags from the hotel after relaxing at the Cultural Center, and walked slowly up West Adams Street to Union Station. My train was waiting for me, and I boarded it like a commuter on a subway. My companion on the trip to New Orleans was a man named Lee. He was a big, portly black man with a sunny disposition and a mild twang in his voice. He told me he was on his way to a funeral somewhere near Jackson, Mississippi. It’s an odd thing; we dress so well to celebrate the passing of loved ones. Our “Sunday Finest” has purpose on the grassy knolls of buried siblings. He was pensive, despite his friendly nature. He listened with quiet, observant eyes and ears to the folks around us, telling their stories and commenting on life. He did a cross-country ride like mine before, when he was younger. Now, he told me, he was doing it out of necessity. He won’t fly in airplanes anymore. He remembers the sacrifices of long-distance travel, but keeps a good mind about it. He was raised in Amish country. He fought in Vietnam – saw some terrible things on those recon boats and helicopters – and came back in one piece, to live his life one day at a time from then on.

Lee had little else to come back to after that war, except for the lucrative jobs that were labor intensive. He went where the wind took him. He worked on a fishing boat for a few days, catching fish, shrimp, whatever the oceans provided, but along the way his experiences at war came back to haunt him. He quickly washed his hands of a life at sea, and became a man of the earth. He worked on a wheat fields in rural America for a while, earning a living with crops, and adjusting to a simpler life. One day, he found a car for sale. It wasn’t for sale; it was free, as long as he could fix the engine. He spent his free time fixing that engine and got it working within weeks. It was an old car with no top, red, and he took it across the country, picking up some of the beatnik generation along the way. I smiled and thought of that conversation I had with Epstein on our way to the Washington Monument. For all I knew, Lee was the one who drove those great minds across the country.

Rubblebucket, Millionyoung, and Com Truise @ Le Poisson Rouge
Greenwich Village, NY
04/20/2011
Red Fish IPA

New York City is a ready-made home for music lovers looking to experience something new. Their scene is so eclectic, and yet it gives every band and artist a place to peacock. Greenwich Village is one of those places, a hotspot for music, and it’s there my notes began.

My bus from Boston dropped me off in the heart of Chinatown, and I waited, leaning on a newspaper kiosk at the corner of Canal and Bowery, scanning the countless passing faces for my friend, Lapre, to meet me after work. He, like me, wouldn’t pass up a show like this.

Le Poisson Rouge (The Red Fish) is a great venue. It looks like a nightclub, and its basement feels like a trendy jazz club. The tables were cleared out for standing room only, and yet, having arrived there when the doors opened, we dropped our gear at a standing bar table near the VIP lounge, and began to marinade on Red Fish IPA and colorful lights blanketing a slowly-growing audience.

The show started for Com Truise, and the club was quarter full. I could tell right off (but was surprised) that he was the opening act. I’m familiar with his work, and recognize it as the night begins. He breaks into something new that flows with his style of heavy percussion and synth waves. This is future electronic music. He improvises on the machines, even though it is an orchestrated piece. Lapre compares it to a modem and a drum, and I laugh.

He grooves to his own music as he plays on stage, and on occasion he looks back at the wall, covered with visualizations. A song plays with reverberating alarms, and dissipates to a rolling thunder of applause. A set of hieroglyphs flash on the massive screen, and I try to grasp what they mean. A sun rises over a polygon mountain. A pair of Italian women talk under the music at a table in front of us, smiling and laughing with big Italian smiles.

I’ve heard this one before. He is in his groove now, and more people have filled the club. A couple people dance by themselves as the heavy song and vibrant visuals coat us listeners in an odd, electronic fog. I seldom consider how prepared these guys are, especially when they run into something at 150BPM and they tap-tap-tap away on music machines, turning knobs and blending track after track. He made it look easy.

