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My Time in Greece: A Tragicomedy

July 11, 2014 Stephanie Cangro Leave a comment

There are three times in my life that I’ve found myself sleeping in the street—the first two were spent camping out for SNL tickets (Kanye and Mr. J. Timberlake, respectively). The third time was… different.

Picture it: Athens, March 2008. My friends and I had been studying abroad in different European cities, but our spring breaks lined up perfectly; we planned to spend the time touring the city and hopping around the Cyclades. Money was tight, but we had enough for semi-decent hostels, ferry tickets, museum entries, and beach days. We were excited, though perhaps a little naïve (despite living in countries with foreign languages, this would be the first time any of us encountered an entirely different alphabet). But when we landed in Athens our first night, our enthusiastic faces clearly didn’t make an impression on the hostel’s clerk—it was far too late, according to Greek time, for check-in. We were told to come back in the morning. Looking back, this should have been our first hint that the trip would be a near-disaster.

With no idea of where to go, or what to do, we started wandering around, eventually finding a touristy-looking café in the middle of a town square. We had to order something before the staff would let us sit, so we tried in vain to understand the menu. Honestly, I’m not even sure we did—I think that the staff just took pity on us after a really long time and brought us some coffee. By this point it was getting to be super late, maybe about 2 am, so we settled at tables outside and took turns sleeping. Some stray dogs wondered over (they’re all over Athens) and sniffed around us, but generally left us alone. One golden mutt curled up under a neighboring table.

Hours later, as the sun began to come up, the café staff kicked us out—it was understandable, but we still had nowhere to go. We started walking again and our new dog friend tagged along, clearly getting a kick out of showing us his (her?) favorite places (an empty fountain, a specific corner, and an alley). Finally, it was time to check in. This would be the last time I would ever sleep on the street, but it’s still not the rock bottom of the story.

The next few days were a blur—I remember seeing the Parthenon and touring the Acropolis, but soon enough we were on our way to our first island, Mykonos. We were all sleep-deprived at this point, but ready for some sun and blue water.

Instead, Mykonos was freezing. We had booked two rooms in the cutest hostel on the island—think those adorable white huts—but ended up huddled together in just one for warmth. Because going to the beach was out of the question, we spent our days touring the island, trying to find any place we could stay indoors without being bothered—more often than not, this meant the island’s sole Starbucks. A few days passed like this. Tempers were definitely running high, but we were all still trying to make the best of the situation, assuming that things would be better at our next destination, Santorini.

Except we never made it there.

When the day finally came to pick up our ferry tickets, we were in for a surprise: because this was Greece—the land of democracy, muses, outrageous leopard print clothing, and doing completely illogical things on total whims—our ferry was going to head to the neighboring island of Syros instead, and we’d have to switch ships once we got there. Okay, not a big deal, right?

Wrong. (Are you sensing the theme here?)

Let’s just skip over the part where the hostel owner’s son took a detour through a drug deal while driving us to the port (we didn’t want to be there, but whatever, we survived). Eventually, we made it to Syros just fine. But—wait for it—soon found out that we weren’t going to be leaving anytime soon. Apparently, during our 90 minutes trip, the winds had escalated and all ferries had been cancelled. Great.

Nowhere to go. Nowhere to sleep. Again. Except now we’re all about to kill each other.

Desperate, we hightailed it to the closest internet café (this was pre–international smartphone data plans, folks) and began searching for hostels. But Syros, as we soon learned, is basically the business center of the Greek Isles. It’s a place where people really only go for work, so our only options were Greek alternatives to the Holiday Inn—comparatively cheap, but still more expensive than we had hoped. Resigned, we pooled our money together and checked into the cheapest option.

With nowhere to go, nothing to see, and barely any money left to spend, we spent the next few days at the pier, hanging out with seagulls and checking with the ferry office nearly every hour. Finally, after three days, we became desperate: there was a single ferry leaving that evening to head back to Athens—the first to leave at all since we’d arrived—and we resignedly purchased tickets. From the ridiculously crowded boat, we called ahead to our next Athenian hostel (the plan had always been to stay in Athens the night before our return flights) and advanced our arrival by two days.

Impossibly, once back in Athens, our situation only grew worse—the next hostel was a new level of gross. I’m pretty sure we all cried ourselves to sleep the first night: I definitely refused to touch the blanket that had been provided, opting instead to wrap my legs inside of my sweatshirt. In the morning, after being frustrated with having to pay for shower water (cold water, mind you, not hot), we left to wander the city again.

