Don’t You Forget About Me.

Yes, in the last 10 days I have played Simple Minds’ “Don’t You Forget About Me” on repeat.  In part, it is because the one-year anniversary of the death of John Hughes, the director of The Breakfast Club (1985), is just around the corner. His films formed the basis of my adolescent knowledge of the secular world; if it didn’t happen in a Hughes film, well, then it couldn’t possibly happen in some material reality outside of it. And his soundtracks, including the aforementioned song, formed the foundation of my non-Jewish musical education.

The other part to the 1980s musical rendezvous, however, is a direct reflection of the fact this blog is coming to its logical conclusion. It is about to enter the arena of gone, but hopefully not forgotten. Get it? Don’t you forget about the blog. After a wonderfully enriching year abroad, I feel that I can no longer pursue the lyrical prose that has consumed 120+ entries thus far. Of course, after 9 months of electronic intimacy, I also know that there will be a forthcoming blog surrounding themes such as dating, city life, and inevitably, religion (and the food associated with all three).

To cite John Kerr, lead vocalist for Simple Minds, “Won’t you come see about me? I’ll be alone, dancing you know it baby.” Stay tuned for the transformation.

It’s like a heat wave…

and other tales of my readjustment to New York and its sauna-like weather conditions to shortly follow. Since my return to the Empire State on Friday, I have served as a Disney-themed princess at a Brooklyn wedding and ushered in my entrance into adulthood via a New York restaurant without a liquor license. In between, I have begun work at the World Policy Journal and entered the working world, in a 10-6,  unpaid internship sort of way.

For now, I leave you with an image of the cupcake that I consumed on my 21st. It was purple and floral, and despite the fact that I generally despise both, I thoroughly enjoyed basking in all its caloric goodness.

It almost makes up for leaving England. Almost.

You know that moment when you gain that epiphany-induced clarity, and your entire future seems to be neatly delineated before you? Well, I certainly have not experienced that in the days since returning from the land that gave us Cadbury World. In fact, the only place in the world where my life has taken such a definite shape is Israel. But, being 6000 miles away and all, I fear I must reserve that sensation for a future travel.

Anyhow, the “it” is a reference to Peanut Butter and Co., a restaurant dedicated to glorifying the wonders of peanut butter, in all its healthy fat glory. I happened upon this little gem one summer, while perusing the streets of the West Village with my friend, a recent member of the vegan club. Needless to say, the traditional New York Deli was not within her realm of acceptable edible establishments. We opted instead for the aforementioned peanut butter heaven, where we sampled a variety of flavors from Smooth Operator to the Bee’s Knees. And we received an unlimited supply of fruits and veggies to dip into these delectable options. Yes, I quickly went into food coma, and vowed that someway, somehow, I would earn the money to rent out the apartment above the restaurant. I was sure that the only thing missing from my life– aside for a cat named Booboo– was an apartment the size of a walk-in closet above a restaurant that catered to those who preferred nuts to normalcy.

Conveniently, within one week of returning to the United States, said apartment has gone on the market!

The window above the "B" could be mine.

Consequently, instead of wasting my days dreaming of an academic year abroad gone by, I have been focusing my efforts on earning the necessary funds to secure said apartment before some other spinster in the making claims it for herself. Hence, my motivation to meander up to Boston, work for my professor, and take a crack at turning my pipe dream into a semi-respectable form of reality. And though my week of fundraising draws to a close tomorrow morning, I have already planned a walk through for this weekend; but only after I treat my lovely Wellesley ladies to the restaurant that restored my faith in the fast food industry.

You know your flight is going to be eventful when…

you suddenly hear the flamboyantly gay American boy next to you– in queue for boarding– whisper to his female best friend, “Where do you think she got that copy of The New Yorker?” And you, lacking an ounce of tack and unable to hold back your excitement about the prospect of a 7.5 hour journey next to a beautiful man who prefers men, say, “WHSmith. And it’s totally worth the 6 pound investment. It’s the best of American fiction issue.” At that point said female best friend eyes you suspiciously, aware of the fact that gay boy–we’ll call him Dave– might find female companionship elsewhere.

