The oil that fuels my miracle.

Today is December 1^st and winter, in all its chilling glory, has finally arrived in Baltimore. Department stores have begun to put out their festive winter displays. Radio stations have switched exclusively to Christmas and snow tunes. Streets are lined with tinsel, even in the projects. Christmas lights abound in front of porches. And ABC Family has begun its ever-so-anticipated 25 Days ‘Til Christmas.

Somewhere between all the Christmas hoopla that stores grasp their greedy hands to, it has somehow become Hanukkah – this year, shafted by its unfortunate timing and my overly chaotic life.

After lesson planning and PowerPoint-making, I lit the shamash candle using my temperamental gas stove as a lighter and then sang in a mousy-sort-of voice to myself to celebrate an anti-climatic Hanukkah. I watched my candles burn, flames dancing in the chill, and let my busy mind wander to thinking about the true miracle it must have been to have oil last for eight days.

The candles make me long for days in which my mother would gift me bottles of shampoo and packs of underwear, disguised in wrapping as million-dollar presents. My father would make brisket with beer. I miss homemade sweet potato latkes and my most favorite Hanukkah song, “I’m a little latke,” toe-tap and all. Then I realize I am a young, working professional who can’t get gifts and gelt every night of the holiday and who doesn’t have time to cook brisket for one.

As I wallow in self-pity, staring at the two sole candles, I realize I have found the new meaning of the holiday within the past three months. This year, the oil that keeps me burning is my students. My job is hard. Really hard. But little Thanksgiving notes that say “Ms. Packer, you are my favorite teacher because you care about me,” and comments like “Ms. Packer, don’t take this the wrong way but I love you” and “Hey! She’s my teacher not yours” are the few small drops of oil that I need to keep burning bright for at least 9 months of school. This year, I am the miracle that continues to give every day making sure that 68 minds are growing and learning. On the few days, like today, where students love to learn, I am filled with enough oil to last, and I have every Hanukkah gift I could ever need.

One giant mug of hot cocoa, cracking lips, a sweatshirt four-sizes too big (just the way I like it) and I have found our way into bed way past our bedtime. I sleep with not one, not two, but three blankets to simulate my native Florida hibernation conditions.

In honor of the holiday, this poor teacher has mustered up the courage to give herself a gift – finally, writing a blog, even on a night when she should be far too busy worrying about her 68 children to be enjoying getting lost in words and verbose analogies. Happy Hanukkah, Ms. Packer…keep burning, it’s worth it.

Dear College, thanks for the memories

College – the highly coveted four years that most every middle/upper class kid experiences. Attending is not a possibility, but a requirement to make proud parents prouder and to prove the level of one’s education. Sure, school choice matters – Harvard and Yale, or the University of Florida and Florida State. But we all continue our education for the same reasons: the college years provide the perfect canvas for the transition to maturation – four years (or maybe more) away from home, an excuse to procrastinate a real-life job, a time for self-discovery, and perhaps, a place to acquire a more concentrated skill set.

People always refer to their college years as “the times of their lives.” They warn you to enjoy every moment, promising that the four years will fly by. They urge you to stay summers and get involved. They tell stories from their hay day, which must be missing the essential details that make the stories funny in the first place. They can’t help but reminisce. Is it because of the great educational experiences they encountered? No. It’s because of the friendships they created, the places they went, the bad choices they made, the independence they gained, the tailgates and football they watched.

Everyone seems to know, but no one really seems to care that college life is more about self-discovery than it is about higher education. Memories of sorority functions and weekend away trips to football games fill the spaces in our brains where statistics and comparative politics knowledge should be. Still, we leave our university, diploma in hand, only slightly smarter than we’ve ever been, but with more confidence, self-esteem and stories than we knew possible.

I sucked the life out of orange and blue. My time at UF can been categorized as anything but dull. Summer B, I took advantage of meeting new people, ordering pizza and pokey sticks for late night snacks and adding a second major (political science) after thoroughly enjoying my first international relations class. By the time fall semester arrived and rushing a sorority took priority over classes, I was well acquainted with the campus.

