Red-tape

Yeesh, this is kind of scary. A 28-year old American (with Iranian parents--like me) was just convicted in Iran of being a spy... all because he was visiting his grandparents in Iran and he happened to be an ex-Marine. The U.S. State Department is demanding his release, but Iran says they're going to execute him.

Meanwhile, in red-tape land... My mom called the embassy again to find out why I haven't gotten my new Iranian papers yet. They told her that they had done "their job" and sent the required forms to Iran and now it was in Iran's hands. She asked if there was some way to ask about the status of the application and they said there was no way to track that information since it was out of their hands already and they had done "their job." So... I guess I just keep waiting. I think it's been over 6 months now.

The view from another city

It's a dead calm on the black, wet streets of Seattle's Central District when I walk through the alley and enter the Twilight Exit on the evening of Christmas. I love this about Seattle--how everything is so sinister and cold and raw and smelling of ocean and pine on the outside, but then you go inside old haunts, to warm places where everyone knows you. This is the third reincarnation of the Twilight Exit, but it still feels good. I sit at a table with Nikoel and ask her if she remembers those old parties at the first Twilight, those endless summers. She does.

It's Christmas karaoke and it always feels like this warm, fuzzy, big family. There are many greetings, much hugging. This is my home, where I am from. I love New York, but Seattle is who I am. My parents may be from Iran, but this is where I was born. Seattle is that little part of me that people can't put their finger on when first meeting me in the City, it's that inexplicable question and raised eyebrow when people say, "You like camping?!" They look down at my insensible shoes, assuming these heels say I'm from the East Coast, and they realize something is off, not right. It is always drizzling outside.

I run into Andy & Ingo, old friends from "the scene." Oh, the scene... Ingo asks me how I'm doing and I tell her I'm great, the usual stuff. I look around the bar, our friends singing, the passed drinks, and I say, "But we don't have anything like this in New York." She asks me about guys and dating. I tell her there is someone new, someone I actually like.

"It's weird," I tell her. "I know I usually write about the guys I'm dating. There's always a story. But ever since I started seeing this one, I haven't been able to blog." I'm enveloped by this foreign sense of... privacy. "And it's terrifying too," I reveal.

It is in these moments where wisdom implicates itself. She says, "Maybe it's scary because you're not writing a story about this one, you're not removing yourself from the experience--you're actually present, which is scary."

After a few years of using men like kleenex, I feel like I've met someone who might be part of my story, not someone I can write about, not a situation where I am in control. It's a new feeling. Or maybe a very old one. I don't know, and that is the problem and the gift: I don't know. I am not the author.

It takes coming to this gray, dank, mossy place by the water to realize things like that.

(Please note: To those who have been reading me since the early aughts, during this time, I may return to posting in the old place that you are all familiar with. You know where to find me.)

Quick update because I know it's been a while

Well, I'm back from Puerto Rico! Hope you didn't miss me too much. It was a blast. And now I'm back in cold Manhattan.

I'm dating someone I really like... and it is freaking the shit out of me, mostly because he seems serious, and if he's serious, then who knows where this will go? AHHHH!!!! (I will tell you more once we are over the jinxing stage.)

My dad was in town last Saturday and we had dinner at the Kebab Garden in the East Village (because it is the only place he will agree to eat at in the entirety of New York City). After we finished eating, he found the manager and decided to give him advice about how he could run his restaurant better. It was incredibly humiliating and it reminded me why I love him so much. It was awesome to see him. He says he got to see the school that he is building near Tabriz in Iran while he was there. I had no idea he was even building a school there! He is naming it after his dead father.

And I saw my cousin on Sunday night (who was in town for a movie premiere). Her 5-year old is best friend's with Matt Damon's assistant's 5-year old, which is why she got comped the ticket and the hotel room. So there we were on Sunday night hanging out in the Mandarin Oriental in what should have been Matt Damon's mother's room (the mom decided last minute to stay at "Matt's" house instead), ordering room service in her name (we were told to do so because Universal was paying for everything anyway). Afterwards, I took my cousin down to my neighborhood and we had dinner at Momofuku. And it was actually fun. And it was nice to see family, someone who has known me since I was a bebe.

The President & the homeless man

Last night, walking home, I noticed an unmarked police car blocking my street, East 12th. Film crews have chosen my street before, so I assumed that's what it was. Just a few months ago, they filmed a scene of Boardwalk Empire at John's, the Italian place at the end of the block, and they cordoned off the entire street and turned it into a huge tented buffet of food service for the actors (my apartment stoop was turned into a technician's hangout). But, this time, I turned the corner and saw that two tow-trucks were busy towing all the cars parked alongside our tiny little road, and two more cop cars were driving up and down the street directing a garbage truck, which was picking up garbage off the sidewalks.

A woman was poking one of the garbage bags looking for recyclables (a popular occupation in New York for those trying to make extra cash) and she turned to me wild-eyed and said, "The President is coming down this street! Down this street! We gotta clean it all up!" I figured she was just a crazy homeless person, so I kept walking.

