It's still me, Bartok!

So, after nearly 2 weeks of silence, I have finally gotten word from Miss Model Behavior!!! Since her departure, an unfamiliar silence with echoes of loneliness and an impending sense that I am destined to be an old cat lady, has descended over my life in the absence of our almost constant contact - as only good friends who live in different cities and therefore could never get sick of each other because we only see each other once a month - can tolerate. We do also switch up the mode of communication we exercise no discrimination or favoritism between our three main modes of communication: phone calls, text messages, and emails. On the upside, this technological vacation that has been imposed on my life as a result of her departure has opened up my schedule, and increased my level of productivity, letting loose all sorts of creatitity, ambition, and alternative occupations. In addition to having joined the BBC French Steps program in an effort to ajouter le français to my repetoire of romance languages, one of my favorite past times over the past two weeks has been trying to imagine, as my Italian cohorts would say, che fino ha fatto Miss Model Behavior. My three winning theories - assuming that she was not abducted or beaten to death with tropical fruits by fellow travellers because of her good fortune in chooseing the lone functional pay phone in the Miami airport, and did manage to leave the country - were that she had:

1. Died of too much fun. That perhaps on the yacht of some South American prince, maybe surrounded by the new line of Calvin Klein models, or, perhaps, if she was really lucky, in the company of the boys from my Dieux du Stade calendar (it's hanging next to my desk right now, I tell my boss it's for inspiration). Who knows, maybe she was finally overwhelmed by the amount of fun she was having and spontaneously combusted! I mean, it's feasible...




2. Gotten married and had ran away to some exotic and remote island like Fiji or the Quirimbas Archipelago. I, personally, happen to have an overwhelming and inexplicable interest in both places. Should this be the case, Miss MB would currently be surrounded by servants who are fanning her, attractive young men, and dressed like an empress. This is the saddest possibility for me, since, although still alive and happy, she would clearly have no intention of ever coming home.




3. That she never actually made it to Punta, but was lured away with the trick of some kind of linguistic misunderstanding due to the language barrier, and walked right into her own kidnapping. Who knows, she could be being held hostage somewhere in Buenos Aires as we speak. This theory does not have the sense of tragedy that the other two do, but the idea of her attempting to negotiate her way out of a situation like this using fragments of whatever language most resembled that of her captors and maybe some charades is entertaining. There is also the potential for some romantic rescue and happy ending in this theory too. No pain, no gain.

To my great relief none of my very rational and well developed theories are true! I received an email from Miss MB yesterday evening stating that she was back on the mainland of South America, bouncing around the country of Argentina for her remaining days in the Southern Hemisphere.

As I have been fantasizing about the fun that every other 20-something girl is having, while I, alone, suffer through monotonous days of responsibility and obligation and am forced to brave the misery of non-tropical January weather (BTW, thanks to all the hard work of previous generations and their efforts to pollute our planet, global warming has finally reached a point where the city of Washington, D.C. appears to be on the same thermostat as my apartment - it’s been in the mid 60’s all week). I have created a conception of Punta to be some sort of isla bonita de Sheer-Delight-and-Party. This fantasy of mine has, somewhat, taken over my mind, at least to the extent of replacing my games of virtual chess at work, and Punta has become some kind of mythical land that exists somewhere over the rainbow, requires a treasure map to reach, and is inhabited only by people whose company and compansionship I enjoy, or think I might enjoy based on similar interests (see photo at top of post).

Needless to say, my days are pretty dull.

So, to give you a feel for the island as it exists in reality, and prove that this isn't another one of my delusional attempts to entertain myself, I have included some quotes from Miss MB’s email:

“There has been some rain so we’re hoping weather will get better. When sunny is heaven.”

“The parties are out of this world, I actually have redefined the definition of party after this trip.”

And for sentimental reasons as well as for any of you who can relate to this sentiment,

“I miss writing soooooo much and would kill to be at a computer long enough to do an entry. Punta was incredible!!!!!”

So, there you have it, proof that Miss Model Behavior survived the first part of her escape from reality, seemingly unharmed. In fact, she may be returning, as anyone should from travels in foreign lands and cultures, optimistic (see quote 1); with a broadened or altered perspective on one's own culture or humanity as a whole (quote 2); and both re-enthused and energized about our own occupations and reality (quote 3). All signs point to her trip being a great success!

Just for a little variation and contrast, I’ll write more about my own life later.

Last Night’s Top Ten: A Highlights Reel

Highlight #1 occurred early in the evening when Bartok and I were playing a little game I like to call “try on every piece of clothing each of us owns at least twice.” Being the irresponsible influence I am, I kept trying to get her into dresses that fell five inches from her waist. Finally, she came into my room in a stunning, strapless, black number that was a booty-short-necessary length. I dropped my hairbrush in joy and pointed at her vehemently, “YES! Wear this one.” Bartok then informed me that this “dress” she was wearing was actually a skirt from Banana Republic that she had hiked up above her boobs. I then tried to convince her to wear it anyway while she decided to go with a safer, strapless black number that I can remember her wearing when we were sixteen. Because of her indecision, being the fabulous friend I am, I stuffed the Banana Republic skirt in my fake Prada in case she changed her mind again and wanted to change dresses while we were out.

