The Vegan Experiment

Welcome to 2011, cyberfollowers! My apologies for a quiet 2010...I think it has been a challenging year for many, but let's turn the page to the fabulous year ahead!

To properly greet the year ahead, I have decided to participate in a little experiment. Specifically, I am eating a Vegan-only diet through the month of January. Yes, I can practically hear your gasps and feel your shudders. I, like most Americans, have been generally horrified at the idea of giving up many foods that I love (one word - cheese!) in exchange for the healthier, plant-based menu that veganism demands. Plus, there is the matter of having to own up to my veganism in restaurants and social settings involving food, inevitably evoking the looks from others that not-so-subtly inform me that veganism is on par with leprosy in their minds. So, why, oh dear god, why would I do this to myself?

Two words - Blue Spirit. No, this is not some new deity that I've created in my mind to worship and build a shrine to in our backyard. Rather, this is the name of a Yoga resort in Costa Rica, where I dragged my boyfriend last month to attend a yoga retreat, hosted by my friends Karen and J.J. I knew to expect a wonderful itinerary from these folks (Kundalini yoga classes, Mixed martial arts, informative classes, and Zip-lining! through the jungle of Costa Rica), but I didn't really anticipate a vegan-oriented menu. I was determined to give it a chance though, in spite of my hatred of quinoa (which I eventually learned to like, once I doused it with some contraband barbecue sauce I snuck into the resort!) As it turned out, the vegan menu was delicious. Then again, when you are working out 5 hours a day, you would probably be grateful if all you had to eat was paper.

Then, the last day, my yoga group went out for a "last night in town" lavish dinner in town. There was cheese, wine, pasta, deserts...did I mention that there was pasta? I thought I would be in heaven. Instead, the sauce of my pasta tasted really salty. The cheese made me feel really bloated. Even the bite of desert I had tasted (grossly) like pure sugar. I know the food was "good," as in I would have loved it if I had been eating it the week before, but after a week of clean vegan eating, I was actually really disappointed.

The next day, I felt terrible. What I mean by this is my body felt icky, the way it does when a person overindulges at Thanksgiving or the morning after having one too many glasses of wine. Plus, I was annoyed - annoyed that the foods that I had loved for so many years could make me feel so bad. It was as though I had been in a bad relationship for years and never even knew it.

It didn't stop with that dinner. When I returned to the U.S., I tried eating one of my either favorite foods -Doritos (I know, you don't have to be vegan to find this admission pretty disgusting.) I had precisely two chips. They both tasted like I was biting into a salt block.

Clearly, my body was telling me something. Thus, I began to think...my body has carried me and tolerated my crazy lifestyle and diet for years (not important how many!) I've decided to give it a break, at least for January. This idea has been catching on (you can read about it on www.spiritvoyage.com ), and I will be sure to give you my honest play by play of how this goes.

The month of January might involve a lot of quinoa, but thankfully we have plenty of barbecue sauce at home.

Perspective

In a self-absorbed haze, I sat outside of a lovely hotel in Baltimore last night, anxiously reviewing my professional tasks at hand, reviewing the documents I needed to create for an early morning meeting I had scheduled. A gentleman, sitting relaxingly and very near in proximity to me, calmly puffed on his cigar, and gently observing my anxious texts to my boyfriend, who was otherwise obligated.

In the instant we all dread that strangers will want to start a conversation with me, the well-dressed man in the suit with carefully selected cuff links initiated a dialog with me. (Here I will include a disclaimer...the people that know me well know that strangers feel pretty quickly that I am their confessor, that their deepest, darkest secrets are somehow alright to be shared with a complete stranger.) This man, who I shall call "G", was to be no exception. Except, G was different. G is HIV positive.

