Well, hello there

Paris is so well situated that jetting off is always tempting. You know how much I like getting away.

Somehow, though, I had never taken advantage of the easiest escape route ever: the Eurostar!

I’ve now rectified that oversight.

In less than two and a half hours I was whisked from the land of wine and cheese to the one of fish and chips.

Of course, London offers much more than that. Between my taste for offbeat adventures and an unconventional guide, I had quite a random visit. Here are a few highlights:

I stumbled into London Fashion Week!

Kokon To Zai fashion show

Somerset House

Browsed in Europe’s largest bookstore! (Foyles)

Tried to get the attention of the King!

Elvis poster aside, people inside this guitar shop on Denmark Street were keen to tell me that John Lennon had used the building’s bathroom!

Oggled cute British boys in cute out-of-the-way cafes

The lovely Muxima Cafe in Bow.

Went for a ride in the English countryside

Just kidding! That shot’s in Hyde Park where there was also this:

Horse head in Hyde Park

Listened to rockabilly in Camden

(They claimed they lived in China and were trying to get the money to buy tickets back!)

Was tickled by random Britishisms

Crossed legs: look at those bathroom signs!

Struck silly poses wherever I went

Soho Square

The main impetus for the trip was actually to catch up with an old friend and be filmed for a documentary about him. It’s a long story (so long I’ve even considered writing a book!), but suffice it to say, he’s an interesting character.

It was fascinating being a small part of the process and experiencing my nerves. For some background shots, for example, the filmmaker would tell us to walk for a scene and suddenly my legs would go wobbly. Just walk, Sion! Look natural!

I got over my nerves soon enough and was relieved to sound pretty coherent once we got down to business. All the footage from this weekend will get cut down to a cameo of a few seconds, I’m supposing. Writers aren’t the only ones who have to do merciless editing! I can’t wait to see the finished product.

Setting up: Bruno Wizard, the colorful subject of the documentary, me getting ready to read pages from my novel, and Aisha Sabadia testing the sound. Elisabeth Rasmussen, the filmmaker, took this shot.

All these recent trips have been exciting, but I’m looking forward to finding some sort of rhythm in Paris again. Must. Settle. Down.

I feel things a-brewing. I know these experiences are being added to the mix; I hope they find their way into some writing. So…nose, meet grindstone. Alchemy, get to work!

Carrer Joan Blanques, Barcelona, Festa Major de Gracia 2012

So I’m speaking Franspagnole.

That’s a mix of French and Spanish.

My brain can’t handle this transitional period. I actually forgot the verb “to be” in French. To be, y’all!

Who am I?

This may be an eternal question, but in this case, I just wanted to remember how to say it. No answer required. The verbs ser and estar kept getting in the way and usurped je suis for nearly 3 days!

Other examples:

When trying to make an appointment for Wednesday, I could not conjure the word mercredi. (Miercoles, miercoles!)

The check came for a couple drinks and I gave the server a billet of diez, not dix.

I went to Castorama to pick up a new bookshelf (more room for books!) and didn’t even realize half my sentence was in Spanish and the other in French. (Hay une etagere en blanc?) I wondered why everyone was giving me strange smiles.

Last night I finally managed to string a few whole sentences together (and was told I sounded Brazilian!).

So, I think I’m getting back on the right track.

Before my Barcelona bliss and buzz fades completely, however, I wanted to document the week-long party that happened right before I left. (It was all for me, right, Barca? I love you, too!)

I’m very excited to have a new post over on the hip web magazine, Untapped Cities, about the Festa Major de Gracia. It’s pronounced differently in Catalan, but it is a major good time.

Hop on over to read the post…plus see a TON of photos.

Fiesta, fiesta! (I mean, fete, fete!)

Calella

“When are you back?” my roommate texted, aptly noting that my teaching duties had come to an end, and yet I wasn’t exactly clamoring to return to Paris.

I wrote back to explain that I wasn’t really sure when I’d be back. I was having a great time. And I was offered a free place to stay the whole month of August if I wanted.

“OMG!” My phone lit up again a few minutes later. “You met somebody!”

My roommate is funny.

While it would be a nice bonus, romance remains illusive. But Spain has seduced me.

I extended the ticket because…well, I think visuals work just as well as words here.

