Never see Fourth of July fireworks in New York City

As long as we are living in New York, I never want to stay in New York City for Independence Day ever again. The crowds and the wait times to see sub-par fireworks is pretty ridiculous. In New York, you have to wait for almost everything that is even remotely good, and the older I get, the less and less exciting that sounds to me.

Last Fourth of July, we were in Charleston and originally arrived at the park about four hours before the fireworks were slated to begin, and there was no one except people there sun-bathing and wandering around to wander around, not to stake out their fireworks viewing spot, so we left and came back. This year, we are spending the long holiday weekend in the Pittsburgh area and saw the fireworks along the Allegheny River here. We arrived about an hour before the fireworks were to begin, and we got a perfect spot right along the river between two of the bridges — no insane wait time, and no ridiculous crowds pushing us from all sides. According to an article I read, Pittsburgh was rated one of the top ten places to see Independence Day fireworks (not sure what their source was, though). After watching it tonight, I was really impressed and thoroughly enjoyed it. It was a good length, had a large variety of different types of fireworks, colors, and effects, and they even provided an introduction and background music that blared all along the river. They even started on time at 9:35pm! It was so nice to not wait that long, have enough space, and just enjoy the fireworks. This is when I really appreciate being in other parts of the country (or even world) on this nation’s birthday.

Family connections

I met my aunt for lunch today near my office. She’s visiting for about 3.5 months and splitting her time between her friend’s house in New Jersey and her son’s apartment in Brooklyn.

My aunt has three sons – the oldest one calls her constantly, the middle one only calls her when he needs something (or is responding to her calls), and the last one complains to her as often as he can get his mother’s attention and expects her to drop her entire life to take care of his son — her grandson. She’s planning to visit her brother in the next two weeks in Boston since it’s only four hours away from here.

“It’s good to keep in contact and see family,” she said to me. That was probably an allusion to her middle child… And the fact that I told her that he doesn’t reach out to me at all, and when I send him and his wife e-mails, only his wife responds with him cc’ed. When I told her I contacted all of her sons to let them know about my engagement, she asked if he responded, and I said no. She had a “Well, I could have guessed that” look.

Predictable

The proposal happened last Tuesday in Rio. We told our parents that evening via the phone. My mother did not initially hear me, and then that transitioned into her hearing me (it was a bad phone connection given our sub-par Wi-Fi), but not believing it really happened. She said, “Are you sure? This is real? Did he actually say the words, ‘Will you marry me,’ or did he just give you a ring? You are sure?'” Leave it to my mother to make the happiest moments in my life seem like the worst and most ambiguous.

Since we arrived back in New York on Monday, she has made sure to ask me those same questions yet again, and then end the conversation by saying, “I’m happy for you… for now.” My response: “What is that supposed to mean – ‘for now’?!” She says, “Well, you haven’t even set a date yet. Sometimes there is a proposal or engagement, but the wedding never happens.”

It’s always comforting to know how predictable people in your life can be. And then when you think about it a little bit more, you realize the negativity that surrounds their psyche is something you will just never be able to penetrate. We can’t change other people as much as we may want, especially our own parents.

 

The cat’s out

We’ve been making our calls, e-mails, and text messages about our news today. I told two of my best friends over Google Hangout about our engagement (after about 20 minutes of trying and failing to get Skype three-way calling to work — God bless technology… or not), and today at work was a huge frenzy with telling colleagues and sharing the story of Chris’s proposal over and over again.

It’s a weird feeling, honestly, to be sharing stories about our engagement and proposal. Over the years, I’ve gotten so used to listening to other people share their stories and tell me their wedding dates and locations that I never really thought about how I’d feel doing what they are doing. It’s a bit tiring, but it’s actually fun to be sharing good, happy news and to see people light up when I hold my hand out or tell them that I am engaged.

When the proposal happened, I barely even looked at the ring that was in the box that Chris opened. I was just so shocked and excited about the event itself – his surprising me as always, getting down on one knee, and asking me to spend the rest of my life with him. As cliche as it sounds, it felt magical to the point where the memory of it is just a huge haze.

Before Chris, I always had a dream of what my engagement ring would look like. I had already chosen my ideal setting, diamond shape and size, and metal. I said in my mind years ago that this is what I wanted. It’s a very girly thing to do, but I always thought about it. But when he proposed, all of that just disappeared, and I suddenly found myself not caring at all. The ring he chose for me is not that old ideal of mine, but it’s what he picked out for me, thought I would love, and is the symbol (thanks, DeBeers) of his love and this moment in our lives. I’m completely smitten with it. A good friend of mine asked me if I was planning to add a halo to the ring because she remembered it was what I had said I wanted. Though I appreciated her remembering and wanting for me what I said I’d wanted, even just the thought of changing this ring made me cringe a little. I don’t want to change anything about this ring or that moment in our life ever.