This man slowly unfolded his story. Here are is the overview, in bulleted, project management format:

• He is heterosexual
• He was not informed by his partner that she was HIV positive, but he now knows she knew, because the initial round of drugs they gave him was ineffective. The only way that they would be ineffective if his partner knew and was receiving drug treatment
• He pays for his treatment completely out of pocket.
• He is an extremely intelligent individual.
• He is actively seeking love. He discloses to any prospective lovers the state of his disease. He has perpetual fears that he will infect a HIV-negative partners, even having safe sex.
• He was never promiscuous. He was monogamous with all of his partners.
• He is extremely intelligent - he works for a huge finance firm in a high powered position.
• He is lonely. He has seen many friends in his condition die. He is worried that he will die alone.

What did our conversation do for me? It brought life into perspective. G is an inspiration. Keep his story in your mind, and his health in your prayers. I'm blessed to have "endured" a conversation with this amazing person, and wish you all the same good fortune.

Him

Today a new start
But we've heard this before
Today a new heart
But today's heart is torn

We breathe, we speak,
We writhe, we peak,
We take what one another gives
and into tomorrow make.

Life changes, changes, ever should,
and life changes for the good.
Then with you I found my peace,
I found my heart, I found my release.'

Four Letter Word

A few months back, I was on the phone with an editor from Time Out New York (a great magazine, I might add.) The editor suggested that I should teach a class at the Learning Annex about Dating, given my fluency in both Martian and Venusian. Although I was flattered, I must say, I sort of agreed with her. Unlike many single people (I refuse to use the already overused "singleton" here - that word has always annoyed me - it is as though being single defines you into a sort of existence or odd club of the few, the brave, and the desperate, but I digress...), I maintained a cavalier attitude towards romance, admittedly avoiding anything that smelled of seriousness, commitment, and drama. One of my male friends even posted a quote of mine on his Facebook page - "Love makes me inefficient."

Indeed, Love was my own personal four letter word. Life is difficult enough, and my previous dances with Romance showed me quickly that we were not compatible partners. Plus, there are so many amazing people in the world, the idea of "settling down" seemed more like just plain "settling." Out of the gates when I moved to New York, I immediately started dating, almost with a vengeance.

Here I must pay homage to every person I have dated over the last few years (and, yes, even that ex-fiance I had years ago). Every person who has been so kind to spend time with me in a, err, romantic capacity over the last several years has thoroughly enriched my life. Some encounters brought flashiness and excitement, some brought philosophy and introspection, and some brought pure fun, but I am fortunate to say that I am blessed to have dated all the great people I have (ok, there are a couple of exceptions, but that is a blog entry for another day). Most of the people I have dated, including that ex-fiance of mine, still remain dear friends. Through all of the nights at the theater, the Sunday brunches and prosecco toasts, the late night prix fix dinners, the vacations abroad, through all of it, I thoroughly enjoyed life and blissfully recounted my adventures to my girlfriends in late night phone calls and martini lunches.

Then, in spite of my seeming contentment and in accordance with how our lives play out in general, a tragedy slowly started to unfold. I met a man who knew who Charles Baudelaire who was not an English major in college. Actually, he chose a completely different path in life that was, to the extreme, a path that engaged the left side of his brain. Sure, I found him attractive, but adopted my standard approach (i.e. ambivalence) as we started seeing each other. I was clear, from the start, that I was disinterested in "Romancia." Keep it light, keep it casual, keep it safe. Ever so slowly, that intention unwound.

Everything changed the night he invited me to come to his home for dinner. He went through laborious efforts to cook dinner for me, something only my ex-fiance had attempted (Michael, I still appreciate your attempt, though I will bet we are both still laughing at the rice that tasted like fish.) At dinner, everything was accounted for and delicious, but what crushed my intention was the fact that all of this had been done for me and me alone! (Let me be clear - all of my former dates were very good to me; this gesture was simply exceptional.)

So, the gauntlet was thrown. I was putting on a scratchy wool sweater by the designer "Falling in Love." I hated the way it made me look...at myself. Falling in love, in the adult, non-Romeo/Juliet sense, forces you to reexamine yourself. You start feeling insecure about your "flaws" - am I good enough? will he still love me if he knows "x" about me? will he betray me? will I cheat on him? Questions, and more questions, run through my mind, and I realize that Drama has moved into my apartment, and, especially in New York City, there is hardly room for an extra house guest.