Slowly, a new realization came upon us: if you’ve seen one Greek statue, you’ve seen them all. So instead of revisiting the tourist hotspots we had already seen, we hunted out English movie theatres, book stores, and small restaurants. We fell into a pattern of seeing double-features at an old, cheap theatre and reading silently while camped out in yet another Starbucks.

Looking back now, nearly six years later, I’m almost glad it happened the way it did. It’s quite possibly the last extreme experience I’ll ever have without a smartphone to save me. If the trip hadn’t turned out horribly, I wouldn’t have discovered my appreciation for Dickens (A Tale of Two Cities was one of the only English-language books we could find—Twilight was the other) or have pushed myself that far out of my comfort zone. Moreover, the experience of the trip definitely made our friendships stronger—without the typical creature comforts we were used to, each of us was forced to confront the best and worst of each other.

And, to be honest, I just really love telling this story and knowing that I was made stronger for the experience.

Photo by Gali Levi-McClure

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An Urban Explorer’s Guide to Living Cheap

June 13, 2014 Evelyn Thorne 1 Comment

I am an urban explorer. Not the kind that sneaks into abandoned buildings or climbs through underground tunnels. The kind that loves to explore the culture of her urban environment. I don’t feel at home in a city until I have a favorite restaurant, can recommend a venue, and am a regular at a cafe.

But urban exploring comes at price, one that often exceeds the budget of a student or a struggling 20something. When I was living in Portland, I was a struggling 20something, freshly out of undergrad, and trying to support myself in a brand new city. I had only a year in Portland before moving to Eugene for graduate school and so I promised myself that I would make the best of my time and explore as much of the city as possible. This was my decree, and its success was in its limitations.

When on a mission to explore a new city, you have to decide what is possible. Can I go to every café in town? No, not in a city with 175 coffee shops per capita. Can I go to every restaurant? Again no, especially if you are living in food heaven. Can I go to as many free and cheap events as I can find? Yes, that I can do. And so I began my search for affordable activities in the hipster capital of America and aptly started a blog called Portlandia of the Free (Or Cheap).

I posted five free or cheap events to my blog every single day of the week for almost a year. All of them were $10 or less and, yes, I could always find 5 events to post. In fact, I often had to narrow down the list to my top five events for the day. How did I find all of these events? The simple answer is I looked for them, but the secret is where I looked.

Become Best Friends with your Local Magazines

I am not joking when I say I think of the Portland Mercury and Willamette Week as close friends. As I write this, I find myself smiling in memory of the times we spent together, me searching through their pages for events to post to my blog and discovering the best and weirdest activities. Like the annual Naked Shopping Spree at the Red Light Clothing Exchange, where people run out of fitting rooms naked and compete to put on as many clothes as possible in three minutes, while Portland’s fantastic Prince cover band plays music to the chaos. Or CHAD Chats, Portland’s version of TED Talks, where people share sardonic PowerPoints and get drunk, of course. Or when I discovered that a local pie restaurant was letting the public judge which pie they would put on their menu next, immediately following a chocolate festival full of free samples. Food, drink, nudity, and sarcasm: that’s what makes Portland go ‘round.

I would not have discovered any of these events without my trusty local magazines. I seriously found most of the events for my blog through these publications, which is why, whenever I go to a new city, the first thing I look at is their weekly magazine. Not every city’s magazines are as good as my dear friends Willamette Week and Portland Mercury, but I guarantee you’ll find something unique and inexpensive to do.

Don’t be Afraid to Sign-up for Email Lists

As I started to attend all these events, I began to wean myself off depending on weekly magazines. I decided to get event announcements straight from the source: the venues themselves. So, I signed up on every mailing list I came across. I still get emails from Collage, a craft store that holds $5 classes every Friday and In Other Words, the feminist bookstore from Portlandia that hosts a range of free events. I also found that I wasn’t the only one curating cheap activities and joined mailing lists like Portland on the Cheap or Around the Sun. Now instead of searching for free activities, the entertainment was coming straight to me, and often I was getting in on sweet deals. I felt like I was “in the know,” which is exactly how you want to feel when you move to a new city.

