March 31, 2008 -- I leave Monday for Buenos Aires. Then, 31 days later, I depart for California. On the way I'll be making a detour through Buenos Aires.

January 19 -- I write to you from the library, a place I rarely set foot while I was a full-time student. Something about all those people, being ostentatiously productive... Not that I'm not productive, but I don't make a big show of it... Recently, though, I've been feeling drawn, trepidaciously, to the cavernous Widener, like a fly to wedding cake. Dare I stop? Dare I put my little paws all over its hallowed frosting? Or is it better to stick to the display case of the corner falafel place?

January 13-- I have just eaten three clementines, whose citrusy pockets pop between my canines.

January 12 -- My grandmother just gave me all her frequent flyer miles. She called me and said she set up the whole thing with Delta. I just had to choose a PIN. "To help you with a trip to Europe," she explained. My little grandma, who has fought her way back from the operating table in the past two years more times than I can count, and who taught me my times tables and Japanese vocabulary (ancient history -- all I can remember now is Sore wa mado desu - there is a window) under the shade of the eucalyptus trees in Balboa Park, did a lot of traveling in her day. She moved from Romania to the U.S. in 1982, stopping in Germany for a few months first, before her visa came through. From the U.S. she went to visit friends in Australia and then back to Europe. She accumulated enough miles for a round trip ticket somewhere, which she has bequeathed to her wanderlusting granddaughter just as her time in Boston draws to a close. If there's any doubt where I get it from, there's the answer: two grandmas who came to the U.S. before I could talk and told me stories about their travels. Parents who started over from scratch in a new continent when they were older than I am now.

January 10 -- Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

October 13, 2007 -- I write to you as a new person. A profound change has gripped my soul, torn apart every assumption I had about myself and the world around me, and I don't know if I can even put it into words. I am an acolyte in a new religion. I will be healed. It started two evenings ago, when I tried to get on the internet from a bookstore cafe and it sent me to the Starbucks page. What's this? "Our coffees"? What exactly do they have to say about their coffees? I click, the pull down menu of espresso drinks appears, and I glance at the offerings. Clearly "coffee" is not the right word, since the names (pumpkin spice, cinnamon dolce, java chip) sound more like ice cream flavors. And then it happens. These largely unappealing options recede into the pixellated haze of my screen and I spot it, an unassuming drop of divinity amid a mass of troglodytes -- the Dulce de Leche Latte. The next day I was foiled, with work deadlines and simply zero time to run to the kiosk in my office building. Knowing I had little time to waste (with an estimated 80 or so years until my expiration date thanks to modern healthcare and calcium supplements, and many more liters of Dulce de Leche Latte than I could drink in that lifetime), I woke up extra, extra early this morning and managed to bolt out of the house by noon. But I was fraught with worry. What would it taste like? Was it one of those seasonal drinks that the company introduces for a few months to lure new drinkers, only to snatch it away nine weeks later and leave them with the standard options, like a limited-release Disney dvd? What cruelty awaited? I drove to the Financial district and the deities smiled upon me -- free parking in a spot where the meter was cut off. So here I am. In a Starbucks in the financial district. I have partaken of *it* -- this nectar, exlisir and manna all in one, mine own true deliverance, which some mustachioed Starbucks chefs at the Starbucks laboratories concocted just for my heretofore Starbucks-neglected tastebuds... Milky, softly sweet, with a vague afterscent of coffee. Still steaming, *it* sits next to my laptop as I type this, half empty. For a Starbucks Dulce de Leche Latte cup could never be half full. Must drink more. Must drink more. Star! Bucks! Star! Bucks! Star! Bucks! Star! Bucks!

September 30, 2007 -- I am sitting at my desk, looking through gauzy curtains at a tree. It may be a chestnut tree, since I saw a chestnut on the ground under it a day ago. Or is that the remnant of a neighbor's shopping trip to Trader Joe's? In any case. The tree is quivering, every leaf is alive, and starting to yellow at the edges. My desk, which faces the window, has a map of the Paris metro open on it, and my laptop is sitting on top of that. The tree is in front of my window. The window is in front of my desk. My desk is in my study. My study is next to my bedroom. I have a home!! Yes, I moved, finally, and definitively (I hope!) for the next six months, to a 1873 Victorian with a bathroom that proves it. I made a tortilla for lunch and ate it with slices of hard, sweet tomato, in my new (old) kitchen. Sigh. I'm happy.

September 28, 2007 -- I have been deluged by correspondence. Ecru envelopes are sitting on my desk at work, at the apartment, and there's one thick cream colored invitation in my purse. With one friend about to get married, one who recently did, one moving away, and another moving back, people have turned to Crane's instead of gmail, and I'm delighted. I would get some envelopes printed, but I keep moving. (See next entry.)

September, 2007 -- A few numbers: Months between longer-term residences: 1. Temporary addresses: 10. Crazy Spanish former-roommates I never met: 1. Nice Spanish former-roommates I did meet: 1. College and grad school friends' couches crashed on: 4. Air mattresses in current possession: 1. Months until residency reestablished in California: 6. Becoming a statistic ("mid-twenties nomad," I guess): Priceless.