The first time I said that dreaded four-letter word was under the influence of alcohol. Same with the second, but the second time I said it, I woke up and texted him that "I meant what I said last night." Because I did...with every ounce of my body, heart, and soul. I was infected with the Romancia Virus, and I needed to come clean about it to him, and later, to everyone. Still, I let him know that this sweater was itchy, and I was struggling to keep it on, to resist the desire to rip it off of me. Fights, erratic behavior, rebellious dates with others - all of these terrible acts I admit to. Yet, he stayed by my side, rubbing my shoulders covered by this uncomfortable sweater and telling me that I would grow to see how beautiful I would feel in it, if I could only give it a little time. That seemed impossible to me.

The funny thing about life is that all that feels impossible eventually evolves to possibility. I date a man who tolerates my "Meatgrinder Thursdays," the day of the week when my job and the stress it involves invariably wins the battle against me. I date a man who picks me up from the airport with two dozen roses and has a martini waiting for me at home with handmade blue-cheese stuffed olives. I date a man who has seen me fall apart through the death of a loved one, through physical trauma, through life drama. He has seen me at my worst, but chooses to stand by my side. The funny thing is, that good old sweater is looking better and better on me every day, despite the occasional itch. Perhaps that four letter word is the key to a more comfortable five-letter one - Peace.

Deux Amis

Two friends. Generally, that is the reservation I make at the French cafe in my neighborhood, regardless if I am heading there for brunch or dinner. A small, warm bistro snuggled in the East 50's, Deux Amis has served as the meeting place for two - usually, myself and one female friend or another, but the name is a misnomer, because you leave the bistro with a family of many.



The owner, Bucky, is Armenian, completely adverse to technology, but equally as completely and gloriously charming. He greets his guests with a warm hug or kiss on the cheek (pretty girls are privy to a scruffy but rapturous kiss on the lips) Of course, the food and wine will always impress, but it is the bistro's staff and patrons that distinguish it in a cut-throat city where one negative review sinks an establishment. The exotic and lovely waitstaff transport you to the transatlantic, to the point you envision yourself in Paris, Lebanon, or somewhere magical and otherworldly.

I have had rich Salmon served on garlic mashed potatoes, succulent mussels served in a white wine/garlic sauce, and many an omelette with pomme frittes. To say I have never been disappointed would demean the entire experience. The food, as amazing as it is, feels more a part of the comforting atmosphere than its star.

Deux Amis, a restaurant I've brought friends, colleagues, and lovers to, a place I've attended as one of a pair, but left with a fist full of business cards, numbers, and even more memories. A favorite memory formed on a night when I was to take a 5 am flight from LaGuardia and decided staying up all night was the best idea to address the early departure. I schlepped a beaten pink suitcase to Deux Amis, where the owner and his staff barely blinked at the obvious gaucheness of my arrival/accompanying accessories. Instead, wine was sent over, many joined our table, and when a very famous chef showed up on a double date (a surprise, like BAM!!) and I complemented the celebrity chef's tie in passing, he said "thank you" sweetly and greeted Bucky with a kiss on the cheek.

Bucky recently showed off a lime-green sports car purchase to me, dimpled grin in full effect. His raven-haired sister, who works commitedly to the establishment, smiled on in pride, an example of the lovely women of fairy tales who put the ambitions of others before their own desires. Perhaps it is a husband, or a family, maybe both she dreams of, but her love of family roots her in the bistro, continuously obliged to others and their desires, offering her happiness as an amous bouche, a one bite appetizer to patrons in homage of the love and commitment to the family she has. I find myself longing for her, wanting children, a husband to kiss on the cheek as I pour him a cognac, a kitchen of my own to create a new couscous.

