- Many good-hearted people are willing to share their time and homes with strangers for nothing in return. One boy I met in Northern Ireland kindly offered to take my friend and I back to Belfast (where we were staying for the night) if we were still in the area when he was leaving. When that didn’t end up working out, he offered to search for taxis for me when we were cab-less on the Irish coast.
- Buying food from the grocery store and cooking for oneself saves so much money. I have only gone out for food three or four times in London, and I’ve realized how much money I’ve saved by cooking in my flat. I can cook a meal for £2 or less, but to go out it costs at least £7-£10 for a decent dinner! When I return home to Los Angeles, I am going to stop eating takeout (which is mostly high in salt and starch) and start saving my money for plays and trips in California.
- Everyone wants to make friends. If you show interest in somebody else, they will be more likely to open up to you and befriend you.
- For the most part, Londoners are much more worldly than Californians. The morning and evening news here is free, with thousands of copies given out at Tube stations across London. The news has a more international bent and citizens here know more about Obama’s healthcare plans, threats of nuclear war, and the debates over building a mosque near Ground Zero in New York than many Americans do.
- Good subway and rail systems make driving unnecessary in the city and lead to better overall health. Unless one lives in the suburbs, Londoners take the Tube to work and then walk the remaining distance. Ever wonder why Europeans are so much more fit than their American counterparts?
- Drinking beers at a pub is so laid-back and fun. While some people are definitely getting pissed (trashed), pub drinking here is more of a social, casual activity.
- The healthcare system here isn’t half bad. In fact, scientist Stephen Hawking, whose life (according to one investor’s daily in the States) would be deemed worthless in the U.K., says that without the National Health Service’s “high-quality treatments”, he would not have survived.
- Being lost at night in a foreign country is so much better with a friend. I arrived at Belfast’s Europa Buscentre at 10PM and had to take a twenty-minute walk through darkened streets and alleys. While I still jumped at every shadow, it was so much better with a friend by my side.
- It isn’t hard to cook good-quality, cheap meals. I learned to cook a spicy, flavourful Indian curry simply by reading the back of a spice container. If you take the time, you’re bound to learn plenty.
- Stuff is not that important. Standing there on the frigid Ireland coast, wind nipping at my face, I realized all I really need is warm clothes, a hearty meal, and a place to sleep. Nothing too fancy or expensive is necessary.
Off the Northern Irish coast
I am the king of the world, shouts man
No sir being here can’t you see that
there is something greater?
No sir being here can’t you see that
there is something greater?
I took some time to contemplate the world and found sudden clarity and peace.
English or German? We’re all human.
For three hours, the theatre was a church, sacred, solemn, and a steeple for contemplation. We’ve heard that war divides, that soldiers fear battle, know in our hearts that humans fear death. But here on the Warhorse stage these simple truths were laid bare, blurring the line between the theatre as art and as an honest discourse on humanity and politics. We saw Germans, French, and British – unable to communicate verbally – bound by fears about dying on the battlefield and never returning home to loved ones. We saw a French mother and an English one, in different spans of time, worrying about their children and trying to shelter them. We saw brothers, always fighting, unite over worry for their sons at war. It seemed to remind us of truths more important than the color of one’s uniform or one’s nationality, and motivated questions on the necessity of war.
No less important was the idea that love knows no boundaries. At the beginning, we meet Albert, a young country boy from Devon, and his beloved horse, Joey. From the beginning, we are almost intruders on their quiet intimacy as we watch the two mature together. Joey grows from a foal to a full-sized riding horse, shown beautifully in the play’s transitions, and Albert becomes a temperamental teenager, loyal only to Joey. When World War I breaks out, Albert and Joey are separated. Albert, only sixteen, is forced to remain home, and Joey is sold to the British cavalry and shipped to France. Separated by distance but not emotion, Albert soon chases after Joey, joining the British infantry in the process.
The play’s artistry motivates our reflection on war. Crows accurately circle dead bodies, horses and men – their shadows haunting on the walls – fall with unflinchingly regularity. As the horses tire, we watch their bodies whittle to skeletons, eventually being shot out of misery. Near the end of the play, when Topthorn the horse dies, the three men controlling his limbs slowly edge away. It as if his spirit is leaving, and offers both an artistic and symbolic understanding of war’s tragedy.
