Fool Me Twice, Shame on Me

On a cold November night back in 2012, I found myself staring at my laptop for the best flights to Istanbul, Turkey. My folks had gone a few years before and practically beamed each time they recollected a meal, merchant, or stroll through the Hagia Sophia. 

Finally, after a few years of nudging, I decided there were far worse places to have one's passport stamped. 

It's likely the events leading up to my parents' adventure were far less dramatic then mine. Six years ago, a not so little hurricane named Sandy was making herself known throughout the northeast, and planned on gracing New York with her presence.

For several days, I walked down 7th Avenue in complete darkness as the lights that normally glared from storefronts and street lamps were black beyond 24th street. The contrast of one block to the next was stark. For nearly a week, I fumbled through my apartment guided only by the subtle glow of my touchscreen. 

All this to say, it seemed like a very good time to visit Turkey, or any place with electricity and running water. Never in all my life had the bar for visiting another zip code been so low. 

It was strangely, quite liberating.

When I first arrived in Istanbul, I spent much of my time ambling through streets, bazaars, meeting strangers, but mostly standing in wonderment at some of the great tabernacles of the world. 

It was said during Da Vinci's time, one had to to master three things:

1. How to walk through a city
2. How to ride a horse
3. How to speak.

I figured two out of three wasn't so bad.

One evening, as I sat in my hotel room studying for the GRE of all things I forced myself to have a night out on the town. I was still "youngish" but over the years had retreated within myself when it came to social outings. My discipline was admirable but also crippling when it came to living a three dimensional life. 

A night out, however tame, felt well-deserved.

I made my way to Istiklal Caddesi Avenue, one of the most famous streets in Istanbul; a bustling strip lined with shops, cafes, restaurants, and street performers. An important soccer match that night also offered some colorful characters whose sobriety was questionable at best.

After an hour or so of taking in the scene, I was approached by a man who looked to be a few years older than me. He stood about 5'8, sported a thick black beard, and was on the tail end of what I guessed was one of many cigarettes that evening. 

"Where are you from?" he asked in perfect English.

"New York," I said.

Over the years, I'd grown more comfortable with that response. It seemed far too much trouble to give the rundown of where I was born, raised, and how I'd eventually came to call the Big Apple home. 

Still, from time to time I felt like a fraud for denying my California roots. 

We spoke easily for a few minutes before he insisted on grabbing a drink together. 

"Let's just grab a beer man. You're cool," he said.

It seemed like an innocent enough request and so off we went. 

He lit another cigarette as we snagged an outdoor table. Waiters hustled auburn colored pints of beer to patrons of all ages, genders, and philosophies. 

We talked about politics, religion, and how each played important roles in Turkish life. 

"I'm a bad Muslim," he told me as he guzzled his beer between drags of his cigarette. 

After a few minutes, something peculiar happened. Conversation suddenly felt stilted. The two of us grew quiet as I sensed a shared angst about the direction of our evening together. I'd never felt a lull between two people was a bad thing but this was different. What was often a welcome pause, poetic even, now felt agonizing. His silence seemed rooted in some type of introspection. 

After about half an hour, I insisted on paying the bill and heading home.

"Do you want to go to another place?" he suddenly asked. 

Why on earth would I want to do that? I thought. Why would either of us want to spend another second together?

The last 15 minutes alone had felt like walking on hot coals. What started off as an earnest attempt to make a friend had become an excruciating endurance test.

So naturally, I did what any sensible person in my position would do. 

I accepted his invitation.

We made our way to a nondescript entrance and down a flight of greasy carpeted stairs. Instantly, I felt leery about the setting. The entire place had about 20 people, most of which were men flirting with 50. The only women in the bar were nearly half their age and all on the dance floor. 

The two of us slid into a booth as I scanned the windowless room for ways I'd escape if given the chance. We looked over a menu full of drinks both overpriced and of no interest to me before the "owner" of the establishment ushered over two girls. Each introduced themselves before sliding beside the two of us. 