I’m so lucky I found someone as amazing as Chris to spend my life with. Though we’ve only been together for 2.5 years, we’ve known each other and been friends for six years now, and he has become someone who knows and reads me so well that it’s mind-boggling that anyone can understand another person to the depth he understands me. The things that other people find puzzling or odd (or even terrible) about me, he has embraced and finds endearing. He defends me aggressively and personally gets upset and angry for me in ways no one else ever has. He knows my parents and their personality quirks inside and out and can predict all their reactions to everything. He can even read my friends and make predictions about them before I have even had a chance to think about them. He is constantly surprising me and showering me with love and affection, even when I do not always want it (I do not like to be licked. End of story).  And he’s preserved Ed in our lives forever in the most heartfelt ways that bring tears to my eyes.

With him, my life has been the happiest it has ever been. And I think Ed would agree… even if he is no longer with us on earth. I wish Ed were here for me to tell him the news, but I know for sure that he is watching over us and smiling with joy in his eyes, elated that his little sister is engaged.

Back to work

I come back from an incredible nine-day long vacation, the kind that if I had it my way, I’d never return home from, and somehow within an hour of starting work again (from home, though), a colleague decides to pick a massive fight with me and call me a lot of demeaning adjectives, making sure to use words like “always” and “this is standard for you all the time.” As you can imagine, I didn’t just sit there and take it like a punching bag, and I fought back. Needless to say, we got nowhere with the conversation and it ended with a massive lingering conflict.

It’s hard working in the industry that I am in – as a woman and as an Asian American. It’s a male-dominated, very white place (that is, my company), and people love to make sweeping assumptions about how you will act based on your background and your title. As an Asian woman, people assume, whether consciously or subconsciously, that I will just take orders and not question authority. Well, I wasn’t brought up to be a doormat, so that’s never really going to work for me. I will always say what I think whether people like it or not. If that’s something that gets me to be unpopular or even fired, then it’s probably a testament to that place’s terrible environment and low standards of work, innovation, genuine accountability.

Sao Paulo street art

Sao Paulo, despite being the most populous city in Brazil, always seems to get slighted because of the glamour and glitz that is Rio de Janeiro. Rio’s gorgeous beaches, urban jungle (with an actual jungle in the middle of it), and relaxed Carioca ways seem to attract more tourists than Sao Paulo. I had a number of people tell me prior to leaving for this trip that they were excited for the Rio and Iguazu Falls portions, but much less so about the Sao Paulo end. That makes me pretty sad because despite our short time in Sao Paulo, I really enjoyed our time here and only wish we had more time to explore its many facets.

The most striking thing during our short visit to Sao Paulo was by far the number of incredible street art murals we saw all over the city – during our (like New York-priced, sadly – we weren’t lied to by Cariocas when they told us that cabs were expensive in Sao Paulo!) cab rides and our strolls. Some appear more like glorified graffiti, some are caricatures of famous celebrities around the globe (with what appear to be political or challenging questions scribbled in Portuguese), others look like they took painstaking efforts and several dozen different colors (and hours) to produce. The last place where I remember constantly seeing street art was in Philadelphia, but because Sao Paulo is obviously far larger (and felt more spread out) than Philly, it was almost overwhelming. It was almost similar to how I felt when we were at Iguazu — when you thought you had seen the best, you walked a few more feet and realized… you hadn’t seen the best yet and were constantly being impressed and having the last sight out done.

I guess as I have thought more about it, the one word that constantly reappears when I think of our time in Brazil is “overwhelming.” It was so overwhelming in some of the most positive ways.

Iguazu Falls

Although Iguazu saw the failure of my poor DSLR camera, it was definitely an experience in itself going to see the falls. When I saw Niagara Falls in Canada last summer, I already thought that they were incredibly large and stunning that I couldn’t fathom what Iguazu or Victoria Falls could be like. The color of the water, a bright blue, was just so clean and refreshing looking, as though you just want to put your mouth out and have a taste.

Well, I definitely would not say I would want to drink any of the water from Iguazu Falls… because although the gorgeous (Photoshopped) postcards show gorgeous shades of greenish blue, the water was anything but that color. It was this deep… brown color. That’s not the color most people associate with pristine water.

