Hot as the Dickens

Hello, hello, Sunday…

I swear today was proof that Dan and I brought Florida along with us. The humidity, the HUMIDITY! The heat, psh, no problem. It’s the stuff we’re made of. But this morning, the entirety of Boston must’ve awoken drenched in its sweat. We definitely did.

BUT I think it served a purpose for my day—I finally got a chance to break out the dance clothes and the climate loosened my muscles up for class. I was melting before we even began, and when the class adjourned each dancer had created quite a slough to show for the hour and a half of work. I showed up hoping to take a modern class, but had to settle for ballet when the front deskers informed me that the modern instructor was out of the country. Needless to say, I got my ass kicked in ballet, but it was such a good, well-worth-it ass kicking…It’ll be nice to get back in dance shape. And the location—the Dance Complex off of Central Square— is just so grand. It’s a 2-story windy, creaky wooden building with intimidating staircases, awkward carpeting, and nooks and crannies out the wazoo. There must be at least 10 mirrored studios, pianos for accompaniment, and more dance equipment than I’ve ever seen. Puts me in the mind of Parisian opera houses…

Last night I had an unforeseen dip into suburbia last night when my cousin India and co. abducted Dan and me. Really surreal experience. Here’s how it goes: My aunt’s ex-husband’s new wife’s son’s girlfriend (for real) hosted a going away party since she’s moving to Texas on Wednesday. I’d spent Thanksgiving with them when I was studying in Portland, so it was only right that the 2 of us trotted our way over to their Jamaica Plain pad to send our well-wishes. But we literally had time to do just that: soon after speaking with our host’s, India and her husband TD grabbed us and plopped us in the backseat of their minivan with their kids (”We couldn’t just leave you there, you wouldn’t know anyone and you’d be in the corner the whole time kicking around dirt”). We had a backseat to front seat conversation, yelling over the movie the kids were watching via hang-down screen. After stopping at their cul-de-sac home they treated us to a meal at a Japanese place called the Lotus Blossom, as an inclusion in a dinner date they’d scheduled with some friends. Very nice and generous of them, but I couldn’t shake how wholly suburban it felt. There were neon green apple martinis (”They taste like jolly ranchers,” India said, and hoo-boy was she right). The talk was of dogs and kids and soccer practice, etc, etc. I’m glad it makes them happy, because it just catapults me into a state of anxiety translating myself into such a lifestyle…BUT it was wonderful to see India and TD and the chillun’. They’ve definitely got their niche. And they’re always so genuinely interested in what I’m what doing, what Dan is doing, what everyone is doing, it’s impossible not to reciprocate. It’ll be great to see a whole lot more of them soon. It’s reassuring to know family is within hollerin’ distance.

 

Blogsville

Hey everyone~

I know.

I’m blogging.

I won’t lie, it feels awkward and impersonal.

But I FIGURED, given my distaste of the celly telly, this’d be a kosher way to keep up with you.

So welcome to “anna-away,” home of the anna-updates during the anna-scursions and anna-xperiences. Please comment, drop me a line, etc!

Soooo…I’m in Boston. It’s officially been a week and 4 days. I’ve negotiated a sublet in Somerville, which is a few blocks away from Tufts University. Dan is in tow, splitting a petite room with me. It’s painted electric yellow with an orange stripe around the perimeter, which has a way of surprising you awake in the morning. The floors are worn hardwood, streaked with sloppy, dry paint: I like the idea that we’ve inherited an artist’s pad. The apartment is awkward and in a HUGE house, shared with undergrads and grads alike (during the school year). There’re 4 bedrooms, although only one other person is here with us (and he’s moving out in a few weeks). He’s a grad from Syracuse in Art History he now works at the Museum of Fine Arts. He’s interesting, approachable, and amiable, though seems much like a pubescent lad coming to grips with his newly developed angular, gawky body. Though he’s like, 24, he was that way about him. I hope to see more of him, but he works full time at the MFA, but by the time we get home he’s curled up with a beer and either a movie or the latest sports game—it seems sacrilegious to interrupt either reverent ritual.