Terraces and plazas and perfect weather, oh my!

New friends

This

The town where one of my new friends grew up!

Food

The sun makes me really, really happy

Nico, who has kept me laughing all month.

Travel

La Lonja in Zaragoza

Cathedral in Zaragoza, Spain

Whether you like the modernist architecture or not, it’s pretty wild having these odd creations pop up all over town

Palau de la Música Catalana

Rooftop of La Pedrera (Casa Mila)

One of Gaudi’s fairytale creations at Parc Guell

There’s a *person* in there

Also, did you catch the beach at the top? Yeah, there are beaches everywhere.

Now before you think I’ve gone and abandoned Paris entirely, I’ll reassure you that I’m heading back next week (um, I think I am. Kidding, kidding).

But I do have to figure some things out. Namely why every time I spend extended periods somewhere else (New York say, or now Barcelona) I don’t want to return to Paris. I feel better and bolder in these other cities. Paris, you’re beautiful, but you rarely make me feel this good.

Even with the intensity of the past month, friends (who have seen me on Skype, thus able to see the difference in how I usually look) have been telling me how relaxed I appear. How happy. And it’s true. On a basic level, Spanish is closer to my heart than French, I do incredibly well in the constant sunshine, and I like wearing flip flops everyday. It’s pretty clear why I’m so comfortable here.

But Paris has also become a huge part of my identity and offered me so many opportunities. I am darn grateful for this life, I tell you.

I went to reflect on some of these issues at nearby Parc Guell. I stumbled onto this fun-loving band.

microguaga.com

Doh. ANOTHER reason I can’t leave!

As is the week-long neighborhood party in Gracia (where I am currently staying!) that kicks off tonight (though things really get under way tomorrow).

The Festes Major de Gracia (in Catalan) is one of the city’s biggest party times (that’s saying something for a party town). Besides numerous concerts, workshops, parades, fireworks, and open-air dances, the streets and plazas of the ‘hood compete in an annual decorating contest. I’ve been watching nearby streets get ready for days. Apparently, they’ve been planning for months. I can’t wait to see what the finished product looks like.

Carrer de Joan Blandes, round the corner from me

But Carrer de Verdi seems to be up for the competition, assembling a possibly questionable Old West theme

This is a saloon built on the *street* y’all!

I read a figure that a million and a half people come for the Festes Major and it’s right outside my door.

Hmm.

I think I’ll ponder this life-purpose, place-in-the-world stuff later.

For now…fiesta!

What are you up to for summer fun?

Parc Cervantes

Imagine you’re driving along an unfamiliar road. You hear the engine running, feel the strap of the seatbelt holding you in. Is it light or dark outside? The car stops. You step out. What do you see?

Write a poem of questions. No answers. Just questions.

Write about one of your scars.

Our bohemian writers’ day in 4 Gats Cafe

These are some of the prompts I used this summer in my creative writing class.

We usually began the day in this way, the first 20 minutes of our daily 3-hour class spent freewriting.

I’ve always loved what appears on the page during these exercises, seeing the material our subconscious alights upon when we turn off the internal censor. It was a privilege to hear what my students came up with. No matter what I threw at them – pick 3 words from this hat and use them in a scene! Look at this random object; now put it in your writing! “Translate” this Zapotec poem even though you don’t know the language! – they set right to writing and astounded with their imagination.

Writing in the garden: University of Barcelona

So it’s kind of ironic that after a month spent urging others to write (write! write for your life!) I am having trouble myself.

I keep feeling like I need to tell you all about my summer in Spain, all these new experiences, all of this stuff…but I don’t know where to begin. I don’t yet know what it actually means.

So I’ll start with what I know so far. In some ways I did a better job this summer than I thought I would. In other ways, I just scraped by by the skin of my teeth. That pretty much sums up what a first teaching experience would be like, right?

The great thing about the program is that it emphasized “experiential learning.” As in, these students didn’t fly across the ocean to sit inside every day. Each teacher was charged with getting them out and about, to use the city as the classroom.

For a subject like creative writing that’s both straightforward and something of a stretch. We can write anywhere! Everything is material!

Of course, on certain days the link wasn’t always so obvious. Why did we go to that garden to talk about story structure? What does this museum have to do with plot?