Dave, excited by the prospect of an entire issue devoted to Jonathan Safran Foer and Nicole Krauss, completely ignores the mounting tension and opts for a grande no-whip frappucino light. And if you didn’t think he was G-d’s gift to the world already, his selection of a no-whip frappe from your favorite caffeine supplier pretty much secures him a permanent place in your heart. He may not be Johnny, the Will to your Grace this past year, but he will do for however short a period of time you two are together.

And it is with Dave by my side that I finally mounted the plane bound for New York. Saying goodbye to Laura at the airport, I thought I might never make it through the flight without bursting into uncontrollable emotion. But Dave, an American who had studied abroad two years before, understood my sentiment and provided the perfect ear for the separation anxiety woes. He and his friend had just come from visiting their British counterparts, who they befriended on their year abroad in London. Magically, they had maintained the friendship. Dave assured me that I would be no different, especially if I was the send-you-random-postcards-just-to-say-I-am-thinking-about-you sort of girl, which apparently he thought I was.

I hope he is right. In the interim, I will relay a wonderful New York moment. On route to the bus station this morning, I randomly bumped into Rachel– a girl from my secondary school who is shockingly not married and not even dating. We met in Starbucks, as per our usual way, and though we had not spoken for over three years, we instantly had a connection.

RACHEL: So you went abroad to get away from all this wedding madness?

YAFFA: Truthfully, yes, that was a large part of it.

RACHEL: I should have gone to England, or perhaps Siberia. Any place without a lot of Orthodox Jewish men in search of wives/mothers.

YAFFA: Yes, that’s England in a nutshell. Devoid of Orthodox Jewish men, longing to find wives, fronting as mothers.

We exchanged a few laughs and phone numbers, and agreed to begin our first installment of the “Single, Ready to Mingle, But Definitely Not Ready to Marry” Club when I return from my week in Boston. For now, though, I must reintegrate into American society by selling my soul to the academic devils at be, who unlike in the UK, pay me for my sacrifices and services.

“Friends are the sunshine of life.”– John Hay

And with that Hallmark card sentiment, courtesy of a Mr. Latham farewell card, I segway into a photo montage of my Oxford Visiting Students Ceremony. Combining champagne, strawberries, and speeches infused with emotion, it proved to be a moving and meaningful experience. Unquestionably, I will miss the institution that provided me with what the Acting Deputy Master referred to as a “second identity.” This year has provided me with a new lens with which to view my future and make sense of my past. In place of the subjective American, I have grown into the objective global citizen.

Thank you, Oxford and specifically St. Peter’s, for making me strive to be the best possible Yaffa I can be. Your academic and cultural gifts of excellence almost make up for the hideous black robe I had to adorn today.

Channeling my inner Lorelai Gilmore…

Tomorrow afternoon at 1600, I will be sitting in the Oxford Visiting Students Farewell Ceremony. And Helen, my African politics partner-in-crime, will be Rory Gilmore, standing tall before her fellow classmates. She will deliver a speech, which will inevitably inspire us all to return to America and be the change we hope to see in the world. It will be Hallmark card worthy, and knowing me, I will attempt to hold back the tears. But, much like the scene in Season 3 of Gilmore Girls, when Rory graduates from Chilton, I will be Lorelai, sitting next to Sookie, in this case Adria/Marissa, trying to remain my calm, cool, and collected self for as long as humanly possible. I will start off strong and determined, but shortly thereafter the blubbering will begin. And it is because of this realization that I have decided to forego the mascara:

If only I were a Jolly Farmer…

I have this tendency, when I am about to reach the top of some metaphorical mountain I have been climbing, where I just stop and attempt to take in the magnitude of it all. With 84 hours left in Oxford, I find myself at this point. Over the last few days I have concluded my final essay (#36 of the year), completed my last tutorial, in which I quite shockingly received a first (translation=A), and cooked my closing smittenkitchen-esque dinner. It was an asparagus and mushroom risotto, in case you were interested. In that period of time, I have also written some of the most sentimental pieces of writing, in the form of goodbye cards, to the men and women who have inspired me this year.