I’m SUPER excited about my internship with the Association for Independents in Radio. I’ve been assisting a friend from Salt (she’s now the membership director) with administrative stuff, cleaning up the website, etcetc (when we’re not gossiping about public radio). Soon, though, I’m supposed to curate of showcase of the AIR membership community work, which I think entails researching, writing reviews, and a whole lotta listening to radio! I’ve recently been able to sink my teeth (and fingers and ears) into production once again by collecting the “sounds of summer” and editing them underneath the monthly AIRmuse (an audio announcement/briefer sent out to the membership community at large)…It’s been far too long, I’d forgotten how easy it is to lose oneself in the power of sound manipulation, perfectionism and whimsy. Dang…The office is the best part: It’s literally one room on the second floor of the, of all things, Vietnamese Community center. There are 2 desks, 4 chairs, 1 stool, 1 bookcase, 3 file cabinets, 1 yellowing fern, 1 AC unit, and 6 windows. Every 8 minutes or so the redline trains a few paces away mosey back and forth heading inbound and outbound to Boston, respectively. We listen to that and a Hawaiian grassroots radio station via satellite radio, both of which mingle quite nicely…I’ll write more about the specifics of my internship later—I can already tell this’ll be a somewhat lengthy installment…

Dan and I survived our first weekend in the city, which we spent much the same as we’ve been spending all of our free time—exploring! We trekked over to the legendary Haymarket market, where we remarkably spent the better part of $6 on 2 mangoes, 5 limes, 2 plantains, 1 papaya, 1 cantaloupe, and 6 bananas. Given, the papaya looked as if someone had taken advantage of it, and the bananas were rather ripe…But DANG. I’d never HEARD of this amazing phenomenon until arriving in Boston, and I’m glad to have experienced it. After researching it and reading patron reviews online, I was wrought with trepidation, to say the least. People warned of the unfriendly vendor attitudes (one enterprising suggestion entailed flipping them the bird and telling them to “fuckoff!”: to each his own). I’m pretty sure the market is comprised solely of the recently expired produce of local groceries, which is passed on to grudging workers made to sell the goods for obscenely long hours. Needless to say, I was beaming with smiles and cordial out the ass to offset any crabby interactions. I guess it worked.

The other half of Saturday we dedicated to Allandale Farm, Boston’s only surviving farm. I think it took us about 2.5 hours via each way, but I don’t regret it (FYI, the secret to public transportation is a captivatingly long book—I recommend On Beauty by Zadie Smith, which I just finished…In a pinch, madlibs will do, as well)! It’s a cutecutecute nursery/food stand operation. Aside from the haven of gardening tools we found a gorgeous spread of local/homegrown produce as well as bakery products and local honeys, cheeses, meats, you name it! We stockpiled some grapes, peppers, cukes, brussel sprouts, and called it a day. Not too shabby.

A few nights ago, Heidi and Paul (some family friends from Boston) treated us to a scrumptious evening at The Beehive, a swanky nightspot in the South End. In honor of Bastille Day the restaurant hosted a Bastille Celebration and went all out: Costumed hostesses, French pop music and a live band, red baretts and scarves for all attendees, and a themed menu. Of course it wouldn’t be an American tribute to the French without the badly worn requisite powder wigs (reminiscent of stereotypical aristocracy) and an anachronistic man in a bow-tied frog suit. Mon Dieu.

But it was a hip-hopping place, very intimate given its spacious size: Heidi appropriately described it as a dated WWII cabaret joint. The food didn’t particularly wow my socks off, but the company, spirits, atmosphere and vibe were all fabulous.

We’re still in job-search mode, but I’ve pretty much thrown in the towel. What I actually meant when I mentioned above that we’ve spent our free time exploring was that we’ve been haunting the pages of craigslist (refreshpagerefreshpagerefreshpage) and skittering off to hand over applications to any potential employer. The order can be traced thus—Whole Foods, café, café, Whole Foods, café, Whole Foods, local co-op, café, café, café. Unfortunately no one is hiring any summer-only staff, and I can’t ethically lie on the application that I’ll be here through the fall. The betrayal just isn’t in me. But the good news is that I can make myself indispensable to AIR. I’m also considering volunteering at the local YMCA, as well as a Dance cooperative (called the Dance Complex) in exchange for some classes! I’m going to take a drop-in class tomorrow to scope it out.

Dan has agreed to an environmental canvassing job of sorts, which is where he is right now. The hours are lousy (2pm-10pm), but the pay is agreeable. Here’s hoping he won’t wake me up to rant about when he gets back. We’ll see…

Signing off.