Ask People Where to Go

Regardless of all my searching, there are some places I never would have found unless I asked. That great inexpensive Mexican restaurant in an alley behind a strip club my roommate recommended to me, or the gathering of local poets every month where you could hear people who didn’t perform at the big poetry slam. These were the places that finally started to make Portland feel like home, because you can explore a city all you want, but you don’t stop being a tourist until you find a community.

So, venture out there, but don’t just look for places, look for people. They’re the best form of free entertainment.

Photo by Andy Sutterfield

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So You’ve Decided To Purchase Weed

June 9, 2014 Anonymous Leave a comment

A friend of mine recently sparked the idea for this article when she told me about her recent trip to Denver. Her host, a college buddy, took her to a recreational marijuana shop, because when in Rome. They purchased a small amount of weed—LEGALLY!!!—and gleefully brought it back to their apartment, only to find themselves staring at the friendly little buds with bewildered expressions. Casual but not regular users of pot in college, neither of them had ever had to roll a joint, pack a bowl, or any of those other mildly scandalous verbs. For them, it was the equivalent of standing in front of a sack of potatoes holding a martini glass.

And such is the case for thousands of similarly passive users who are now exercising their new rights to buy recreational marijuana in Colorado and Washington. Should you smoke it rolled up in a joint or spliff? Perhaps using a glass pipe or bong? Using something simpler, like a one-hitter, or something expensive, like a vaporizer? Your choice might vary based on factors like how many people you’re smoking with, and how comfortable you are with handling the ganj.

[Note that this is more of a guide for people who have smoked in the past. Things to remember if you have never smoked marijuana before: start with a little bit; remember to gulp the air, almost as if you’re swallowing it; know that it’s okay to cough; and remember to eat/drink something. Don’t do what this guy does... or do, because it’s fucking hilarious (it’s not crack, sir!!).]

For starters, regardless of your smoking device, you’ll need to grind down that pretty, conical green bud. Many people who use weed regularly have a grinder of their own, which allows you to break a bud into a few smaller pieces and then grind it within a range of fineness—say, French press to espresso. Others, myself included, who haven’t gotten around to investing the $25 in a small grinder, use their fingers. I usually break a bud into manageable pieces—around the size of a pea or smaller—and then rub the piece between my thumb and forefinger with all the delicateness of a French chef crushing some dried thyme over a steaming coq au vin. If you go for this chez stoner approach, be sure to crush the bud over a smooth surface so it’s easy to sweep up and won’t get stuck in any crevices. An open magazine works nicely for this.

Now, to choose a device. If you’re just looking for a tiny toke and you happen to be near a corner store that sells tobacco products, it’s worth investing in a one-hitter, also know as a “porcelain cigarette.” True to its name, it’s painted to look exactly like a cigarette, but it’s typically made of metal (someone realized porcelain was too fragile for pot smokers). Very sneaky, if you’re trying to fool any friends who also don’t happen to have a sense of smell. The great thing about a one-hitter is that it’s easy to pack and even easier to use. All you need to do is gather up some of the bud you’ve just crushed—a coarse grind works in this case—and stuff the front of the cigarette (the end of the white part, where there’s about a half-centimeter well) until you can’t fit any more in there. I had a friend who would simply plunge the one-hitter into a jar of weed to simultaneously crush and pick up bits to stuff the front, which is a little barbaric, but to each his own.

To smoke your stuffed one-hitter (which is actually a misnomer, as you can usually get 2-3 small hits out of it), simply light the front end with a lighter and inhale gently. The one-hitter might get a little warm because it’s metal and thermodynamics something something something, but only the weed itself will actually light. You’ll have to repeat this with each hit, holding the lit lighter in front of the weed without jamming the flame into the front well, so the pot inside gently burns. To clean out the residue after smoking, simply hit it against something hard. I recommend a brick wall. One-hitters can get a bit gunky, but you can boil them in some vinegar to loosen the crud inside. And you know those pipe cleaners you used to love in art class? They’re not just for homemade ornaments anymore!

My one-hitter, whom I call “Trusty Rusty”

If you’re planning on sharing with multiple friends or if you just want to smoke a lot of weed (no judgment), you might want to consider packing a bowl or bong. Here, you can be a little coarser with your grind. You just want to pile a bunch of little pieces of bud into the bowl or well of a glass piece, almost filling it up. I wouldn’t necessarily recommend purchasing a giant bong, especially if you’re an infrequent user or you have grandparents who like to drop in unannounced, but if you have one to use, this helpful video will show you how to smoke from it.