My journalism major made it acceptable for me to be curious about every hidden nook and cranny in Gainesville. I traveled to High Springs, Starke and Alachua looking for stories to write and people to meet. The only “A” in my entire collegiate career that I didn’t receive was, ironically, in Intro to Journalism (B+). I learned never to skip extra credit assignments, no matter how solid I thought my grade was.

Odd jobs defined my time not in class – a Texas Roadhouse hostess for two days before I quit (who likes to clean bathrooms?); a door girl to collect money on Thursdays at a downtown Gainesville club, where I’d watch bloody brawls take place; a beer tub girl at Gator City, where the lower my top meant the greater my tips; a tutor for Advanced Learning Centers, in which I tutored a first-grader twice a week in reading; a freelance food and restaurant critic for Examiner.com that allowed me to try each and every Gainesville restaurant my heart desires; and an ice-cream seller at the Gator football games in the alumni section, with weekly regulars. Attending games meant selling ice-cream, not watching.

I studied abroad – twice – with a greater emphasis on the “abroad” than on the “studying.” On my journey spring semester of junior year, I ended up on a fourth-floor “piso,” or apartment, in Barcelona, Spain, for four months. I lived with a host mother who spoke Spanish a-mile-a-minute – the most apropos breeding ground for misunderstandings. Dinners consisted of my broken chit-chat and offensive slurs. I would say accidentally that I was pregnant instead of embarrassed, or talk about my anus instead of my age. Despite my inevitable flaws, I practiced, and my trip became an on-the-go education. Spanish class took place in cabs and small boutiques. Home economics occurred mid-afternoon as I watched a woman scale fish in an open market, and my new Spanish friends taught linguistics – more aptly Profanity 101 – as we enjoyed tapas. By the time I shared my final meal with my Senora, Spain had become my home, and my educational experience became part of my life lexicon. I traveled to Paris, the south of France, Italy, Amsterdam and all around Spain on weekends, learning there’s more to life than school. I returned from gallivanting halfway around the world to realize that the love of my life was my best guy friend, and we would begin a relationship that makes others envious.

My second journey, 10 days in Icapuí, Brazil, with Pulitzer-Prize-winning photojournalist and professor John Kaplan for the coveted, invite-only Florida FlyIns class taught me the wonders of international journalism. I combined my love for travel and writing while producing a story on a Brazilian fisherwoman and getting class credit.

Internships, the mantra of UF faculty, became my goal. Us Weekly, Universal Republic Records, the Guardian Ad Litem program, Vertical Textiles, The Gainesville Sun, a stringer for The Independent Florida Alligator, and a freelancer for Tea Time magazine each became bullet points on my ever-growing resume.

The rest of my college experiences were a potpourri of this and that that I somehow found the time to accomplish/do. I was president of my sorority, a member of the prestigious Freshmen Leadership Council, a campus diplomat. I won an AT&T scholarship for three years. I was named the John Paul Jones, Jr. award winner for excellence in writing, as nominated and voted on by the journalism faculty and administration. I became an Anderson Scholar for the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences because of my stellar GPA. I graduated Summa Cum Laude (highest honors) and paid $45 just to wear the three cords at graduation. One of my professors dubbed me "a human highlighter." I created my first two blogs: KP in the City and Fork First Spoon Later. I went on a road trip to South Carolina for a Gator game. I spring breaked in Coast Rica. I “dated” my TA.

Only once I’ve cleared my head of each life-changing experience that has already become my college story, can I remember the classes – classes like food politics, in which I wrote and published my first book, "The Taste of Culture," and MMC2100 (Writing for Mass Communication) with an instructor who, to this day, remains one of my most valued mentors. I can think back fondly on once-dreaded papers and projects that have made me expand my personal boundaries while helping me to discover myself.

With a tear in one eye and a wink in the other, I pop the college bubble that I’ve been living in and prepare to tackle real life – Teach For America in Baltimore - where waking up at a normal hour is socially acceptable, working anywhere other than a bar or a club is smiled upon and going out nearly every night of the week is impossible. I leave feeling scared, yet ready to face those challenges ahead. Nostalgia for years past sets in and I long to relive it all over again. I wish I could go back to college.

