The View From Above

Arriving at BWI smelling of liquor and a hint of calamity, I hopped on the airport shuttle bus in expectations of what was sure to be an adventurous day in Boston. Seeing as how I had never been before, I decided it would be a fun last minute trip to explore a city that was full of history, boats, and drunken Irish bastards.

My first run-in happened with a mother of three rowdy children, who so lovingly held the hand of her husband as she turned to me and said, "Sir, you smell very strongly of alcohol." For some reason, I've made it a habit to speak in what I can only refer to as "email lingo" as of late. I'm not sure if it's the fact that I work as a corporate slave Monday-Friday, but "email lingo" is a fantastic new form of passive aggressiveness that I can use on friends, family, and strangers. Just last week, I said to my friend Ashley, "If you sat on my face, would I drown? Please advise." She was seemingly less amused than I was at my newly discovered vernacular. In this particular scenario, I responded to the soccer mom with "Ma'am, kindly note that your spawn are being rambunctious. Please quiet them, as I'm nursing a hangover." These were the type of people that seemed like they were headed for a cheap kids-friendly resort on the outskirts of Cancun, so I felt satisfied in my emailesque response. She, not as satisfied.

Once I arrived in Boston, I was waiting outside for the #55 bus to take me to the blue line T-station, when an empty bus pulled up and an old man opened the doors and asked "where you headed?" I told him I was waiting for the 55 to the blue line, but he told me to get in anyway. The bus was completely empty, save for me and this old nut who had a severe gas problem. Incidentally, the old man was as deaf as the Keller bitch too, so I took this to my advantage. Wrong? Maybe, but at 9:30 am I was feeling succulently bashful. Our conversation was as follows:

Old Man: "You a student?"
Me: *pause* "Sure...a Junior in College studying physiology and undertaking"
Old Man: "What a great profession...people die all the time! So where do you think I'm originally from?"
Me: "Greece."
Old Man: "Well I'll be the son of a bastahd who beats his wife...no one has ever guessed that before! How did you know!?"
Me: "I was just there last September. I studied what Greeks look like in my 2 week stay and committed it to memory. You're the poster child. But a bit older."
Old Man: "Oh, how old am I you ask? Well, I'll give you one guess!"
Me: "112 years old"
Old Man: "That's right! 72 years. And married for 53!!"
Me: "I can't even put up with myself for 53 years, much less anyone else."
Old Man: "Who you tellin? I want to kill that old bitch every otha day! But, what can ya do? She's a good cook, good mutha, and she used to put out on regular occasions. We can't do it so much anymore, what with her heart condition and my irritable bowel syndrome. She's a good lady, though. And wicked smaht. Keeps me on my toes, that one! Yes siree!"

I crept up in my seat and slowly asked him, "Wait, you shit yourself? On her chest?"

"You're a sick bastahd. But that right there is some funny shit!"

Maybe he wasn't as deaf as I thought.

The old man left me with some wise advice: "Be good to your parents. They're your best friends, and at the end of the day, everyone else mine as well be a dirty, hairy-assed Turk." I guess we had a moment, because that strangely made sense to me, considering my utter disappointment in most of the human race as of late.

What became most fascinating to me about Boston was the accents. In fact, this fascinates me about every city. Give me a half a day in NYC, and I'll be hailing cabs and inquiring about the cost of bagels with the distinguishable accent of an old Jewish woman from the Upper East Side. In Boston, I was giving directions to the best Clam Chowdah joint in town by noon. At one point, I found myself following two old Jewish women in the train station who were yapping about their friend, "Bahbrah". This, in reference to a woman who apparently aged like shit and must have slept with one of their husbands at some point. That's the only way I could explain such hostility. "Did you see the wrinkles on Bahbrah's face? She looked like a leather handbag I once bought in Bangladesh! I think it's tha heavy drinkin she does, and that tanning she's always so fond of. Melt the skin right off ya! Her chest must look like a pair of old burlap sacks!" This was interjected by the second woman, who enthusiastically contributed with, "Oh I know it. It's one thing to be a ragin alcoholic, but its anotha to be disrepsectin ya skin and fryin it in the sun like a gad-damn Samoan servant! It's unhealthy, is what it is. And her husband, too! His shmackel is probably the only paht of his body that ain't burnt to a crisp!" It gave me a certain sense of satisfaction to know that, even at the age of 70-something, people still found the time to talk shit about one another. I just hope that, if I'm able to avert cancer and plagues and nuclear warfare and swine flu's 1, 2, 3 and 4, I at least won't be compared to the likes of a Bengali leather handbag or a burlap sack at the age of 70. A raging alcoholic, though? Perhaps.

In terms of traveling alone, there's nothing in the world more liberating. When in the company of someone else, I'm constantly distracted by their needs, wants, and complaints. At the Bunker hill memorial, the only thing I was distracted by was an old Asian man flying a kite. I find Asians so intriguing, as they always seem to have their own agenda. As a fat Asian girl, I know this. Better yet, it seems they don't give a flying fuck what the rest of the world thinks of them. This became evident when I approached the old man, who enthusiastically smiled at me and said, "You fry kite. I stretch". As I held the kite for him, he performed a series of stretches, jumps, and squats that would make any Harajuku girl on the streets of Tokyo proud. Including myself. It seemed that the bewildered look of westerners walking by only fueled his energy. I, for one, was desperately wishing I had brought along my kimono for an occasion like this.

As I made my way back to Quincy market, I stumbled upon what I later found out was a "chili bowl", which basically translated into just another excuse for drinking at a chili tasting competition. People dressed in actual jalapeno chili suits drew me in. I, of course, approached the first group dressed in t-shirts that read, "Chili-Vanili Army". I promised to vote for their chili, and they in turn promised to buy me 8 beers. 3 hours later, buzzed and full of free chili, I headed back to the airport.

As the plane flew over Manhattan on a clear night sky, I could see the dark outline of central park amongst all the bright city lights of NYC. I read once that the Central Park zoo had two gay penguins, and they were in love and faithful to one another until one of the penguins started fornicating with the penguin slut next door. How awful to be fully enthralled in what you think is the deepest form of penguin love, only to find out that your supposed "soul-mate" is in the cave next door, pounding away at the penguin who may have had a slightly better body or whose feathers glistened in a more seductive and youthful way than the yours. As I peered out the window, I couldn't help but look down upon such a massive city, and wonder to myself if the lonely penguin left behind could hear the two penguins next door through the thin cave walls, shaking with anger as he imagines that penguin skank hanging from a wooden beam upside down in pornographic pose, begging for her new penguin lover to just finish her off while she gets donkey punched as her head bangs against the cold, damp walls. I snapped out of it when I looked towards the lights of the upper east side, and thought how fabulous the lives of all those rich housewives and successful NYC interior designer gays must be. And, I wondered how many of them were doing exactly as the Penguins were.

When I landed, I promised myself I would take more of these weekend trips. I've already booked my next weekend trip, so I'll put up an update on where I went and what I experienced when I get back. I'll be living off nuts and berries, and probably joining the likes of the prostitute I met on the street the other day in order to afford all this, but how else can you experience life? Certainly, not behind the desk of an office building. I don't quite know where amongst the chaos we lose ourselves and wake up thinking, "How did I get here? Did I settle? Why is the world passing by my office window, and how, as a Fat Asian Girl, can I make my life more meaningful to me?" I'm not sure of all, or any, of those answers. But when I think about those penguins and the NYC millionaires from 35,000 feet in the air, I laugh and somehow think it all makes sense for now.

~ F.A.G.