I went with the “just go” approach (even though I didn’t know the city well; getting lost was always a possibility) hoping they’d thank me later for dragging them all over.

So we…

imagined ourselves as gladiators in Tarragona’s ancient amphitheater

wrote scenes set in La Pedrera’s rooms

Recorded the sights and *smells* of La Boqueria and created character sketches (yes, eavesdrop and watch people, I told them. Am I a bad influence?!)

Wrote sestinas on Montjuic

Lest this all sound like fun and games (and it was fun! we did play games!), I also had moments of panic. (Oh my gosh, there’s still an hour left of class and I’ve already gone over the entire lesson plan! Wow, this story is a total fail with them!)

I’m not what I’d consider quick on my feet, but a fair bit of improvisation was necessary. That’s what’s great about trying new things, right? You find, yet again, that you’re capable of so much.

Scribbling scenes in La Pedrera

I think I did a few things well: creating a safe space for sharing work. Cheerleading their efforts. Being flexible and open to changing plans. Treating each day as an adventure.

I struggled mightily with some of the more traditional aspects of a creative writing class, though. I was not the best facilitator of conversation. I had trouble guiding students effectively through readings.

It was an intense experience, as was to be expected. As with most immersion experiences, of course, there was no way to predict all of the challenges. Expect the unexpected, as it were.

One day during the last week we went over the villanelle, a demanding form of poetry consisting of 19 lines and a repeating refrain in a specific order. Two of my favorite poems are villanelles (“One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop and bonus! listen to Dylan Thomas read “Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night“).

As I looked out at the seemingly bored faces as we went through the poems, I wondered what I had been thinking. You’re going over the villanelle…now? Though I could understand their weariness – it had been a long, jam-packed month; they were tired, the material didn’t necessarily resonate with their life experience yet – it was also a blow to share work I loved, only to have it felled by teenage indifference.

After our discussion, I asked them to try a villanelle. Amazing as ever, within half an hour (though poets spend years on this difficult form!), they were ready to share. And their efforts were so impressive! One student who had been kind of shy at first, but was opening up more and more, had written a villanelle about a friend of hers who had committed suicide. It was a breakthrough.

Group dinner in Gracia

Before I left for the program, an experienced teacher and poet told me I could either become the students’ friend or I could help them dig deeper and find what really mattered to them. The first would feel more comfortable, but the second would mean more, though it would be harder to achieve.

I’m not sure I got to either, but I swam between the two, briefly touching aspects of both. I was not a typical “teacher” – and this had its pluses and minuses. I think they liked calling me Sion (no Ms. Dayson for me!) and that I freely admitted when I didn’t know something and wrote them long notes in the journals they turned in weekly. I loved how one day’s disappointment could turn into the next day’s joy. How I’d think I’d bored them to tears and then they’d blast off into some new realm with a small kernel I had offered.

Yes, we had adventures. Here we’re at the Hospital Saint Pau, a beautiful complex currently undergoing renovations (that’s why we’re wearing hardhats!)

We had a final dance. The belief that I had some good moves quickly disappeared; as soon as the teachers hit the dance floor a huge space opened around us. Our old fogey moves literally repelled them!

I went to say my goodbyes thinking I’d leave the dance floor to the youngins then (as apparently, I’d just learned, I was old). “Thank you for such a wonderful summer!” one gushed, giving me a hug. Another gave me two hugs for good measure and wished me luck. (Wasn’t I supposed to say that? I guess I really was upfront about not knowing just what the heck I was doing!)

I was surprised and touched by the farewell. There is so much more I could have done. I hope if I have the opportunity again I will be much better. But it seems the students walked away with something. I know for sure they have a whole notebook of ideas and head starts and little notes scribbled from journeys all across Barcelona – and that ain’t nothing.

There’s much more to say and I haven’t even told you that I’m still in Spain! As I knew I would, I still feel very much a “learner.” But I hope to always be learning, even if my actual title for a summer is “teacher.” I want to take Spanish classes when I return to Paris (probably won’t help my French, but oh well!), I’ve already signed up for a fall course on Modern and Contemporary Poetry. I’m ready to begin my days with prompts, too, as I had them do.

Give yourself the chance to see where the pen takes you. Write the world.