A quick intermission allowed me to meet Com Truise after the show and simply thank him for the great show. He was chatting with a couple that met him before I did, so there was an awkward standby moment in front of them as I waited for my chance to interrupt. “Hey man, great show, I’m glad I came out for it.” He was happy to hear it, thanked me, and we shook hands before I made my way back into the club. The next act, Millionyoung, was setting up, and it was only 10pm. I ordered another Red Fish IPA.

Photo Credit - Jessica Lehrman - on The Jealous Lover

Millionyoung was a discovery that resonated with me ever after. They explode from the start in bursts of electro indie flavors comparable to Animal Collective. They open with a track that reverbs harmonic vocals and melodic, beat-infused guitar rock. There is an atmospheric quality in the results, something apt for beach-side parties. They certainly know how to get a crowd moving and cheering. There is energy brewing in their music, and it bubbles over in vocals sweetened by reverberating delays. They use it well, and my head bangs.

If Cut Copy heard this last song, they’d probably go along with the groove. Their sequences of synth, pop, and rock highlight an ambient quality in their vocals. A lady sits alone between us and the Italians, drinking a glass of Vodka neat, and she bobs her head to the beat. The band comes together in a cavalcade of sounds, and despite the odd delay, the vocals really make it great.

We applauded as they collected their things and left the stage. I found them after the show and talked with them briefly, mentioning I traveled from Boston to see the show. They were flattered, and I gave them my card in case there was a chance to see them play in Boston. I had no idea they were playing the following night at Brighton Music Hall, but it wouldn’t have been the same kind of show. I shook their hands and thanked them for the great show, and made my way back into the club. Another Red Fish IPA, and I sit in wait for the final act of the night.

Photo Credit - Jessica Lehrman - on The Jealous Lover

The club was full as Rubblebucket took to the stage. They completely blew the top off any preconception I had. They explore the space around us with harmonic energy. The horns and natural melody in their music bring everything together in a funky groove. They’re beats are uplifting, juxtaposed against afro-like themes and eye-closing harmonies. The crowd was clapping and jamming along, and so was I. The Italians left their table to join the dancing masses, and the lady alone grooves even harder than before in the barstool in front of us. Someone threw a bra on-stage, and everyone was chanting “Happy Holidays!” between songs. The trumpet player did a stage-dive, and everyone was loving it.

I want to know what this song is; it has a happy groove to it, slow but in step with a confident satisfaction. I smile as the vocals take on a jazzy instrumentation, ushering in a breakdown revival of ska and funk. The singer has a great voice that reminds me of Bjork and Sister Nancy. Her melody inspires a state of jam that feels like it could go on for much longer. Thankfully, I think I found the right track, and posted a video for it below.

The show was over late, and Lapre and I were well-off with our drinks before the night came to a close. He had to get up in a few hours to go to work in Manhattan, and yet that didn’t seem to bother him. In the closing notes of the night, I remember the long train ride home, and the pit stop for munchies, handing over my few remaining dollars to impatient ethic men wearing uniforms and hats.

Sitting at Lapre’s kitchen counter, we ate snails from their shells and chased them with sweets, while sipping Glenmorangie scotch and rehashing the night’s encounters. I told Lapre about my conversations with the artists I talked to, and he helped me conceptualize the sounds we heard in words that made sense – it’s a hard thing to do when you’ve never heard music like this before. I only hope for your sake, you get what I mean.

6-11-2009

Woke up, Harit at my side, asleep, on the floor without a mattress. I am aware because 9AM feels like 12PM, and I can’t go back to sleep. We get up, and I do my laundry downstairs. The female guard is talking socially with a friend, and they both give me looks as I pass by.

I go out to buy breakfast while Harit tries to unlock her smart phone. I go to “Noah’s New York Bagels” and buy bagels. A Peppercorn Potato Bagel for me, a Garlic Bagel for her. No hot chocolate this time. It was funny to walk around Westwood in the morning and see life unfold on a weekday.

