A Night of Tango
Sometimes I wish I carried around some kind of voice-activated recording device, because some conversations are worth keeping for posterity. For example, one of the nights I went tangoing last week was especially memorable, from start to finish. Lucky for you, while I didn't record the conversations, I did take notes. (Insert evil laugh here.)
As my sister and I were getting dressed, at home...
Me: Which should I wear, these earrings or this necklace?
Parisa: Why don't we decide after you put on makeup.
Me: I already did put on makeup.
Parisa, frowning and leaning in close: Are you sure?
Half an hour later, after Parisa did my makeup...
Me, examining the end result in the mirror: I look like the undead.
Parisa: But you look like a sexy undead.
At the dance...
Random old guy Tom, checking out my outfit: You're very colorful.
Me: Thank you.
ROG Tom: What do you do in life, to go with all that color?
Me: I'm a romance writer.
ROG Tom: Like Agatha Christie?
Me: Um...
At the end, sitting with my friend Lila...
Lila: Look at your poor feet!
Me, looking at them: ...
Lila: You need a pedicure. Bad.
Me, sighing: ...
In the car after a post-tango Voodoo Doughnuts run, with Parisa and Lila...
Parisa: That guy was totally macking on you.
Lila: He really liked Kate, and he was really cute.
Parisa: And really annoying. Instead of asking for her number, he shoved his phone in her face and told her to type it in.
Lila: It worked. He got her number.
Parisa: Humph.
Five minutes later, after a long stretch of silence...
Me, sniffing myself: I smell like random men.
In a New York State of Mind
A lot happened last week. Unfortunately for you, I'm not ready to talk about a lot of it. Also unfortunately for you, I'm in the mood to do one of my awesome photojournalistic blogs.
My original topic was one so obscure some of you would have gone away, scratching your head and wondering if I'd finally gone off the deep end. But I'm going to save that for another day and instead tell you about some of my adventures in New York.
As most of you know, I'm visiting my sister Parisa. This is the two of us in her kitchen:
Parisa, of course, is the one on the left. She's fond of telling people she's the cute one. I just humor her.
Because I suddenly have more work than any sane person would agree to do, I've been hanging out in a lot of cafés. The café culture is different in New York than on the West Coast. People go to cafés to socialize, not work. I know—it's the strangest thing ever. A lot of cafés frown upon laptops even.
But there are a few choice ones that people use as their office-away-from-office. One of them is the B-Cup in the East Village:
One of my sister's friends saw Julia Stiles hanging out at the B-Cup. I haven't seen her yet. The cute Israeli boys who work here are especially friendly.
Speaking of working... My agent and I have had a number of meetings with industry folk. One of our meetings took place in a chocolatier. As we left, among the chocolate-covered Cheerios and Easter baskets, we spied Peeps dressed in chocolate tuxedos. When I (foolishly) let it slip that I'd never eaten a Peep, my agent decided that it had to be remedied. And documented...
My hands shook from the sugar for hours. I also realized that my agent has serious sales skills, if she can get me to eat fluffy marshmallow crap.
I was at the MOMA with a friend, looking at an exhibit of live naked people hanging on the wall (seriously) when suddenly he asked me if I'd ever had a true New York deli experience. I hadn't, and he felt compelled to fix that. So we ended up sharing a reuben at the Carnegie Deli, apparently the most famous deli in town:
Yeah, that disgusting looking pile of goop was the reuben, hence the reason we shared one. Actually, we shared less than half. I've been eating leftover pastrami for days now. I've never seen sandwiches the size of what they served there. It was obscene. Also obscene were the slices of cake. No, I didn't have one, but I may have to go back to try.
The next photo is of a friend, who came into the city to hang out one afternoon. However, you're going to have to imagine the picture because I forgot to take it. Duh. It's too bad, because we had a cupcake orgy in the park.
Stay tuned for another week, when I may or may not have pictures of the Hachette offices, the Doughnut Plant, tangoing, Culture Espresso Bar, and the firemen at the grocery store.
Last Tango in Buenos Aires
It's my last week in Buenos Aires. I just had my last tango lesson, and I'm making the final rounds saying au revoir to my friends.
I've had people ask me if I'm sad to leave. Oddly, I'm not. I'm excited. Don't get me wrong—words can't describe what the months I've spent here have meant to me. But it's time to move on to the next adventure. I'm looking forward to the future. There's more travel involved, and just a little bit of intrigue. You'll have to stay tuned for the details.
Sneaky of me, isn't it? But it's not like you're surprised.
But first, I'm returning to San Francisco. The main reason: I'm speaking at the San Francisco Writers Conference. To say I'm looking forward to the gig would be an understatement. I attended last year's conference as a speaker and it rocked.
The conference goers are a mix of fiction writers of various genres as well as nonfiction. The speakers are diverse and interesting, and it draws a number of big name editors and agents, who are totally accessible the entire weekend. For example, last year, I met Donald Maass, who, contrary to what I'd believed, isn't seven feet tall with lightning bolts shooting from his eyes.
My favorite part of the conference: the cocktail parties. Okay—the cocktail parties are my favorite part of any conference. I can't help it. I love to schmooze, especially martini in hand. Yes, recess was my favorite subject in school too.
The conference itself is sold out this year, but there's a pre-conference day of workshops if you're in the area and interested. If you're there, find me and say "Yo." I'll be the jet-lagged one who keeps slipping into Spanish.
Finding Perfection
This is the week.
Which week? you wonder. What's happening?
I'll tell you what's happening: I'm buying my first pair of tango shoes.
This is the part where you scratch your head in wonder. You didn't know I danced tango. You thought I did kung fu.
I've been holding out on you. Unless you follow me on Twitter—then you've seen a couple random tango references. But I'm telling you now: I've been taking tango lessons.
Tango isn't so different from kung fu. Same principles, different application. I'm using the dance to work on the couple ideals I was trying to perfect in my fighting (like being in the moment, and feeling a person's energy). Plus, I'm in Buenos Aires—you'd have to be crazy to come here and not take at least one tango class.
But you don't care about all that. You want to get to the real important issue here: the shoes.
There are several well-known tango shoe store in town, but the most famous are Comme Il Faut and Greta Flora. Handmade, beautiful, unique shoes.
I've been to both stores so many times in the past couple months that they know my name, my preferred heel height, and the colors I like. I don't have to do anything anymore—I sit down and they bring me shoes. The shopping experience is very 50s/Doris Day-esque.
Only so far I've just bought shoes for my sister. Three pairs—who's the lucky girl? But now it's my turn.
This is the week. The perfect pair is waiting for me to claim it as mine. I can't wait to meet it.