Tim at the SEPTA station, near our mysterious bus stop.
Tim in Chinatown New York, at the other end of the bus line.
When I was a kid, my dad would ask me to write travel reports about our family vacations. These reports served the dual purpose of preserving a memory and being writing practice. I only did it a few times, but there's no reason I can't continue the tradition.
This journal is my answer to friends who ask, "What was your trip like?" If I wrote about you, I didn't think that you would mind. Feel free to browse. (Click on any photo to view a larger version.)
First, I was content to stay at home during winter break. Then, at the last minute, my brother went to Australia. Over the next few weeks, I developed wanderlust. The urge to travel stirred within me, and I became restless when it wasn't satisfied. I carried discontent into the new quarter, longing to go somewhere far and exotic.
In the frigid north of the United States, people migrate south, taking winter vacations in mild places like San Diego. Where do San Diegans travel? Anywhere else is bound to be less comfortable.
For many people, that begs the question: why leave? However, my motivation to travel isn't pampered comfort. It is a chance to get out of my normal routine, to learn about a new place, to see a different culture, and to meet different people. Any discomfort I experience has the added benefit of helping me appreciate my beautiful hometown!
For a while, I wanted to go to South America. Then I considered going to New Orleans to help out with Katrina relief. Finally, I settled on traveling to New York and Philadelphia with my brother and his friends. He gave me a 'travel grant' using his frequent flyer miles, accumulated during a plethora of medical school interviews.
I've been to both places before, as a kid. This time would be quite different, I suspected.
The airport security guard glanced at my boarding pass.
"Philly," he announced. "Bring me back a cheese steak!"
"Okay." I hadn't even thought about it until then, but he sparked an epiphany. I've had imitations, but now I was going to Philadelphia, home of the cheese steak! Even now, I salivate as I write about it.
On the airplane, I struck up a conversation with the young businessman to my left. "There are these two cheese steak restaurants, across the street from each other," he informed me. "Pat's is the original. Geno's is the copycat. It's new and flashy and has all these neon lights. I always go to Pat's."
As our plane descended, I put down my book and looked forward, wearing a blank expression.
"You're thinking about that cheese steak, aren't you?"
"Yes," I confessed.
I left the plane in eager anticipation.
I picked up my cell phone. "I'm lost," Tim said. "I'm on the right street, but I don't know if I'm going in the right direction. All these one-way streets are confusing."
"Loser," I jibed. After taking the train to a hand-picked station near his home, I was somewhat disappointed to hear that he couldn't find me. Being a recent import from San Diego, I was also feeling cold. In his defense, he was also a recent import from California, having only started work two weeks prior.
As I stood at the train station, he periodically informed me that he was still lost. He was calling Lisa, who had internet access, to help him out with directions. Finally, he called again with some different news.
"How long can you drive on a flat tire?"
After changing to a spare, we fortunately found our way to his place. I called Lisa to thank her. She said, "I'm not at home anymore. You can call Jen. Do you need her number?"
"I think I have it. Thanks."
"Bye." I didn't get a chance to say that we weren't lost.
"Pat's is pretty far, but I'll take to a place near my house," Tim said.
"Okay." At this point, any cheese steak would do.
"We're closing," said the waitress.
"I thought you said you closed at 12."
"What time is it?"
"Oh." My flight had arrived at 9:20.
As we walked back to his house, I buried my head on his shoulder, with a mock sob and an exaggerated wail, "No cheese steak! No cheese steak!"
"Five dollars!" I exclaimed. "How'd you find such a cheap bus fare to New York?"
"The internet."
"Are you sure that the place even exists?"
At six thirty in the morning, we ran to the train station, lugging our backpacks. "It might be early for you, but do you know what time my body tells me it is?" I asked Tim. "It tells me that it is three in the morning."
We caught the train to the putative location of our mysterious bus company. Lo and behold, it wasn't there. We wandered around, inquired with different people, inquired at the pharmacy, and finally somebody told us.
"Just wait near along the street. It'll come at 7:30."
It did exist!
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Tim at the SEPTA station, near our mysterious bus stop. |
Tim in Chinatown New York, at the other end of the bus line. |
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When I got back to San Diego, I emailed a picture of myself in front of the Columbia University library to a few alumni that I know. The subject line read, "Guess what school this is?" One replied, "Thanks for the photo, David! It brings back warm and fuzzy memories!" Another wrote back, "Have you seen the light and are planning on attending a school of serious scholarship? ;)"
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In front of the Columbia University Library |
What do people miss about New York?