Field trip to Tarragona

Hooray palm tree!

I’ll admit I nearly forgot it was Independence Day. I’ve been in Barcelona since Sunday (where shouts of GOL! greeted me upon arrival; Spain won the Euro 2012 championship) and been deep into Spanish fever (in the good way) since.

I’ve been zipping all over town trying to get my bearings as I’ll soon be playing tour guide. I already have the crazy tan lines to prove all my trekking (yay, sunshine!)

I’m also speaking a strange mix of FranSpanglish (French + Spanish + English) as my brain tries to get up to speed. I was surprised when our faculty meeting this week was conducted almost entirely in Spanish – and even more surprised that I actually understood most of what was going on. Wow, it’s been 14 years since I studied in Mexico; I haven’t used Spanish much since. Words long buried are starting to rise up again.

Still, I open my mouth and French is the first thing on my tongue. It’s always interesting to return to the limbo of linguistic confusion.

Tomorrow I wake up bright and early to welcome students at the airport. I can’t wait to meet the students in my class!

Not sure how often I’ll be checking in this month, but just wanted to say hello. And send some sunshine your way in case you need it.

Bright colors in La Boqueria

Taking in art at the MACBA

Parque de la Ciutadella

Gardens at the University of Barcelona

University of Barcelona

Can’t get over those palm trees

Have a great weekend and enjoy!

Sunny Central Park and Jumping Girl with Umbrella

Paris! I’ve returned!

Yes, after a month’s sojourn Stateside I’m back in the City of Light.

But just what was I doing away for so long?

Well, falling back in love with my American home, to be honest.

Late Night Mexican Street Food on the Lower East Side

The trip stirred up a lot of feelings for me. Just when I thought I was settled (and incredibly satisfied!) in Paris, New York had to go and work her old charm on me.

Oh, this. THIS.

That was my reaction as soon as I stepped back into the city. I was flooded with my overwhelming love for the place: the energy, diversity, the possibilities just teeming in the streets.

Never thought a bagpipe could be a viable “jam” instrument, but I was proven wrong in Union Square. I have video, too!

I also felt lighter. The layer is invisible – I’ve gotten so used to wearing it I must have forgotten it was even there, but I instantly felt a weight lift from my shoulders. I’m not a fish out of water. I’m home.

I’ve navigated my way around Paris pretty well, but New York reminded me what it really feels like to be fully myself. I’m more free, confident. The city just makes me smile.

My friend Kathy Zimmer singing her heart out in Long Island City

It didn’t hurt that it was mostly good weather and each time I checked in on Paris it was cold and raining. Status updates from my Paris friends bemoaned the solid wall of gray rain. There may not be a song called “April in New York” but I know I was in the right place at least for that month.

Modeled on Parisian boat ponds!

But! This is not a down-on-Paris post (though I am reading the new book Paris I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down and snorting with recognition), but just an honest assessment: this trip made me homesick. It’s the first time in awhile that I’ve returned to Paris and not been excited – I was really sad to leave city, family, and friends behind in the States.

Poet Evie Shockley at MIXER Reading and Music Series

I see this as an opportunity, though. Life isn’t static, is it? Or if it is – if we feel stuck – that’s no good, either. So this is a chance to reevaluate again. What do I need to be happy? What does the dream life look like? If I’m not fulfilled, what can I do so that I am?

For the record, even in my blissful New York euphoria I still couldn’t imagine living full-time in the city again. And I definitely couldn’t imagine leaving Paris any time soon. But a new dream seemed to be forming: I need to get back here more often. What if I tried to divide my time?

All of this is vague, fluffy notions in my mind (though a lot of good stuff comes from vague, fluffy notions if you respect the process and allow space and time!)

Ok, a Parisian deli would probably be more glamorous in Paris

It does motivate me to find and create more meaning in my Paris life. I mean, I don’t need to list all its wonders. I’m crazy grateful to live here. But I realized that for me Paris is beauty and New York is buzz. Buzz as in energy, a hum, an inexplicable call to life. So beauty and buzz – I want both!

French Roast, which my friend called the “fake French restaurant.” Indeed.

Before I return to Paris posts, just a quick word about what made April so special. The month was bookended by two incredible events I was thrilled to attend.