August 6, 2007 -- To want is better than to have. This, I concluded, while I was sitting on a park bench and trying to read. My mind started wandering, as usual. To have: fixed, definite, over. To want is process, and consuming, and delicious. I started imagining what I would name my future mini-dachshund. Chloe? Chathulahuextil? Waffle? Walter Mitty? Bernardo? Beezlebub? Until I get him or her, it could be any of these. I am the proud future owner of all or none, at once. And what city will I live in, then? For years, I'll admit it, I've wanted to find a room of my own. Stop moving every six months. Sit. Stay. Good girl. Now, the act of not moving means I might be anywhere in three years. Boston, New York, San Diego, Rome. All wonderful in a different way. All potentially mine. Ok, so this is banal: Don't commit. We're all so afraid of it in this age, or so the lore goes, that I'm just stating the obvious. It's the "post-modern condition," to be bouncing between binaries. But I'm not afraid of being trapped, or not having options once I make a decision. I can always move, rename the dog, dye my hair a new color... And there will be new choices. But I'll stop daydreaming these things, now. Every acquisition or question answered will be the concretization of an abstraction. One less reason to sit on a bench and think. I keep wanting certain material and concrete details of my life to fall into place. But if they don't, or until they do, I am still the root of all of these things: Thursday evening tennis player. Owner of some beautiful dessert plates. Bridge addict. Friend of a flamenco guitarist. About to vacation in India. Each decision is one step closer to definition and delimitation. To have is to not have.

July 9, 2007 -- I have a revelation and a question. Question: where have all the prodigies gone? I heard a string concerto by Mendelssohn, composed at the age most kids today ask for their first credit card. The "tween" years, that is. Adam Smith or John Locke (I forget which) attended Oxford or Cambridge (I forget which) around the same age. And Mozart! And Thomas Edison! Perhaps there are still such minds out there, but more than anything, the media shines a spotlight for less remarkable things. Not to say they're not remarkable: winning a spelling bee, inventing a new toothpaste tube, playing the fiddle on The Tonight Show. But what about the staggering, frightening geniuses? People we can't understand? People who would scare us? And, Revelation: I will not take my children shopping. I stopped in a store for about 10 minutes on the way home from work today, and it was like a daycare center. Kids outnumbered adults, both looking bored, frustrated and whiny by turns. Some kids wanted to escape and the mom dragged them through the aisles for exciting purchases like detergent, and other kids were more excited to be there than the moms, asking for sparkly toys and "one more candy." And it hit me: What are they doing there? Couldn't they be doing anything else anywhere else while mom shops? Maybe I am naive, narrowminded; maybe these women are single, or the dads are at work, or they are cherishing every moment they have with the little ones, including in the grocery store. I don't know, and until I have children, I won't know. But what I believe, for now: except for rare occasions when it's necessary, or when they really want to be there and I agree it's good for them, when I shop I will leave my kids with their dad or grandparents, or hire a babysitter, or do it when they have other plans.

July 8, 2007 -- Today I became 1 percent Northwesterner. I hiked Mt. Si, pronounced "sigh" for good reason: When you're done, you can't help but feel relieved. According to the guidebooks, it's a must-do for any Seattle newcomer, so now I feel one with the brotherhood. For those who don't know what this is (and I didn't, until a few hours ago), it's just a green, popular and pretty mountain outside Seattle with a steep ascent -- an ascent that wasn't made any more pleasant by the beaming joggers bouncing up the 45% incline and shouting "hello," while I breathed back a feeble "hi".

June 27, 2007 -- Mentioned this website to someone today, and I realized I totally forgot about this here blog. I've think been in Seattle for 35 days and a half. A little more than a month. A tenth of a year. A centimeter of hair growth. Two thousand blinks. And a single blog entry. Time to remedy that...

May 1, 2007 -- At 1 a.m. this Saturday night/Sunday morning I was in the car, heading home to sleep after dinner with friends. An hour and a half later I was at the beach, mixing drinks in plastic cups, and crouching when the occasional car passed as I've learned to do when avoiding police during nocturnal crime sprees (just kidding, but would you believe me if I said it was true?). I drifted to sleep in a tent to the sound of rolling waves and woke up with a start when I heard voices. When I crawled out of the tent I saw only fishermen at the water line and chatty joggers, far far away. How exactly did this happen? Some lethal combination of persuadability and the promise of hot summer nights and the lure of kir, I guess. And for those who were wondering, the red velvet cake came out reeeally good. So good. Impromptu illicit camping on the beach good. Here is the recipe.

February 16 -- Tonight is red velvet night. I almost fell for the recipe for Red Velvet Cake in the NYT, but something struck me as off. Too much cocoa, to start, and too much red. So I found a recipe online by a baker in Brooklyn whose daddy is from the South. Brooklyn? Dubious. The South? Gold star. So, I'm going to try to recreate it tonight, and if it turns out good, I'll post the link. Tomorrow mi guapo arrives for the weekend, so he can be the taste tester. I only discovered Red Velvet Cake at a tea and pastry shop in NY I visited last week. It had an unidentifiable flavor (a whiff of cocoa, I presume, based on the recipes), and it was topped by moist, creamy dollops of frosting. I'm not a cupcake person. I'm more into chocolate mousses and fruity stuff. But that was scrumptious.