"There are always people around, always interesting things to see."
"Anything else?"
"I miss the subway."
Undoubtedly, the subway system is world-class. The frequency of arrivals is amazing. What I didn't know is that it doesn't go absolutely everywhere. New Yorkers walk. They walk a lot.
"Do you play any sports?" I had asked her before.
"Umm, not really. I like to walk."
People who miss New York are walkers.
I have another friend who would walk thirty minutes across the expansive campus of
UCSD from her apartment to her department, uphill both ways, carrying bags full of books, rather than bike or take the bus.
"Nobody walks on La Jolla Village Drive, except for me. I'm going to be a trendsetter.
People are going to see me and think that it's a good idea." I like her attitude.
Over the next few days, my legs would frequently be sore from walking.
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Sometimes, we rested our legs and took taxis. I always sat in the front, because the others were afraid to; on our rides, the Robert De Niro crazy immigrant taxi driver sterotype rang true. "Subway misser" drove a taxi before, but in a different state. We didn't run into her sort here. Needless to say, at the end of our trip, we reverted to the subway. |
What is the allure of being atop a tall building? Is it really worth waiting half and hour and paying $16? After our rendezvous at the Empire State Building, we stood debating whether to get in line. Finally, we decided on a package of several New York attractions. We were hapless sheep, part of the tourist herd.
The Sears Tower in Chicago costs a chunk of change, but insiders know that the Hancock Tower is almost as tall and is a free ride to the top with a drink at the bar. We had no such information on New York.
Thinking he could change the language later, Tim decided to get his audio guide in French. Tant pis. He didn't miss too much, just an enthusiastic rambler giving us too much information so that we would feel that our expenditure was worth it.
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| Our next stop was the modern art museum, where we stared at pictures and sculptures until we got sick of them. I don't know why art museums are so tiring. After spending some time at an art museum, I always want to go to sleep. I actually did take a nap on one of the comfortable chairs they have in front of the paintings.
Probably only a few people there understood the art that they were looking at. For the others, it was another item on their tourist checklist, or a chance to get out of their apartments. "Ooooh, a Van Gogh," they gawk. Being a museum security guard must be one of the worst jobs. You stand there all day, and the only thing that you say to people is, "Please step away from the painting." I stepped away from the painting. I used to be frustrated that I couldn't understand art. Now I feel that art isn't always meant to be understood, but experienced. That's why I feel weird wandering around a museum with other people. We make a few comments about a painting and move on at an arbitrary collective pace. So I abandoned the others to check out the art at my own pace. I could look at the things until I got sick of them. |
Outside the Modern Art Museum |
View from the Manhattan Bridge |
Having experienced all the art we handle, we grabbed dinner in Chinatown and fancied crossing the Brooklyn Bridge afoot. Alas, we were clueless tourists, and walked across the Manhattan Bridge instead. |
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Brooklyn Tabernacle is a large multiethnic church known for its Grammy-award winning gospel choir. For the benefit of the worship team at my church, I took some spy photographs of the music equipment. The sheer size of the things is amazing.
The spies |
The choir. Check out those humongous speakers. |
The instrument pit, tucked to the side | 
A triple-decker keyboard | 
MEGA mixer |
I wasn't surprised to hear that the music was quite loud. Flowing electric organ arpeggios overlaid and complemented the melody. The electric guitar was faint but a confident presence in the background. The drumbeat was exciting but steady. Nonetheless, the choir and the congregation overwhelmed them all, filling the room with sounds of worship.
I called up my pastor and worship team leader. I didn't say anything. I just let them hear the music.
After a while, my ears started to hurt.
When I was growing up, I always wondered what it was like to be poor. Coming from an upper middle-class Christian home, I was troubled by Bible verses such as Matthew 19:24 - "Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God." I felt dangerously like the "rich man." Since we lived in the suburbs, I rarely even had contact with poverty. Sometimes we would travel to poorer places like Mexico, but we were just tourists passing through; we didn't have to experience the difficulty. My mom would watch the news about drugs and gangs and develop a protective maternal paranoia. For some reason, she thought it was urgent to warn her two sensible sons attending magnet schools filled with academic overachievers about these dangers. In our fantasy reality, we lived less than 10 miles from Disneyland, and we might as well have lived in it.
Jesus' camel analogy comes at the end of a vignette known as "The Rich Young Ruler (Matthew 19:16-26)." In this story, Jesus told a rich young man, "If you wish to be complete, go and sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow Me."