My fears were confirmed. I was being set up just as I had 8 years before in Shanghai. How could I be so stupid?

The only difference was I’d lived a little more life, read a few more books, and seen more of the world. I had changed, which lent itself to the compassion I felt for the players involved. I felt sorry they felt this was the work they needed to do.

"Aren't you going to buy the lady a drink?" the man asked. 

I realized I had no choice as I started to plan my clumsy escape.

"Uh, sure." I said.

A few minutes later the drinks arrived when my new friend decided he had to use the restroom. 

"I have to go to!" I told him.

He looked at me as if I'd just told him there was no Tooth Fairy. He knew that I knew he would never return. 

We made our way to the restroom as I scripted a farewell speech in my head. My heart beat like an off tempo drum as I mustered up the courage to tell him I had to leave.

"I have to go man. Here's money for the drinks. Nice meeting you."

He proceeded to put on a performance worthy of an Obie, claiming I'd suddenly morphed into a completely different person.

"You changed on me bro! What happened?! I thought we were friends!"

I played along before offering him a few dollars for the drink I'd ordered but not touched. He held his hands up in dramatic fashion as if I was trying to get him to hold a venomous snake.

"I don't know what you're doing!" he said before stomping out.

Even amidst the anxiety I felt, I remember thinking this guy had talent. I wonder what he could have done with a sonnet.

As I left the bathroom I was not surprisingly greeted by the owner. 

"I know exactly what's going on," I told him. "Please, I don't want any trouble."

"You know what's happening, huh?" he said. 

"Yes. Let me just pay for my drink and leave."

He was surprisingly receptive to my request but insisted I owed him not for one drink but two. "The one you bought for the lady also," he said. 

You mean the one you forced me to buy, I thought.

"How much?" I asked. 

"Twenty-seven dollars." he said.

"Fine," I reluctantly agreed.

What's interesting is throughout the entire exchange he never once looked me in the eyes. In that moment, he knew he'd duped me but had still somehow lost. What exactly I don't know.  

For the cost of a steak he'd renounced any semblance of integrity he may have still been clinging to. In some perverse way, my heart broke for him. 

After I gave him the money I made my way back up that grimy flight of stairs. This time the steps felt higher, the journey longer.

Still, I'd managed to escape with my limbs intact as I tried to avoid Istiklal Caddesi Avenue and make my way home.

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An Extraordinary Life Examined En Route to Butte

Yesterday at about 10:30 am, my friend Tonya and I set out for Butte. The nearly two-hour drive was a pleasant one. 90 East runs right through some of the most beautiful mountains you’ll likely ever have the good fortune of seeing, along with a sky that belongs on a canvas. Cattle ranches line long stretches of otherwise desolate roads as cars speed past en route to Missoula and beyond.

Tonya and I spoke nearly the entire way as I learned more about my travel mate and friend. I’m quite sure she is one of the most fascinating people I’ve ever met. A brief stint in sports broadcasting, working PR for a movie star, and traveling the world all before she could claim to be 30 left me in a daze. I nearly wondered out loud how she managed to fill one life with so much living.

We arrived in Butte by early afternoon. The town looked like a movie set; old saloons and bars lined the street, while mine frame heads, and The Hotel Finlen still stood proudly in the backdrop.

We walked the streets shamelessly snapping photos, while envisioning what it might have been like to amble through this mining camp some 100 years earlier. The sense of grit and fortitude was still palpable in the crisp air.

After a few hours of ambling through this town of just 36,000, we drove through Montana Tech before hitting the road for Missoula.

It was a good day.

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3 Ways I Became Liberated By My Insignificance

“Don’t go around saying the world owes you a living. The world owes you nothing. It was here first.” — Mark Twain

“Everybody thinks they’re so damn important,” a friend once said to me. For a long time I was one of those people. If I’m being honest, I still am from time to time.