In another ending scene, Joey is caught on barbed wire in No-Man’s Land, and two soldiers – one German and one English – spot him simultaneously. Their synchronized appeals to their commanders, their eventual approaches to the horse, and how they both entangle Joey from the wire are not-so-subtle reminders of their shared humanity. To watch the determination of Joey’s ownership (by the simple coin flip) was almost sacred. Here was a testament to human commonality, to mutual desire to shield the horse from harm, to the pointlessness of fighting.
When Joey is finally reunited with Albert – through a harrowing ordeal when we wonder if Joey will be shot – we have subdued joy. For although their story ends relatively happily, we must also reflect on the scores of lives lost in the battles that came before. And thus Warhorse concludes, abruptly and suddenly, like a war screeching to a halt.
The audience stood, some still wiping tears from their eyes, and shuffled out of this makeshift temple. I stood for a moment, still awed by the beauty, the honesty just shown in front of me. Before I left, I closed my eyes, and I – like the characters at war’s end – gave thanks to be alive.
Anonymous in a Pub
Last night at a colorful pub just north of Oxford Street, I met a boy I will never meet again. He accosted me just before I reached the bar, with its rows of beers on tap and whiskeys and rums on inlaid shelves, and he adorably (and drunkenly) started to converse with me. We talked for a bit, all the introductory questions, and then I gestured towards the bar. Okay, he said, smiling, sorry for blocking you. I smiled. It’s no problem.
I ordered a pitcher of Strongbow for my table of friends and arrived back to find the boy chatting amiably with my flatmates. He had called in his friend to teach us British card games, and we were soon playing cards, downing beer, and dancing happily like old friends. In his drunkenness, he was soon declaring that he “loved us all”, and made us swear that we too would “get pissed”. And then, just like that, he and his friends were off. The boy promised to find me on Facebook, but I expect nothing, and desire nothing.
Nothing lasts, and that idea is beautifully liberating. The boy and I both know that our infatuation is temporary, that tomorrow will bring new faces to greet and more names to forget. No future is expected or even thought of, and thus there is no pressure to impress or to pretend. I can be exactly who I want, secure knowing that any impression I leave today will be irrelevant tomorrow.
Living in London is thus about embracing the present, in marveling at each architectural gem and new friend in front of me, and accepting that these fleeting images and people will not be with me tomorrow. It’s about striking up a conversation with a Scottish bartender on the Glasgow subway and walking away without knowing his name. It’s about smiling at a old lady on the street who’s playing the violin and never exchanging words. Mostly, it’s about celebrating being with others in the present without placing expectations on the future or worries on the past.
Nobody knows who I was back in Los Angeles, and nobody seems to care. Here it’s about the continual redefinition of self, about who I am right in this instant. I can carry the morning papers and be British, be loud and improper (American), or throw up peace signs and carry a DSLR like a Japanese tourist. I can be anyone. I am completely anonymous, caught up only with what’s right in front of me.
In that respect, my encounter with the adorable boy amplifies this sense of anonymity, of defining myself in the moment without regret. I continually remind myself that each amazing person or thing I see is like a butterfly: living its own life, fluttering into mine to share its beauty for but a moment.
I fall asleep each night feeling blessed and wake ready for a day of new joys.
Off to London!
I’m leaving the United States in T minus three hours! New York was amazing, of course, complete with Avenue Q off-Broadway, a film screening, and every sweet imaginable. Ellen took me to Magnolia Bakery, the dessert eatery frequented by Carrie Bradshaw on Sex and the City, as well as a cupcake shop, an ice cream truck, and a french fries restaurant! I am still overwhelmed by the amount of sugar running through my veins.
Besides the sugar, Ellen and I had some quality talks. While I see her but three or four times a year (paltry compared with our daily run-ins during high school), every time we see each other it is so easy to pick off where we left off. Our conservations never feel forced or un-funny, and while we disagree frequently, it doesn’t seem to matter. We love ascribing traits to passerby, we often think the same thing at the same time, and we’re still amused by the other’s quirks. She’s been that constant in my life ever since sophomore leadership, and I feel very blessed to count her as one of my best friends.
Now, off to London! Time to “find myself” and all that good stuff.
Boarding my Plane
I’m juggling so many emotions as I sit in the San Francisco International Airport, waiting for the plane that will start my journey. Excitement, fear, apprehension — yes, even though I’ve told my parents I’ll be fine I’m rather cautious — the feelings run through me steadily and I have a hard time thinking straight. One moment, I’m quizzing myself on the location of my backpack keys and the process by which I open my suitcase; the next, I’m observing the chaotic mass around me.