The never-ending day

After a two-hour drive to Orlando, an eight-hour red-eye flight to Sao Paulo, a three-hour layover at the airport and a three-and-a-half hour flight to Fortaleza, I patted myself on the back in silent congratulation for skillfully arriving in Brazil after traveling by myself. Then, I realized my pat was premature. I still had 5 more hours to go…a trip from urban Fortaleza to costal Icapuí, where my story about impoverished Brazilians, most of whom have never left Icapuí, will unfold. Five more hours of travel after a painstaking 16, but at least I was done with the “scary” part – the flying.

Little did I know, I actually have a bigger fear: bus travel.

My journey across the Cearán state begins at the Fortaleza bus station at 3 p.m. My ticket is handwritten. And as I enter the bus, I learn my seat is assigned to two of us. “No problem,” I am told, and the driver just crosses out her number and writes another one.

My cloth seat on this early 1990s motor coach has the stench of decades’ past. I try hard to get comfortable squished into the window, but I feel certain that five more hours of sitting in transportation vehicles will surely result in bedsores. Before my body has time to protest, we are off. And just as soon as we get going, we stop at the first stop.

Bus stops don’t exist. People are burped out on the gravel and sand. Sometimes there’s a wooden stake in the ground indicting a known stopping point; most of the time there’s not. And occasionally a passenger will murmur something in Portuguese, making the driver divert from the well-worn-path of a road to drop him off elsewhere.

The driver reminds me of an excited 15-year-old with a permit. Sometimes he swerves off the road to avoid bumps and holes. Other times he rolls over them at full speed. My stomach, my thighs and my cheeks (both sets) jiggle. Worst of all, the driver speeds up and then slams on the breaks, as if he has no idea where he will stop.

Every time the bus stops my heart and stomach drop in tandem. I’m not sure whether to vomit from motion sickness or pray that the entire bus doesn’t tip. But once I get used to stopping short, I try to enjoy this leg of my trip.

Looking out the window, my eyes have new perspective. A sad perspective.

There are stray dogs, stray cats, stray chickens. There are even stray people. The pathetic cows and horses don’t have enough meat on their bones to keep their ribs from jolting out. The chickens wouldn’t be enough for one chicken finger.

The trees are beautifully aged, but unlike people, they enjoy their protruding roots that look arthritis stricken and their gnarled branches indicating their age. These trees are so massive and so old they threaten to compete with the majesty of Animal Kingdom’s man-made, concrete one.

At some point during the journey, people are building a bridge like beavers do: whittling down the wood with machetes and their bare hands, and then stacking them.

Children jump on mounds of rocks and play in leaves. Toys are sparse. The bus whizzes by the kids, but they remain unfazed. Their parents, sitting on plastic, white chairs outside, aren’t the least bit nervous.

The dwellings I pass need not be referred to as houses, but only as homes. There are homes without walls; walls without homes. The sun has taken its toll by muting their hand-painted colors. I can see inside. Many of the homes have one television set where families gather to watch. I equate it to the days when people used to sit around the radio in American to hear Roosevelt speak (or so I’ve read).

I find myself hoping that the towns will improve, but they don’t. In fact, the further east we travel, the worse they get. The handmade homes look as though they will crumble like cake from the sheer speed of our bus, but they don’t.

McDonald’s hasn’t made its way here yet, but I’m pretty sure it won’t. A hamburger would likely cost too much. I feel ashamed I even brought my eyeliner.

People, mostly in bathing suits, hop-on and hop-off the bus. Sometimes their ride is 5 minutes; other times it’s hours. The driver’s right hand man walks up and down the bus charging different people different rates depending when they hopped on.

By now, I’ve been at least thirty-six hours without a shower. I can taste the filth in my teeth; I can feel it beneath my nail beds.

I have no concept of time whatsoever. I have no phone and no watch. My best guess is it’s late at night. The sky, which has turned pitch-black, is encapsulating, but not with the typical comfort its enveloping blanket normally provides. As the night grows darker, so do my fears.