One night, a homeless man wandered up to the bistro, loudly and desperately begging for money, food, both. He screamed, "My name is Thomas, I have not eaten all day long. Please, please, I need to eat. I'm black, but I'm not a drunk. I don't do drugs. I just need to eat." Thomas had only a small, ripped black plastic bag from a bodega to his name. Amidst the stillness of 51st and quiet hum of conversation at the bistro, the yelling stunned everyone. Most restaurant owners in the city would have called the police. (The fact of the matter is homelessness and pandering is a sad truth of New York. Many homeless are mentally ill, many are addicted to drugs and/or alcohol, and all are desperate and heartbreaking stories. The city moves forward, and quickly so, regardless, and the sad truth is that most New Yorkers are desensitized to, even annoyed at times by pandering.) On the other hand, Bucky quickly and quietly went to the back office, retrieved money for the fellow, and Thomas, stunned, embraced Bucky as though he was his long lost brother.

These people are part of my urban family, and I love them dearly. In fact, everyone I have met at Deux Amis has become a fast friend and loyal companion. The mysteries of the small Mediterranean bistro continue to unravel, in a compelling urban tale, that may, one day, evolve to legend. I want to see Bucky kiss a bride in wedded bliss, his sister holding the children I hope she has and quieting them during the ceremony, and the staff of Deux Amis pour champagne freely in light of these celebrations. I want perpetual happiness for these people I love, rather than ephemeral moments of joy that the city of New York passes out as freely as ads for faux sample sales.

From a restaurant named after two friends, I've gained three consulting opportunities, ten new friends, and a vault of memories that make me smile warmly even as the chill of autumn falls upon us. In a city of millions, where oxymornically loneliness prevails, finding warmth and connections in New York remains a critical survival tactic. Beyond this, and the fact that a lovely meal never goes unappreciated by New Yorkers, Deux Amis stands firmly planted, as unwavering as a holiday dinner with your extended family planned months in advance, where the good food is a given, but the impressive company is what makes the experience exactly that. Two friends...clearly a misnomer.

The Starry Dynamo of Night

When I was a child, I believed that the stars were actually angels, and that if I looked up to the midnight blue of night, directly at the glittering seraphim, and prayed long and hard enough, my biggest, most unlikely dream would one day come true. After family dinners in the breezy summers of Wisconsin, I would sneak outside in the twilight of evening, as the stars began to emerge, and I would sit on a swing in my backyard, looking and unknowingly feeling like a Steinbeck character, in the country, a misfit with a mist of dew rising around me, creating an uncomfortable wetness that weighed down a young girl's prayers. With the sounds of cows and the smell of grass around me, I yearned for a dirty, harsh, shiny place where truth was not masked in forced smiles and casseroles.

Those same stars found me ten years ago, when I found the clearest representation of my dream. I viewed those stars in between the glossy sheen of skyscrapers in the city I lusted for in many a slumber. I first stepped out of my cab in New York City, Wisconsin family in tow, at 19 years old, and, for the first time in my life, everything seemed to make sense. In the most chaotic, loud, dirty, and uncompromising city in the world, I found peace. I did not want to go to Times Square. I knew instinctively that this was not what New Yorkers did. I wanted to sit somewhere, anywhere, in the city, and observe my soulmates, all 6 million of them. I met my friend, braver than I, who was teaching at a school in the Bronx but living on the Upper West Side for the summer, and we sat on a bench on Amsterdam while smoking cigarettes and watched people pass, people lucky enough to live in this magical place, people taking for granted the sparkling angels of night hidden by the sheen of silvery skyscrapers in the city of people awake more hours of star-gazing than anywhere. I wanted the disillusionment. I wanted the chaos. I wanted noise. I wanted it all.

Ten years is a long time...

A decade can represent a lifetime of love, heartbreak, knowledge, death, transformation. All of it, yet none of it, matters. The angels listened. Finally, twenty years after my first wish and ten years after coming close to touching its reality, my dream has come true. I am a resident of New York City.

This blog, a mix of truth and fiction, is a love story.