Each person is absorbed in his or her own life. In the row to my left, three academics pace through their literature, while in my row, a mom-and-daughter pair with similar light hair and sharp noses comment on whatever they’re seeing on their computer screens. (I imagine that the daughter is going to college and that the pair is picking out dorm room furniture, but it’s really too loud here for me to eavesdrop. Hey, anything for the accuracy of a post, right?)
A few aisles to my right, two dark-skinned boys — one in a white cap with a Nike swoosh — are throwing a baseball. Oh! They just left, most likely headed to their Atlanta destination. Sigh. That annoying loudspeaker voice has just begun his perpetual monotone: “Federal regulation stipulates that each passenger have one carry-on…” Life is whizzing by around me and although I’m tired and slightly nauseous from being driven in circles while texting, I manage to exhale. It’s lovely, this patchwork of noise and silent reading and waiting. Mostly waiting.
Today is the beginning of my four month adventure to Europe. After my two day detour to visit Ellen, I will be wholeheartedly on my own. No parents, no relationship, and nobody I really know. And you know what? I’m happy. I have so many hopes and dreams for myself in London and elsewhere, exploring ruins, monuments and wonders, making memories by myself and for myself.
Most importantly, I want to remember not to be scared. When I look to the future, I realize all the terrors from which I could shy away. Scary women-haters out to kidnap me, loneliness, getting lost in a foreign land. These are legitimate fears, fears that my parents and friends share and of which I am aware. But I will not let my fear of the unknown scare me into losing my sense of daring. I want to find the strength to jump fully into the world, capturing London, Paris, Madrid, and Venice (everywhere!) with my camera and my words. I do not want to let my fear stop me from experiencing every joy life has, or from becoming myself more fully.
I imagine navigating the streets of London with just my satchel and my guidebook, entering shops with welcoming signs and avoiding large department stores with little character. I want to trip on cobblestone steps, grow familiar with all the British museum exhibits, and look at a painting and learn more about myself. I want to grow.
Oh, Melanie!
Who are you, Melanie-in-the-future? Have you added to your list of world wonders? Have you written your heart out, admitted your secrets, danced carelessly through the streets? Have you conquered your fear or being alone, found a true passion, loved truly? Who are you?
Right now, I am a single passenger ready to board the Delta Airlines plane bound for New York, seat 43D. That’s where I am now, in this seat. In a few hours, I will be walking the streets of New York, beginning my first adventure.
Who will I be in four months? Thank goodness, I still have a while to discover this answer.
Vegan food isn’t on my bucket list anymore.
I happened to chance into the Native Foods Cafe in Westwood a few minutes ago and was startled to see my old friend Dieu from freshman year.
“Hey Melanie,” he said. “Dieu!” I exclaimed. “How are you?” We embraced momentarily and he told me how he had just taken a tough exam for his eight-week Spanish course. I shared that I was on my lunch break and was looking for a quick bite to eat.
“Have you ever eaten vegan food?” Dieu inquired. I glanced back at him, considering that we were at a fairly healthy, hippie locale. “What, is this place vegan?” I said, taken aback.
“Well, yeah,” he said, looking at what must have been a horrified expression on my face. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
“Wow,” I said. “I think I’m going to go.”
“No, wait.” Dieu prodded. “Just stay and try it. Get the special.”
I looked at the special, chalked carefully onto a side board. A bacon cheeseburger. I hesitated. A cheeseburger with no meat? What? What was this mystery “tempeh” that was supposed to replace the 100% beef patty? After ordering, I peeked into my take-out box and waved at Dieu, who was now engaged in conversation with a friend.
Two large halves of a cheeseburger greeted me. They were stuffed with carrots, onions, lettuce, tomatoes, and odd slices of what must have been the tempeh. I nibbled carefully. The tempeh tasted like a very thin overcooked pancake, but the rest of the burger was pretty delicious. The vegetables meshed nicely with the light tomato sauce, and the bun was perfectly airy. After removing the rest of the tempeh, I munched happily on one of the halves back at my work office.
Overall, quite a positive first time eating vegan food! I’m glad I didn’t back out of trying something new.
I Will Not Soon Forget My Love
I wrote this piece in the beginning of July, at the end of my family’s two-week vacation to China. I never edited it and was reluctant to post it until now, when I realized I actually kind of liked it. Enjoy.
Cathway Pacific Flight 803 left Hong Kong over five hours ago, and there are still seven hours to pass until the plane lands in San Francisco. In row 33, seat A, I already feel wistful.