The bus roars down a pothole-filled, sand road from Aracati to Icapui (or so that’s what I think this “road” connects). It creates a sandy wake. I can feel the rocks and holes on the path. I’m jiggling uncontrollably now.

I try so desperately to suppress the sounds that come out as whimpers every few moments as we take screeching turns. Turbulence doesn’t even begin to compare.

Every once in a while the bus comes to a jolting, swerving stop. Someone is thrown to the road, and we are on our way again not even 20 seconds later. There’s no way of knowing or calculating when the driver will abruptly stop, especially in the dark. I tell myself to imagine I’m on a jerky rollercoaster. When that stops working, I remind myself of why I am in Brazil – to write a moving story about an extraordinary fisherwoman and the boundaries she has overcome. This seems to do the trick.

By the time I miraculously arrive in Icapui, I have decided that I can easily understand why only a few of its people leave. It’s not that they don’t want to, it’s that they are probably too afraid.

Home sweet home

Well it’s been a while. A long while. A long long long while. More than 10 months, to be exact. But I’m back. Back in Gainesville (which some fondly refer to as Gainesvegas, The Ville, Gville or other such nonsensical names). Whatever you prefer to call it, I call it home away from home – where all my friends live and play and parents are not allowed (only for move in and move out, of course).

Normally the start of every year is filled with happiness and “It’s so good to be backs,” but this year it’s different because we all know what atrocity is about to occur. This is the year we graduate. When purchasing Gator tickets will require Bull Gator status, hanging around the sorority house isn’t cool anymore and going out to bars and clubs until 2 a.m. simply won’t be acceptable.

To ease the pain just a tad, my girl friends and I moved in to the most adorable cottage you have ever seen. Ever. It’s a two-story, three bed/three bath abode with real wood floors, stainless-steal appliances and granite countertops. Not quite your typical beer-pong-playing, crazy-dirty, college-kid-type apartment. But it will have to suffice. It's is brand new and all.

Perhaps you’d like a tour, no? Downstairs is my roommate Steph’s bedroom, the kitchen with our center island that doubles as our table and the family room. Upstairs proudly houses my other roommate Rachel’s room and our makeshift workout area fully equipped with an elliptical machine (Now I have no excuse for not working out, huh?) But la crème de la crème is my bedroom down the hall from Rach’s.

One 16-foot Budget truck, two “moving men” (aka Andrew and my cousin, Stormy), and one cranky mother were what it took to furnish my living space. And getting this entire place set up was quite a feat. Somehow the guys lifted all my heavy pieces up the narrow stairs and then were subject to my mom’s and my finger pointing as to where everything should go. After a few sweaty hours, my room was looking pretty in gold, pink and blue. I decided to go simple and clean instead of overly crowded with childish pictures hung on every wall. A mere bed, dresser, end table, desk and television set fill my four walls and everything in between.

Unlike my straightforward room, my closet is a totally different story. My walk-in closet also consists of a makeup vanity, which I so craftily (and economically) put together. My purses hang from the wall and my pairs upon pairs of shoes practically devour the floor. Love it.

Know what I love more? For the first time ever in my life, I have my very own bathroom! Exciting, I know. I lined it with candles and flowers and girly bathroom pictures, just the way I like.

[Welcome home, KP, welcome home. Now if only your roommates were here….]

You see, Steph won’t be home until Sunday, and Rach doesn’t arrive until Friday. Bummer. Gainesville is oh so boring when not so many people are around. Plus, there’s no one to sneak out with to get late-night dessert.

Right about now, as I sit here craving chocolate, I am stuck resorting to eating apple-cinnamon-flavored mini rice cakes to do the trick (not like I’m gonna go to D’Lites by my lonesome). Oh well. Guess me and my comfy-cozy cottage will just have some catch up time.

Some days

Some days you wake up and you know. You immediately start to worry. Nothing in particular is wrong. You just feel like the forces had been aligning when you were sleeping and there’s something brewing. Today was one of those days.

Though I had every good intention to go to class all day long, Monday is my longest day. Class straight from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m., sin pausa (without a break), and I awoke without my usual fervor. I showered to wake myself up and I listened to Spanish guitar on my iPod during my 45-minute hike to school from my apartment, in hopes that I would feel like my typical, eager self, ready to seize the day. No such luck.

