9ish pm, Sunday 17 July, Aunt G's dining room ....being with family

You really recognise where you come from when you go to a family reunion. 34 people were expected for yesterday's gathering in Elwood City, Pennsylvania. This gathering, which I assumed was one of the normal summer gatherings that we used to have at Aunt L's house, turns out to have been organised in my honour - because I am so rarely in the country. This induced some guilt, but also an emotional swelling in realisation that a lot of family were coming out in part to see me. Or more that my Aunt G thought it the right thing to do, that the family gathers to see me. And sadness that the big family gatherings no longer bring the family hoardes back to the centre of the family tree, the reason why Aunt G does not regularly organised them any longer.

I don't think visiting the relatives was ever a fraught experience for me before, but in my adulthood, like so many things that are no longer unambiguous, its given me a lot to think about.

It is a family that loves nothing more than to eat and where most of the people over the age of 25 are chubby. Most of my young cousins, twenty-somethings, are quite attractive, and thin. It is probably only my parents who go on and on about dieting, but I feel more anxious about my weight and looks here with my family, am concerned more about being judged and found physically wanting. These are age-old issues for me but perhaps are compounded by the liberal sprinklings of criticism my family produces. Despite their overt tolerance, there is a lot of gossip, complaining and criticism going on in private conversation, which makes me a little uncomfortable. Probably because I am the same way - just narky about different things and different people than they are.

Also, compounding my insecurities is my singledom. I love being single, but in a family where everyone is married off with copious kids, I am afraid they think I am unwanted rather than single by choice. I don’t want my young cousins to think I’m too weird to find a man. They have all come with their boyfriends or babies. The more boyfriends and babies there are, the less I want to have anything to do with them and the less interested I am in talking to and getting to know my cousins. I was originally so excited to find out what these young people were up to. I have such fond memories of them as toddlers. But they showed little to no interest in me and I never overheard any conversation about work or studies or projects. I did hear about wedding plans and engagements. I do have one cousin who is also a traveller, travelling more roughly than I do, but she was not in the country.

So I am watching myself turn into a crusty old spinster - and worse, being proud of it. I have to accept that most people want to pair up and bear children and that this is mostly not a feminist issue and no one cares if I am different. Though also excited about seeing my old uncles and aunts again, by the evening of the reunion I was bored with the aimless chatter, at not having a really meaningful conversation with anyone except for my cousin with a history of alcoholism who can barely bear the fact that no one in the family likes her. My aunt, who organises, cooks and cares for everyone seems stressed and not like she's enjoying herself.

I find myself contrary here, arguing with my dad over our opposing degrees of respect for authority figures, when really we aren't so far apart in our views. It is just that I need to resist his conservatism. I'm not usually like this with him, though, at least I don't think so. Definitely not over the phone.

I am hungry here because idle and unengaged, and picking my split ends. On a more positive note, I had a good time with my sister after we had a long heart-to-heart last night. I admitted to insecurity over her body being so much better than mine. She admitted being envious that I am not as fearful of some sorts of things as she is. There is so much for me to overcome: self-emphasis on attractiveness, the need to accentuate my rebelliousness, a tendency towards the critical. And I know all this. Generally I feel I've made progress. Not so with my family – it was a regressive experience.

12.10pm, Friday July 16, ACKC Cocoa Bar ....gay men in tulip fields

Artfully Chocolate Kingsbury Confections is a large cafe cluttered with three-tier stands of chocolate and brightly-patterned artist-glazed round tables in addition to truffle and cafe bars. On one wall are mosaics for sale, depicting gay male romantic scenes – beach, shower, tulip field with rainbow.

I am eating a warm dark-chocolate gooey cake with dark chocolate sauce in the middle. Sending that email to MS must have been a good idea despite my doubts about its tenor. I feel much better this morning – like my old cheery self. A nice way to go to Pennsylvania and reunite myself with my extended family.

Last night J cooked us a dinner of avocado soup and a spiced carrot and coriander salad (it was supposed to be with parsely but I love coriander). It was very nice. After dinner we walked to the ACKC but it was closing, so we went to a local bar instead for a quick beer.

I am sorry I am not staying longer with J as it is lovely to be with her, despite her doubts about my armpit hair and hippy clothes.

afternoon, Thursday July 16, Museum of American History cafe ….subway debacle

I am eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and looking out at the Department of Commerce and the Environmental Protection Agency. I have been through the First Ladies exhibition to see some of the inaugural gowns of the presidents’ wives. It was a disappointing exhibit because a)most of the gowns aren’t there and b)the exhibition is laid out in such a way that the information about the women and their dresses were not in the same place, nor was anything organised in chronological order. I couldn’t get a good sense of the flow and relationship of fashion, history and women’s changing roles.

Lately I haven’t felt much like writing, other than heartfelt and unsent letters to MS. I am still in mourning for him and angry that I am so. I finally sent an email this morning expressing my disappointment. I needed to do something so I could move on.
I’ve been enjoying my time with my sister, N, and stayed with J last night. We had dinner with N and her feminist friend and the four of us argued over noodles at a Thai restaurant. I ordered spicy Thai soup but it wasn’t a laksa.

Afterwards, J and I headed to Gibson’s, her favourite bar. Gibson’s is modelled after a speakeasy, all dusky earth tones and only accepts a certain amount of people into the bar at one time. J gave her mobile number to the host at the bottom of the stairs and we hung out at the bar next store while we waited for our text message telling us there was space in Gibson’s for us. We drank old-fashioned cocktails and yabbered about boys. Then we went back to J’s apartment, which she has decorated herself in awesome fashion, and continued talking over wine. J’s bathroom is a good example of her design skills. She painted one wall in black and pink strikes, hung a black-and-pink art-deco-patterned shower curtain, put a pelvis (bones) on the wall and a Barbie on the toilet top.