February 15, 2007 -- Talking with my editor at the IHT, turns out I might start writing a weekly blog! More details later. In other professional news, I just realized I made no less than three typos in three important e-mails. "Doh" doesn't cover it.

January 2, 2007 -- Montreal: lovely from the inside of a cozy cafe, looking at all the freezing people rushing by outside. Less lovely when I'm one of them. Currently sitting in Press Cafe, which doesn't sell newspapers. False advertising! And the coffee is weak: nothing like the nectar that comes from the cheapest industrial machine in Europe. But, they have free Wifi, or someone around this neighborhood does, and sleazy 1960's music to set a "morning after" mood, and they're the only joint that's open in this corner of a slowly quickening, post-party city.

December 6, 2006 -- Today is St. Nick's Day! When I was little my sister and I used to put our shoes by the fireplace and so many magical things used to appear in them. Chocolate oranges, jump ropes, scissors, pencils, a magnifying glass, a tape measure (that's what happens when your dad is an architect). First there was blind and absolute belief in a supernatural power (i.e. St. Nick himself) and eventually came the knowledge that my parents were responsible. But I don't think it went from one to the other abruptly; rather, it shifted over a year or two. And in those years, when I no longer took the magic for granted, nor had a real and rational answer, that's when the whole affair was suspended in the most delicious air of mystery, and that's the feeling I most associate with that holiday.

December 5, 2006 -- This is bad. I can feel them at the back of my throat, on the right, dancing up a storm to Shakira: germs. That means my whole head will be wobbly when they get a hangover, and that means my whole body will feel exhausted and chilly by tomorrow, and that means I should have been eating 8 oranges a day and sleeping 13 hours a night for the past week to avoid getting sick. By now it's probably too late. I'm overdue, considering that I haven't had a fever or actually been sick since Paris. But let's focus on the positive. Germs hate that. Today was a rich day, starting with a perfectly foamed and, indeed, rich and velvety cappuccino at my favorite cafe in Princeton, SmallWorld. You just can't find coffee like that in Boston, or at least, in 5 years I haven't. I remarked this to my guapo, and the seed was planted: find a place in Boston that makes this kind of foam. To specify: none of the stiff merengue-y stuff, nor the dollops of mushy, soppy gooiness that spew over the cup's edge in a most wanton fashion. Just give me a shot of real espresso, fill ceramic cup with steamed milk a centimeter to the top, and then pour enough foam (i.e. frothy bubbly liquid milk froth) to the rim. Am I asking for too much?

November 21, 2006 -- I went to the Roxbury District Court today with a law school friend, to get a tour and spend some time watching hearings. At Nieman this weekend, everyone kept saying to get out, go hang, find stories on the street, so that's what I was doing. Anyway, I was sitting with the defendants and started talking to one guy. He was there for credit card fraud, he said, and when I leaned in to ask, in a whisper, if he did it, he said yes. I asked how much, and he it was in the thousands. So here I was, chit-chatting with an identity theft expert. I was intrigued. Was he a hacker, or had he gone through people's trash? medical records? And did he prey on people who made stupid mistakes, or was he more calculating? I asked the next logical and self-serving question: what would you tell someone to do, to protect themselves? He looked away. I laid off and we listened to the judge issue an arrest warrant for someone who didn't show up to the hearing, and then I asked again. What should someone do? "Hold on to your bag," he said, and smiled.

November 17, 2006 -- Interviewing a reporter must be like inviting a chef over for dinner. Or so it occurred to me at the Nieman conference, where it became apparent that the routine actions of networking and going up to speakers after a talk became a sort of behavioral business card. How do you introduce yourself, how do you frame your question? It's all a sample, a teaser, an appetizer if you will, especially for the younger reporters. Not that there were interviews or ruthless networking going on - it was all very relaxed, very pleasant. More later.

November 16, 2006 -- It's impossible to say no. Here and now, at least, I'm supposed to say yes to everything. Answer every email. Pick up the phone when it rings. Work at school, after school, first thing when I wake up and the last thing before sleep. Tonight, I'm saying no. I went grocery shopping and have five things at various stages in the kitchen. Pork roast, stuffed potatoes, Mexican rice, baked chicken breast with sourcream and dill, and salad. I used to be more discerning, more careful with my time, deciding what's worth it and what's not. I used to cut corners. But lately I've become so diligent on things that don't really matter, and I'm not even sure why. When did that happen? Well, forget it. Time to cook again, watch some TV, crochet something, relaaaaaax. I'm tired of sandwiches. Next course?