By the end of my first class, Spanish, I was half falling asleep. My second was so painful that I began to bargain with myself in order to keep my eyes open. The idea of focusing was more of a joke than a reality. When my third class rolled around my heart was begging my body to bolt, and the thought of a fourth class made me nauseous. The snip bits of class I did catch in between my heavy-lidded blinks weren’t making it easy for me to sit still.

In Spanish, we reviewed grammar and prepositions. As always, my professor had us play games as memory aids and today, she had us create sentences about our dreams – the dreams of our childhood, our current dreams and the dreams we have for our futures. While students in the class elected to write about their desires for 10 cats, to become ballerinas or to have a small house with flower-filled terraces, I chose a slightly less superficial approach. The sentence I wrote to read aloud was: “Ahora que tengo 20 anos, sueno con disfrutar mi vida cada dia,” or “Now that I am 20 years old, I dream of enjoying my life each and everyday.” [Thought to self: Great KP, good thing you are stuck here in this classroom.]

My second class, Comparing Media in Latin and Anglo-Saxon countries, preached the growing role of the Internet for media sources. One of the pluses (or to some, the negatives) of the online world is the ability of the reader to customize the news he or she chooses to receive. We read a New York Times article called “The Daily Me” about how mass media is becoming individualized media because people’s intentions these days are more selfishly driven and they only want to read what they chose. [Thought to self: Go ahead, KP, be selfish. It’s the direction of the world.]

My third class, Advanced Spanish Oral Expression, consisted of my class playing a game about the history and “gems” of Barcelona. Because I have been just about everywhere in this city and have gone on at least ten tours (some guided by professionals, some guided by my guide books), I knew just about all of the answers. [Thought to self: Well KP, you wouldn’t have won the game if you didn’t explore and ask questions to waiters, policemen and locals on the streets.]   

So for once, I decided to apply what I learned in school: Today was going to be all about me and me alone; I was going to enjoy the day to the fullest; I was going to discover some new gems. After this past weekend of exploring the little streets in Gracia, biking along the beach at Barceloneta and randomly hoping on a Renfe train simply to get off where my friend and I felt like it, I was itching to get out of the classroom. Fourth class, Society and Politics of Spain, simply didn’t stand a chance. So I walked out. Out of class. Out of the building. Out of campus. And I decided to explore Barcelona by my lonesome just for the fun of it.

I took the Metro to Jaume 1 and began to walk. I walked down every single street that I wanted, without having to ask anyone if they minded. I found a beautiful store called IVO & Co. that sells kitchen goods, a coffee shop called La Clandestina, whose boho feel inspired me, and then I found Caj Chai (pronounced Chai Chai) – a tearoom unlike any other I have ever been to, whose hip drum music in the background was matched only by its young, avant-garde clientele.

Caj Chai’s dim lighting was sexy, the stonewall along one side of the narrow café had character and the loud chatter produced by the guests told me immediately that this was nothing like the tearoom you find in England. 

The mix-and-match rattan chairs coupled with high tables and low tables and bar stools provided a yard-sale-inspired atmosphere, and the twinkling Christmas lights hinted at a majestic air. The menu, enveloped by flimsy bamboo, offered a lengthy list of teas – from China, Japan, India, Korea, Nepal, Russia, Taiwan, Morocco and Turkey, with every flavor and color imaginable. With so many choices, I asked the waiter for some suggestions – something sweet with natural sugar, something with no milk added and something a little fruity. He and I selected a black tea from China with leeche nuts.

 For the fun of it, I also questioned him about the interesting looking desserts. I told him I wanted to try something I had never tried before and so he brought me “daifuku con fresa y nata,” or “daifuku” with strawberries and cream. Turns out this delicacy is a Japanese dessert made from very sticky rice, called mochi, jacketing chunks of strawberries and sweet cream. And though the consistency was something like a really soft, incredibly sticky gummy bear, it was absolutely delicious and the perfect pairing for my tart tea.