Like anybody else, my ship can veer from the calm waters of intrinsic reward to crashing on the cliffs of validation; the Sirens luring me in the form of Likes, Shares, and Retweets. I’m human after all, the need for acceptance part of my wiring.

But I’ve also gained a healthy view of the absurdity of such a pursuit. My job is not to be a molder of consensus or a seeker of praise but to share my unique voice with those who need to hear it most; the duration of applause, if any, should be secondary.

I do the work because it matters to me. If it resonates with another soul it’s icing on the cake.

The truth is, aside from my family and friends my very being is quite insignificant. Life went on long before, and if we can get our act together, will continue to long after.

I am one of a species of roughly 7 billion, which is one of at least 10 million others, on a planet that’s been around 4.5 billion years, in a universe made up of potentially 2 trillion galaxies.

There is no rationale scenario where it could be about me.

But instead of being disheartened by my insignificance I choose to be liberated by it. It makes me want to live more, not less.

Here’s how:

No Fear of Failure

Admittedly, this mindset took some years to cultivate. And it didn’t hurt that I was a professional actor for many years.

But what I’ve discovered is I have virtually no control over how the world will receive my art. What I do have agency over is my work ethic and attitude. Once I figured that out I no longer took failure personally.

If someone isn’t a fan of a film I make, an article I write, or a speech I deliver it quite literally is not my problem. Armed with both that knowledge and peace of mind I don’t stop. I keep going because the sense of meaning I derive from creatively expressing myself is directly aligned with the actual doing of it.

That’s it.

Becoming Friends with My Mortality

The first time someone called me “sir” instead of “dude” I was devastated. The way others saw me was no longer (if ever) in harmony with how I viewed myself.

At first, I found myself clinging fiercely to an identity that time was subtly trying to nudge me away from.

I suddenly found loud bars a waste of my time. I realized how fortunate I was to have the parents I had. I valued silence and solitude over loud and impersonal house parties.

In other words, what I valued most in life had changed.

Much of that transition occurred over less then a decade, which is really not that much time. But it’s not an inconsequential chunk of a human life, even a long one.

How many more evolutions will I go through? Two? Three?

My point is, life speeds up as you get older. It’s a sobering realization. For the first time ever, the finish line is no longer a mirage. You begin to appreciate it’s a race everybody ultimately wins.

Almost overnight there’s a new urgency to the word, “someday,” because you simply have less of them. Even the least nostalgic among us begin to reflect more on the path trekked rather than dream of the one ahead.

But part of being liberated by my insignificance has meant being equally liberated by the fact I am going to die one day. And in the context of the world’s existence very soon.

So if mortality is certain but it’s timing not, the question becomes what do I do?

I choose to take action. Not hastily. Not recklessly.

I’m guided by a healthy fear that if I allow it to, my life will eventually be an epitaph that reads:

Here lies a man that could of, should of, and would of.

And I have no interest in a life of theory instead of action.

So all I do is write down what I want to do and slowly build a plan to make it happen. Some of them never come to fruition but many do. And it’s all because I’ve trusted the power of pen to paper.

Strip Away the Nonessential

There’s a great scene in the film A Bronx Tale where Calogero sees his friend Louie crossing the street.

“Where’s my money?!” Calogero screams.

After he makes some excuse about not having it, Louie bolts down the street as Calogero gives chase. Before Calogero can reach him he’s reprimanded by his mentor, Sonny.

“First of all, is he a good friend of yours?” Sonny asks.

“Nah, I don’t even like him,” Calogero responds.

“Look at it this way, it costs you $20 to get rid of him.”

Right now, my primary goal is to make my life as simple as possible. Believe me when I say this is a major work-in-progress, but I’ve already seen major changes from everything to the quality of my sleep to the depth of my personal relationships.

How?

I realized that most of life is noise.

There are actually very few things worth my time. My job is to figure out what those things are and sidestep everything else. Learning to define success on my own terms and refusing to allow the validation of others to be my north star has helped clarify both.