I personally prefer smaller glass pipes, as they’re easier to store and clean (see one-hitter cleaning instructions, minus the brick wall part), and they come in a wide variety of styles and colors. My beloved pipe is beautifully glass-blown to look like a hedgehog: the underside is the bowl, the tail is the mouthpiece, and the mouth is the air hole (also known as a “carb”). I keep it on my mantle, and no one’s the wiser…

Ain’t she a beaut?

Smoking from a pipe is pretty simple but takes a little bit of practice: hold it in one hand, with a finger covering the carb, and have a friend light the bud; or if you’re feeling coordinated, do it with your other hand. As you see the green bud glowing merrily, inhale gently, still covering the carb. Then, release the carb and inhale a little deeper. All of the smoke that’s accumulated in the pipe will now be in your lungs! Be careful not to produce too much smoke before you release the carb, though, because coughing a lot is way less fun than being high.

The last and (I think) most visually classic method is the trusty joint. This is when you’re going to want to use that grinder or those fingers to their full extent, really pulverizing your weed. You’ll want to get rolling papers for this. My favorite brand is OCB, though I’ve heard those are tricky to get in the US. But any brand will do! Simply lay out a single rolling paper horizontally, with the tiny adhesive strip on the far side, facing up. Carefully place your finely-ground weed along the fold of the rolling paper, then even it out, leaving a pinkie-nail length of empty paper on one end. That will be your smoking end. Carefully pick up your loaded cargo and take the fold between the thumb and forefinger of your hands. Give the weed in the paper a little pinch from below, to try and pack it into this long cigar-shaped form. (You can use a little or a lot of weed, but remember: the more you put in, the harder it is to roll. And you can always roll another!)

Pre-loaded joint/spliff rolling paper

In theory, what you’ll want to do next is very gently shift that packed weed roll toward the non-adhesive end of the rolling paper, so it’s primed to roll within the paper all the way up to the adhesive end. This step requires a lot of finesse, so don’t throw it against your wall in a fit of rage if you don’t get it right the first time. That would be very wasteful of you! I like to hold the end of the paper with my thumbs, sticking my forefingers atop the weed at either end, and resting the whole operation on the rest of my fingers. I use my thumbs to lift the paper up and over, and then I use my forefingers to tuck in the weed. Once there’s a reasonably tight seal, it’s easy to finish rolling the joint, licking the adhesive to completely seal it up. This sounds much more complicated than it is, so here’s a video demonstrating that same process.

Then I tuck in a roach, which is a little piece of poster board-weight cardboard that usually comes with the rolling papers, rolled up and stuck into the end where you left a little empty space. Truly great joint-rollers will stick this in while they’re rolling, so if you’re feeling ambitious, experiment away. If you find that your joint is too loose, just re-wrap over it with another rolling paper!

A professionally-rolled joint, with roach

Obviously, if you’re only using a small amount of weed, and especially if you’re double-wrapping, it can feel like you’re smoking more paper than pot. Because of this, my go-to rolled choice is a spliff (mixed marijuana and tobacco), which requires either buying some rolling tobacco at a corner store or, if you’re in a tight spot, bumming a cigarette from a friend. Yes, cigarettes are definitely bad(!), so I recommend using rolling tobacco if you can get it, which is still tobacco, but has fewer nasty chemicals. I never use more than a third of a cigarette’s worth of tobacco in a shared spliff, anyway; and also, you’re already smoking, so, let’s talk about the pot calling the kettle black (ZINGAHHH!!!). The rolling process is obviously the same, although you’ll have more product to roll since you’re mixing tobacco with the weed. I like to pre-mix to ensure evenness when smoking, either stirring the pulverized weed in a jar with the tobacco or just mixing it with my fingers on the same open magazine, before piling it into the crease of my rolling paper.

I recently visited a city where weed purchasing is, if not totally legal, then at least ignored. There, I purchased a pre-rolled, monster-sized spliff, which I took apart to show you its guts:

Notice how nicely the little weed pebbles are mixed in with the tobacco strands

Of course, if you’re in the middle of the woods or you don’t have any of the aforementioned devices, you can go all high-school and make a bong out of an apple. I’ve tried it before—it’s not as delicious as you might expect, but it gets the job done.