After a few sips followed by a few bites, I decided it was time to reflect. I believe today marks a milestone in my life: KP’s first day of “playing hooky”….ever. And while I would love to say it was my first and last, I’d be lying.

Some days the forces are aligning. You’re inspired to do or become something. To get up and go. To explore for the sake of exploring. To get lost because you can. To eat for the sake of eating. To sit alone in a café. To escape from the world for a split second. To write.

Today was one of those days. 

For the benefit of Mr. Kite, there will be a show tonight

Hem, hem…ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages….Something peculiar. Something stupendous. Something for everyone …..My Life: a three-ring circus.

To your left: My Work (OoOOoooo)
God I love my job. Let me just say it once more. I love my job. Really, I do. Despite the sometimes stressful nature of making sure all the mailings are sent out on time and properly, my internship comes with the greatest perks. Not only do I get to meet weekly with the different departments within my record label to pick the executives’ brains, but I also get to go to concerts. And it’s not that I just get to go to concerts. Oh no. I get to sit in the 10th row for free and then go backstage to meet the bands and performers.

About two weeks ago, my internship sent me and some of the other interns to the Hinder and 3 Doors Down concert in New Jersey. The group of us hoped into an expense-paid car to make the hour journey into the neighboring city. We made our way to our prime seats and jammed to musicians that we normally listen to at 100 percent volume in the office. Going backstage to meet the bands was just an added bonus and the whole car ride back we giggled about how amazing our lives are.
Fast forward to the following week (which was actually a week ago) and my work did it again. They sent me to the “Ten out of Tenn” tour to see one of our new artists, Erin McCarley. Oh. My. God. As if looks aren’t doing it for her, her voice is simply sexy. And she plays the guitar. She kinda has this new-age, country, alternative thing about her music and well, I am a huge fan. She played in an intimate lounge and I am still secretly wishing I could be her. But this isn’t a magic show and I can’t become someone I am not, so on with the show.

A few days ago, none other than Kevin Costner made his way into our office to talk about his band, which is signed to our record label. Though admittedly at first I had no idea who he was, once he came in I recognized him…Swing Vote, The Guardian…you know. It was amazing to hear him speak about his passion for his music, and even more amazing to take a picture with him.

To your right: My Playtime - Featuring a water show and Japenese karaoke at an Irish bar with a Canadian and a Bulgarian. (AHhhhh)

A little while ago my friend, Irena, came to visit. She has been dying for a guest appearance in this blog so here it is:
Presenting, in person, that 5-foot-6 bundle of dynamite, Irena, the Bulgarian.

Since she hadn’t been to New York in years, she was determined to partake in adventures that Jess and I had not yet embarked upon. So the three of us took on a water show.

Perhaps it’s one of NYC best kept secrets, but kayaking on the Hudson River off of Pier 96 is free. Yes, that’s right folks. For no money at all, you can get a locker to store your purse, a life jacket, a kayak and a paddle. All you have to do is bring yourself. Irena and I double kayaked with me in back and her in front. Jess managed her own. It had been so long since my Girl Scout days and kayaking that I nearly forgot just how much fun it is to get your ass wet from the sunken seats and fight about which way to paddle if you want to turn left. To make the time even more enjoyable, we sang Pocahontas songs as we mushed through the water, and I realized that sometimes the best things in life are reminiscent of your childhood.
Now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time of the show where I wow you with my singing ability.

It was my goal this summer to sing at a karaoke bar. It only seemed appropriate, being in a city of performers and all, that I would perform. So I dragged Jess, some of our friends from work (including a Canadian intern) and some of our friends from home (including Irena) to a sing with me at bar called Stout.

I know, I know, it sounds like the start of a bad joke, doesn’t it? So a Jew, a Bulgarian and a Canadian walk into an Irish bar…little did they know they would make fools of themselves singing everything from Jessie’s Girl to All I Want for Christmas is You to Tenacious D covers and then leave at 3 in the morning. Aw heck, who am I kidding? These are the nights I live for.

Intermission: “Get your peanuts, get your popcorn”
The cotton candy man is played by young designers at the Young Designers Market. The popcorn sellers are the ever-so-influential SoHo boutiques. And lavish nightlife will be filling in for the peanut guy.

