A good friend of mine is an active volunteer for the organization Upwardly Global, and for the second year in a row, he’s organized the Silk Road of Queens food tour to raise money for this charity. The tour consists of 5-6 restaurant stops, where the group is able to sample the vast variety of cuisines and dishes that make up the borough of Queens. I loved the concept when he came up with it, particularly because I’ve always felt since I moved to Queens from Boston in 2008 that it was a highly underrated area to live and visit. Queens is probably one of the most diverse neighborhoods on the planet with the number of languages spoken, number of immigrants, and of course, its huge variety of restaurants, which frankly cannot be replicated probably anywhere else in the world. Manhattan can’t hold a candle to the sheer diversity of food that Queens is lucky enough to have.

This was my second year participating in the tour, and this time, I took Chris with me. We had some very interesting conversations with some of the other people who came on the tour, and we tried a number of restaurants that I’d definitely want to go back to, especially Fu Run, which is Northeast Chinese food (strongly influenced by the western Chinese provinces), and Stix, which is Uzbeki cuisine. We had everything from veal liver kebab at Stix to yak dumplings at a Nepalese/Tibetan restaurant to candied sticky taro and spiced cumin lamb chops at Fu Run. It was almost a struggle to keep up with all the food, but now I have an even longer list of restaurants I can’t wait to go back to. It’s really true what they say about living in New York. You could probably live here for something ridiculous like ten years and eat every single meal out — breakfast, lunch, and dinner — and still never eat at every single restaurant that existed here. This city is absolutely amazing. There’s always something new and different to eat.

Today, I indulged Chris and myself and went to have facials done in the afternoon. I think professional facials are extremely indulgent; in my whole life, I’ve only had three including this one. But it’s nice to pamper yourself occasionally, especially when you live in a city that is as polluted as New York is. And I suppose it could be argued that it is a health benefit.

The esthetician who worked on me today told me that my skin was in very good condition, and I had no signs of aging or wrinkling other than the expected expression lines that are expected of people my age. I don’t think I naturally have good skin; I broke out like crazy from the ages of 11-13, and I still occasionally get a pimple or two. I have huge pores, which I hate, but I guess it’s part of the package when you are Asian and your mom has big pores, too. I had the fear of God put into me from a young age that I needed to wear sunscreen on my face every single day, even on days when it’s gray and gloomy outside, because the sun’s rays will cause me premature wrinkling. I’ve done that since the age of 9. Maybe that fear of God has paid off. It’s like when my dad kept instilling the importance of putting away a sizable percentage of my income into my 401K. “You don’t want to retire and be poor, do you?” No, I don’t think anyone would answer that question affirmatively. It’s amazing how authority figures can instill fear in you to ultimately be good. But it’s nice when you can see it benefiting your life later.

I miss my old borough. Well, I don’t miss everything about it. I don’t miss the longer commute. I don’t miss how the general neighborhoods there are a bit seedier, the trains get less love from the MTA and so they run less efficiently, especially on weekends. But I do miss the food, the quality and the cheapness, and the variety of types of food that is just within a few blocks of each other. I miss my old laundromat, where the guy who worked there was always friendly with me, and he had the cheapest possible prices for the few times I actually did dry cleaning.

So after work today, I went all the way out to Elmhurst, my old neighborhood, and I picked up my favorite Indian Chinese takeout and dumplings — in the rain. That’s how much I wanted it and how much I missed the area. I got my boots wet and almost broke my umbrella from the wind, but I was so happy when I brought it all back to my apartment and ate. You can’t get Indian Chinese or dumplings of this quality on the Upper East Side. And if you did, it would probably cost two to three times as much. But realistically, that isn’t going to happen anytime soon.

Ever since that infamous New York Times article was published last spring about the unfair treatment and pay of nail salon workers, I’ve been painfully cognizant and wary of nail salons and have pretty much resisted any impulse desire to get my nails done anywhere. Granted, I rarely get my nails done outside of my apartment, mostly out of my own cheapness, but I resisted the idea even more after I read this article even though I knew beforehand that it had to be a bad lifestyle for the salon workers. I mean, the cheapest manicure to be had in New York (which I personally have benefited from) is $10, and how could anyone possibly be making any real money at that level of earning?

As a little indulgence that would perhaps happen on my own dime about once a year, I started looking for nail salons that pay a fair wage and have safe working conditions for their employees; these places typically charge $25-45 for a basic manicure, which probably makes more sense given the cost of living. A publisher partner has asked to take my team and me on a mani/pedi outing, so now we’re scheduled to go to Ten Over Ten next Friday at my request. Now I can feel a little better about supporting a business that treats its employees properly.