I come back, Harit is talking to her brother in Thailand (in Thai), and I think she just mentioned how she “would have called sooner” but “went out with friends to the club last night.” Thai is a really unique language to listen to – completely off the grid – it reminds me of the “divine language” from the movie “5th Element”.

We ate and talked about things to do, and then made motions to go out. I was wearing my Cassavettes tour shirt with white khakis, sandals, and Spyware sunglasses. We took the bus to Santa Monica and spent the rest of the afternoon window-shopping and talking. We hadn’t spoken like that in a while.

We met Ryu after lunch. We were in Banana Republic, and I was getting sized-up by a flamboyant European who was helping me find a nice casual jacket to compliment my outfit. Ryu had not changed, except for his hair color perhaps.

Some people change and some don’t. Harit and I discussed that in length; the issue was electric between us. We had not been together, spoken, like this in a while. How much can change in time? Does it mean anything? Are we any more or less different?

After picking out a light-colored blazer from Zara’s male collection, I wore it out of the store and we continued walking down Santa Monica Boulevard. We ended up at the ocean front, the beach, and the pier. We watched a couple walking down the boardwalk towards the setting sun. We stayed there, watching the waves crash on the beach until the sun disappeared over the mountains.

It was 8 or 9pm, and we began to make evening plans. Ryu got picked up by his young hoodlum friends, and Harit and I met up with Epstein for a potluck hosted by his sister in Venice. I had never met his sister before that. She has a charm very similar to Epstein’s.

We watched the Lakers play the Magic, game 4 of the finals. It was very entertaining; the lot of us (12 or more) making sly comments about the players. “Caveman” was the tall, white monster that towered over the Magic players. Thanks to DVR “magic”, we missed a sizeable portion of the 4th quarter, returning to the game with 4.6 seconds left. Magic had the ball, and tied the game. We went to overtime, and the Lakers dominated.

“Are you sad the Celtics lost this season?” Epstein’s sister asked.

“No,” I replied, laughing. My passion for the sport was nonexistent. I still had fun watching, however.

After the game, the three of us said our goodbyes to the group and went to some bars. The first was called “The Other Room”, a nice, modern take on a beer bar. They had an extensive list of imports, along with a bunch of candle-lit lounge areas to sit at. Venice is ripe with a community that values quality social life. While the bar was common ground to so many unique discussions, the most important were held between the three of us. Epstein told us about his current dating escapades, the ups and downs of finding someone special, and the lessons he learned from each girl he met. It was distressing to hear about his well-thought intentions falling to pieces, and it opened up discussions about how to deal with dating and relationships… very interesting.

The scene at The Other Room was starting to grow old, so we got in Epstein’s car and went to Zanzibar. Before arriving, he took a detour, showing us the Venice canals. Maybe it was the evening dim, or the wine and beers, but the moonlit sky looking amazing cast upon the dark waters. I had thoughts of Italy and gondolas, and romantic frivolity with lovers.

“The water’s about a foot deep, but still…” Epstein said as he continued on, giving us a brief tour of the area. We found a place to park and walked to the bar. I was still wearing my Zara Man jacket.

I had no idea what Zanzibar was. I thought it was a buffet, because a song by Tenacious D referenced it in their lyrics, saying “I’ll order it from Zanzibar!” Did I get that wrong? At any rate, this bar was full of unexpected surprises. I did not expect a lavish food cart directly outside, serving up hot plates of greasy sandwiches to drunk people waiting in line. I did not expect to pay a cover to get in. Foremost, I didn’t expect such a great musical experience inside.

We walked into an African drum performance, playing funky cultural music, accompanied by heavy bongos and harmonic chanting. People were dancing and moving to the beat of the drums. People were making out at the bar, and others were smoking dope. The bartenders were mostly female, and they were wearing very skimpy outfits. The band was drawing so much energy; people were dancing like pagans at a ritual.

The band was followed by an afro-funk DJ with music styles comparable to Daedelus, and kept the party going until closing hours later. Being my kind of music, I lost myself in the crowd, drunk, dancing in the red lights, alone. I found Harit and Epstein nearby in similar satellites, It was one of the more entertaining nights of my life. And that was only the beginning of my brief experience in LA.