Happy toking!! Don’t eat too many frosting sandwiches! Uh-oh, I’ve said too much.

Photo by Gali Levi-McClure

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How I Made a Strange City Feel Like Home

March 4, 2014 Liz Kerin 1 Comment

Something magical has happened in the engineering of the UNDERenlightened’s publishing schedule, something insane and cosmic that I didn’t plan: today marks exactly three years since I pulled myself up by my New York bootstraps and hauled over to Los Angeles. Today, I’m three years older, still on the West (best?) coast, and treating myself to flashbacks from that bizarre, uncomfortable first month where I was waking up three hours too early every morning, basking in the awe of a trip to the beach on a Monday, and cursing myself for thinking that Southern California would not require a jacket or scarf in February. There was also the slow-leaking air mattress I slept on before my IKEA furniture got delivered (a whole week late!), the janky space heater in my 330 square foot studio apartment, and the psychotic notion of making left-hand turns on yellow-almost-red lights at major intersections (GO HOME, LA. YOU’RE DRUNK).

But I figured it out. I made it my home, slowly but surely. Moving by yourself to a brand new city is as petrifying as it is exhilarating, and every person who does it has a different way of dealing with all the changes. Here are a few things I did to keep myself from hyperventilating and asking “Oh dear Lord, what have I done with my life?” every hour of every day those first few months.

Reassure yourself that this doesn’t have to be permanent if you don’t want it to be.

I was all about taking it one day at a time when I first arrived. I was very emotionally attached to New York and my BFFs from college who still lived there, as well as my entire family—parents, brother, grandma, cousins… everyone.. I treated the first six weeks in LA as an adventure, an extended vacation—one that I could end and return home from whenever I had had enough. But the interesting thing about this frame of mind is that it actually had the adverse effect. The longer I took it “one day at a time,” the longer I wanted to stay.

Have coffee/drinks/lunch/any excuse for food and beverages with new people, wherever you can find them.

I had a handful of great friends out in LA when I first moved here, for whom I will always be eternally grateful. I also had a network of acquaintances from college and work who lived out here, and I knew that unless I wanted to spend every day of my new West coast life eating soy nuggets on an overturned cardboard box sitting on my leaky air mattress watching Netflix, I would need to meet some damn people . So I emailed and Facebooked everyone I knew who was settled in LA and did some serious hanging out. I tend to suffer from self-inflicted Hermitation, so forcing myself to go out to bars with near-strangers to shoot the shit was a little bit terrifying for me at first. But considering that the alternative was complete and total isolation in my teensy studio apartment, it wasn’t a hard sell.

Sidebar: If I had it to do over again, I would have had roommates at first! Two good friends of mine lived right next door, thankfully; but having people around 24/7 (who know other people who you can someday know) can be really valuable!

Go on dates.

I was blissfully single and free as a bird when I moved, so I figured hey, what better way go out and see all the sights than go on some dates? After all, I had my “one day at a time” hat on, so how bad could it be, as long as nothing got too serious? There’s nothing a native (or long-time dweller) of a given city loves more than showing a bright-eyed new kid how cool their town is. I signed up for an OkCupid account for the first time ever—I think my photo caption said something like “Just passin’ through!” But as it turns out, my one-day-at-a-time approach also kind of failed me in this department, too. I met a guy through some mutual college friends, and pretty soon my “I’m on vacation here, I don’t really live here, all my relationships are transient!” mentality dissolved to “Maybe I’ll stick around for a little while.”

Plug shit into your GPS and GO—even if you have nobody to go with.

The first thing I said after buying my car in LA was something like: “Siri, take me to Malibu!” I followed the directions on my GPS and drove up the Pacific Coast Highway to Zuma Beach. I drove home with the backdrop of a classic dusty-pink LA sunset in my rearview, and even though the traffic was brutal, I was psyched to have taken myself on an adventure. I didn’t start my first job in LA until I’d been there for a month, so daytime was my playtime. While most of my new friends were at work, I took it upon myself to explore a new neighborhood every day. I hiked Runyon Canyon. I shopped at The Grove. I explored Santa Monica Pier. I went thrift shopping in Silverlake. I tried (and failed) to get my tiny dog to walk all the way up to the Griffith Park Observatory. And, of course, I hit all of the beaches and Farmers Markets (and don’t even get me started on the wonder that is locally sourced California produce. I SAID GOD DAMN). With the GPS on my side, I wasn’t afraid of getting lost or accidentally wandering into a seedy neighborhood. I got up every morning and I went somewhere. That was how I learned to love LA, I think. Every experience was mine and mine alone, because I was flying so utterly solo. I don’t associate places in this city with certain people or events, the way I often did in New York. The places were all mine, because I discovered them all by myself.