In just four days, I leave on another plane, bound for my other home in Los Angeles, to resume my finance internship. On one hand, I feel enthused and challenged by the work I have in front of me, but on the other hand, I simply feel sad. Sad to be leaving my family so soon after I reunited with them. Sad that each time I come home now, it seems that my family has changed.
My brother Ryan has grown taller, lost his braces and acts a great deal more mature. In China, he spent time looking out for my grandma and offered to take the roll-away bed at every hotel at which my siblings and I shared a room. Daniel, too, has become wiser: he is rational to a fault, and has become adept at controlling his temper and using logic to arrive at suitable compromises. He has also become quite kind to me, helping me carry my bags, letting me shower first, accompanying me to different areas of the various Chinese cities.
In the end, though, it is seeing my parents grow older that makes me saddest to leave home. I came home from Los Angeles a few weeks ago to see my mom limping to greet me. When I asked her what had happened, she told me that she was running up the stairs, trying to race my dad to the second floor as he took the elevator, when she tripped and pulled her hamstring and damaged her knee. She had gotten several injections to reduce the pain, but it was clear then, as it was throughout the trip, that her knee was severely injured. At the time, she smiled and I chuckled at her story, but the incident worries me still. I know my mom is growing more fragile, and while her mental quickness is unsurpassed –she does Sudoku and crosswords faster than I can turn the pages of the newspaper — her body is becoming more and more vulnerable. In the end though, her story embodies what is so special about my mom; her sense of joy and the delight she takes in doing the dishes with my dad or going to Costco is so endearing and lovable.
My dad’s aging hasn’t been so noticeable. He detailed our China vacation impeccably, calmly defused stressful situations with logic and grace, and took the lead when the family was lost or idling on plans. All at the same time, my dad carefully balanced every family member’s personalities and needs, making sure to help my grandma up the stairs, feed my mom, find my cousins the best shopping, buy Ryan ice cream, observe the sights with Daniel, and to check in with my mom’s parents to make sure they weren’t overly tired. Especially during this trip, I have realized that my dad is the steadying force of my family.
As I grow up, I am beginning to realize how much I admire him and my mom for how they raised my brothers and me. My mom in particular taught me the importance of education. She would spend hours in the kitchen with me, tediously explaining decimals or drilling me in spelling. My mom would never allow me to submit subpar work to my teacher; if I was messy, she would have me erase the problems I had done or the essay I had written and complete it just a little bit neater. While I resented it then, over time I learned to never settle for mediocrity, that if a task was worth completing, it was worth completing well.
My mom also taught me the value of reading. Ever since I was younger, she would buy me stacks of books, encouraging me to explore different worlds and time periods. I worked my way through the American Girl and Babysitter’s Club series, the Nancy Drew books, piles of American historical fiction, books about the Holocaust, poetry by Shel Silverstein, Shakespeare and Walt Whitman. By the time I was in middle school, my vocabulary was well-developed and I had an insatiable appetite for words.
While my mom has given me a solid command of language, I look to my dad for questions about my future and for stability. My dad has always been extremely generous, to the extent that I still do not have to worry about whether taking an unpaid internship will impact my ability to afford movie tickets or a nice dinner. His support has freed me to explore my interests and enjoy college without worrying about my next paycheck; intentionally or not, he has helped me realize that I want to start my own business to achieve this freedom on my own. I have a sincere appreciation for how hard my dad worked to become financially secure, able to support his growing family and provide us with the best quality of life.
As I have mentioned before, my dad is very responsive to and understanding of the needs of his loved ones. When I was younger, I had acne-prone skin and crooked teeth, and my dad supported me both financially and emotionally, allowing me to receive dermatologic treatments and medicines and paying for two rounds of braces. He genuinely sympathizes when I tell him of roadblocks in my life, and rationally helps me come to conclusions. Now, my dad seems to understand my desire to be more independent in college, and never pries into my life, instead treating me as an adult with decision-making abilities. He allows me to handle my finances, rarely asks about my grades, and trusts me to make my own choices. I respect him a great deal for how much freedom he entrusts to me, and in return, I want to do right by him and my mother.
I am so lucky to have the parents I do. After spending so much time with them over the past few weeks, I have a renewed commitment to calling my parents weekly to update them on my activities. I realize how happy my mom is simply to hear my voice, and while my parents respect my autonomy at school, I must take the initiative to keep in contact. I love my family, plain and simple, and although I’m growing older, I do not want to grow apart from them. Family is too important, too long-lasting, to devalue through the necessity of growing up. This trip to China has helped remind me of my love for them, and though I may be boarding another plane soon, I will not soon forget my love.