Cleveland, Ohio
2/15/2011

Odd things are happening as I venture farther away from everything I’ve grown comfortable around. The veil of what appears to be sane and insane is growing more and more transparent, and I no longer know what to expect in the experiences that follow. I’ve been trying to fall asleep for four hours, and never truly found that deep and empty quiet. A time came around, between three and four in the morning, when I was not really sure if I was dreaming. I was in my recumbent coach seat, and Reggie, my co-passenger for the trip, was asleep next to me. His porkpie hat was covering his face. Everyone was listening to (and laughing at) my friend, Jimmy C., who for some reason was there, doing a stand-up comedy bit, somewhere down the length of the train car. His voice and the laughter echoed in my head, and I saw everything as I would in waking life. I laughed too, hysterically, in my dreams (?), at the madlibs of a ghost, waking up in Cleveland, Ohio, five hours away from Chicago.

Washington D.C.
2/14/2011

Waking up the next morning, I was not upset that I would spend Valentine’s Day without a lover in my arms. The trip and this journey would be me ethereal companion, and with Epstein’s help, as with everyone else’s help on this trip, I would make the most out of this fleeting moment on the train. Happy Valentine’s Day. My gift – a memorable walk up and down the National Mall, a two hour excursion, full of discussion about our nation and our beliefs. Half the walk was dedicated to the beatnik wisdom of Alan Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, and the other half, from the monument to the capital building, was wholly devoted to the connections and differences between Buddhism and Judaism.

“Buddhism elaborates on the concept of compassion. Infinite, everlasting compassion.” Even as I said those words, I coughed or hiccupped at the unbearable truth that I don’t know a damn thing about Buddhism. I only know how to be compassionate. It’s a hard concept to tackle, especially when Epstein knows so much more about Judaism and spirituality overall. All that aside, I know now how fundamentally different the two dogmas are. It opened the floor to a discussion about forgiveness, and Epstein was having a hard time finding the divide between forgiveness and condonation. There is a difference, but more importantly, to forgive is to personally relieve oneself of the stress induced by another’s wrongdoing. Whether or not you condone it is individual of your ability to forgive the negativity influenced on you… Epstein dropped me off at Union Station after that, and my odyssey through unknown frontiers would truly begin.

Manassas, VA
2/11/2011

Photo Credit - Lauren Odderstol

The last day in Virginia was one of the most impressionable. I had one of the most unique experiences in my life. I flew a plane. My uncle owns a Diamond DA40 XLS, a pilot’s private fantasy plane, a flagship in regards to personal exploration… I’ll remember the COM transmissions, and the very precise etiquette that applies to private air travel. Words like “November,” “Papa,” and “Alpha,” along with obscure number readings were common… my heart was racing, and we hadn’t even taken off yet. And then we did take off, and I discovered a new sensation in life… it felt like driving for the first time again… nothing seemed like it was… and then my uncle gave me control of the plane… the stick was between my legs, and the rudder pedals were at my feet, like the gas and brake pedals on a car… only this time there were no brakes, and we were traveling at 150 miles per hour. My knuckles were white…

Washington D.C.
2/9/2011

Hammer took me to Yum’s Carryout on 14^th and U to finally try some mumbo sauce. Mumbo sauce is a tangy blend of duck sauce, barbeque sauce, and a third (secret) ingredient that makes it a DC-specific slice of culture. Go to any carryout in the city (Chinese carryout, to be precise) and ask for it by name. Ask for it on your fried chicken, your fries, and your dumplings. Hell, ask for extra sauce on the side, and dip whatever you want in it. The subtle blend of sweet and tangy goes well with anything. It was worth having fried chicken and chicken-fried rice for breakfast that morning because I got to taste that authentic flavor of inner-city culture. The juices made my palette yearn for more, new, things.