The President of the U.S. driving down this tiny street? No way. A woman was selling tortillas out of a cooler perched on a shopping cart in front of my stoop and a cop car pulled up and bought a tortilla then told her to move. "The President is coming down here soon." Whoa, Obama was really coming down this street?

For the next two hours, more cars and more garbage was moved in preparation. I had no idea that it took this much effort to prepare for the president just driving by. Apparently, he was at a fundraising dinner at Gotham Bar & Grill on the other side of 12th St, so his motorcade decided to make a clear shot across the island, passing my apartment. I waited on my door stoop for an hour, reading a magazine. Then it got cold, so I went upstairs to my apartment. I went downstairs to check up on the street scene twice more (which is a lot to say considering I live in a 6-floor walk-up), but each time, it was still too early and the president had not yet finished dinner. Then I fell asleep on my coach. When I woke up, I sprinted downstairs only to catch my neighbor exclaiming, "I saw him! I saw Obama!" By the time I got outside, the train of black cars was gone. Damn!

*

This morning, on the subway platform (why do so many of my posts start out that way?), a rotund homeless man wearing a santa cap sat on a bench and began hollering the words to "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas." Things like this are always amplified in the morning because normally nobody talks and, despite hundreds crowded on the platform, there is usually no noise at all. So the homeless man kept singing "White Christmas" and he started making up nonsensical words to the tune, echoing loudly, causing those of us on the platform who desperately try to ignore each other to turn and smile in conspiracy: Yes, this is our city.

The season

On the subway platform to work today, I hear a scream. Morning commutes are always devoid of talk, hundreds of people totally silent, so the scream is cause to look. Maybe someone got scared by a rat? Instead, an older woman with 80s-style glasses runs down the platform and grabs another woman from behind and says, "How dare you?" The other woman, a young hipster, turns around surprised. "How dare *I*? Get your hands off me old lady!" The older woman stands shocked and shakes her head, disgusted. I wonder which one is at fault and who to side with. The train pulls up.

We cram into the train. I am positioned under a man's armpit, between a woman on one side and the seat on another. Sitting in the seat, a black man lips the words to gospel that is playing on his portable DVD player. He is not using headphones so we can all hear the gospel. Me and him are the only ones that can see it on his screen though. I begin to wonder if he is part of the choir or if he knows someone in the choir, because why would he be so passionately into the songs? And why would he know all the words?

Up on the street, Macy's has its windows decorated. They have put up a giant inflatable elf above one of the entrances. I pass by three Salvation Army collections--all ring bells, one has a french horn. Homeless people congregate outside K-Mart and tourists gather outside the popcorn store ("one of Oprah's favorite things!"). Every store I pass is pumping holiday pop. Our office building has strung politically-correct purple and red lights on the trees outside and on a large wreath hung in the lobby. There are signs saying the building management is doing a coat collection for the homeless but, last year, I actually brought a coat to donate and the guy at the front-desk had no idea what I was talking about and sent me to the local police precinct instead. I figure the sign is just for public relations.

Thanksgiving was spent at my recently-engaged friend's place in Queens. Saturday night, I went to the Russian & Turkish bath house, which is quickly becoming a favorite spot. I was introduced to the manager, Dimitri, who complained about cheap Russians. In the biggest steam room, I realize I am sweating next to Jonathan Ames who is apparently a regular here.

On the phone last night, my parents inform me they have returned from Iran now. They have come and gone, and I still don't have my papers. Part of me is relieved, but the other part feels time passing.

The Finale

My web series about dating Persian men is over. Read the grand finale here.

Apple + Pumpkin

He brings me a gigantic apple as a present, instead of flowers. He places it next to my miniature pumpkin that I’ve had out since Halloween. “Look at how cute they are—a pumpkin that isn’t normally little and an apple that isn’t normally big. They're so different. It’s like you and me,” he says. We snap a picture.

“You’re just like a pumpkin because I’m convinced you turn into one every night when you go running away so abruptly,” he says.

***

I take him out to dinner. We ride to 58th Street from St. Marks on his motorcycle, weaving through cabs as he flicks them off (“they’re a menace to this city!” I hear him yell over the wind) and I hold on for dear life, imagining I am going to die any moment in these ridiculous high-heeled boots I’m wearing.

The restaurant is very proper with chandeliers and plush red walls and roses and candles on every table. We walk in with our helmets and everyone in their suits stops to stare at us. For effect, I accidentally knock a vase over with my helmet. The owner comes by to discuss motorcycles and his youth and he comps us a bottle of wine.

***

But there is a destructive side of me, so I ask, “Do you really believe in conspiracy theories? Like, do you earnestly and honestly believe in them?”

“I don’t believe in theories,” he says. “I believe in science, proven things. What you see on the media is the real ‘theory’. Your parents are from Iran. You should know this.”

I try not to let him see me smile. I hold myself back from debating. I change the subject, willful amnesia.

One radio is running NPR in the back of his place by the kitchen. Another radio is running a different talk radio show in the front of the apartment, in the living room. Both are talking about how Zuccotti Park was evicted. We stare at the books that line the shelves on every wall.