Today, I’m happy to report that I no longer eat Trader Joe’s chik’n nuggets on an overturned cardboard box and my apartment is no longer 330 square feet. I have friends, both new and old, I have managed to find fulfilling work, and even though I still pine for NYC every now and then (especially during the holidays!), the life I’ve created out here is so distinctly mine that even if I move away someday, it will not be for good. It’s so rewarding when you can create a new home on your own terms. As we age, we get fewer and fewer opportunities to do that. So if you have a chance, I say go for it, enjoy it, and take it one day a time!

Friends in Readerland, tell us about the ways that you made a strange city feel like home in the comments!

Photo by Meaghan Morrison

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Remodel Citizen, Homeowner

March 3, 2014 Yusef Seidy Leave a comment

Buying your first home is supposed to be one of the greatest moments of any young adult’s life. And at this time in history, with the economy and housing market just barely starting to emerge back from the deep abyss of The Great Recession, with so many post-grads still living with Mom and Dad, I—at the tender age of 28—recently became “Yusef Seidy, Homeowner” (yes I plan to print business cards).

It has been, to date, my most crowning achievement—especially considering the pattern of fuck-off-ery that marred my youth. I was, to put it nicely, a burnout during my collegiate years. The kind of shaggy-haired, quasi-rasta, new age hippie who listened to Dark Side of the Moon way too much (and often synced with The Wizard of Oz—seriously, try it if you haven’t). But I digress…

I purchased a modest sized condominium, in a modest sized building in Redondo Beach, CA. It is literally five blocks from my office, and one mile from the ocean. The building is on the older side, built in 1967, but it’s been well maintained and has a certain street appeal. The unit itself is on the first floor in the very front of the building. It was clean, with great potential, but needed work, and therein laid the trouble.

First Disclaimer: Your Homeowners Association (HOA) is probably a group of older neighbors who have the time to sit around judging whether to approve or deny any improvements you propose to what is technically yours. I say technically, because common areas belong to everyone in the complex; and, if you have a loan to pay for your unit, the debt is yours but the property belongs to the bank until said debt is paid. This isn’t a lesson in personal economics or the philosophies of ownership, however: it’s an account of my journey through the process of remodeling my condo and how I turned my diamond in the rough into a regal jewel fit for the King who inhabits it.

The first thing I noticed about the unit, and all units in this particular complex, is that the appliances are electric powered, with the exception of a fireplace, whose gas is covered by my Homeowners Association payments. For all those wondering, natural gas power is cheaper than electricity, better to cook with, and more highly sought after in the housing market (which is to say, adds value to your property). Luckily, my little slice of heaven sits in the perfect location for gas lines to be added because there is a crawl space underneath, allowing plumbing work to be done easily.

I’m getting ahead of myself. The first task upon receiving my deed was to interview contractors. A contractor is essentially a pimp, with a stable of subcontractors and laborers who do the actual work. So, if I pay a contactor to add in gas lines, change my closet doors, retile a shower, redo some electrical work, add in an extra sink in the bathroom, install new windows and sliding glass doors, and repaint the condo—he goes out and pays a plumber, an electrician, a window guy, a tile guy, painters, a closet guy, and his ex-wife’s alimony.

Second Disclaimer: When interviewing contractors, be wary of the low bidder, as there is a strong possibility he will charge you an arm and/or a leg for every little additional piece of work to make up for the fact that he low-balled you just to get the job. Be upfront about the work you need done, don’t be afraid to let him know you’ll get someone else to do additions for cheaper if need be. In my short, yet intense experience with remodeling, I have met plenty of homeowners who fired their contractor(s) for this very reason.

I chose the low bidder, and proceeded to begin work. It was at this time I was informed that city permits would be required for installing new windows and sliding glass doors.

Third Disclaimer: City permits are a way for a town, such as Redondo Beach, CA, to fund and maintain the beautifully manicured landscape of its newly built and constantly improved municipal buildings. They are, in a sense, extortion. (Okay, okay, I guess they provide guidance for safe building practices and pragmatic construction) But in my case, they felt like tribute to a criminal overlord for permitting the improvement of what is, again, technically yours.

