Projectile

Based on what I understood from watching Jurassic Park and several other chaos-themed sci-fi films, Occam's Razor states that the least complicated explanation tends to be correct.

Murphy's Law, another trendy apocalyptic axiom, predicts that anything that could possibly go wrong eventually will.

The least complicated explanation for why James projectile vomited seems to be that he was hungover from too much drinking at college reunion. However, countless other cliches tell us that appearances can be deceiving, so we must rule out this knee-jerk explanation based on the evidence: James was coming off 8 hours of relatively sober sleep after abandoning Saturday night drinking festivities early for the comfort of his Favre dorm bed and a jug of water. Luckily, an even simpler explanation exists: James had contracted a stomach bug. Our friend Catilin had arrived at reunion with a touch of the flu, and at some point James slurped it from the rim of a red plastic solo cup and proceeded to harbor this quickly spawning parasite inside his cozy intestinal track in advance of its grand entrance 36 hours later.

In hindsight, James's uncharacteristic early bedtime Saturday night, along with his lack of multi-syllable responses to my incessant blabbering, should have alerted me to his incapacitated state well before we crossed the Conn/Mass border. Unfortunately, I was blinded by the bliss of a road trip with my buddy, enamored of the smooth luxury of his VW Touareg, and so caffeinated from my large Dunkin Donuts coffee that my jaw hinge started aching.

When James asked me to take the wheel somewhere in southern Vermont I was not anticipating disaster. When he turned down my sour cream 'n onion potato chips I thought he might be on a low-fat diet for his upcoming wedding. When he reclined in his seat and stopped answering my questions altogether I figured he might be practicing a new meditation technique or trying to prove a point about silence. When he sat up abruptly about 30 minutes outside of Montpelier and told me to pull over I figured he needed some air and possibly a bit of space to execute a tidy and controlled vomit in a nearby trash bin or toilet. And as he sprayed the dashboard, windshield and heating ducts with an aromatic blend of stomach acid, Dunkin Donuts coffee and dining hall breakfast, I realized that Murphy just sliced us with Occam's Razor and damn did it sting (and stink!).

Reunion

Reunion
--noun
1. the act of uniting again
2. the state of being united again
3. a gathering of relatives, friends, or associates at regular intervals or after a separation: a college reunion

Distance snakes its way between lives like water cutting through sandstone. Puddles become streams, streams become rivers, and before long old friends find themselves calling to each other across canyons. Reunions collapse dividing space and allow people to hike down and meet at the bottom of the canyon, climb aboard rafts loaded with booze and float along for a time.

But "re-union" means more than getting groups of people who used to know each other in the same place. "Union" implies not only the sharing of physical space, but emotional connection. Successful re-unions thus hinge on the notion that participants once possessed emotional ties--as friends, comrades, enemies--and that these ties can be reconstituted in a single weekend.


Wesleyan Reunion and Commencement Weekend, May 19th - 22nd 2011

Smoking part of a joint an hour after arriving at reunion was ill-advised. I knew better, but was feeling rather anxious after checking into my dorm room as the 26-year-old version of my 18-year-old self who just arrived on campus for the first time. I somehow didn't anticipate the awkward hello's and half-greetings of 06-ers who began materializing in front of me like wraiths from the great beyond. Did I have an English class with that kid? There's Lindsay from my Freshman orientation group. Look, it's Sun Dress Magee! Time for some friendly conversation: Yup, uh huh. Tell me more about that. How do you like living in Philly, San Francisco, Brooklyn, England, Portland, Denver? How's life as a lawyer, doctor, teacher, student, pretentious shithead? You guys broke up? You're engaged? You're having a baby? You started dating women again? Your dog died?

I hadn't given most of these phantoms a second thought since 2006 and yet here they were-- as present as my headache from the night before and much more real than my delusions of reunion utopia. I expected to spend the weekend catching up with my closest friends, but quickly remembered an important lesson that Reality likes to stuff down my throat: expectation is a fickle friend. (I have since forgotten this lesson and expect Reality to hammer it down my throat again any minute).