The fact is, very few people actually care about what I’m doing. And that’s okay.

And it’s that very realization that has created a far grander dance floor for my creativity to waltz, boogie, whirl, or whatever my heart desires. It’s also created a heightened sense of self-awareness and a freedom to be who I want to be in my absurdly limited time here.

I do the work because it has intrinsic value and not because I’m focused on leaving behind a legacy.

Accepting my insignificance is by far the most significant step for living in accordance with who I perceive myself to be.

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The Importance of Adapting to Change

A few months back I received a text message from a buddy of mine.

“We’re down a guy. Can you fill in tonight?”

I had to think it over. There was a better than average chance my body would be mostly immobile the following day; a realization I found both humbling but mostly troubling.

About a year before packing up for The Big Apple, the sleepless metropolis where I’d hang my hat for the next 12 years, I got a few friends together and started a team in an “old man softball league.”

We were by far the youngest group of guys in the division. In fact, at that point most of us had only been on the planet for a shade over two decades.

We were a mixed bag, which made it all the more fun. Some wore their hair long, while others kept their personal lives close to the vest.

A handful of the guys seemed to already have their lives mapped out, while others drifted aimlessly, testing both time and the patience of their parents.

But every Wednesday evening all was right with the world. We’d come from various corners of the Bay Area and hike up that small hill that led to Owen Jones Field, a park nestled in the Oakland Hills where many of us spent our summers growing up.

Nothing had really changed. The infield was always devoid of love, the grass in the outfield grew wild, and I’d be hard-pressed to tell you the last time the water fountain worked.

But all things considered it was holding up okay.

“I’ll be there,” I finally texted back.

That evening I grabbed a tattered shirt and an old pair of cleats, still caked in dirt from my last outing, and threw them in the trunk of my car. I made my way to the field guided by the bright lights in outfield.

I stretched and sprinted amidst bro hugs and life summaries of old friends. Some of the players had changed but a surprising number had clung hard to what was now their only refuge from progressively busier lives.

A few looked a little more wearied than I remembered, and invariably boasted less hair and a tad more waist.

Others had taken their last at-bat years ago to tend to their own growing teams of children and better halves.

It was not lost on me that the moniker “old man softball team,” was now not so ironic.

Time I realized, is nature’s most trusted mercenary; a ninja that sneaks up and takes hold without you noticing.

And sometimes its grip is felt most in something as trivial as a softball game.

That night towards the end of the 6th inning, I rounded second base trying to stretch a double into a triple. I could hear the guys in the dugout pleading for me to hold at second, but I’d made up my mind the moment I hit the ball.

I dove head first into third narrowly missing the tag. The crowd, which is to say, the 7 or so in attendance went wild. Even the third baseman tipped his cap.

We ended up losing that game but in some perverse way, I’d won my own battle of the spirit.

The next day was different. I felt as if I’d been hit my a freight train. My legs were sore, my chest bruised, and my pride in tatters.

What was I thinking? I thought to myself.

But that lesson, however painful, ended up being a teachable moment perhaps only some makeshift “field of dreams,” could offer.

I realized change is inevitable. Sooner or later everything alters. Our bodies tell us what it can no longer do, new neighbors move in, children grow up, and even our values change.

Ten years ago I’d have been happy thumbing through plays the rest of my life. Today, I’m just as likely to reach for biography on Mandela as I am of Brando.

And I’m fine with my evolution. However painful it might have been at times, it was necessary.

What’s more, I realized adaptability is a choice because while change is inevitable, progress is not.

The key to forward mobility, of both mind and body, is to confront the difficult questions:

— Am I looking for solutions to modern day challenges?

— Am I staying open to new possibilities, or am I holding on to a method that is now obsolete?

— Am I embracing my own frailties and incompetencies, while productively employing my strengths?