November 14, later -- The Nieman Narrative conference is this weekend, and I've made fresh business cards. It's all coming together -- freelancing, summer work -- and I am giddy. Right now I want to accelerate the freelancing pace, and I really need to make progress on my thesis if I will ever finish it. In a month, so many question marks in my life will turn to periods and exclamation points, and I am ready. When you're 13, what you do doesn't necessarily make an impact beyond the following week or year, at most. It can, and often does, but it doesn't have to. Where you end up is the result of a cumulative series of efforts, but you always have the ability and flexibility to start over, reinvent, repair, at that age. But when you hit 25 or so, that threshold of societal indulgence and biological regeneration disappears, and suddenly, every action and decision has a concrete counerpart in the future. You can literally see the consequences. No sunscreen? Lasting wrinkles. Mess up a job prospect? It could alter the course of your career. I guess that that's what they mean by the "real world," after the bubble of college. Then again, friends living outside the U.S. say this country is a haven for reinvention. You change careers, change your name, change social and economic position, restyle yourself in private or on national television; it's a culture that embraces radical reinvention. All in the name of progress, self-discovery, self-determination, capitalism. We don't pay for the sins of our fathers, or even our youths. Most likely when I'm older I'll think the 20s were frivolous, inconsequential. Fun. Maybe having children, or reaching middle age and contemplating my own death, will make things really matter. And I suspect the past will feel then as it does now, possessing a tinge of irrelevance and playful possibility, because what will always matter most is now.

November 14, 2006 -- Hi Ishwara!

November 13, 2006 -- Life is glorious when you get enough sleep.

November 7, 2006 -- I heard a mouse squeak. I heard a mouse squeak!! This morning a pack of peanuts was mysteriously munched on, and last night I thought I heard some rustling in the kitchen. And now this!? I am sooo tired of pests. In my first apartment after college, a family of raccoons moved into the attic: a mother and two babies. We battled with them for about 6 months -- all winter, essentially -- dropping marmelade into a cage and researching what kinds of fruit they like so they would be continually tempted. To no avail. They are way too smart. The first time the building manager caught the mother in a cage and set her free somewhere else in the neighborhood (big mistake), she came back and learned how to get the sweets without getting stuck inside. Summer came, and they went frolicking in the forest, or whatever it is they do when they're not annoying the hell out of me. The next winter they were back -- the same family, I'm pretty sure -- along with some squirrels. I kid you not. Like the previous year, the landlady refused to hire an exterminator. I promptly moved out and left a note wishing her luck in extracting a similarly inflated rent from the rodents she refused to evict. This is 100 percent fact. And do not rent from 48 Garden Street in Cambridge, MA, without getting a rabies shot first.

November 3, 2006 -- I feel things kind of came full circle at tango tonight. It was a costume milonga, with people wearing glamorous clothes from the 30s and 40s, and I wore my back taffeta cocktail dress. It remided me of the first moments I was engulfed in the world of tango. I was in Paris, and a friend who dances told me to come along. We took a cab to God knows where, way out of the city center, and ended up in a neighborhood full of warehouses. But inside. Cigarette smoke, dim lights, dark small mirrors on the walls, lit just enough to catch a glimpse of your blurry self and wonder if it's really you. The songs were twangy, as if authentic 1920's recordings, and maybe there was live music. It's a mythical moment already. I don't remember the details. But I remember the dancers, and the uber-packed dancefloor, and the hot clothes. Oddly enough, a few days later I had a dream that involved tango, and the next day I went to my first lesson. Two years ago. Or yesterday?

October 29, 2006 -- Fresh flowers. Gorgeous sunflowers and lilies. I received them today from a kind and attentive individual, someone who lives by a code of courtesy that I thought had all but disintegrated. Merci, M.

October 28, 2006 -- I want TANGO. The last time I went was *weeks* ago, in Central Park. We danced curliqueus around the statue of Will Shakespeare, surrounded by regular onlookers and a steady stream of curious flaneurs. Boston will have a big festival next weekend, with live music and costumes. I am so there.

October 27, 2006 -- I'm starting to understand the rituatlistic allure of blogging. Now that I've done it for three days in a row, I felt naturally pulled to the keyboard, and I found myself cheering for the letters racing after the speedy little cursor. That's one reason. But second: because I have something to say. I am hungry. And here's why you should care: for dinner tonight, I had the juiciest, applewood smoked bacon cheeseburger with almost translucent, crispy fries and chunky roma tomatoes. I also had a grilled mushroom salad as an appetizer, and a basil gimlet as an aperitif. But no dessert. That all started around 8, and now it's 3, so the moral that I'm building up to: even if you think you're full, eat dessert. Wait, no, that's not it. Whenever you have the option of ordering more than one burger, do so. No... How about: do not blog when hungry.

October 26, 2006 -- What I would do if I had time, in order of descending preference. Listen to some Wagner. Sleep in. Write fiction. Buy CDs. Read a novel. Write cultural and literary articles and pitch them. Write letters to a few people who don't have e-mail. Send flowers to a few people. Play the piano every day. Volunteer at a school. Crochet something cozy. Attempt a grand marnier souffle and that recipe for fall-off-the-bone tender tacos from the NYT. Go to Europe. Learn a new language (non European this time). Take a class about medieval Spanish history. Translate and publish some Romanian fiction for English readers... Well, rereading this a few minutes later, it certainly looks like a strategic sampling to me. Crocheting, volunteering, piano, feeding the homeless, cuddling puppies, savoring the Ring Cycle by the fireplace while reading Salman Rushdie. Well, not exactly, but what kind of image is she trying to project, anyway? Analyze that, as they say.