City permits, subsequently, require an HOA letter of approval for all proposed updates. But, by the time my Association returned my messages regarding the windows, they had already been installed. Then began arguments that the new windows did not match the old—not unfathomable considering the windows had not previously been updated since the Bicentennial, and city codes had changed a considerable amount since the Ford administration. In the city of Redondo Beach, as in most cities, an egress window (one that can be used for escape in case of fire) must have a minimum opening of 24 inches—thus ensuring a plus sized buttocks may slide through easily, if snuggly, should a visiting relative decide to nap on your polyester couch while smoking a Kool Mild 100. That is to say, in light of municipal requirements, the HOA graciously acquiesced.

This, however, was only the beginning of a long and arduous process of posturing and politicizing between the Homeowners Association, the city’s building department, and a contractor who clearly considers me his personal ATM machine.

Don’t let me sound negative or discouraging. Sitting, finally, mercifully, on my very own couch, skimming through my Netflix queue and sipping scotch like the victory champagne of champions, the frustration and struggle of the past few months seems almost foreign to me. Almost. But, when I look down at my floors, the tile work done in my kitchen and around my fireplace, I see days of labor which had to be done by a separate team because I couldn’t trust my contractor to complete it. I see hallway and bathroom walls that had to be gutted more than anticipated because a certain someone was unaware that Redondo Beach city codes require plumbing vents to be installed at least forty inches above the drain. I see a washer and dryer that took me an additional two months to convince the HOA wouldn’t have a negative impact on the building’s drainage system—three separate plumbers were sought for advice to ensure an extra load of laundry wouldn’t back up the sink in the condo down the hall.

The misconception, or lie you may allow yourself to believe during a process such as this, is that this will be an easy process—that you will have the answers before the pitfalls arise. Know that, especially your first time, you won’t forsee everything. My only regret was letting myself believe what I heard during the initial walkthrough—that a three-week project couldn’t possibly turn into four to five months. Looking around at my kingdom, however small it may be, the frustration and worry were worth every dollar and every ounce of sweat. There is a path around every obstacle, if you keep a cool head. And be certain from the beginning that the person you hire knows your city’s building regulations and requirements.

In the end, my greatest advice is that if you find yourself in the position I was in, stay positive and keep pushing forward. I was lucky to have parents who had been through this before, and the love of a woman who kept me calm and collected. So no matter how discouraged you may want to feel, remember that you earned your home, and that in end, it will be worth every moment of stress you feel.

Welcome home.

Photo by Meaghan Morrison

Travel

Oh, the Places I’ve Been!

January 27, 2014 Emmy Yu Leave a comment

I have a severe case of unconsummated wanderlust. I spend a lot of time on travel blogs, clicking my way through photos of other people’s vacations, and seething with jealousy as I tally up all the magical foreign moments I am not experiencing. Like, I am not on this beach and I am not climbing this mountain and I am definitely not eating this amazing-looking cheese thing and I don’t know why. And, yeah, that cheese would go great with this whine right here, but really I’m just saying that I go through days when I feel like the world is so very small.

But the places I have been to also have a tendency to become staple locations in my life. There may be years between visits but, when I finally get there again, there are all sorts of old memories and emotions that come rushing back—shadows of the time I had spent on those streets and inside those buildings.

Vegas

…is a city that never changes. New hotels may get whipped up on top of the bones of the old, but it’s the barest flicker in a winding wall of lights. I would know—I’ve gone to Vegas with my family for every Christmas since I was four. Up and down the strip that many times and you’d think I’d be fully aware of these large shifts in the steel landscape, but it’s not like that at all. Only every once in a while do I even pause. “Wasn’t something else here?”

Every time I see those Vegas lights, it’s an eye roll and a rueful laugh. I remember coming to Vegas when we were still adjusting to life in America and Caesar’s Palace was the grandest thing we had ever seen. We would marvel at the shops and the statues, posing for photos and feeling quite luxurious. Looking back at photos, I can see it’s really just Vegas: tacky, tawdry, and covered in all sorts of razzle-dazzle that could vanish into a poof of smoke. But it was a magical escape for our little family—so far from home, trying to make the best of it despite how hard we had to struggle.

