Crab Kalash?

Pleased to say I escaped New York. Kurt Russell should stop his whining. And if you didn't see that joke coming... well, you're not Scott Weiss.

I arose Friday morning all alone in the Witten apartment; showered, gathered my belongings, took in her view of the former WTC, and headed out to the Chinese consulate. The entire visa application process was amazingly simple, I simply took a number, dropped off my passport, picture, and form, and returned later that day to pay and pick up. The only hitch was that I was instructed to return sometime after 2:20 PM, but when I arrived at 2:45 PM, the visa office was closed for the holiday (Chinese New Year). After a few quick words with the guard at the main gate (I even got to show off in front of some other Whiteys with my Chinese) he led us through the security door in into the back room of the visa office where I was able to collect my passport and visa and head back to the bus terminal for the voyage home.

Between dropping off my application and picking up my visa, I spent the time by taking in some more of New York. First was a trip to the Met, which 1. was not covered in a purple gelatin shield (Ted Burke informed me the Statue of Liberty cleaned up that mess back in '89) and 2. wouldn't let me in with my bag, nor did they have a coat check. Luckily, I remembered the Guggeheim was close by, and as such I got to enjoy a wonderful exhibit on Aztec art. I have always found the Aztec's fascinating, not just in the brutality of their religious beliefs, but all of its intricacies and style. And I must say the curators at the museum made good use of assimilating the spiraling nature of the Guggeheim's layout into the Aztec's feathered snake god Quetzalcoatl. I've also read a theory establishing contact between the ancient South American and Chinese cultures long before the conquistadores ever dreamt of El Dorado. After a little culture, I found Ms. Trudy Garber (who is soon moving to SF, congrats TG!) and a sandwich. By the end of the sandwich, it was 2:30 and time to get back to the consulate.

On a quick and vague note, I must say that with every visit to New York City I come to understand a little more why New Yorkers love New York so. Not being a native New Yorker, and compounded by the fact I am a native Bostonian, I am not qualified to postulate on just what this might be, but either way, I'm pretty sure that its that very essence that New Yorkers love about New York that in turns serves as the font for my own hatred towards the Big Apple. No bowl, stick! Stick!

The gravity of this entire situation is only just getting heavy. I feel as though I've been rather calm and collect up until now, but now, now I'm beginning to freak out. Especially when I purchased a pair of boots today that are cold-rated to -60 F. For the last 5.5 years I've been living in DC and whining about how there was never any proper cold, but now I'm moving practically to Siberia. SIBERIA! The mention of it brings to mind: 1. nut-cracking cold, 2. banished Russian intelligentsia, and 3. high school playing fields (Andover thing).

These boots better be damn warm.