The rest of Friday night featured dinner in the new dining hall--which I wandered out of after five aimless minutes surveying the multifarious food options ("have you tried the BBQ seitan!?") followed by some vague, blurry drinking and half-hearted drinking games. Flip cup briefly gained steam only to end with a whimper instead of the old college bang. About an hour into party-hopping my body's fuel light came on and knew I was running on fumes. Just in the nick of time James and I discovered a gourmet grilled-cheese truck parked near Eclectic--perhaps the most tangible gain in campus infrastructure since 2006--and we munched our sandwiches on the steps like two old geezers, watching drunk college kids and adults pretending to be college kids roll by as we pondered the ether.

I did manage a brief appearance at the Eclectic party. For those of you non-Cardinals, Eclectic is the hipster anti-frat frat, where copious amounts of drugs get consumed by skinny-jeaned wannabe rockers (or maybe real rockers? I'm not sure how to distinguish between the two). We entered via the back deck, where I encountered a few folks who I genuinely wanted to see--gems from my interpretive dancing days, a Peace Corps Zambia volunteer who was thinking about moving to Cape Town, and my dear friend Robert taking large swigs from a whiskey bottle on the dance floor. As the receding tide washed partygoers back by the Favre dorms en route to a famous backyard party on Fountain, I paddled into an eddy and slipped into my room to get some sleep, only to find my roomate, Max, already in bed with the lights out. Five years down the line I had apparently adopted the very same party habits we used to rag on Max for back in the day. I guess some things have changed since college, and that's fine with me.

On day two of reunion I really hit my stride. Max and I rolled out of bed early feeling refreshed, knowing our compatriots would likely sleep away the morning and early afternoon. We decided to hoof it down to O'Rourke's, the most legit old diner around. O'Rourke's has been run by multiple generations of hard-nosed Irishmen, and Brian O'Rourke, the current proprietor, is no exception. Brian has won awards for his gourmet assortment of delicious soda breads and inventive breakfast cuisine. He has not won awards for his personality, though, which is also one of a kind. Normally as dreary New Englander as it gets, Brian can be quite friendly, even weirdly so (picture unbreakable, tractor-beam eye contact), if you happen to be a current or former Wesleyan soccer star. I sadly cannot lay claim to that title, but my other roommate, Kevin, can--yes, the very same Kevin who was currently swallowing Oxycodone and nursing his separated shoulder in Park Slope. Since Max and I aren't above name-dropping, we brought Kevin up in the hopes of getting some free soda bread. Instead, we were rewarded only by a thinly veiled diatribe on the demerits of the current Men's Soccer coach in comparison with his predecessor.

Our food was amazing--perfect even--in spite of the Abe factor. Abe is the name of one of our former classmates (not quite a friend, but a friendly guy) who appeared out of nowhere as soon as Max and I got in line. "I walked down behind you guys and figured I'd find someone down here to eat with," he told us. And before we could say Eggs Benedict our cozy best-bud duo became a somewhat awkward threesome. Even after Max's not-so-subtle hint that we wanted one-on-one time to talk about his upcoming wedding, Abe seemed perfectly thrilled to dine with us. Luckily this didn't affect the taste of the Soda Bread or the corned beef hash. And, as it turns out, Abe's actually a solid guy.

A few hours later, I found myself barefoot on a crowded Foss hill with a beer in hand and old friends everywhere. This was what I had been missing--THIS--what was it was all about: sunshine, relaxation, casual conversation with those I most wanted to see. I finally had a chance to catch up with Amy, Zoe and Catlin--my close friends and housemates from Junior year who I've drifted out of touch with to varying degres since Wes. They were still awesome, as it turned out. The arrival of Kevin and his Fiancee Tina, and then, shortly after, Pat Butsch, further bolstered my spirits. Pat and I attended middle school, high school and college together. He was the only kid in my seventh grade gym class with hairy legs (the only boy, at least). He threw up all over me during one of our very first drinking parties in high school. We played on the same line in youth hockey and co-captained our high school team together. I dated one of his triplet sisters in Jr. High and the other one in High School. At this point Pat's more family than friend, which is why I forgive him every time he dumps a beer on my head. More on that later.

