Holiday Reading (Pre- and Post-) Monday, Oct 27 2008 

reading piupo 9:13 pm

Time to do a run-down of the reading I’ve done for the past month (!) since I can’t use jetlag as an excuse anymore (it’s been almost 2 weeks since I got back from N. America!).

I finished two books quickly before I left so I could get them back to the library – P.D. James’s The Lighthouse and Willa Cather’s Shadows on the Rock. Both were fairly absorbing in their own ways. Cather reads like an adult Laura Ingalls Wilder; she makes me want to visit Quebec. James manages to evoke a dark atmosphere, as always, suitable for murder, complete with cliffs, crashing waves and old edifices.

In Canada, I made good progress with Alan Hollinghurst’s The Line of Beauty, which has an unsympathetic, narcissistic, self-centred yet intriguing and sensitive protagonist. Much of the novel’s weight seems to come from the budding consciousness of homosexuals in Margaret Thatcher’s Britain. (In a strange coincidence, I switched screens to this entry in the middle of drafting of this paragraph – I was checking out Jenny Davidson’s archives.)

I didn’t finish The Line of Beauty, in fact, till long after I got to the US (was it in New York City that I finally flipped to the last page on my air mattress before going to bed?) because I was too busy seeing people and fooding on my vacation. Even on the numerous plane rides I took, I mostly slept or zoned out.

But the first book I started on proper, during my trip, was Ursula LeGuin’s The Wind’s Twelve Quarters, a collection of her early works. CP lent this to me, since I had begged for it in view of my limited library book stash. There are some truly beautiful works in here, I think – “Semley’s Necklace” is one, and so is “Nine Lives”, the latter about nine clones who help two resolute individuals on a mission on a mystery planet. “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” is chilling, though I wish I hadn’t read the author’s note before the story, and found out that she had drawn the inspiration from a certain William James. Ursula LeGuin is truly a genius nonetheless, and I come away from some of her best works feeling privileged to have been in the presence of great Art.

Peter Temple’s The Iron Rose is fun, though I am starting to find his male protagonists repetitive – they always have some esoteric occupation, be it cabinet-making or welding, and they are always world-weary lady-killers!

Back in Singapore, I finish off two almost brand-new books I’ve bought from The Strand in New York City – the latter two installments of Paul Auster’s New York Trilogy – “Ghosts” and “The Locked Room” (I had read “City of Glass” before and always failed to find the full trilogy in the National Library) – and Haruki Murakami’s Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman. I was pretty disappointed by the latter (which I finished first) – a lot of the short stories read like ideas scribbled on napkins; they fizzled out quickly. “Ghosts”, which is about two detectives spying on each other and driving each other bonkers, is pretty good, but “The Locked Room” involves more (very Austerian) unexplained behaviour – leaving a beautiful wife for no particular reason; writing without wanting to publish; suddenly desiring to kill one’s childhood best friend. Still, The New York Trilogy is fascinating as a whole and I would like to reread “City of Glass”.

Finishing Anne Tyler’s Digging to America was an acknowledgment of the fact that I am now back and ready to settle down to my usual train-reading habits again. Digging to America is a rather slight effort by Tyler, whose Accidental Tourist and Breathing Lessons I remember liking very much. As the novel begins with an adoption scene – of two Korean babies by an American Caucasian family and an American Iranian family – you’d think that it would revolve around the struggles of these children as they grow up in Baltimore, Maryland, but Tyler is not quite as predictable as that, even if her novels focus on ordinary people. Instead, we witness, surprisingly, the Iranian grandmother’s romance with the American grandfather as the two families meet regularly for birthday and “arrival” parties. Still, although Maryam Yazdan and Dave Dickinson (Donaldson?) are extremely believable and likeable, their relationship takes place against the backdrop of some monochromatic displays of culture that ultimately feel rather flat.

 

Day One – Back “Home” Sunday, Oct 26 2008 

americas and travel piupo 9:56 am

Arriving in East Village at 8.15am on Monday, I dragged my bedraggled self up the subway steps with a heavy backpack cinched around my waist, into a pleasantly cloudy, deserted day. No one was really around – I had somehow stumbled into that no-man’s-land between early-morning joggers, and lawyers with briefcases. I had memorised the directions I had downloaded from hopstop.com, and made my feet take me a few streets south to my college friends’ apartment – down a quiet leafy lane cramped with parallel-parked cars, opposite where a certain celebrity lived in a narrow building dotted with black stars.