Tonight, I met with Chris’s cousin’s friend from Melbourne who is doing grad studies at NYU, her friend from Melbourne who is interning temporarily at the Council for Foreign Relations, and my good friend for dinner at a restaurant that specializes in South Indian cuisine in the Curry Hill area of Manhattan. I’ve made a number of South Indian dishes, including masala dosa and appam, and these were things that were on the menu tonight. I ordered the kal dosa, which according to Chris’s mother is the most basic everyday dosa eaten by Indian families in South India. Chris’s cousin’s friend ordered the appam, not because she actually remembered it but because she vaguely thought she had the dish before and wanted to make sure she remembered it, as the last time she’d had it was in South India visiting relatives. I was curious to see how it tasted since I’d never had it or even seen it on any restaurant menu ever. I took a piece of her appam and was a little confused and almost even disgusted when I tasted it; it was sour, which made sense because the batter is fermented, but it was too sour. I’d had it the very first time when Chris’s mother and aunt made it for a Christmas Eve dinner, and after that, I replicated it myself here twice. It’s supposed to taste coconuty because the batter has coconut and rice, but this appam had zero coconut flavor. It was salty and very sour. I was so disappointed. And it looked so pretty, too, so it was obviously made in the right style pan.

And then it hit me: I think I’m a better Indian chef than the people who work in the Anjappar kitchen in Curry Hill, and I’m not even Indian. I was able to replicate the flavor of a real appam better than the Anjappar cooks could. I had a brief moment of smugness that I had to hide and keep to myself.

In the last two days, I’ve run into two of Chris’s friends, one of whom is a former colleague of mine. New York is a big place with millions of people, and yet we managed to bump into each other and catch up briefly.

I don’t know how observant people are when they run into me by chance, but one of the first things I always think of when I run into someone I know is, when was the last time I saw this person? How different or the same does this person look? I don’t think I’d seen the friend I ran into today in over two years, yet she looked exactly as I remembered her; it’s like she hadn’t aged a single day. She told me that I looked even younger than the last time she saw me, which I found really hard to believe because I feel like I’ve aged ten years since then. We really are more critical about ourselves than we should be.

Tonight, Chris and I went to meet a friend of mine who is dating someone new that he met online, and as soon as I made eye contact with her, I knew immediately she was someone I’d seen before. I soon found out that yes, she was originally from San Francisco, and yes, she went to my high school and was three years ahead of me. The reason she was familiar to me was that she was actually the student body president when I was a freshman at Lowell. What a small world. Of course, she had no idea who I was since then, I was just a lowly freshman while she was a senior, but it was interesting getting to know someone who I kind of already knew, and who was dating a good friend of mine here in New York.

She was pretty spooked that I already knew who she was and that we went to the same high school. She said that she never really talked much about high school or being in student government, or even about San Francisco. Why? I asked her. She said she’s just a different person now and is so different than what she was in high school. “But every interesting person has a past,” I said to her, smiling. Our experiences are what make us. Sure, I don’t think it’s necessary for her to share with everyone she meets that she used to be student body president when she was in high school, but I do think it’s important that people know where she’s lived and been to see how she has evolved. I don’t think I’m the same person as I was in high school, but I do think it’s a part of my life that was important that’s helped me get to where I am today. Now, I know a world outside of San Francisco, as she clearly does, but I still have San Francisco as a part of me as she also does. We should never forget the past.

I don’t know what it is about New Yorkers, or maybe it’s just my colleagues in my office, but I don’t seem to know anyone who does their own laundry. A number of my colleagues have laundry in their buildings, yet they don’t do laundry themselves. They have their laundry dropped off at a neighborhood cleaners’ and then come back a few days later to pick it up. A few others are using tech startup companies’ apps to have their laundry picked up from their apartments and sent back, all neatly folded and pressed. It’s like hearing about people doing their own laundry is a rarity. We do our laundry in our basement, but we had to get a few jackets of Chris’s dry-cleaned, so I was lucky enough to find a reasonably priced cleaner just two blocks from our apartment. I noticed they had a sign posted for cleaning leather bags, so I asked the worker how much it would cost to clean my small Kate Spade bag. “For your bag? Eight-five dollars,” she said. “It’s expensive because we outsource it!”

Eighty-five dollars to clean a bag that cost less than four times that same amount? No, thanks. People are way too high maintenance in this neighborhood if that is really a considered a “reasonable” price.