Yesterday I went to a talk at the Library of Congress. An academic lectured on the lack of acknowledgement of women’s roles in decolonization history. It wasn’t a very interesting talk for me. Most of what was said wasn’t news.

More interesting (and distressing) was my intrusion into a total stranger’s life. It happened in the public transport system. On the way out of a subway station I stuck my ticket in the turnstile and it beeped at me. I didn’t know why it beeped at me but the guy behind me stuck his ticket in, the gates opened, and we walked through. A female security guard swooped on us immediately and began questioning us. Did we know each other? Why was he letting me get through on his ticket?

N and I explained that I was a tourist and didn’t understand what had happened. It happened so quickly, and I hadn’t realised my ticket didn’t have enough credit on it. The security officer let me go and pay for the ticket but she insisted on fining the guy who came through behind me. N and I waited for him to emerge from under the shadow of the vicious guard so that we could apologise, offer him money, at least give him N’s details so he could protest the ticket. But we never saw him emerge from the station and we eventually left, all flusteredly worked up and horrified.

I am now in the Library of Congress Jefferson Building. It is insanely beautiful, with tiled floor, collonaded balcony, stained-glass ceiling windows, and bright gold, yellow and deep blue frescoes along curving ceilings. The walls depict hazy sunny murals and famous quotes from literature.

This whole town is insane. The magnitude of its architecture beats Europe, I think. It is all so clean and sparkly and enormous and grand. No wonder the self-importance that goes on here. These government buildings were built to glorify the public servants that work in them. Unlike in Canberra, where public servants work in office buildings like the rest of us.

7.00pm, Friday July 10, bus to New York City ...liberty

I have now seen Philadelphia (I suppose I must have been there with school when I was a child, but I don’t remember...). At least I've seen the historic district: the Liberty Bell, much smaller than I'd imagined, Independence Hall, Ben Franklin's printing press, the cemetery where he is buried, a cream-coloured Anglican church with a beatiful organ. We arrived into Chinatown, but there was no time to see where Philadelphians actually live.

Back to Saturday night in Caracas... S and I finally left to go dancing around 2am. By that time I was ready to go home, I was so tired. But out we did go, into the wilds of safe and wealthy Caracas to find a regaton bar. We danced across from the bar, hugging a couple of chairs, with our $35 bolivar gin and tonics (!!). There was a small square dance floor in the front of the club, from which a girl who was with a few guys kept poking her head out to talk to S. After this happened a few times, S told me that the girl wanted S to dance with her group and did I mind. Of course not, I said. But the girl and one of her male companions got S onto one end of a sandwich, grinding away. It was very strange. S and I left pretty quickly after that, speculating on what that was all about.

Meanwhile, back in New York.... On Tuesday night, SW and I went to a Mets game. We had excellent seats three tiers above homebase. The Mets lost to the Dodgers 8 to 0. They kept getting out very quickly and only had four hits the entire game. They were only slightly better in the field than they were at bat. A lovely old usher explained to us that the Mets’s four best players were out with injuries and minor leaguers were replacing them. However, the next night the Mets beat the Dodgers, as SW and I noticed on the television playing in the hotel bar while we were sipping cocktails.

MS still hasn't emailed me back. It has been a week since I emailed him. I read an email from J today asking when I would decide to give up on MS and just remember our time together as a great experience. I'm getting there, but I’m not ready to let go yet and not sure what to do or how long to wait before I do it. Two weeks? In any case, reading the email from J tinged my day with sadness.

11.00pm, Thursday July 9, hotel room ....another long day

I walked and walked today. Good thing too, as I had Nathan's cheese fries for lunch and Indian food for dinner. SW and I slept in, had complimentary breakfasts at the hotel, and then made our way to Coney island on the F train.

SW wants to see dodgy New York and so far I have failed him. When I visited Coney Island in 2005 I found it a lower-class area: dirty, empty lots, black-sanded beach of Hispanic and Arab families. (This is my memory.) I loved it – it had character. Now the beach has normal-coloured sand, the sun-bathers are white people, and down the boardwalk a bit an enormous complex of luxury apartments has gone up. So, no real dodginess.

SW and I rode the WonderWheel. Its carriages slid down individual tracks as well as revolved slowly around so it looked like - and was - more fun than a normal ferris wheel and, of course, offered great views.

SW and I walked to one end of the very long boardwalk and head into the residential streets. We saw blocks of old brick Brooklyn houses, fronted by small flowering gardens. We ended up walking to the Sheepshead Bay station (I think; don’t quote me on that one). When I asked a few cops how to walk back to the Stillwell Avenue station (accessible) they told me it was too far to walk. But I've walked from there to here, I said. I don't think they believed me and directed me to a bus. We took the bus.

Our next stop was Prospect Park. We walked through the park to Grand Army Plaza, oohed and aahed over the sculpture there. I went in to the grand Brooklyn Public Library to pee and then we walked the gorgeous streets of Park Slope, with their rounded brownstones and elegant front stairways. Such a gorgeous part of town. You can imagine begowned 19th century ladies wafting out the front doors. After walking through some residential streets we walked down the main street of 7th Ave, where we decided to have an Indian dinner, sitting in the open front of the restaurant. The vegetable korma was lovely and the mushroom saag good too, though neither were spicy.

SW and I continued on our way to the Dekalb subway station and finally hit a more ordinary area - Flatbush Ave, a major thoroughfare in a black Brooklyn neighbourhood, all multi-laned road, ordinary city signage and meaty restaurants. Definitely not a beautiful area. SW used the internet in a hot convenience store in order to imbibe the local vibe, surrounded by black men.