Saint Francis of Assisi heard this story and felt that God was speaking directly to him. He was from a wealthy merchant family, and he gave up all his riches and chose a life of poverty. While Francis' response is a challenging example, I have developed an understanding that Jesus does not ask everybody to do the same. With the camel metaphor, He was making a sad observation that the young man prioritized his financial security above God. God isn't someone to be trifled with. He asks for complete love, obedience, and trust. This is impossible to do by human effort; that's part of the reason that it takes a miracle for anybody to enter the kingdom.
Although people should trust in God, that doesn't mean we shouldn't work. Insofar as we are capable of doing work, they should do it. There are many Biblical injunctions against laziness. Once, I had a Christian roommate who was going through a period of lethargy. Just flipping through the book of Proverbs, I found at least a dozen verses on laziness, wrote them down, and put them on the dining table for him to see when he finally got out of bed. It might have been a strange moment back then, but I think he appreciated it.
In the New Testament, Paul's letters include multiple warnings against idleness (2 Thessalonians 3:11, 1 Timothy 5:13). He led by example. In addition to his work with the church, he supported himself by working as a tentmaker.
Certainly, there are many reasons for someone to be poor. Disability may render many people incapable of working. However, in America, a rich country with a multitude of opportunities for social mobility, poverty can be an affliction of the mind. Birth or extenuating circumstances may make somebody poor, but it is the psyche of victimization and the lack of restraint, tenacity, and discipline that keeps many people down.
After Hurricane Katrina, poor people stood outside the Louisiana Superdome, protesting. They were protesting! Sure, government aid was slow, but that's not how I would respond in that situation. I would try to be resourceful and do my best to get myself out of the hairy circumstance. I definitely wouldn't protest.
The mainstream popularity of urban street culture, such as gangster rap, shows that America goes beyond partiality to the poor. It romanticizes poverty. This is especially true among suburban adolescents.
Although Brooklyn Tabernacle consists of all socioeconomic backgrounds, many are, quite frankly, black and poor. I was glad to see that the church doesn't pander to the pathologies of poverty, but seeks to overcome them. The church admits that its members, friends, and kin often face troubles such as drug addiction, prison, and single motherhood. Its response is to uplift these downtrodden.
For example, the church runs a learning center for adults, helping those who have been left behind to learn to read and study for their high school equivalency exams. On this Sunday, a few of these students were publicly recognized. They had written poetry, and the pastor read some of their verses to the whole congregation. What a powerful affirmation! All their lives, they probably heard that they were stupid. Now their words were deemed worthy for thousands to listen to.
Another ministry of the church is hosting seminars about sound financial management. Brooklyn Tabernacle respects its parishioners. Although they have faults, like all do, they are not invalids. They don't need government welfare and federally sanctioned condescension. They need guidance, encouragement, and prayer.
On this Sunday afternoon, the pastor, Jim Cymbala, quoted the verse from Leviticus that heads this section. In passing, he mentioned that being "partial to the poor" is as much injustice as deferring "to the great." This struck me because I read the verse recently, but it didn't really make sense to me. It didn't really sink in until I visited this church.
Enjoying a frozen hot chocolate |
It is always interesting to meet up with somebody who was your peer long ago; you get to see how your paths have diverged. "Sugar Mama" and I went to junior high and high school together. We didn't really know each other that well, but then I didn't really know any girls that well. We were more like academic competitors, but she always did better. She was the model student, always setting the curves and winning awards for being the best in the class. At these award ceremonies, my parents, and undoubtedly countless other Asian parents, would say things like, "Wow, why can't you be more like her?" Back then, I didn't have the same drive or discipline. She was part of the national champion Science Olympiad team. I always made last minute attempts, but never cared enough. Then, she then went to Harvard on a scholarship and I hadn't seen her for years. Now, she channels her drive into working as a New York investment banker. Although she has crazy hours, she managed to get the night off to treat us all to dessert (that's why I'm calling her "Sugar Mama") and go to dinner. We caught up and chatted about what other people were up to. We talked a little bit about high school. |
"Troy wasn't too hard. Actually, it was pretty easy."
"No, I guess it wasn't too bad."
Boy, I'm sure some people would want to strangle us for saying that! People sweat blood and tears and pull all-nighters to get through our high school. (I've pulled two all-nighters in my life, to write papers in college.)
Even though it is good money, she doesn't want to be an investment banker forever.
"It looks good on your resume," she said.