In the midst of this emotionally-driven rendezvous, though, I might digress to tell a story prompted by the Mr. Boy Who Prefers Boys. Said boy decided I was not yet well acquainted enough with the gay scene in Oxford. And y’all must know by now that meant that after a rather heterosexual-dominated formal hall at St. Peter’s, the two of us took a trip to the Jolly Farmer, notable for its sign featuring a half naked male model, whose private parts are covered in rainbows. Shockingly, on this particular night, I was exposed to a few lesbians– instead of the typical incestuous gay male scene, of which I did not need better acquaintance with. Now while I am all for homosexual relationships, be they man-and-man or woman-and-woman, I am not a fan of the lesbian-on-straight girl flirtatiousness.

And as I left the Jolly Farmer, determined not to go to yet another gay club and politely avoid the gaze of another lesbian, I bumped into a lesbian I refer to as Kate. Kate is a fairly well-known lesbian, who has repeatedly tried to dance/grind with me in Plush, the always entertaining gay club around the corner from my annex. However, I, in all my heterosexual glory, had successfully avoided all physical contact with her until that night. As I glided– as one does– down Paradise Street, I encountered her, a bit inebriated at the side of the road. Unsure as to whether I had good samaritan obligations, and hence needed to stop, I paused just long enough for her to recognize I was aware of her situation. The following conversation ensued:

KATE: O-M-G! It’s Yaffa, the girl who thinks she’s straight. How are you, lovely?

YAFFA: Um, fine. And definitely straight.

KATE: You know, Yaffa, I know your religious type. You think you can’t be open about your sexuality; that your friends and family will judge you.

(pauses to puke a bit)

But, Yaffa, it doesn’t matter what they all say. We have each other, and we are very supportive. I, myself, would make an excellent girlfriend.

YAFFA: I’m sure you would– to someone who prefers women, that is. Oh, and also, if I were a lesbian– which I most certainly am not– I would be judged by many of the friends and family members I call dear. And while those people may seem insignificant to you, they aren’t to me. I wouldn’t jeopardize those relationships so easily.

KATE: So you are just going to stay in the closet forever?

YAFFA: Oh, Moses, I am too claustrophobic for closets. And I like men, a lot. Perhaps someday I will know one in the biblical sense. My point, here, is that if I were a lesbian, and I knew it bothered the people I cared about, I wouldn’t parade my homosexual ways in front of them. I would respect their space, their beliefs, etc. I would find a balance.

Kate seemed content, or just too ill, to argue further. And so I gave her my water bottles and a few tissues, and then went on my merry sober way. However, I have replayed the conversation several times since then. I think part of my fascination with it is that I closed by saying life is about balance. When I reflect on my year in Oxford, I think my greatest accomplishment is learning to balance work and play. One of the reasons I was so dissatisfied with the end of my sophomore year at Wellesley was due to the lack of balance. I took six classes, worked four jobs, ran a few random organizations, and taught Jewmba classes twice a week. It was a full schedule– as per my usual approach to life, but I was definitely unhappy.

And then I arrived in Oxford, where people certainly worked extraordinarily hard, but they also didn’t feel guilty about taking breaks, throwing back a pint, and playing pool. They were not obsessed with landing the perfect internship or work study; they preferred traveling around Southeast Asia instead. I, and my Type A personality, were certainly put in check. I took to a more 9-5 schedule, as opposed to the 9-9 hours I had been living and breathing for the last two years. And guess what, I smiled more. It probably doesn’t seem like an epiphany with any depth. However, in America, and specifically in the Northeast, where people rarely take holidays and perpetually work long, arduous hours, taking breaks is not socially acceptable. The basic motto– “If you’re not working/studying/feeling like clawing your eye balls out, well, then you’re behind.”