Christmas 2013 was much of the same for me, even though I’ve obviously grown old enough to understand the wink that the entire city represents. We’ve walked those casinos so many times at this point that I could rattle off the sights (and buffets) off the top of my head. And yet, it still feels like those early immigrant escapes. It can be as simple as getting my mom drunk on a colorful Fat Tuesday drink, or watching my dad scurry away when a pair of, uh… working ladies tried to approach him. (This actually happened during Christmas 2013. My mom watched the women go from a distance and very gleefully commented to me, “I think those were prostitutes!”)

The excitement reminds me of how lucky we’ve been, with each trip more luxurious than the last and light years away from our tight-budgeted first vacation. We’ve come so far and I’m so proud of my parents for getting us here. All the things that have changed since the early ‘90s—almost entirely inevitable developments like children growing up and parents aging in an empty nest—fall away in Vegas. It’s still our family.

Hangzhou

…is a city that is always changing. So much so that it basically disappears into its new identity every time I visit. China transforms explosively between each of my trips—even a two-year gap can render my homeland almost unrecognizable. Hangzhou isn’t as well-known to the Western world as, say, Shanghai or Beijing but it carries a certain amount of fame within China. It’s a beautiful city; the translation of its name is “Heaven’s land” and, if you’ve walked along the shore of its famed West Lake, you could see why. There’s a perpetual sense that the opposite bank is drifting away into the mist, an unknown world just a wooden boat ride away. The water’s surface hides an ancient heartbeat of romance and longing but, as you move away from it and wander back to the main streets, Hangzhou is working hard to become a cosmopolitan center of a voraciously developing nation.

Of our direct family, only my parents, myself, and my sister live abroad. Everyone else remains in China and they contribute acutely to my sense of how time just slips away. I’m Rip Van Winkle every time I get out of the cab in that city. Entire blocks have been rebuilt and family members—ones with whom I last remember running around the garden trying to dig up centipedes—definitely not something you should let your kids do, by the way—are shy strangers. I have an aunt whom I remembered as a strict matriarch when I was little but, in a flash of years, suddenly became a confidante with whom I can greedily gossip over afternoon tea and snacks. I have a cousin whom I remembered as the Batman to my Nightwing (I was never Batgirl) when it came to crime-fighting / pantsing the neighbor boy for being a twerp and, in the same flash of years, suddenly became sullen and unapproachable.

It is hard to leave Hangzhou because I know I will never see it again. Not this version, not in the same light, not with the same people. It will have swum ahead to the opposite shore and I can only wonder what the mist will change.

Manhattan

…changes everything. And for me, personally, that change will only happen once. I lived there for four glorious years and, besides the dear friends who remained in the city for whom I happily make travel allowances, I have little interest in going back. It’s an entity unlike any other and a place that will impose its personality on its residents, for better or worse.

I mostly remember the chaos. We were art students and we knew everything and simultaneously knew absolute fuck-all. High on our mostly worthless ideas, we feverishly dreamt those years away and blithely burned ourselves out on obsessive projects that any therapist could probably identify as some form of narcissism. And, in my opinion, this was the best thing we could’ve ever done. Those obsessions needed to be burnt and those stupid ideas needed to be blown out our asses so their true nature could be revealed.

Obviously, there are other people who thrive on Manhattan’s chaos and I think that’s great. The point is, though, that Manhattan always has to be experienced at least once. It lets you play for a while and you think you’re totally safe and anonymous in its teeming population, but really it’s pushing you toward an existential cliff. And you can’t really be anonymous when your toes are curling over the edge—you kinda gotta know what you wanna do about it.

I accept that I am incredibly biased and if I had any sense of propriety, I wouldn’t be saying this but whatever. When I woke up one day and realized I had no clue what I really wanted to do or how to actually do anything, I knew it was time to get out of Manhattan. It was a wonderful, beautiful chance to wander around my own head, and the city gave me the chaos I needed to be okay with that until it finally pushed me to a point where I was not. So I moved back to California, started working in LA, and feel confident that I have my shit together every single day.

Los Angeles

…is home—and the one place that I get to change. Los Angeles can be whatever I need it to be for me. It’s so very reassuringly mine. So, I guess a lot of the wanderlust comes from a sudden urge to get lost in a world that reflects someone else’s vision. And what’s wonderful about doing that is it always reminds me that I have my own.

Photo by Michelle White