Just wait, my senses. Just wait for what’s ahead.

Washington, D.C.
2/8/2011

Union Station. Just like the many Metro stops in the city, the grandeur of its layout reminds me of that luxurious sense of space I felt the last time I spent a weekend in DC. My friend Hammer was on his way to pick me up, and following a moment to capture this sense of space, my peaceful appreciation of the station was interrupted by a homeless man who sat next to me. He looked at me with cold eyes and spoke at me with a warm voice until I turned to acknowledge him. My brother warned me about these types; it was just odd I would have to heed his advice so soon after leaving Brooklyn.

Despite my obvious aversion to eye contact, he continued the conversation. He spoke of hitchhiking from Florida to dispute the lack of recovery efforts being made to support the growing number of homeless veterans in the country. Underneath it all, he was planting seeds of guilt and sympathy in me. If he knew I was unemployed, perhaps he would not have led me on so much. “Are you a veteran?” He asked me, but we both knew the answer before I said anything. “Us veterans, we got to help each other out.” I did not feel like helping him out, unfortunately, and welcomed the text message from my good friend Hammer, telling me he was outside. I picked up my bags, wished him well, as well as I could, and left that awkward air for good.

Abraço

86 E 7th St
(between 1st Ave & 2nd Ave)
New York, NY 10003

Review originally published on Yelp

One of best coffee shops in the lower east side. Hands down, this place is a gem, a diamond in the rough. Anyone looking for unique espresso and coffee offerings would do well to visit this place.

Their drips are quality. They take the time to make it good. Their edibles are rich with flavor. The olive oil cake is awesome! Try the lemon rose cake as well.

The experience is unique because its literally as big as a closet, just enough room to order and warm up before enjoying yourself outside. They have a spot outside to hang out during warmer weather, but the honest situation is a brief, in-and-out, no frills and no bull coffee stop. The best places are hard to find.

This one is worth searching out.

Brooklyn, NY
2/7/2011

Photo credit: Elizabeth Latten

On Super Bowl Sunday, my brother, his girlfriend, PK and those two girlfriends from my last visit took me out bowling. Melody Lanes. You couldn’t ask for a more convincing epitome of dive-y bowling alleys. It was fitting; there was only one other group playing on the ten-odd lanes, and we chose to hug their company by using the two lanes beside them. Two portly women and a convincingly gay man had been playing long before we got there. They were the regulars, and they welcomed us. U2 was on the jukebox, signing “where the streets have no name,” and the woman in red sang, “Where the balls have no game.” Whether or not that was a taunt for the men to man up, or a simple play on bowling lingo, I’ll never know.

Photo credit: Elizabeth Latten

Hey everyone, this is Zucker. In February 2011, I rode a train around the country. I did it for a month, stopping about a dozen times across the nation. I didn’t see every state, every city, apart from the ones I visited and passed on the train. There was no rhyme or reason to my trip, other than the act of getting out and traveling through a personally-unexplored frontier. I had never seen the country like this. I usually see it from 30,000 feet in the sky, or perhaps on the mindless roads and highways.

This was better; more intimate, and more involved with the country’s side. Taking the train has shown me so much, and it’s allowed me to broaden my mind a bit. I wrote about it, took pictures, experienced new cultures and listened to people. It was a month I will never forget, and I’ll share it with you here, one bit at a time.

Boston to New York – “Northeast Regional Blur”
2/5/2011

You know what Brooklyn is like?

You know what Brooklyn is like sometimes? It’s like a sunny, satisfying day, and you’re walking down the street, saying hello to all the friendly shop-keepers who give you deals on deals when business is good, and somewhere in a window, music from the 1940’s is playing.  Brooklyn is also like a leaky underpass ahead with drops of water falling through the cracks. As hard as you try, perhaps you’re sure of passing through it without getting wet, a single, cold, dirty drop happens to find its way onto the back of your neck, and trickles down your spine, giving you that odd, awkward shudder you tried to avoid.