#hello to the non german people here who are probably wondering what the hell I've been doing

[mono-socke]

lucas gray, but the jason tam version bc why not

[sonjaohno]

Democracy in America

Hello dear friends and family,

October is off to a crisp start and I've been busy squirreling away at the library. It's already been one month since I arrived, which makes it high time for some reflection. I've been working hard to come up with clever answers to the question of "what my impressions are" mainly because (and a list of so-called impressions follows):

I thought Finns were insecure, with their country branding workshops and whatnot, perennially worried about what other people (read: the Swedes) think of us, but I can tell you, Americans are worse. In all the years I've lived in Berlin, not once has a German person (nor a Berliner—these are two completely distinct groups of people) asked me to tell them what I "think" about their country, or what my "impressions" are. Maybe they know better than to ask. Maybe they really don't care. Americans, on the other hand (including New Yorkers, though a similar non-equivalence exists here), cannot get enough of foreigners' interpretations of their country. I think it's because they genuinely don't know what to think about their country themselves and are waiting for somebody to tell them what the hell is going on here. So, what are my impressions so far?

America is home to some really great things. So far, my top three list is i) cinnamon-flavored chewing gum ii) hazelnut-flavored filter coffee (a mystery but a delightful one) iii) pecan-pumpkin-spice-flavored filter coffee (again, I don't know who came up with this or what they do to make coffee taste like a Hallmark card but I fuckin love it) iv) ditto, snickerdoodles (both the word and the pastry). Oops, that's four.

There is, however, clearly something wrong with a country that has to keep toothpaste under lock and key at the drugstore. I mean, toothpaste is expensive here—$5.99 for a tube, are you kidding me?—but it's still not exactly a luxury item. I literally have to ring a bell at Duane Reed to get an employee to open the toothpaste safe for a tube of Colgate. I wondered about this out loud to a New Yorker, who told me it's because the Duane Reed I went to is located at a "minor transportation hub," in the corner of W 110th and Broadway, which presumably means that this ludicrously wealthy Upper West Side drugstore frequented mostly by Columbia students and faculty is some kind of a crime hotspot. I should probably start carrying a gun.

Americans are loud. I feel like shushing people all the time, which makes me feel like a bad person. If anyone asked me to, I'd be more than happy to provide instructions for adjusting the volume of one's speech to different situations. It'd go something like follows: i) When outdoors, use what you would consider an "indoors voice." ii) When indoors, use what you would consider a "library voice." iii) When in the library, shut the fuck up. Pretty simple, huh?

The American economy would collapse if people stopped living on takeaway meals and coffees. I have never seen people so comfortable dishing out $20-50 per day for food they don't like and coffee they don't need. I mean, I'm not even able to get out of bed without several cups of coffee in the morning but I'd find it really hard to justify a $10 daily budget for iced-mocha-swirly lattes and another $10 for dumplings, when you can just pack a sandwich. The number of students able to afford this kind of lifestyle is just astounding. (This is Columbia, I am aware that the people without trust funds constitute a minority.) I feel positively frugal with my leftover lunches and thermos bottle of coffee (this week it's Donut Shop Roast, which disappointingly does not taste like donuts).

Americans like to think of themselves as libertarians and are famously opposed to state-imposed regulation—but I've never felt as regulated and rule-bound as I have here. It's just that the rules aren't handed down by government officials but by the various enterprises, including private businesses and universities (the latter is included in the former but deserves a honorary mention of its own), who would rather impose elaborate codes of conduct than leave people to their common senses and be sued when something inevitably happens. As one particularly pointless example, I have to complete an online covid-symptom checklist every morning before I'm allowed to enter campus—a "Daily Attestation," it's called—where I solemnly swear that I did not have a cough or a sore throat that morning, either. The only conceivable purpose of this useless exercise is to ensure that if somebody does show up on campus sneezing and wheezing their viral particles around, Columbia can't sued for not having done everything in its power to prevent the virus from spreading. Airing out rooms, though, is strictly out of the question—presumably because it's against some other rule designed to stop students from committing suicide by jumping out a third-floor window. As a person who is physiologically unable to follow pointless rules, I find this kind of self-serving, counter-logical box ticking absolutely infuriating.

It's not all bad, though. Yesterday I went to a Japanese jazz speakeasy around Midtown. We had to stand in line for about an hour, between a group of 17-year-old musical theater majors and 27-year-old jazz enthusiasts. The former were bursting out in spontaneous, perfectly synchronized song every few minutes, the latter were debating scales or keys or some such—I'm telling you, it was like walking into a badly-written scene of Glee. It was worth it though. At one point, during a several-minute-long drum solo, I experienced what can only be described as a moment of pure transcendence. People were all around me were yelling over the music and gesticulating wildly and, for a few seconds, time compressed to something graspable; a thing crackling with energy. An oceanic feeling is, in the words of turn-of-the-century mystic Romain Rolland, “a spontaneous … feeling of the ‘eternal’ (which can very well not be eternal, but simply without perceptible limits, and like oceanic, as it were).” If eternity can be found in a midtown basement, Manhattan can’t be all bad. (Below a video clip I took discreetly when entering.)

P.s. A friend of mine said that I should write an Alexis de Tocqueville -type report about my time in America, which explains the title of this post. For the literary agents and non-fiction editors reading this blog (jk, apparently it's my mum and three of her friends who read these entries—hi!!!), you can email me at sonjaohno at gmail dot com for a book deal.