Having grit, passion, and a strong work ethic is a necessity for any endeavor worth achieving. But it doesn’t mean a little personal inventory on our strengths, philosophies, and values from time to time will hurt.

Getting to that place required a heightened sense of humility, radical self-honesty, and teaching myself to view the future as an opportunity rather than a threat to what once was.

Before long, the rains will clear, the grass will be cut, and I’ll likely be getting another one of those text messages requesting my services in left field. And for better or worse, I’ll accept.

But the next time, I’ll think twice before rounding second.

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How to Make Friends in Romania

One afternoon, I arrived at a drizzly Henri Coanda International Airport in Bucharest. My friend Anka spotted me as I made my way through customs into the arrivals hall. It’d been exactly a year since I’d last seen my Romanian friend.

Just a summer before we were in high spirits, sharing our thoughts on the future at a sidewalk restaurant somewhere on Columbus Ave.

Her brother Adrian was waiting for the two of us in a blue Jaguar in the parking lot. I instantly felt guilty he’d schlepped across town to pick up someone he didn’t even know.

I liked the man instantly and saw a similar temperament between the two. Both had sharp wits and a good sense of humor, Adrian’s undoubtedly a bit more of the self-deprecating variety.

I asked questions about buildings as we zipped through downtown Bucharest. I wanted to know their names, what historical significance they had, but mostly what made the people in this part of the world tick.

Both were patient as I sat in the backseat like a child pestering his parents on a long afternoon drive to grandma’s house.

After Adrian let us off at Anka’s apartment, I had a few minutes to drop my bags and freshen up before being whisked away to the Teatrul Odeon, one of Romania’s best known arts venues, and the reason Anka was back in the city where she spent her youth.

Anka, an absurdly talented costume and set designer, had her services called upon by Andrei Serban, one of Romania’s finest exports and a very famous theater director throughout the world.

He also happened to be my former teacher.

It had been 8 years since I’d seen him as I entered the 105 year-old building and saw his tall frame sporting a green button down shirt.

“Oh my God,” he said. “How are you?”

We exchanged pleasantries for a few moments and I complimented him on his appearance telling him he looked exactly the same, which he did as far as I could tell.

Even in his 70s, he was absolutely tireless in his approach to the work and commitment to creating theater that said something about the world, or at least held a mirror up to it.

You can imagine the influence he had on a wide-eyed and very earnest 25-year old actor back in New York.

I had questions.

SO many questions.

Only back then I wasn’t as comfortable as I am today not having the answers.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he once told me.

Anka and I made our way into a beautiful but airless theater. I had been warned en route to the stage that because the theater was considered a shrine of sorts, the committee had refused to add air conditioning.

After a few moments in our balcony chairs I saw no honor in our martyrdom despite how good the play was. Even the Barrymore and Belasco theaters have AC, I thought.

The play was terrific. It was George Bernard Shaw’s Arms and the Man, or in Romanian, Soldatul De Ciocolata.

Of course, I didn’t understand a word but admired the commitment of the performers as well the communal experience it provided for the audience. At times I felt more like I was at a small Baptist church than a play.

I smiled as I remembered many of Andrei’s signature moves as a director. Whatever world he created on stage it was always bold.

Afterwards, Anka and I took a little stroll and grabbed a bite to eat at Caru cu bere, a restaurant in a beautiful gothic revival building that opened in 1879 just down the street.

We talked about the play and how surreal it was that I was actually in Romania, her country, a place we’d talked about meeting for years.

The atmosphere and company also compelled me to thank Anka for her friendship.

“I just wanted to say how grateful I am that we’ve become such close friends,” I said. “When we started hanging out about 8 years ago you were there for me at a very difficult time in my life. Thank you for that.”

She paused before sharing a shorter but similar sentiment.

“I don’t make friends easily,” she said in her heavy accent. “But you’re like a brother to me.”

I smiled at my all around good fortune. Here I was in this strange but beautiful city having dinner with my big sister.

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