The number of falls that make up Iguazu is just mind-boggling, though, so you forget the murkiness of the water itself. There’s a long trail that you walk along for all the views of the falls, and along each stop, you just see more and more beautiful and more stunning views as you continue your walk. You think it’s all over, and then you just see another set of the falls that outdid the last set in another way. It’s like one of those things that you see and know is real, but you wonder how it came to be and how you are so fortunate to see it in all its beauty and glory. It’s another unreal experience during this trip.

Poor T3i

I can’t believe it. After only 23 months of use, my Canon Rebel T3i camera just stopped turning on while at Iguazu Falls today. It was only sprinkling rain a bit outside while we were photographing, and suddenly, it just wouldn’t turn on. I could hear it making beeping sounds when I pushed any of the buttons, but the screen did not turn on and I was unable to take any more photos. It’s been through more wetness than it did today.

The one positive of this happening is that the camera was working fine during the majority of this trip, and that the memory card was completely fine and we were able to back up all of the photos. I’m just disappointed that my expensive baby didn’t even make it to its second birthday without going haywire. Off to a repair shop, it will go.

Rio juice bars

I don’t think I can remember how many times we have had fresh squeezed and blended juice on this segment of our Brazil trip in Rio. Throughout the city, no matter where you are, there will always be a juice bar at the corner of the street you are on, if not two or three. They will all have a vast range of tropical fruits that you may not have even heard of unless you grew up in South America (or really like vitamin supplements, since a lot of these fruits’ extracts are used in vitamin supplements that people take). Chris always complains that he is guava deprived since he had it so often when living in Australia and can never get it anywhere in North America unless it’s from a juice can I get him from Chinatown, so he’s pretty much refused to order any juice that is not guava, unless the juice bar has run out of it. Passion fruit and/or mango are close seconds for him. I’ve had passion fruit, mango, caju (Portuguese for “cashew,” but NOT nut juice like you are imagining. This juice comes from the fruit of the cashew nut tree – tastes like hints of apple, pineapple, and something slightly creamy?), fruta de conde/Brazilian sugar apple, and acerola (like a tomato-sized berry – very citrusy and sweet).

It suddenly hit me while sitting at a juice bar eating lunch with Chris today that all the juices we have are frothy, thick, and have all the pulp. The people behind the counter are literally taking the skinned fruit and throwing them into blenders. Why can’t they do that in the States? Every time you get juice at the store or at a juice store back home, it’s always clear and generally pulp free, which really defeats the purpose of having fruit. Fruit juice should be whole fruit, otherwise the key nutrients are just being thrown away. It’s part of the reason I detest the idea of juice cleanses (you’re paying a lot of money for the parts of the fruit that aren’t even nutrient-dense) and why I get annoyed at all the fruit juice carton labels that say “Pulp-Free.” I always grew up drinking juice with pulp and never understood why people didn’t want pulp in juice. Isn’t that what’s natural and good?

Last night in Rio

Today is our last full day in Rio de Janeiro, which makes me so sad because it feels like we just arrived. I thought that having five and a half days here would be enough to see and experience most of what this urban paradise has to offer, but I feel like I need to come back here again at least one (or two… or three…) more times to feel completely satiated.

Tonight, we saw our last World Cup game at Estadio Maracana, which was Ecuador vs. France. We were seated on the side of the stadium where most of the Ecuadorians were, and the atmosphere was really intense. I got into it and sided with the Ecuadorians when they started yelling a chant that one of my best friends and I used to use to encourage each other: “Si se puede! Si se puede!” The crowd was even more crazy than Sunday’s Belgium vs. Russia game.

We’ve had a good number of caipirinhas, too many (whole) tropical juices in our last few days (to name a few: guava, passion fruit, acerola, and fruta da conde/sugar apple), and more fish, rice and black beans than we’ve probably had for the last five months. We’ve visited grungy parts of Rio where the smell of hot garbage follows your nostrils everywhere, and lush green tree-lined streets of the most expensive neighborhoods here. Rio is just another example of an international city where the differences are stark between the rich and the poor. Just steps behind a well-manicured middle-class neighborhood could be a drug lord-controlled favela that the government turns its eyes from. So many aspects of this city can at the same time confuse and pique a visitor’s interest. Each day I’ve been here, I’ve found it more alluring and curious, and I can’t wait to come back… hopefully for Carnaval when I can experience another side of how intense the January River city can be.