Agent de Change

Austrian Consulate, Wednesday October 18, 6.30pm.
3 strudels, 1 1/5 cappuccino. 2 blue eyes barely awake emerge from a sea of hyperventilating and over-perfumed hairdos. “You look like your brother” the blue eyes say. Someone else turns to me and probably recognizes a familiar smile: “you must be Maïa. Very nice to meet you. Please send your borther our warmest regards when you see him next.” Then, whispering in the loving ear nearby: “her brother is that amazing guy who helps run the Center from Vienna. The business man who speaks 5 languages and is a star in the city basketball team. A wonderful man.”

The Words linger in the air, holding their breath for a second so the sound travels faster than the meaning.

Are they talking about my brother? The one wearing faded promotional tee’s and run down 1990’s Michael Jordan basketball shoes? What business man? What tie and suit? I mean yes, he does speak 5 languages, comes to think of it. Yes, he’s always been very good at sports, gentle and smart and soft spoken and funny. I already knew that. But I never experienced him summed up with words, and strangers’ words at that. I am stunned by this new and yet accurate description. “It’s about time you realize” says the full page of the company’s annual report, bearing his picture and a laudatory note form its President. I am chocked, I am proud, I miss him. For the first time, I feel like a mother who did not see her child grow. That child just happens to be my older brother.

The blues eyes say it’s time to go home. They wave good bye and vanish around the corner at the bottom of the strairs, leaving behind a soothing smell of spring.

Decaf, caf, caf

We all have our moments when we know we crossed the line. My line gets pushed over by caffeine and white wine. And neither of them help me understand the world better; I just look with wider opened eyes. Last night I was sitting –vegetating- in front of the TV (sue me), and despite the high dosage of nothingness around, I was somewhat listening to what was going on. In the name of Almighty Commercials, is it OK for Fat Actress Kirstie Alley to feed diet chocolate bars to 6 year olds as a Halloween treat? Someone got paid (A LOT) to come up with ideas like this. Is it really worth all the Four Seasons meals, the hour long team debates, the business flight to LA so some A.D. (Artistic Director) can get approved by a board of half baked Romeo and Juliet cigars? Things are far from being perfect in Cheeseland (we do sell mashed goose liver macerated in fungus as one of the highest New Year's delicacy; a treat for your body that no Maalox or hand sanitizer will ever defeat. And I do support that.) But diet chocolate bars for kids?

Small talk

I can't beleive I found this piece of text from over a year ago. I guess I entered the city love/hate relationship long before realizing it. I am a New Yorker now.


January 24th, 2005

Hey, how are you? –Good thanks. You? –Good. –Cold huh? –Yeah. Freezing. Can’t wait for summer. –Me too. –How’s work? –Good. You? –Still looking for a new job… –Cool. I have to go. Nice talking to you. –Yeah, bye. –Bye.

Small talk.
What exactly pushes us to be eternally dull, boring and dangerously persistent? You meet friends of friends, hoping for nothing but a nice conversation. It happens you’re happy; it doesn’t you get over it. So why do we keep re-enacting those uncomfortable simulacra of interest? What good does it do to engage a conversation that is indubitably heading towards a dead end?
Like anyone, I grew up meeting my neighbors and their families knowing these bribes of conversations would never digress into a late night at Jenny’s Coffee Shop. But those are people I did not choose, just like my own family -you love them unconditionally (as I do) or you spend your life figuring how to. So outside of the immediate surrounding, why do we authorize ourselves to deliver automated speeches?

I am tired of pretending, wasting my time on shallow acquaintances, tired of expecting a punch line for a joke that doesn’t exist. Live and let die. Time to move on, eradicate the plethora of individuals who are welcoming hosts only if you promise not to stay. Exit overrated ones that label you “clinging type” when you show interest, and that call you back once they understand the inferior being that you are was not mesmerized by their outstanding wits.

Random people vanish with the last call of the bar. Let those empty shells vanish with them.