I may return to New York this weekend and discover that in all actuality I am behind, but unlike a year ago, it will no longer bother me. I will work my 9-5 hours. However, upon completion of those hours, I will play, eat, indulge my inner cinephile, and get re-acquainted with a city I have missed terribly.

Don’t forget your gnome.

Friday marked the beginning of my last frolic through the Great Land of Britain. With the assistance of a father from Los Angeles, willing to brave the always disconcerting British driving patterns, Ali, Lauren, Raviv– the Gnome, and I ventured to Stonehenge. I feared that if I did not make the journey at least once this year, I would face the wrath and ridicule of loved ones at home, who have made similar remarks to me about being a New Yorker and never having visited the Statue of Liberty. In this case, in an effort to embrace my inner English girl, I vowed to make the trek to the legendary tourist trap. Fortuitously, I procrastinated making the visit. I say this because in preparation for the summer solstice next weekend, the fence usually craftily obstructing the view of Stonehenge, had been taken down. In other words, the visuals below did not need to be copied from Flickr or any other image-sharing site:

Stonehenge, in all her picture postcard glory.

No Photoshop involved.

Luckily, on this journey, we had the Gnome. Raviv, a social historian, was quite well-versed in Stonehenge history, as well as willing to detail the three periods of building in Stonehenge, and the significance of each period. He even knew the type of stone used to erect the magical little pagan fortress. Basically, just like in those Travelocity commercials, he acted as the perfect gnome– prepared for any journey. Only, he forget his hat, and Moses, was it windy.

I will admit that despite the kitschy-ness of the Stonehenge experience, it was a wondrous visual display of ancient architecture and prowess. One of the aspects of the European year abroad that I will miss the most is the ability to stumble on 3000 year old ruins. Did I mention the remains of an Oxford Palace I stumbled upon the other night? There they were, in someone’s driveway, just chillin’. As to why I was stumbling through people’s driveways, well, let’s just say you can take the girl out of the stalker, but you can’t take the stalker out of the girl.

Moving right along, we continued our journey from Stonehenge to Salisbury, the location of a beautiful cathedral, which held one of the four copies of the Magna Carta. Yes, I got to see the origins of democracy up close and personal. And in Latin. The tour guide explained that is why the Magna Carta was stored in the Cathedral. Back in the day, only the monks were literate and Latin speakers. The common people could not have composed or orated the content of such a sophisticated and lengthy document. Let me tell you, it make me glad it was 2010 and not 1215 anymore. Of course, no photography was allowed so you’ll just have to take my word for its existence in that particular cathedral.

The one notable, and slightly odd highlight of Salisbury: the discovery of the “Freak” statute outside the Cathedral. It essentially was a woman in a long gown, but with a beard. I believe Salisbury is where the first freak show took place. I must admit it was both riveting and disturbing, and well, blog worthy:

Freak statue, in all its ceramic glory.

Upon the conclusion of my Friday frolicking, Laura and I headed to London for Anna’s last Shabbat in England. The journey, which induced the fingernails on the chalkboard sort of sensation, thanks to one near head-on collision and the death of the GPS, was one I am content to never relive. However, Shabbat itself was lovely and delectable. Shockingly, though, when I said goodbye to Anna on Sunday morning, it was not too overly emotional. I am not in PMS mode yet, otherwise Lord knows how I would have reacted to our separation. Though we vowed to Skype everyday, I am taking my real comfort in knowing that we may be reunited in December, should I board my Christmas day fight to the UK.

Basically, I adore Christmas flying. Aside from the fact that you can arrive at the airport 15 minutes before your flight, and still successfully navigate your way through security and aboard your flight, the airlines always feel a tremendous amount of sympathy for their passengers forced to travel on the holidays. For example, one time El Al gave out white chocolate Toblerone to all of us Israel-bound passengers. Another time, KLM provided myself and the other Bruriah High School for Girls tourists with the comfortable sleeping pillows that fit around your neck. But you get the picture: they treat you like a fat-kid/princess.

