Independence Thoughts

He had a short haircut perfect for the summer. His face seemed almost gentle, a smile perfect for the camera. One wouldn't know what a face for the world champion hotdog eater (gorger) should look like, and I am not sure if the marketers had an idea, but his face looked good on the big screen, on the newspaper next day. He's not some big fat human eating machine, not your average American obesity freak show. He's actually quite muscular, without a visible belly, but then again, that smile might just distract you from any sign of that if the big Nathan's T-shirt doesn't cover up any evidence to the contrary.

I didn't see him in person. I saw the woman who won the women's competition while we were waiting for our own one hotdog (which I shared with my sister). She walked past behind us and the crowd cheered. She's a tiny woman with a big smile. Unlike her male counterpart, she was not white and well built; she was like some sort of Hispanic tennis player. How she managed to devour 48 hotdogs in 10 minutes I didn't witness because we came just as she was getting her trophy and belt (yes, a belt, like the ones they give to boxing champions and American "wrestlers").

That was how I spent the first part of my Independence Day with my sister.

Before meeting up with our parents, we walked on the boardwalk all the way to Brighton Beach, the closest beach to where I had grown up. It is the beach where my first best friend in the country, if you recall, a Slovak immigrant defected with his family, showed me his boomerang right after he opened it from the mail, flung it to the sea, and did not see it boomerang back to land. It is where I snuck in to a theater to watch part 2 of Robocop. Brighton Lane was the approximate name of the first real crush I had that lasted a whole semester. (The brother of this crush was also the person who showed me for the first time a condom he kept, of all places, in his wallet.)

I had never walked the boardwalk from Coney Island to Brighton Beach. It was beautiful. Though my sister was getting thirsty and hot under her non-summer getup. She's a good sport. She's the only person I can feel comfortable dragging around doing stuff I want. With my friends, I always feel I have to cater to what they want to do and don't have the courage to tell them what I want, lest they leave me, or worse, feel obliged to do what I want.

Coney Island itself was a slightly new experience for me. I went there once before I left for college. I can't remember why I was there. Or maybe it was after college. Maybe it was much more recent, when I returned to New York for that one year, maybe with my girlfriend who came to visit me from Switzerland. She's like me, always wanting to explore things. So maybe we went exploring a place I had actually never been to even though Coney Island is a famous landmark of New York. In any case, it was different from whenever it was that I went last time. New rides, and plenty of Latin Americans, whose food stalls and markets stand side-by-side with the decades-old shops you see in vintage photographs of this New York landmark. The old Cyclone still was running, and still making that rickety danger-sounding creaking sound as the old car rumbled on that wooden frame. In all the twenty odd years since I had heard of the Cyclone, I had not heard of an accident that I had sometimes been dreading to happen.

We ended our tour of this part of Brooklyn with a visit to a Russian store, where I found these dairy treats that a Russian friend had introduced me to a while back. I got to practice my farewell greetings with a typical-looking middle-age Russian woman who didn't understand enough English to answer my question, "Is this white inside?". My sister was tired and thirsty, and hot.

I thought she needed new clothes. I thought this woman needed to have a collection of clothes beyond the thick, black, long types that protect her from the world, from human beings. So we went shopping. But it was a failure. The vintage stores in Williamsburg were, as I feared, closed for the holiday. These yuppies apparently didn't share the same profit-seeking spirit as the big chains we ended up going to in Midtown later. I thought it was a waste of time. I even though I should get a Smartphone so I could find the number and call to see if these places were open. But I remembered, eventually, that I was spending time with my sister, in whatever form, and it wouldn't, from this perspective, be a waste of time.

In the end, she didn't find anything her size, which was teeny. In the end, I felt perhaps I was not the right person for her to go shopping with. Not because I wouldn't have a clue what goes well with her, but because I didn't have that feminine bond with her that would encourage her and give her tips.

I thought, who would? Maybe one day, if I have someone close, someone who would bond with my sister. But it's Independence Day, and I didn't want to think about that "someone", because too many "someones" have come on Independence Day and have left.

We parted ways and I went home finally to have a moment to myself. As you know, I have trouble with the idea of being alone. When I am alone, I complain that I am left alone. But then I get antsy when I have no alone time and thirst for it at the end of every weekend when every weekend I am with someone. So finally, some alone time. I did some business with the house in Connecticut, reviewed a bit my budget, read some emails, and practiced my Kungfu. Then a quick shower and before I knew it, it was way past my bedtime.

I thought about who my best friends are, or is. I thought about it because of the tension I have with my Dad. I wondered who to call. I have been here for nearly two months. Really, a little more than a month if you start counting when I stopped going back to New Haven. I have met up with people here. I have gone to different social events not counting milongas. But a best friendship takes years to develop. My art friend was here for the weekend. Being with her is part of developing a best friendship. I sometimes feel awkward with her, but that, I realized, was because it's normal to feel the disconnected parts of a relationship when you're with someone all the time. It's one of the reasons I want to be in a romantic relationship, to take up the challenge of building a connection with someone who didn't grow up with you, but whom you have chosen and whose relationship you chose to build. We went to a tango wedding on Saturday, and we both got teary eyes when the bride read out her promises to her now husband in front of their closest friends in the city as well as family from a different timezone. I don't know exactly why we got teary; it was my first time at a wedding. But I think it has something to do with our common desire, despite all our cynicisms, for promises to be fulfilled at least with one person in this world, one person that we choose.

The same goes with best friendships. It's not as intense as a romantic relationship. But it is equally important. And I wonder who in this world I can call and say what is on my mind. My best friend in London I hardly talk to, though we are strong together, strong enough that each time we talk we feel close, and hopefully I will see her in September. My art friend I have done many times calling up with anger and anguish. And she has done the same with me. But like I said, we are still walking that road, and we have a long way to go. There's the friend with whom I shared the last moment of her dog. That moment was arguably the most intense moment I have shared with anyone. And I have called her up once when I was on the verge of explosion not too long ago. And she has called me a few times to just not feel alone. Nevertheless, we have a distance between us, marked by difference in personality, mutual desire for the other person's presence. I still call her once a week to check on her, which is more than I do with my family or my best friend in London. That's because I am trying.

Then there is that crazy Latina from New Haven. When I get her attention, she's great, in sharing her thoughts, in calling me out on my misjudgments. But she disappears very often, sometimes because of family, sometimes she needs her space. That's fine. And there had been times when I couldn't reach my art buddy, when she picked up the phone. I hope those days won't repeat soon, but I am glad I have someone like her to be around. Still, she can disappear. Still, she's one of the few people I could say "I love you."

I think about the French girl. I miss her, sometimes a lot. I miss her for many reasons, many of which need to be put in their resting place of the past. I do miss that she came closest to being my best friend since my best friend left for London. Despite my complaint that she didn't listen well, she tried and did quite well. More than once she figured out how to give me the right mixture of space and attention to let me feel safe with my dilemmas. I never had doubt that if that relationship had continued to grow, a beautiful bond would have been forged despite all our differences. But we could never agree on what that relationship looked like, and so there is none.

Before parting with my sister we had dinner with our parents. But I will write about that another time because it involves some background that leads to more background involving my Dad. I will also write about the tango wedding another time. This has been a very long weekend. The train ride is nearly over, and then I will start my first day of work of this shorter week. Now some rest.