And so it begins:

The free-fall.
I have to sign up for the step 1 USMLE tomorrow. This is the firstpart of the medical licencing board exams. The exam is in June. My, how time flies.

photoeye

Bet ya Ho Chi Minh never saw this coming:

Weird.
I love Bush's lackluster response. I would be too.

pic from cnn

Food for thought

Ok, I'm been meaning to say this for a while now, so I'm just gonna go ahead and speak frankly:

Why are the dental students so damn hot?
Clearly their admissions criteria involved some sort of photographic screening process. Unfair, so unfair.

Reunions are not for kids

I love reunions. Nothing like seeing friends in a context of nostalgia, even if it means awkwardness with people you once knew but now, for one reason or another, don't really care to know again. I love it enough to pull an all nighter studying in order to make the 7:30 breakfast reunion at Leverett. It was very worth the sleepless night to confirm, once more, that on the surface nothing has changed very much. The place looks the same; the people, older, grayer, less coherent maybe, but still affable, while my friends are as witty as ever. But all are not as they seem. Early reunions like these allow us to glimpse each other zipping along into wildly divergent futures. The experience is invigourating, but largely frightening.

"[Looking around the dining hall] Everything is still the same, huh?"-me.
"Yep. That's good. Isn't it?"-Andrew.

Sure, it is disturbing when we see how much the House kids have grown, or how some tutors are now parents, their babies staring back at us. However, this change somehow feels less confrontational. We expect it, and have no problems integrating it into the fabric that is our memory of this place. We incorporate and obliterate these memories all at the same time, making them fit our notions of how things have always been, and will be. Paradoxically, we are willing to gloss over all this newness, but we are disturbed and intrigued by news of how our own friends are getting along, evolving.

I sense there is something truly comforting about the notion of constancy at Harvard, especially since this place is integral to our notion of self (for the majority, it would seem). To lose the vision of Harvard as unchanging, at this moment, is to lose control over a major part of ourselves, forcing us to confront how uncertainty dictates our current lives, and defines how much we too have been changing in order to adapt. We are in transit, indeterminate, if not physically, then mentally. I sense the farther we go, the more we will reach back. Leverett has not changed, we tell ourselves; Harvard has stayed the same. The dining hall still has the same food; Chief still takes random pictures. In this mental construction, only we have changed, but for now that's okay. We can always reach back and reclaim a bit of our old selves--the ones we knew well--be it via reunions, or spying ' ivy blogs', or constantly visiting [every freaking weekend...errm yeah].

For now, we can only tolerate this much truth. Memory is one of the few things we can still control.

Beacon Hill is beautiful--so are fantasies

Cobblestone streets, gas lamps (with electric bulbs, but a nice effect nonetheless)...human size architecture. It's lovely. Walking there saturday night with M to have dinner at a friend's appartment, I couldn't help but notice how deliciously the air smelled of crackling fires and aromatic roasts, how quiet and tastefully lit the houses were, squeezed together, glowing. There were wreaths on the door, and petite topiaries on the sidewalk. It was a cold night, so we didn't linger long outside, but it didn't take much for me to realize that it would be kinda sweet to be able to afford living here. Oh yeah, MGH is less than 5 minutes away. So let's see: a hospital job at MGH so I can walk to work at anytime, a compact fuel efficient car that can carry 4, a brownstone with enough space for M and kids, on Beacon hill. A dog. That would be wonderful.

Eventually, maybe a cabin on the Cape, or one of those timeshares in the West Indies.

Oh yeah, I don't care for picket fences. Wrought iron, please!

Ah well, I have M. That's one down on the checklist. 200,000 dollars worth of debt to go 'till I can even consider other stuff....

pic stolen from here

Wee small hours...continued

"She's pretty incredible, don't you think?" I ask her. A second goes by. "Yes. Yes she is." She replies, her gaze unchanged. "My name is P...Peter." I respond quickly, filling the void.
"Nice to meet you, Peter." She turns, sparkling, her complexion fairer than I'd had thought. "Call me...Ruth." She answers with a flash of teeth. "Would you like a seat? I have two to spare." I pull up a chair adjacent to her spot against the window edge. The rain is abating outside, and one can almost make out the shape of buildings. The lights of traffic below us reflect in those buildings, a moving mosaic of crimson and gold dashing about in rhythmic monotony. She orders another martini. "I've noticed you here before." I begin, hoping to move the conversation. "Tuesday, same table. I guess you like jazz."
"I see you like to watch people." She quips, laughing. "You are right, but for the wrong reason. I like to watch people too; music is the ambience that sets my mood."
"I come here for the jazz. People watching is secondary," I try being coy.
"Ah, well. Apologies then." She smiles again. " Do you want a drink?" She flicks her wrist, catching the gaze of a waitress standing patiently by the entrance. I decline, modestly, half standing up. "Oh no, thank you, I'm good for now. I just wanted to say hello, maybe find a fellow jazz lover."
"Oh no, don't go!" She sounds almost wistful.” Company is always welcome at my table." She insists. "Truth be told I came to hear her sing, she's not doing many shows in Boston, but I'm sure you know that already. Sit, sit!" I oblige, settling back into my seat. The houselights have returned, forcing the room's mystique into dark crevices above the hanging lights and into the night. The wind howls outside. Boston shimmers in the dark.

"Most men in my office don't have conversations with me. You're brave, I'll be honest." She flashes more teeth, except this time it is a full smile; her face stretches, not afraid to show the crowfeet peeking behind her eyes.
I laugh. "That's the first I've heard someone call me brave. Thank you!" I responded. "Is there a reason....?"
"A casual chat never hurts." She assures me. "I should say, my nephew looks about your age. You are very brave."
"I'm an...aspiring writer. " I offer her partial honesty. " I want to write about this night. You are intriguing. And like you said, a chat never hurts."
"Here, a cheer to conversations, Lord knows the world doesn't have enough of them." She offers up her martini, a pink, dainty thing, with rose petals floating about the glass. I offer her my glass.

We sip, a toast to conversations. The world sure doesn't have enough of them.