Please forgive me for stepping out of my narrative for a moment. Unfortunately, I have fallen multiple weeks behind on my trip blog, and this entry doesn't seem to be wrapping up anytime soon. Since I've already attended both weddings and the funeral, and returned to Cape Town, I'm going to conclude this entry with a short list of the salient moments from reunion that I have not yet mentioned:

The class of 2006 dinner:

1. Pat's interaction with Deborah, the Aramark bartender who remembered him from five years ago. This involved lots of tipping, reminiscing and picture-taking.

2. Pat's improvised leading of the class of 2006 in the Wesleyan fight song. Not sure what Calving Cato, the head of alumni relations, thought when Pat jumped up on stage and stole the microphone, but everyone else seemed thrilled.

3. Waiting in the food line with Anna. This was noteworthy because Anna is awesome.

The Tent Party:

1. Shotgunning beers with Brooks in the dark to avoid the cash bar. They didn't go down like they used to.

2. The perfectly-timed Pat Butsch beer pour. This is how it went down: A crazy nympho sophomore with curly hair danced up on me and wouldn't dance off. I kept turning away form her and she kept turning right along with me. "This is my five-year reunion," I said in an I-could-be-your-father type tone, hoping to deter her. "That figures," she said, all the more encouraged. "I have a girlfriend," I told her, turning away once more. "A serious girlfriend!" I added.
"Let's go somewhere," she yelled up to me. I looked to Charlotte for some help and she gave me a "that girl is crazy but you're on your own" look. Just when I was about to turn around and run, I felt it: a cleansing waterfall of Busch Light cascading down my head. I didn't need to turn around; I knew who had poured it. In a world without certainty, I have come to count on the Pat Butsch Beer Pour more than the changing of the seasons and the movement of my bowels. What set this pour apart from all the others, however, was the timing: just when it was seeming like this strange girl might take her clothes off and chase me around the dance floor she got an unexpected beer bath and thought better of it. I guess class of 2013 can't hang with class of 2006, and thank goodness for that.

The next morning:

I was so ready to leave that I didn't bother to listen to Paul Farmer. Sorry, Paul.

Touching Down

I didn't kiss the ground when I stepped off the plane but I did feel relieved to be back. Rain fell gently as I paced up and down in front of "Parking Pick-Up Area C". I had plenty of people to call but no phone, plenty of things to do but no urgency. In short abstraction: I felt unconcerned with the typical restraints of time and space. I put on my I-Pod and strolled back and forth, watching the cars roll by.

Soon enough I was driving away with Charlotte, who sacrificed a few hours of her morning to save me from navigating the Subway with all my luggage. Nine months of separation felt more like nine days once we got chatting and we touched down in Cobble Hill after 45 minutes. I dropped off my bags, scrubbed 24 hours of plane grime off my skin and greeted Laura in the kitchen, then bought Charlotte brunch at one of my favorite spots on Smith Street. The coffee was strong and delicious and the place was empty in a good way. There's no place like Brooklyn for brunch.

The middle of my day featured a familiar commute into Wall Street for lunch with some former coworkers / current friends. I shed a single tear when I learned that Andrews, my favorite lunch-time diner, had closed, but we grabbed sandwiches while I tried my best to catch up with eight of them at once. They smiled and made good eye contact as they shared updates from their lives: they were dating new people, had moved to new neighborhoods, gotten accepted into graduate school, published new books (nice one, Dax!). Only after about 20 minutes did I realize that some of them were sharing information that they had not yet shared with each other. It reminded me of the counter-intuitive axiom of New York intimacy-- it's sometimes easier to stay close with someone who lives on the other side of the world than on the other side of the city. Additionally, I no longer had any professional stake in divulging personal information, and it felt good to be sharing whatever felt relevant without fear of professional repercussions. I decided it was better to be friends than colleagues with this bunch, and after they spent ten minutes discussing whether or not they would get "summer Fridays" this year I felt sure that friends was better.

After a few "so longs" and a cup of coffee from the Mud Truck on wall street (which has shamelessly jacked-up prices since last June) I met-up with Charlotte and her little brother, Angus, and we headed for SoHo to do some shopping. Since clothes cost at least twice as much in South Africa, I decided to buy as much as I could while I was in New York. Similarly, Angus had just landed his first real job at an architecture firm this summer and was determined to bolster his business casual wardrobe with some one-stop shopping. After an hour of vying for position with other international bargain hunters under fluorescent lights with dance-pop playing in the background I was ready to retreat from UniQlo to a mountaintop monastery with my nylon socks and linen-cotton-blend shirt to contemplate the infinite nothingness inside of me.