Highlight #2: Us on my least favorite A C E subway line all dolled up in jewelry, dresses, with big hair and make-up to the max. Yes we were classily wearing flip flops and carrying our high heels in our hand. No one on the subway wanted to stand near us, and Bartok and I made a ridiculous spectacle of ourselves when joyously sprinting from the local to express train like boisterous children.

Highlight #3: Since I had never before attended the exclusive New York tradition called “French Tuesdays,” I was slightly nervous and concerned about how smooth our entry process would be. A friend had put me on the list, but by the time I called around to get Bartok on it as well, I was informed the list was closed – no exceptions. We had the cell number of a friend of a friend to call who could get Bartok in without being on the list and without the obligatory non-member $40 entry fee. Putting our faith in this total stranger, we called him when outside. He kindly responded he’d be out front soon to retrieve us. The door policy looked ridiculously strict and they were actually checking people’s IDs against the guest list. So much for trying to pull a “Hi, I’m Elizabeth Smith / the most generic name of your choice.” Luckily, before our savior the stranger could even get to the entrance to help us, a small jovial looking man with a clipboard working the door, Pierre, ushered us past the Fort Knox list stating that “we should get inside immediately” and that “French Tuesdays would be honored to have women like us in attendance.” What he meant by “women like us” (women who wear dresses that are way too short for their own good? Women that look like baby prostitutes? Women who are thinner than they should be?) is unclear. However, Bartok and I weren’t complaining. As if that weren’t enough, Pierre instructed a super cute cocktail waitress with a tray to bring us a round of champagne. He quickly paid for it by stuffing cash in one of the waitresses empty gin glasses.

The Low Down on French Tuesdays:

-This one was a champagne party, with bottles for $75 – a steal if you’re used to the absurd prices of normal New York bottle service (Grey Goose for $700, it’s disgusting). In short, we drank A LOT of champagne since we were with a group of friend and bottles just made more sense than by the glass.

-Very friendly people. People were extremely nice and hospitable, even when we pseudo took over their couch facing the central park view and ate some of their almost finished guacamole without explicit permission. Everyone was exchanging cards like there was no tomorrow. If you are or consider yourself a networker, French Tuesdays is where you gotta be.

Highlight #4: The most delicious beef skewers I’ve ever consumed in my life. After mooching off other peoples appetizers for half the evening, our table of friends finally decided to invest in some ourselves. Bartok and I fought so vigorously about who got to eat the last piece of beef on the only remaining skewer that we actually tore it apart with our teeth to split it when nobody was looking.

Highlight #5: The most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen at the table next to us at Serafina. We decided an 11 p.m. dinner was in order since we’d been drinking since seven thirty and it was destined to be a long night. No, I did not follow my own advice and eat a proper meal before leaving my house. Between getting out of work late and working to transform my tired, beaten self into something attractive, there had been no time left for food. I insisted we only needed some appetizers to eat. I was proven wrong when our party of five consumed two appetizers, a king-size pasta and two pizzas. My wonderful roommate Tatas joined us here as well.

Highlight #6: The French Tuesday Party @ Location #2. Confusing, right? Yeah, well apparently they had their champagne cocktail party early and the “real” get-crazy party late night at D’Or Amalia. We didn’t stay here long since it resembled a castle dungeon and was more crowded than I think any party I’ve been to in the past year and a half. It rivaled Pink on Hamptons night, so we took up residence at the upstairs bar near the door and (surprise surprise) drank more champagne. Part of our group was tired and going to hit the hay, we continued on with my Brazilian friends Classic to an Italian party downtown.

Highlight #7: My Bartok dancing on a cube with an Italian man named Marco who we code-named Lord of the Dance. It only occurred to us the day after that he was undoubtedly on E since he was dancing with his shirt unbuttoned like rabid animal for four hours straight.

Highlight #8: Our group of friends sitting at an empty table at the aforementioned Italian party, now at 5.30 a.m., technically long after the club’s closing time. We lounged around exchanging embarrassing stories, mainly about me and how when staying with Bartok and her boyfriend at the time in Venice I’d “Moo” like a cow on the street (it was a pre decided signal) for them to let me in at crazy hours of the morning. Bartok’s boy lived above his bar and there was no doorbell. If there was, no one told me about it.

Highlight #9: Transferring at Bartok’s drunken persistence to an after-hours party where beer was served, sandwiches were bought, and most people at the party were rotating getting in and out of the very large Jacuzzi-style bathtub.

Highlight #10: Somehow making back to my apartment with all our possessions and Bartok cooking a large vat of macaroni and cheese for us. She played mommy since I felt like men with drills and chains saws had taken up residence in the back of my head. Welcome to a pure champagne hangover. I would’ve cried had I not fallen asleep so fast.