East Village

I had stupidly forgotten to ask for Emily and Brad’s buzzer/apartment number, so I loitered around the front of their building for a few minutes, hoping that Emily had seen my reluctantly sent text message before giving in and calling her on my Singapore cellphone to be buzzed in. As I was painfully maneuvering myself up the steep, dark stairs of what turned out to be a typical New York apartment building, Emily peeked out from behind the banisters of the second floor and said a brilliant “HI!” that jolted me out of my sleep-deprived state for a few seconds.

Then, it was a whirlwind of hugging, brief catching up, unpacking, showering and gchatting in Emily and Brad’s wonderfully cosy apartment before I had to propel myself outdoors in order to meet Kashmir outside the Bobst Library. But before that, I intended to get grilled corn from Cafe Habana – I was ravenous from having had no breakfast whatsoever, and I wanted to get started on the real eating quickly!

It was 10.15am when I left the apartment, and the day was shaping up to be a pleasant one. I felt clean, comfortable, happy to be back in the country where I had studied for four years many moons ago – a place I had considered my second home. The US is easy to live in and like, though many people who haven’t visited it feel otherwise – and New York City, the most walkable city I’ve ever been in, bar none, is easy to love.

I speedwalked down 3rd Ave, looking for Prince St, which I found without much difficulty. The takeout section of Cafe Habana wasn’t open though, much to my disappointment, and the actual cafe looked cramped and intimidating. After a little bit of dithering, I decided to go in nonetheless.

The server was peremptory – “if you’re alone, you can sit at the counter, right?” – and it turned out that they didn’t start serving grilled corn till 11am (no, I guess it didn’t seem like a breakfast item!). I wriggled onto a barstool and felt like that dreaded thing – a tourist (worse, an ignorant tourist) – amongst the nonchalant New Yorkers, who were using their laptops while sipping freshly squeezed orange juice, and chatting about the day that lay ahead. The two people sitting next to me turned out to be acquaintances who had randomly bumped into each other at the cafe. And there I was, without my grilled corn, temporarily friendless, sporting heavy eyebags, and needing to scarf my breakfast down quickly in order that I could make my meeting time with Kashmir near Union Square. It was enough to make one weep.

I ordered a Mexican omelette that turned out to be excellent, but it came without cutlery at first. I tried getting up to get it myself because the server wasn’t paying any attention to me and was slightly bristly, besides, but I was caught redhanded at the cutlery corner trying to pour a glass of water for myself as well. “Why don’t you ask for the things you need?” she grumped.

My return “home” was turning out to be freshman year all over again, and I started feeling exceptionally Asian in the worst possible way: invisible, bumbling, timid, calculating. I remembered sitting on my bed reading while my loud roommate blithely turned out the light upon exiting the room, forgetting that I was there. And I remembered thinking distinctly that I had never quite known how minorities felt until I came to the US.

But the breakfast was over quickly, and when I met Kashmir in front of Bobst 10 minutes later, I had found my voice again. Past 11am, we wound our way back to Prince St for the corn, which was more than worth it – smothered in cheese and spices, and grilled to a tasty black sheen in parts. I’d gladly go back for more, wearing my own prickly armour the next time.

Some learn how to speak up to survive; I learn how to speak up in order to feed.

 

Ageing Monday, Oct 20 2008 

epiphany piupo 9:51 pm

I had an epiphany today.

You are only old if the number of things you wouldn’t do outnumber those you are up for.

You are only a curmudgeon if the number of things that piss you off outnumber the ones that make you happy.

I’m definitely not the first, and fortunately, many things still make me happy.

 

5 Textbook Ways to Finish a Marathon Saturday, Oct 18 2008 

running , piupo 2:53 pm

1. Carbo-load. Eat a lot of good carbs (pasta, fruit and vegetables, bread) beginning 2-3 days before the marathon. On the morning itself, try to eat food that won’t upset your stomach – carbs are also good for that.