October 25, 2006 -- I am way too worked up to sleep. It's 3 a.m. and what I should be doing is resting these eyes and brain before teaching tomorrow morning, but I can't! Too much going on: reaching for journalism jobs in interesting corners (florida, chicago, california, europe), working on some freelancing stories that I want to get just right. Tonight I made a portal with my favorite links, so I can stop typing them every time. I hope it saves me 32,000 hours, in the long run. Check it out! /portal.html . But these are symptoms. The real question on my mind is threefold, since there are three things that I want: academic, professional, and personal satisfaction. And, just to be coy, I'll add that the most essential thing I want is not bloggable, alas. But basically, I want it all. STAT!

October 24, 2006 -- I am heading to Romania this Christmas, with my mother and sister. My mother hasn't been back since she left the country, almost 30 years ago! It will be amazing to return with her, watch her face as she scans the different street names and searches for her beloved joffre chocolate pastry in updated storefronts. How different will everything really be? It's also the first time my boyfriend is returning since he left 10 years ago. Two Atlantic leaps, two lives retracing buried steps. To return after 30 years would probably mean to replace so many of the old memories with the fresh experiences accumulated in this one syrupy, super-concentrated week. When I was 11 I went to Prague for 3 days and loved it. There was a park around the city where we went for a stroll, and I remember eating some sort of beef dish in a restaurasse, and then watching the old clock tower in an elegant, serene square chime an evening hour. Now name brands plaster the old walls and hoards of Americans block the view of the square, and though I've heard it's a phenomenal city, I just won't go. I know that even an hour there would erase those precious fragments of a place fraught with possibility, before it sold out, modernized, joined the empire of the Golden Arches.

October 16, 2006 -- When I was younger, I used to play perceptual games on the way home from school. Imagine that south was my north, or imagine that I'm coming instead of going, or the center was the edge. Later, I'd look out the dorm room window in college and try to perceive the view as if that had been my view growing up. How did that thought change things? How was the experience different? I still do that sometimes, today, but not as often...

October 15, 2006 -- I feel the horses are pulling harder in opposite directions: newsroom, classroom. For now I'm riding both saddles, but I know that when the right moment comes I'll let go of one and jump onto the other full time... I'm just waiting, for the right opportunity, and trying to figure out what the next move is. Breaking and metro news - roll up the sleeves, drudge through reports and city hall minutes and work the sources? Investigative -- cover something gritty, make people angry? Business -- my current focus -- or features and narrative -- the natural pull. I keep saying I'll jump back in when the time comes, and that moment is closer. I talked to a few editors from various newspapers last week, and I'm getting ansy to get back into the newsroom. But there is that pesky Ph.D., and I'm not leaving here without it...

October 14, 2006 -- Awful! Yes, I've been awful, waay out of touch, but it's time I made amends. Where to start? With travels, of course. Last weekend I visited D.C., to see friends and monuments, in that order, and through a stroke of fate I ended staying at -- yes, you got it -- the Watergate. I got into the city around midnight, certain that you never have to reserve a room in D.C. It has millions of hotel beds, right? Wrong I was. So, after about 20 calls, it seems that the Watergate was the only downtown hotel for under $300 a night that had vacancies. Frankly, I braced myself for the worst. Why was it vacant? And why was it still open? I'd never head of anyone staying there, after *that*. But I was greeted by inlaid marble floors and great service. Needless to say, I kept the complimentary pen. I wish I'd had time to use the the stationary and write a letter to someone else easily seduced by such trappings, but Kramerbooks (cool all night bookstore and cafe) and the Lincoln Memorial were waiting.

August 14, 2006 -- I've been playing hookie, but after reading some personal websites and blogs to prepare for an article, I remembered about this old thing. More soon.

March 30, 2006 -- Obviously not.

March 9, 2006 -- Do five entries in a row this a real blog make?