Instead, I hopped a downtown F Train to visit my recently injured buddy, Kevin, in park slope. Kevin separated his shoulder messing around on the soccer pitch and was doped up on a fair bit of Oxycodone, which only added to the joyful nature of our reunion. We shared a beer at The Gate, the same vantage point from where, two Halloweens ago, we watched the costumed locals haunt the neighborhood. I told Kevin that the only weird part of the day was the lack of weirdness, and he smiled. I told him about my job in South Africa, my feelings about living there, my relationship with Indra, and he smiled. I asked him about his job and he smiled. He was also talking, but the smiling is what really stuck in my mind. Pain pills, engagement and a bit of a hiatus from his hectic job as an administrator at a Brooklyn-based charter school seem to be agreeing with Kev.

After what felt like a few minutes but turned out to be an hour, I was late for dinner. I hoofed it back to the Page residence, where I enjoyed a wonderful meal in the company of my Brooklyn host family. While living with the Pages we shared countless delicious meals and engaging conversations around their round, green, marble dining room table. This night was no exception--the wine was flowing, the chicken delicious, and laura even surprised us with a second batch of tater tots! After dinner we made the somewhat ill-advised decision to enjoy the evening ambiance of Floyd's, where we consumed several buckets of beer. Somewhere around 2:30 a.m. my jet-lag finally lapped me and I passed out face down, happy, and back in NYC.

Bin Logic

My direct flight from Joburg to JFK was boarding in five minutes. As Indra and I approached my gate we noticed a line of security officers frisking people and searching bags. Indra and I were taking separate flights back to America but were planning to wait together at my gate until I took off.

“I’m not sure why we need to get frisked again,” I said under my breath, not looking for a response.

“Because we’re going to New York,” a voice declared from the next line over.

The speaker was a stout woman with close-cropped brown hair. She stared up at me, apparently waiting for me to acknowledge the logic of her explanation. I returned her stare with a look I’ve been perfecting during long plane rides and boring meetings over the past few years. A blank stare is a screen on which people can play whatever crazy movie their mind is directing. In this case, instead of receiving the true message behind my look—“I wasn’t talking to you and if I'm looking for paranoid global security dogma I can watch CNN.” Instead, she understood: “please tell me more!"

Indra, perhaps uncomfortable by my lack of response, perhaps curious about what this woman was getting at asked her to elaborate. This was just the encouragement the woman was waiting for.

“You know: New York, 9/11, the fact that the United Stateus just killed Bin Laden.” I broke eye contact, hoping that might shut her up. “LA, too. All the major cities.”

At that point I got out of line and walked away in order to spend my last few minutes before my flight in peace. I wasn't sure what it was about this interaction that bothered me--the intrusive way with which this stranger thrust herself into our conversation, her unapologetic belief that she had all the answers--but I did get the feeling that I had already stepped back into the U.S.

The Skinny

Nine months since my most recent move to Africa.

I've been: Robbed, sick, broken-down, ecstatic. Duped, drunk, desperate, puzzled. Surprised, drained, saturated, hyper. Encouraged, obsessed, calm, transcendent. Pitiful. Everything in between. I've endured mind-numbing layovers in airports in various corners of the continent. I've thrown-up for 24 hours in a hotel in Rwanda, I've thrown up my middle finger, I've been thrown off my scooter. I've capsized in the deadliest rapid on the Zambezi river, I've seen the sunrise from a surfboard, I've run 10.5 K up a mountain, I've ridden an elephant, I've touched the Berlin Wall. I've been bored at work.

Confession: I didn't run all the way up the mountain--I had to walk for part of it.

Hypothesis: Nothing finishes in the present. When the action of an event ends, the event itself begins.

Tomorrow I head back to the U.S. for a visit. The trip incorporates 6 states, a college reunion, two of my best friends' weddings, my uncle Robbie's funeral, and as much time as possible with family in Vermont. Beyond the basic outline of travel and events, I have little idea of what to expect from my U.S. tour. Stay tuned as I record the action of my travels and begin explore the deeper dimensions of experience.

A warning: I have tried to blog in the past and failed.