However, I digress. After departing from London, I boarded a Birmingham-bound train. Laura and I were going to wallow in chocolate self-pity for the next three hours at Cadbury World. What can I say about the factory that has been providing caloric goodness since 1870? It was magical, aromatic, and well-managed. Interestingly, though, we were told we would only be given three free chocolate bars and one free cup of melted chocolate. I say only because in the past, Cadbury World provided all of its visitors with bags and bags of bars. Due to the new war on obesity in Britain, though, they have been instructed to limit their generosity. Even though Laura and I assumed it was recession-related, it turned out it was about reducing the number of child-bearing hipped individuals in the country. I must say, I respect the proposition and wish a similar measure had been in place when I visit Hershey Park back in the day.

Greatest sign in England.

Needless to say, my final full weekend in England was quite memorable. And the discovery– late last night– that I had won a small Wellesley College UK Club scholarship to spend on further British excursions will probably fuel some small degree of spontaneity in my last six days here. Stay tuned.

I want to wed in a Portuguese monastery…

but I fear that aside from the costs of hiring the venue and flying all 913 of my facebook friends to it, my parents might be averse to the idea of a Jewish wedding in a Catholic church. This monastery, known as Mosteiro dos Jeronimos, is not your run-of-the-mill monk hang out, though. Built over 500 years ago, during the period of King Manuel I, it reflects a distinct gothic architecture unlike anything this Euro-tripper have ever seen. Basically, it is a visual masterpiece, and well, despite the lack of husband, I am starting to think wedding plans.

Unlike most of my female friends, as a child I never thought about marriage. In fact, in 5th grade, when we had to design the perfect husband for an English assignment, I drew a cat. My reasoning: It cleans itself, and hence saves me the dirty work. I distinctly remember my classmates staring at me in complete bewilderment; if men are from Mars and women are from Venus, I was from Pluto. My English teacher was not impressed either. She told me to redo the assignment, and so I begrudgingly wrote about a simple church-style wedding– only in a synagogue. However, I genuinely had not given a single thought to the location of my wedding, the style of my dress, or the choice of Jewish bands to perform at it until this weekend in Lisbon when I finally found the perfect wedding location. It was so perfect that there was an actual wedding taking place when Mike and I toured.

Remember how many facebook friends it must accommodate...

It even has arch ways.

Chillin' in my wedding hall.

While creeping on the newlyweds...

Though if the whole Jewish wedding in a monastery thing does not pan out, I have another Lisbon location in mind– Torre de Belem, a small fortress located at the mouth of the Tagus River running through the city. It has a picture perfect view of the urban landscape and waters below it. You can even see the Portuguese version of the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. As long as you are willing to make the climb– in my case, in wedding dress and heels– you will not be disappointed. It also has no religious connotations, and therefore leaves less possibility that my mother will object on reasons of heresy.

The Little Fortress That Could.

Note an eerily familiar bridge in the distance.

Mike approves of the wedding selection.

Remember, I am a water sign.

Until the wedding bell tolls, though, I am reserving myself to enjoying my final week in England. This weekend will involve a farewell tour of London and the lovely Anna who will reside in it only until Sunday, and then the inevitable tear fest that will occur as a result of her departure to the Holy Land. Laura, in preparation, has booked us two tickets to Cadbury World on Sunday, where we will indulge in all the cocoa-based products our ever expanding bodies can tolerate. For all those who have not had the fortune of being acquainted with Cadbury chocolate, Cadbury World is a monument to its caloric greatness. Think of it as Hershey Park, only with class and thus no life-sized Cookies ‘n’ Cream bars to meet you at the entrance.

“A moment on the lips, forever on the hips.”- My Grandma

Instead of bemoaning my state of singledom, I have embraced it and all the perks that accompany an era of non-attachment– including an ability to consume guilty pleasures without the requisite guilt. With no men to impress and no princes to pine after, I left for a weekend in Portugal without a caloric care in the world. This was my final European expedition, and I was prepared to enjoy it, in all its hip-fattening glory.