March 8, 2006 -- Two things. First, I can't quite decide if I am a grad student working as a journalist, or incidentally getting a Ph.D. while being a reporter. And more weird is the difference in disciplines: literature in studies versus money/real estate in reporting. I think the oddity of this division struck me for the first time while walking home today: until now I just did, but I didn't ever stop to contemplate just how crazy it is to hold two big, heavy balls in the air (or however the metaphor could go). I cram my days with interviewing experts about economic trends, grading undergrad papers about formal film analysis, prepping for sections I have to teach, writing articles and fact checking before the deadline hits, and, blessedly, managing to see friends, be in long distance love, and eat at least once a day. I have always said that I will continue in both professions until I am pushed into a corner and have to decide. That day hasn't come, and if it never does, in 30 years I might end up with tenure -- and a beat. Or, maybe it will all come crashing down in one instant when I am 36 and have traded the long locks for mommy hair, and I'm bouncing a squawking baby on one hip, holding a cell phone with a source in the other hand, and then 60 emails from students asking for extensions will pop into the inbox and then -- and then I have no idea. I write a NYT Op-ed piece about women and careers? I retire and move my entire family to Wyoming? This all came bubbling forth because I took an alternate route on the walk home, and that is just asking for trouble. Second, I am about to move again. The Times ran a piece recently on serial movers -- compulsive individuals who have to pick up and relocate every few months. And I admit it, I saw something of myself in that. Sure, every move is "motivated." This time, cheaper rent for -- I swear -- a nicer place. It has a balcony, so come on. But every time I move I want it to be the last time. Strangely, I'm not a serial-anything-elser. Quite recalcitrant, if you ask the people who know have known me long enough. So what is the allure of changing spaces? What is it with restlessness? My parents, in unison (which is rare for divorced couples who hardly exchange two words except for the holidays and the kids' birthdays), both simultaneously called this weekend to tell me to buy an apartment. Fine, but only so I can rent it out and move to India. And then Venezuela. And then? Wyoming! (not...)

March 7, 2006 -- In a secret corner of a Boston suburb called Somerville, my favorite supermarket on the planet is Market Basket, for two reasons: groceries there run less than $10 a bag, and it forces me to confront my deepest cultural ambivalences about America. What I immediately noticed the first time I went in was that no one there is from the U.S. You never hear English in the aisles. But the products are so American. Kool aid, massive tubs of potato salad, Spam. More so than at other stores; and everything is en masse. That's another reason I love it, and hate it. We don't have Walmart in Boston, but this is the closest thing, on a microlevel. It's not a chain to my knowledge, but it's got the lowest denominator of products, promotions, and, at the risk of sounding more reprehensible than I intend to be, shoppers. People on food stamps, families just above the povery line holding up the check-out line to crunch coupons at the cash register, obese young mothers stacking up on generic cheetos, and of course, a handful of grad students. We spot each other from far off, looking gangly and defensive, guarding our carts while trying to hide the fact that we are simply too cheap to shell out for Whole Foods.

March 6, 2006 -- I burned myself yesterday, very superficially, but as I was falling asleep and willing my mind to think of other things, I had to wonder: does pain increase in proportion with the severity of the wound? Because if three fingers hurt that much, that deeply, then would difference would four have made? And the hand? the arm?

March 5, 2006 -- The best crepe I ever ate was on the rue de Rivoli in Paris. It was my last morning there, I was about to start driving toward Tours and had parked on a side street to look at maps. I ran out to get some lunch and found a gritty crepe stand nearby. I placed my order, and the guy, about fifty and looking exhausted, with just enough stubble to make it look like he'd been there since yesterday, proceeded to clean his entire stand. Very thoroughly. Organizing boxes of grated cheese, wiping down every surface, a real spring cleaning. I was only a little rushed (because I always am a little rushed, but also because I had places to be), and when I reminded him about by order (feta, mushrooms and chicken), he asked me if I was Greek. I explained my housemate is Cypriot, and he launched a monologue in Greek. As he spoke, he carefully drizzled the batter, smoothed it with his ladle to make the perfectly rounded disc, roasted the mushrooms and chicken on the side, sprinkled them with oregano, and finally combined everything. I noticed he was missing a finger. He handed me the crepe and switched back into French. "Life is hard for an immigrant," he said, and I wondered what he'd been talking about those twenty minutes.

February 24, 2006 -- I've made an atrocious discovery. We have cable. Extended cable. The channels button on the remote always stopped at 24, but yesterday I acidentally hit 44 -- and discovered CSPAN. We have CNN! Bravo! TBS! Nickelodeon! This is sooo bad. On another note, today is my half birthday. Maybe I'll celebrate by baking half a cake or treating myself to a new shoe. Or maybe I'll just watch Unsolved Mysteries on Lifetime, and Saved by the Bell, and... The spirit is willing, but the flesh...

Late January, 2006 -- What do you do after you've finished your general exams and your body has reached such a low alcohol tolerance from all that studying that half a flute of celebratory champagne gives you a buzz? Escape to Paris, of course. 24 hours after I turned in the exam, I was on a direct flight some much needed therapie. Destination: pied a terre in la Bastille, tango at Le Latina, les soldes, les adorables, and my beloved Kayser (baker of the best bread ever). And afterward, cavorting in the South of France. See, going through generals was worth it just so I could write that last sentence.

December 31, 2005 -- After resolving not to resolve anymore, this year I have a new approach: no more parking tickets. Currently I think the City of Cambridge owes me a donor plaque, considering how much I tithe them each month. But it's over. I have better things to waste my money on, like Netflix or mediocre Bordeaux.