"You know why it looks good? It tells employers that you're willing to work like a slave! If I ever go into business, I'll want them to make me CEO. Then I'd play golf. Actually, if I have a good idea for a startup, I'll call up Jon Wang and ask him to be CEO, and I'll be the scientific director."
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On our subsequent walk, we encountered a rotatable art piece. I checked it out and tried to give it a gentle push. Tim went buck wild on it and ran around with it!
Ellis Island |
Statue of Liberty |
In the morning, we took a ferry and saw the sights. Getting into a boat and going in a circle isn't that exciting. It was more just a time to chat and relax. I took a nap on the way back. |
Afterwards we checked out the natural history museum. In addition to the usual dinosaur fossils and animal replicates, anthropology was also an integral part of their exhibits. Although it was by far the most interesting part, it struck me as voyeuristic and disrespectful that human culture was also part of a place called the 'natural history' museum. The curators were also exceedingly politically correct in their brief pseudo-authoritative declarations. Let me paraphrase: "One strength of Islam is its flexibility to work within different social contexts within in the modern world." Let's just say that I took everything with a grain of salt.
A street performer outside the Natural History Museum. |
While Christianity inspired Dostoevsky, existentialism inspired Camus, postmodern emptiness inspired this drivel. It is a crude Broadway musical that pokes fun of everything. In the narrow worldview of its creators, occupation is synonymous with purpose, everybody is empty and lonely, and sex is the only escape from reality and is worshipped as the ultimate pleasure. I don't want sound all "holier than thou" and righteous about this. I admit that it could be a somewhat amusing guilty pleasure to watch on TV, but when I shell out decent money, I want something better! We left after puppets started having "sex" with one another.
What a waste of resources and talent!
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Annoyed, we went to watch jazz instead. The show started at 9:30. I asked Sugar Mama to go, but unfortunately, she couldn't get out of work until after 10.
It was a snazzy little club atop a building in a nice part of town, but they had student prices to watch, I believe, Julliard student musicians. They never said they were students, but they were youthful and brainy, not hardened and experienced.
They were precise virtuosos, resisting the temptation of unconstrained volume, spanning the entire dynamic range with their improvised tunes. One piece was about the 'endless pursuit' of a woman. The finale was a tribute to a jazz musician who had a hard life, constantly struggling to reconcile his beliefs with perceptions of his musical genre and to overcome alcoholism.
The lead musician's mom was there. |
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Behold the Concorde!
Speedy flight of fancy Technological achievement belies commercial failure You are a relic at a tender young age Now the middle classes explore your innards Aside from the Concorde, the museum is a big boat with all sorts of military aircraft on deck. It is interesting to see these things up close. After visiting the museum and getting lunch, we ate lunch and said our goodbyes; one of us left to go back to school. |
U.S.S. Intrepid Sea, Air, and Space Museum |
Before going to New York, I had this conversation with my pastor, Yucan.
"Where will you go to church in New York?"
"I think I'll visit Brooklyn Tabernacle. I heard their choir is pretty good."
"You need to check out their prayer meeting. You'll come back a changed man. You'll change the way Ethnos does prayer meeting!"
"Isn't it weird for somebody who isn't a member to go to a prayer meeting?"
"No, it's fine."
"Have you been there?"
"Yeah! It's great."
"Then why would I change Ethnos prayer meeting, since you've been there and you started Ethnos?"
It was good. Phillip Yancey, a famous Christian author, was visiting as well. Among other things, we prayed for Russia.
After the disaster that was Avenue Q, I wanted to see a better Broadway musical. Wednesday afternoon on Broadway offers cheap matinees. We watched "The Color Purple." I've never seen so many black women in a theater in my life! The show was definitely worth it. Maybe it is theologically suspect, but I don't go to Broadway understand God. It is a good show and a good story.
Wandering around Harlem, near our hostel, we saw Sylvia's. It was one of Yucan's recommendations for New York. While we were checking out the menu, Sylvia herself came and greeted us. We decided to stay for some soul food.
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We learned the hard way that in New York, there are three streets called Broadway. Our nonchalant walk on West Broadway turned to panic when we realized that we should have been on East Broadway. "If we keep on walking down, we'll run into Broadway," we thought. Then we realized that East Broadway was another street! Carrying our backpacks, we ran over to the East Broadway bus stop. Alas, we were too late and our $5 tickets were useless. Instead, we caught a $10 Chinatown bus to Philadelphia.
By the time we'd arrived in Philadelphia, I had enough travel. There is nothing particularly exotic about large American cities. We were just doing the sort of things - eating out, visiting museums, watching live performances - that we could for fun at home - it's just that we set apart time and money to do it a lot more often.