My tutor– Raquel– instructed me to try two types of pastries while in Lisbon and Sintra. The first, sold at Pasteis de Belem, was pastel de nata, a traditional Portuguese egg tart, filled with exorbitant amounts of custard and powdered sugar. Ironically, the bakery leaves powdered sugar shakers on every table, as if the diabetic-inducing natural state of the pastry is in and of itself not enough. After nine months on this continent, it still astounds me how thin Europeans are, what with the tarts and sugar and all:

Insert SUGAR HIGH here.

Mike– my travel companion– and I, being the hardcore New Yorkers that we are, decided we would take on the challenge of tracking down the second recommended baked good of the day: travessiros, an almond pastry acquirable only in a small shop in Sintra known as Cafe Piriquita. To even attempt to encapsulate the profound sense of happiness that consumed my being as I consumed the artery-clogging treat is to do the Portuguese people a gross injustice. It was basically all the nutty goodness of an almond in a light and fluffy dough, baked just to perfection.

For kicks, Mike asked for an additional delight: queijada, a sweet tart– that if one is not careful– can be devoured in one bite. Yes, the trick of savoring each moment on this trip was reduced to that of the edible:

SUGAR HIGH Part II

Of course, there were moments during the weekend in which Mike and I engaged in completely non-food related activities. For example, our trip to Quinta la Regaleira, an UNESCO World Heritage site with all the thrills of a cheap South Jersey amusement park, was quite a memorable and blog-worthy adventure. Known as the “Palace of Monteiro the Millionaire,” named after its first owner Antonio Augusto Carvalho Monteiro, it offers a romantic palace, marked by distinctly neo-classical gothic architecture, as well as luxurious gardens, parks, lakes… and wait for it: secret passageways. Yes, the Disneyland for Adults site, has several caves beneath it– connecting the palace to a variety of wondrous towers, ponds, and labyrinths. In said caves, there are rocks, which if manipulated correctly, give way to magical doors that can be shifted to reveal surprises on the other side.

Honestly, Mike and I felt like kids in a candy store, climbing and shifting and leaping, as we attempted to uncover every mystery within the palatial grounds. Though, I think we both agreed that the biggest highlight was navigating through a cave mirroring the effects of blindness, only to discover what can be described as the Tower of Babylon at the end of it. It was as if we were characters in the cheesy Nicholas Cage film “National Treasure” (2004), only this was not some computer-generated cinematic visual. It was real life. Well, sort of.

My Tower of Babylon

Happening upon a pond and a photographer.

Mike getting in touch with his inner Rapunzel.

Because every castle has a sculpture garden.

The view from the top of the castle. Not too shabby.

The lesson from my experience in Quinta is that sometimes I don’t need a prince to feel satisfied. Getting lost within the castle walls, I felt a profound sense of completeness. Everything was as it should be. I had a breathtaking fortress to call my own, and despite the lack of romantic male companionship with which to share its glory, I was content. I could and did experience an existential sort of happiness, for which this year abroad has taught me I am capable of doing on a quite regular basis.

Said happiness was not limited to the Sintra experience. In fact, when Mike and I initiated our journey, we stopped at the flea market in Lisbon, where I got to indulge in a little retail therapy. And with the exception of white chocolate, little more gives me quite the same pleasure. Sadly, I am a slightly materialistic girl at heart. I think this fact may pose some problems to me eventually joining a convent and swearing away all made-for-consumer goods.

But, seriously, when examining the images below, you will understand my sentiment:

If only they came in black...

I bought the Buddha. Bad Jew, I know.

Note: Gold Sabbath candlesticks. To balance the Buddha.

This is how I should have learned AP Biology.

Though there is much to left to say on my Portugal experience, I will leave that for another entry. Having completed my pathetic attempt at being a legal positivist, I must now embark on a public policy expedition: how to stop the HIV/AIDS epidemic in 2000 words or less.