Sept 20, 2005 -- The house next door is burning down. The flames are lashing out of a third story bedroom, four or five fire engines have pulled up outside, the entire neighborhood is huddling together for a front row view, and from in here I can smell the char and hear glass breaking over the purr of engines. Nicole (my friend and housemate) woke me from deepest sleep by running into my room and whispering "Fire!", and I didn't stop, as I believed I would be inclinded to, and pick up valuables -- purse, laptop, jewelry. All I wanted was the exit. And I see now why that wiser more resigned sliver of did myself not pause to collect things; once you have seen flames lick their way up the face of a brittle old house that could be yours, once you have seen a window shatter and smoke black as soot shoot its way out and up, it becomes so clear that there is nothing you could have brought or saved that would have made it better. Anything necessary is replaceable, and that which is least necessary, and perhaps saved last, is what you would have most wanted to protect. A brush with loss. I shudder from my kitchen that it-could-have-been-me. I flash to other parts, other homes, where flood waters destroyed instead of fire. Imagine it's all gone. Imagine their suffering. That's such a misleading phrase, you can never imagine their suffering. But it is a little bit closer now. Well, well. I guess I will go out again. There's no way I can sleep when theair smells like this. God help them.

Sept. 9, 2005 -- It's 2:03 a.m., I'm leaving on a cross country road trip in a few hours, and I am exhausted and anxious. I should be sleeping, but here I am. It's been a week of piggybacking articles, reluctant goodbyes, sorting through yellowing papers and faded photographs as I pack for Boston and decide what useless scraps of my life are essential and what can be pushed back into some dark corner of the garage; and spending what time I can at the hospital with my grandmother. Note how that is listed last, the sick, smiling grandmother who tells me the moment she sees me to not linger, to go out, have fun in my last days here, not to worry. Is it always that which we desire most that ends up shoved at the bottom of our insolent to-do lists? Not that anything on that list was entirely dispensible, but really, I would have liked to have one free afternoon to hold her hand, watch her sleep, trade a few stories and ask a few questions. But we didn't get that. Because I didn't get it.

August 8, 2005 -- Since this is more a travelblogue (is that a word? Probably. Everything is in this digital age) than anything else, here goes: another rambling installment of Roxana's ramblings. Spent the weekend in Baja California. Saw Ensenada and the wine country, from sea and land. Got ripped off by our hotel, tempted food poisoning by eating raw shellfish from a street cart, and slept in a car. And it was mahvelous. Basically, if you could take a slice of perfectly ripe watermelon eated under the desert noon sun as the juices drip down your chin, and transform that into a weekend, that's how sweet it was.

August, 2005 -- I'm eating a garlic chicken pizza and drinking San Pellegrino limonata. One word: bliss.

July 19, 2005 -- A tale of hallucinations and voices from the beyond. I fainted yesterday! I was getting blood drawn, and I purposefully looked away becuase needles and the like are not my best friends. Understatement of the day. Next thing you know, I'm surrounded by friends, people from the past, voices, spectres. Boooo. They were making lots of noise, and then they started yelling my name. The yellers were, of course, the nurses, who were kindly slapping me into consciousness. It took me a while to come to; I kind of wanted to hang out in that netherworld. "You were out, honey! You fainted for three minutes. Here, eat this." She put a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup in my limp hand. (Not a bad welcome back snack.) Overall, kind of creepy, but what a trip!

June 18, 2005 -- Afternoon visit to my old aunt's house, who is my family's reader-of-coffee-cups. After shooing everyone into another room, she sat down and told me things I alone could know: travel plans for the fall, news I received yesterday, and how certain people have slipped into or out of my heart. I'm the first to cock a skeptical eyebrow at so many things, but how do you refuse to trust the voice of an 80-year-old woman who looks at the brown markings on white porcelaine and speaks what she knows? Through her wisdom or the coffee grounds, I want to believe there is some implicit or latent order to this chaos.

June 17, 2005 -- Last night I went clubbing in San Diego for the first time in years. Unsure about what to expect from the local scene, I ask my friend what people wear to party. She replies, "They go all out." I still decide to play it low-key with a simple black get-up and heels, lip gloss and hair loosely up. At the club, I discover what "all out" means here: jeans, flip flops and a tank top - with sparkles. Basically, I am waaaay out of touch.

June 2, 2005 -- Flight to U.S. cancelled, pushed back to tomorrow. My first reaction: Shit, flight cancelled. My second reaction: Shit, flight cancelled!!! So I had 24 hours to do everything I skipped under the pressure of packing. Au revoir, Paris, et a bientot peut etre. In the Philadelphia airport, my first contact with America is a customs officer who asks me why I went to France. I say, "Studies, tango and croissants." He replies, "That's a long way to go for BREAD. Well, welcome home." Thanks, I think.

May 15, 2005 -- Enamored by Roma, again. I came to Italy expecting to stay five days, ditched the return ticket and stayed a month. Rented an apartment from a sweet old count who had been "friends" with Fellini and asked me if I know anyone he could marry for U.S. citizenship in exchange for his title. I checked my rolodex for status-hungry american golddiggers, but unfortunately they're already taken.

February 27, 2005 -- If we added a 13th month to the year we could always have 28 days per month, except for one month with 29. But that would be so much less interesting. I'm leaving to Milan/Romania in two days, for reporting on literature and foreign direct investment. Never thought I would set foot twice in Bucharest in one year, and I'm happy to go back and visit a city that never fails to leave me with a feeling of tender frustration. Last night, too-sweet mojitos and watching the snow drift outside.Ca caille, but everything has already melted under a surprise appearance by the sun today.