Philadelphia's subways aren't as good as New York's. I'd say that they are on par with San Francisco's. The streets are wider and there aren't as many taxis.
At this point, travel was fine, but I would have been happy to work again. I checked out Tim's lab at Drexel, to see if it was worthy of his presence. Tim seemed surprised that I seemed to understand what was going on. Hello, brother, don't you know that I'm a biophysicist by trade? :-) Maybe I'm not an experimentalist, but I read about experiments.
At my brother's place, I had internet access again. I found out that a journal editor emailed me on Tuesday, asking for a second revision on my latest paper. If that wasn't enough, one of his assistants emailed me again on Wednesday. Now it was Thursday, and by golly, I still hadn't fulfilled the request!
What exactly did they need me to revise? I needed to add the label, "Acknowledgement" above the acknowledgements section. Then my paper would be good to go.
Woe is our hyper-connected world! There are good and bad aspects about people having the ability to communicate with ease, almost anywhere. Not that I'm bitter, but if they had to write me a letter and send it via the post office, I'm sure they wouldn't have bothered to request a second revision. They would have just added the word themselves.
Sugar Mama has it much worse. She gets a Blackberry, a fancy electronic communications device, which she can only use to check work email. No personal email is allowed. The sites are blocked!
Tim's Ghetto Neighborhood |
To some Southern Californians, Berkeley is a pretty dirty city. They ain't seen nothing yet!
In addition to dilapidated buildings, Philadelphia has trash all over. Literally tons of litter. This is America.
Nonetheless, there is always room for perspective. "You know, after going to Harlem, my neigborhood doesn't feel as ghetto anymore," said Tim. Look at the evidence, and judge for yourself. |
Peek-a-boo! |
Two goofy kids |
The Liberty Bell |
The Franklin Institute |
When Tim went to Drexel for medical school admit day, I checked out the Franklin institute. Ben Franklin is my hero. The science museum named after him is a fun place with lots of hands-on exhibits. They had a special exhibit, Body Worlds. I had the strange experience of looking inside human bodies that were dissected, preserved, and displayed in different ways. They had displays of muscles, of blood vessels, and of internal organs. It is pretty amazing, but also very odd. Rarely do I consider the inner workings of people's bodies. Rarely do I even think about about people having bodies. In this age of electronic communication, it is possible have a relationship with somebody without even seeing each other face to face. I've written a scientific paper with somebody I never met in person. The bulk of my communication with many people is via email. Lab mates down the hall are easier to reach via email. Even socially, some people seem to prefer email and text messaging; you don't have to catch each other at the exact right time. You can hide your physical and emotional state. A few days ago, if I sent a text message or emailed instead of calling, then my friend wouldn't know that I was dead tired. The paradox of electronic communication is that as we connect to more people, we can actually be less vulnerable and retreat into the electronic world. I am guilty as charged. Sometimes people seem like disembodied words. Their personality is portrayed by diction, grammar, and emoticons. Body Worlds was a stark reminder that yes, we do have bodies which we are dependent on. C.S. Lewis wrote that humans are the only animals uncomfortable about their animal nature. Other animals aren't shy about their bodily functions. They urinate, defecate, groom themselves, and mate in public. Not suprisingly, medical students and doctors are more comfortable with bodies. My brother, who isn't even a medical student yet, was fine with Body Worlds. My apartment suitemate used to talk about surgical operations with his girlfriend over dinner. One day in medical school class, my friend Jonathan started chewing on beef jerky, a food with an eerie resemblance to the topic of discussion. As I left, I encountered some protesters handing out literature claiming that Body Worlds was made from Falun Gong practitioners in China. Their organs were harvested and then they were killed to make the very exhibit I just saw. That thought made me sick to my stomach. But then I was skeptical. The museum said that they were voluntary donors, and you could sign up to be "plastinated." Furthermore, most of the bodies didn't look Chinese. It is easy to make up conspiracy theories, especially about a secretive government, but impossible to disprove. I really don't know what happens in China. |
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I know that it wasn't too long after Body Worlds, but I still needed to get a cheese steak. After all this anticipation, just one wasn't enough. I had to get two - both Pat's and Geno's. Even though the lines were long, they moved quickly. I was surprised at the speed in which they were made; the steaks are continuously being cooked. After the order, a completed sandwich comes out in a few seconds!
I savored the fresh, tender, thin cuts of meat.
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Geno's is the first place that I've seen "Freedom Fries."
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