Due to non-existent pressure to sum up an entire year of traveling memories, morals, lessons and growth experiences into one pithy blog entry, I've been avoiding writing anything at all in hopes that it would all come to me one of these days. It hasn't, so here I am on another regular day in this continuous journey and figured I'd slap up a post.

I'm in New York City at the moment, staying with my friend Akash in his gorgeous, huge 14th floor TriBeCa apartment. Akash is a friend I met 9 years ago when we were both interning at Hostelling International in Washington D.C. Despite the mini Hindu shrine hidden in the kitchen pantry, a Rajasthani painting on the wall, a stack of Indian movies including the recent blockbuster Kal Ho Naa Ho and a pile of Indian books (some of which I've read, including Rohinton Mistry's partition-era A Fine Balance and Yann Martel's fictitious and somewhat silly Life of Pi), Akash jokingly admonishes himself as a 'fake Indian,' claiming I might have a thing or two to teach him about India.

I'm sleeping on an air mattress, have my own bathroom stock-piled with toiletries and a cabinet full of about 7 types of good ol' American sugar cereal. Which reminds me, going to an American grocery store after being in Asia for a year was a shock to the system. The colors! The brand names! The lists of unpronouncable processed ingredients! Eye-level marketing, food fads and crazes, manufactured flavors, smells and colors, all of it a part of a multi-billion dollar desire-creation industry that to be frank, makes me a bit ill. Please, somebody tell me what has happened since I left that caused every American to single out the poor little carbohydrate as the most hated of food villains and rally against it with such fervor! I'm going to ponder this over a bowl of Fruity Pebbles.

Akash's apartment has a rooftop terrace where I did yoga yesterday. The view of Manhattan's skyline and countless other people milling about behind windows and on rooftops reminded me why more pairs of binoculars are sold in this city than anywhere else per capita worldwide. I wonder if any bored office workers were ogling my asanas.

Last night I went to dinner with Mario, my ex-boyfriend from 6 years ago. He pointed out that I appear to have become a bit more of a hippy (I could've been wearing an Evan Picone suit; with these shells in my hair I'd still look like a hippy). I pointed out that his livingroom looks like a Pottery Barn catalog.

After a drink on his fire escape hanging over the intersection of East 57th Street and Lexington, right near the famous string of high-end department stores and boutiques on 5th Avenue and a few blocks from Central Park, we went to dinner at a swanky sushi place. I tried not to cringe or think too much about the dirt cheap cocktails in Thailand when I caught a glimpse of the New York standard price tag of $11 for drinks. It was easier to forget after drinking a couple of them and even easier when Mario swooped up the bill. If only I could assume the role of 'destitute world traveler' every day of the year.

Tonight I will meet my friends Daryl and Darran for dinner at their place. Daryl and I went to Smith together. She and Darran used to live near me in the Bay Area, but got married two years ago and moved back to Wisconsin. Daryl pursued a certificate program from Sotheby's which then parlayed into a full-time position to die for. She and Darran moved on up to the Manhattan lifestyle a few months ago and I look forward to seeing how they've settled in.

More latah.