February 10, 2005 -- Basta! I did it. I went "venetian blond." It's far from blond, I swear. More like a caramel gloss. But it was long overdue. And it was painless. Just walked into the salon, told the guy I wanted to change "le look," and next thing you know he was purring, "I know exactly what you need. Somesing warm, sexy, to play up your eyes. I'm sinking, honey, caramel, an autumn breeze. Chantale, bring me the color samples! Jean-Marc, get me the hydrating mousse! Helene, where are my angled scissors?" Two hours later it was over, and two weeks later I'm thinking it may be the best 130 euros I have ever spent on my hair.

December 9, 2004 -- Last day in Barcelona. Hadn't set foot in Espana since 1992, and it was worth every minute of the wait. Overall it�s been a serene mix of museums and streetwalking, with the exception of an alarming discovery: the mullet is making a comeback. I�ve spotted over 100 swarming the gothic quarter�s gangways, sometimes in groups and always hideous. A precious few people can get away with it, and they have my lasting respect. The worst might have been the kissing-couple-with-mullet, evoking the possibilty of eventual offspring. A hairstyle natural selection would eventually faze out, you'd think, for who would ever want to breed with one? Or maybe it's just a byproduct of inbreeding. Next vacation: Bucharest... land of the combover?

November -- Backtrack to September. Arrival in France. Can't quite believe there's no return ticket dragging me back to the states. Nothing written because there is no time for web notes, not with all these studies in applied flanerie, cultural anthropology, comparative caffeinology, targeted balconology, tango choreography and hunting for the perfect velvet coat. Oh yes, and reading for generals, finding freelance work, visiting long-desired cities within the domain of ryanair and/or the chunnel. There's the persistent internal dilemma, commemorating versus experiencing: for now I'm all for the latter, and I'll leave the notes for my biographers. Ha, just kidding, I really didn't just type that!! or mean it! seriously!!

July 29, 2004 -- Hard interview with the parents of a boy who went hiking in Joshua Tree National Park and ended up dying there -- cause of death still under investigation. When I got to their home, women kept walking up to me by turns to say hi and ask me to wait a bit. But the moment his mother walked in, I knew it was her. Hers was a face I will never forget, creased with sorrow and disbelief. There was limpness in her movements, a vague disorientation... and later, watching his father as he shuffled through papers with blue blank eyes, reading the details about his his son's funeral service... it seemed so banal, and so incongrous, like a daily task in a life that suddenly means something different. They are so strong, they have such faith, they are looking for a purpose to this tragedy so they can move forward; and I tingle, my fingers go numb, as I cannot stop thinking about it, them, him.

July 26, 2004 -- Just saw a dear friend from St. Vincent's School, Heather Smith nee Henderson. The brilliant and sassy Heather H, who vowed in third grade to run for office by age 30. We trash talked about our favorite classmates, those sapless creatures with glass eyes and identical hairsprayed bangs who dotted their i's with little circles. Where in the world did they end up -- or better said, where in their world?

July 23, 2004 -- It's not that I try to write once a month here, but maybe that lunar pull drags my fingers to the keyboard just that often. Or maybe the seismograph of excitement in my life vibrates on a particular wavelength? Whatever the reason, here I am again. Anything particular to recount? Why, yes, thanks for asking...

June 22, 2004 -- Turkey was exhausting, in a good way... think italy with minarets, france with an edge, greece with turks. Went with my sister, which proved foolish since she's more vixen than Lolita and twice the woman. Men in every gangway and alley were trying to sell us carpets and ask for hands in marriage. The best rice I've ever tasted, most horrific night trains I've ever not slept in, and water like sky.

May 5, 2004 -- Reflecting these days about the Iraqi prison torture catastrophe. Scandal doesn't do justice. And on campus, the blissful bubble, people yapping on cell phones, making important dinner plans, relaxing on the shady grass, leaning back on lean bare arms, and I want to grab them by the shoulders shake them. Wake up. Our world is changing. I am ashamed.

April 8, 2004 -- Amazing. The consummate experience of my life as an consumer of American culture. I saw Britney Spears, live, in concert. She can't do jazz for sheeyit, but she is one charismatic pop diva. Interesting to see mothers and pre-teen daughters competing with matching tube tops...

April 2004 -- Master's Exam coming up on Tax Day. 5 days, 8 pages, all theory... Ayyyyy!

March 2004 -- I got a fellowship to France! It's an exchange with the Ecole Normale Superieure, in Paris, for a year. Visitors are welcome, nay, encouraged! The plan: read French lit, study balconies in archives and in person, and do lots of writing...

January/February 2004 -- Trip to Italy and Greece... revisited old haunts in Rome... Pizzeria Baffetto, I already miss you!... Favorite spots in Greece were Cape Sounion and Napflio.

December 2003 -- Got an internship with the San Diego Union Tribune, writing for the Metro Desk. It will be amazing to go back to California, after moving away for college.