In the beginning of April my writing mentor/friend/one of my favorite people/basically I consider her family Sarah Van Arsdale launched her third novel, Grand Isle. I’ll try to write a whole separate post about Sarah sometime because she is just that awesome. (So is her book! Check it out!)

Sarah Van Arsdale (and me!) on a radio show

In her unending generosity, Sarah invited me to not only her launch party, but a radio interview, and the Publishing Triangle Awards, plus dinner with literati afterwards. She’s always helped me along the writing/life path.

Then at the end of the month I went down to DC for my sister’s investiture ceremony. Investiture isn’t a word I was familiar with, but apparently this is a common word in French as everyone I spoke to before leaving knew exactly what I was talking about.

So what am I talking about?

My sister is now an associate judge (the YOUNGEST judge!) in DC Superior Court. I was there for her ceremony when she officially got robed.

Um, yeah. That’s a presidential appointment. Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton personally signed her commission.

Good holy! How amazing is that?

No photos were allowed in the courthouse (or her roomy chambers!), but let’s just say, impressed doesn’t begin to cover it.

What’s hilarious is that they mentioned the family (including me!) in the introduction. My other sister had also flown in (from Bahrain!). Judge Sister (what a trip hearing people call your sister “your honor”) kept saying she was the “boring” sister. Um, right. Foreign destinations do not supersede important appointments in the nation’s capital, your honor. In fact, I’d say the bar has now been set dangerously high. (Here I am jumping to try to reach it!)

Me and my adorable niece! Miss her so much!

As you can see, a full month to catch both events was in order. And in between….

Oh, in between I simply soaked up every second. I didn’t take that many photos in general; I was too busy just experiencing being back.

Here’s a video from one of my favorite projects: Humans of New York is a photographic census of the city, one street portrait at a time. This video is cool, but I like the Facebook (or Tumblr) page better. There you get a caption to accompany the photo – and the story is often as awesome as the shot. The project got the front page of the Wall Street Journal today, but I’ve been following along for a few months now. The diverse, colorful photos are a very happy addition to my life.

Thanks for indulging me in my journey through New York. I figure this: New York was my first love. Most people don’t stay with their first love forever, but you never forget them. The first love is special.

Love you, New York.

Love you, too, Paris. I promise I have not forsaken you.

You? First love? Or fluffy, vague notions you’re trying to bring into the light?

Just a quick hello to say I’m having such a blast in NYC – book launches, power lunches, cookouts, cupcakes. Threw in a freelance assignment for good measure, too.

It just feels great to be here. And so the never-ending tug of sympathies continues – Paris, New York, Paris, New York.

Of course, I feel blessed to have both. On Monday I met up with someone who truly gets it. Amy Thomas (of “Paris, My Sweet” and God, I Love Paris) shares the Paris/New York love affair and it was great to see her in the Big City. We’ve always spent time together in Paree – this was our first New York date!

Tonight I’ll be going to hear her read at Posman Books in Chelsea Market along with Jeryl Brunner, author of “My City, My New York: Famous New Yorkers Share Their Favorite Places.” Doesn’t that sound like the perfect double bill? If you’re in New York, come on out! (Click here for details).

In the meantime, I leave you with this French video. For the past week I’ve been sharing a lovely Brooklyn apartment with a ginger-colored cat named Bernard. Here’s proof of a truth I’m happy to accept: the cute cat video is a worldwide phenomenon. Global understanding through adorable animal videos! Let’s do it!

Hope you’re well.

While I love Paris, one of my favorite parts about living here is the number of possibilities for leaving. In under two hours I can find myself in a totally foreign city, an adventure in a new destination awaiting (Barcelona! Berlin! Rome! Madrid!)

That’s how last weekend I found myself in Prague, walking its cobblestone streets and confronting the most confounding language I’ve heard yet. What’s even cooler is that I got to meet my parents there, thus continuing our tradition of planning reunions in worldly cities (last year it was Istanbul).

The flight to Prague was only an hour and twenty minutes. I arrived safely after chatting with my very interesting seatmate (former nightclub promoter now dealing in “African commodities,” anyone? Hmm…there’s a lot more to that story).