My carb-count: 3/4 of a mac n cheese dish from a “Greek-American” homestyle restaurant, 3 slices of Lou Malnati’s deep-dish “Lou” pizza with buttercrust [medium], 2 bites of a Dunkin Donut, duck fat fries from Hot Doug’s, French toast with pineapple and blueberries at M Henry, 4-5 bananas, potatoes stolen off Kathy’s egg sandwich dish, a huge bowl of homecooked pasta with tomato sauce at a couchsurfing friend’s place, 1 powerbar. (Breakfast on the morning of the race = 2 bananas and 1 powerbar. No water 2 hrs before the race because I hate the thought of having to use the port-a-potty during a race, though I almost always have to use one right before.)

2. Wear the stuff you’ve always worn – no new shirt, sports bra (women, please wear one!), underwear, shorts, socks, shoes, even a watch. You never know when and where the dreaded chafing will occur, or if you’ll get blisters.

My outfit: I wore my free orange Mizuno sleeveless running top, large and comfortable FBT shorts, cheap running socks, ankle guard, and Asics 2130 (with about 250K already on them). This was what I wore for every long run. I had been worried about the weather being too cold, but in fact, it was just a little too warm (beyond ideal conditions for a marathon, though not for a Singaporean!).

3. Hydrate and fuel yourself during the race – Running through aid stations for a 42.195K race is sheer folly. Drinking only water, though, may kill you, so there’s a need to alternate between sports drinks and water. After 30K, you tend to “bonk” as well, so supplements (powergels, bananas) are essential.

Food and liquids I took during the run: 3 Gu gels, spread out over approximately 6-mile intervals; one-third of a banana; several sips of water and Gatorade from approximately 10-12 aid stations (I walked to avoid spilling them). I also snatched a cup of water from a spectator whom I think hadn’t planned on giving it to me… and dunked it over myself to cool myself down!

4. Play mind games – Break it down by miles instead of kilometres if it helps (there’re fewer miles than there are kilometres in a marathon!), or keep a keen lookout for the next aid station. Survey the signs that spectators have made for their family and friends, and the funny t-shirts that runners wear (“I paid for this?!?”)

My thoughts wavered between all of the above. I also spent 4-5 miles dwelling on my guilt about the woman I stole water from (see para 3). I never run with a music player so I had no problem keeping myself entertained without one (technically, music players are banned during the Chicago Marathon, but I saw many people running with one!). Also, someone was singing “Dancing Queen” on a really loud sound system early on, and some guy in Chinatown yelled, “Go Asian lady!”, both of which kept me amused for some time.

5. Finally, Train Hard – Respect the distance. Do at least 1 long run (19-20miles, or 30-32km) at least 2-3 weeks before the race.

My training was not too hard this year compared to that for my previous marathon, which consisted of more speedwork, especially long tempo runs. However, I definitely stepped up the distance this time, and I think I rocked my schedule despite my new work situation, which necessitated me leaving for work at about 8am and returning sometimes only at 8 or 9pm. I ran almost every single opportunity I got and if I missed a run, I made up for it, sometimes at 5.30am or 10.30pm.

It’s always a miracle when you taper and run next to nothing for the last 2 weeks prior to the marathon, and yet make the full distance on the day itself – it’s the power of commitment!

 

Hard Not to Love… Thursday, Oct 9 2008 

americas and travel piupo 7:24 am

… New York City, which initially jarred me in my slightly jetlagged state, with its fast-talking, sometimes-aggressive service staff, grimy corners, and the homeless who doggedly propel themselves through the subway cars.

But as the jetlag wears off, so does the grump.  Inevitably, the city embraces you with its vibrancy and energy – you feed off it, as it feeds off you.  There’s this urge to live as much as possible here – to cram as many experiences as you can within a short span of time.
 
Within the past 3 days, I’ve run along Hudson River (beautiful on a cold windy sunny morning); seen dinosaur fossils, medieval art and Vermeers; possibly spotted two celebrities at a hidden cafe in West Village (neither of whom I recognised, but Kash said that the cafe was known for celebrity sightings and both wore shades and looked slightly self-conscious – one even had a random woman following him into the cafe and snapping pictures of him); revisited the awesomeness that is the Strand; had a pastrami sandwich sitting outside the New York Public Library at dusk; watched two Broadway plays; met Liz, my ex-roommate, for a pitcherful of sangria at a Spanish bar; eaten tubs of yoghurt while watching the American presidential debate with Brad and Emily; and spotted at least four pet grooming stores with adorable little puppies frolicking about in the display windows.

It doesn’t feel as though I am about to run a marathon in 3 days, to tell the truth…