Balancing Propriety and Honesty
What is socially appropriate to say in conversation? Sex, politics, religion, family: every subject is bound to offend someone. But should we let fear of insult stifle how we really feel?
I’ve held my tongue during political rampages, crossed my legs at the ankles and played nice at dinner. I’ve been grateful when exhausted, congratulatory when unimpressed, and silent when angry. To my parents and many others, learning what to say at the right time is merely understanding social courtesy. They say that there are certain things you simply don’t say to other people, no matter how strongly you feel or the justification on which you base your opinion. Some statements are not worth the offense.
In one sense, I agree with my parents and many of my peers. Saying or doing something that could potentially be hurtful simply to express one’s “honest opinion” is selfish, and disregards the feelings of others for personal satisfaction. I agree, too, that having standards of decency eases social interactions and prevents many derogatory, hurtful slurs.
However, I ask whether we have taken these standards too far. When honest conversation is reduced to little more than common nicety, when euphemism replaces the necessary truth, a problem exists that we are simply unwilling to address.
Blunt, accurate language is often transformed to pretty language that means nothing. “This relationship isn’t working” becomes “I’m happy enough”. “My roommate is inconsiderate and a dick” becomes “He’s artsy”. “You look sad, are you okay?” becomes nothing but silence. In many situations, we are so afraid of insult that we hesitate to address issues that really matter, to take a risk with our reputation to say what we mean.
And that is where the problem lies. Without adequate verbal expression of how we feel, we are at risk of convincing ourselves that our instinctive emotions are not important, that it is better to please than to communicate honestly. With many of these concessions we make, we set aside truth to avoid pain, and this threatens to minimize our most important questions and arguments for fear of being insulting.
While there will always be a need for basic decency, we should reevaluate what this standard means to us. Does this standard mean staying silent during discussion of politics, sex, or religion, the three fiery no-no’s in every Miss Manners column? Does it mean hesitating to ask a friend to be healthier if she parties or drinks too much? Is it pretending to be happy if one is completely overwhelmed and sad? Each of us must decide for ourselves the meaning of societal standards.
Frankly, I’m still struggling to understand what the proper balance between propriety and honesty should be. I don’t want to unduly hurt anybody’s feelings, but I don’t want to silence my opinions outright either. What I do know is that more than anything, I value honesty in a person. And as we head further towards propriety, I hope that this honesty continues to shine.
Our School, Fenced Off?
Chain-link around Pauley, caution tape around Bruin Walk… what’s next? Sheets over Royce? A plastic flamingo in Wilson Plaza? Here at UCLA, the administration seems more focused on revamping facilities and building sidewalks than on saving educational programs, and we as students have merely tramped along with it.
Sort of like sheep, we’ve dutifully followed each construction sign. Oh, you want me to hike through the bike racks here, walk over a newly constructed wood plank there, and then take a ten-minute detour through a chain-link maze? Sure, why not, and while you’re at it, please throw in blaring horns, bulldozers with blades that come precariously close to student heads, and the omnipresent clanking of metal. Perfect!
Well, it’s time I registered my complaint, instead of greeting each disruption with measured indifference. The construction is altering student life as we know it. Tearing up Bruin Walk for a few weeks may not seem like a big deal, but it wrecks havoc on club plans to flyer and advertise. Destroying the streets on the hill for two quarters may seem minor, but it’s extremely disruptive to the many drivers navigating through the hastily constructed alleys. Fencing off Pauley and moving graduation ceremonies for three years is simply a travesty.
Has the administration considered its current students at all when adopting these renovation plans? At what cost will the university destroy the campus now to ensure slightly better facilities for students in the future?
I don’t want to be selfish but my peers and I have always been told that UCLA is “our” university. We can grow and learn from it, but we also can contribute to its change. Yet what I seem now is the antithesis of this mantra: that UCLA is just borrowed property, that we have no say in the destruction or rebuilding of our campus.
It’s not unreasonable to expect a dorm room where one doesn’t have to wake up to the thud of hammers, or to want to walk down BruinWalk without fearing bulldozers. It’s not unreasonable to expect our university to place us first, to hold true to its original promise of a beautiful campus and a pristine classroom environment.
As students, we should expect more than a campus filled with artificial walkways and a landscape littered with metal cranes. We should expect more.
One Lovely Day 
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