Sometimes, I feel like a little kid at the circus ready to throw a temper tantrum when my parents say that I can’t purchase the over-priced goods. It seems that in NYC everyone is selling something I simply can’t resist. Whether it’s a great dress, my ideal pair of boots or expensive food and drinks at the hottest restaurants in town, I can’t help but become the wide-eyed girl wanting a little bit of everything. But I’m not a little kid any more, and temper tantrums don’t get me anywhere when there is no money in my bank account. So I admiringly look at all the things I want and then leave...or order an appetizer.

Honestly though, how can you go to the circus and not even bring home one souvenir just to show your friends that you were actually there? No parent in their right-mind could argue that. So I had to give in a little at the Young Designers Market.

Every weekend in the part of town somewhere between Chinatown and Little Italy, the Young Designers Market opens its doors to reveal some of the city’s up-and-coming designers, including clothing creators and jewelers, so my friend Emily and I were dying to go. Each article of clothing and accessory is more artistic or more funky or more fabulous than the next, and I chose to treat myself to a simple, embroidered dress that will go great with my dream boots, once I find (and can afford) them. I bartered with the young woman and left feeling proud that I not only got a great deal, but also that I had landed a one-of-a-kind dress by a potentially huge designer.

Scuttle in now folks. The lights are dimming. The show’s a go. Come one, come all. You don’t wanna miss this one: a disappearing act. (Awww)

A week ago my partner in crime left. (Notice our good-bye dinner picture)Jess only booked housing for eight weeks, so she packed her bags and head home leaving me high and dry. Life in this city for me just isn’t the same. To top it off, my other two roommates have left for good too. So now I am attempting to enjoy some peace and quiet in my apartment. The problem is I can’t seem to find the quiet in my own mind.

Do you know that the other evening I almost (I repeat, almost) went to a movie by myself? Then, of course, I came to and realized there’s no need to pity myself for not having someone to do everything with during every second of my day. But just as this summer has, this past week has taught me a lot. Being alone is something I desperately need practice on. Thank God I made tons of other friends this summer who have been keeping my busy gallivanting around town for meals and window shopping.

Now if you will, silence please. In the center ring of my three-ring spectacle, of course, is me.

With nearly too much alone time on my hands, I spent hours thinking about myself, where I came from and my passions. My aunt came to visit and took me to see “In The Heights,” the Broadway show that recently won multiple Tony awards. Watching the performers sing and dance with exorbitant amounts of energy on stage didn’t leave me feeling happy. It left me feeling like a part of me was missing. The whole reason I fell in lust with New York back in the day was because it served as home to my beloved musical theatre. It was the heart, the passion, to my very existence. And every part of me yearned to be back in the city before this summer so that I could revel in arts.

The show inspired me. Thanks to the handy-dandy internet, I googled my favorite dance studio in the city, Broadway Dance Center, and showed up to take a 2 hour jazz class. Like a dehydrated man finally taking a sip of water, I rekindled a fervor within me, and felt happy again to be alone in my own skin. Sometime between college and internships, I forgot about my old friend and outlet, dancing, and I have since vowed to myself that every once in a while I’ll go back to it.

Because this is The KP Spectacular, the greatest show on earth, I have some special guest appearances for the grand finale. Sandra Oh, Heather Graham, and the bachelor from the first season of The Bachelor will now briefly enter my circus.

When walking around Union Square and the Meatpacking district, I spotted all these characters. Let’s face it: it wouldn’t be a true New York experience if I didn’t have some random celeb run-ins. You didn’t honestly think that in my two-and-a-half months here I wouldn’t happen to bump into some stars, did you? These serendipitous meetings were kinda like what the elephant act is to the circus – they gave that little extra oomph to my summer that I just can’t seem to forget.

While my past 10 weeks were jam-packed with more fun than I could have ever even hoped for, I am finally preparing for my departure this Saturday. I’m slowly packing up the ol’ circus tent after going out with a bang because all good things must come to an end. But what can I say? I guess I can’t run away to the circus forever.