I’ve gotten so used to the convenient euro zone, I had to remember to change currency. Conversion to the Czech crown took some calculation (1 euro is about 25 crowns; 1 dollar about 19). Easy enough to exchange, though, and even easier to make my way into the city. I love straightforward public transport! A bus directly in front of the terminal dropped us directly in front of a metro – it’s speedy and clean!

And when I came out from underground…well, I was kind of in a wasteland.

Imagine first seeing this in the pitch black of night

This fitness center/tanning salon/massage parlor was in front of our hotel, which itself was an imposing, kind of wavy structure that welcomes many groups. It also seemed to be at a transportation hub as a ton of buses were parked in front. So first view: concrete solarium, a dozen parked buses, and a tall imposing conference hotel.

To be fair, the Dorint Hotel Don Giovanni is really nice (4-star!)

The hotel had a Mozart theme. An "Allegretto" and "Amadeus" cafe. I should have sat down at that piano and shown off my new skills!

I collapsed in my room. (I’m still transitioning from being mainly a hostel/couchsurfing kind of traveller to sometimes staying in hotels – they’re still novelties for me). It was dark now and I was exhausted. (I know, I know. Being whisked to a new city in 90 minutes sounds more glamorous, but truth be told, between the ride to the airport, the wait, and transport the other end, time adds up).

I looked out at the barren street (and the biggest gym I’ve ever seen) and said, this will not be all I do with my day. So I forced myself out into the dark.

Thank god.

It’s one of those amazing things about travel. You arrive completely disoriented and tired then by simple force of exploring discover all the wonders that surround you. I came to like our placement very much

BECAUSE

…within 15 minutes I was in the center of Prague.

Darn you, McDonalds and Texas Holdem Poker in front of beautiful building!

Wenceslas Square is the main boulevard, but I did not spend much time here. I was distracted by all the kitschy shops and people sitting in windows having that weird live fish pedicure thing (true story!) I quickly made my way for side streets and that’s when I began to fall for the charm.

That would sum up my experience in Prague, actually. I was overwhelmed by the number of tourists (this when it’s cold in off-season!). Head just a few streets over, though, and loads of beauty feels like it’s yours alone. I know this is often a phenomenon in popular cities, but it felt particularly acute in Prague. That deserted scenic square above was a 10 minute walk from the bustling avenue.

I ate a great meal at Klub Architektů, a design museum and shop with a cozy, low-lit cellar restaurant. The waiter looked at me with pity when I ordered water, though. Warning! Like many European cities, they usually don’t serve tap water. My delicious main was only about 8 euros, and then I had to cough up 2 euros just for some H20. (Ok, cheap eating, but when water is 1/4 the price of your meal, it just doesn’t seem right!) If you like it, go for the wine (or beer! Czech beer is famous).

After dinner I wandered in the direction of the water. Then bam!

“Atmospheric” was the word that immediately came to mind.

Prague has ghosts. It is haunting and beautiful. And there are just some strange things, too. Within my first couple hours I had already passed two museums of torture and several Thai massage parlors. I also saw many people dressed up in random objects. Not to further sully their dignity, I tried not to be too intrusive with my camera so I have only a blur to give you an idea.

Look right. Yes, that guy is wearing a saxophone suit.

And more to come.

Guarding the bridge

Oh right, hang on. It’s light outside!

Onto the next day, the only shot of sunshine the whole trip. No way was I going to miss out.

Before meeting my parents who were arriving in the afternoon, I walked everywhere.

The castle

Guards coming to defend the castle

St Vitus Cathedral

Le Petit Prince

Lennon wall

Prague's version of Pont des Arts?

Um...?

View from Kampa Island

Time to meet my parents!

What can I say? We have a hoot together. How lucky to be able to meet and spend time with each other and laugh, all while traipsing around a new place.

My parents were on an organized tour. (As we speak they’re probably somewhere in Vienna or Salzburg or Budapest). But they played hookey from the first stop in Prague so we could hang out. They were troopers and we continued our exploration over the weekend.

Paris could use these

Astronomical Clock. And oh yes, baby, it's cold outside.

The infamous tram 22

Ok, stop here. I love trams. I love public transport. #22 is great for sightseeing. But someone stole my mom’s wallet on Tram #22!

Prague is pretty infamous for pickpockets and I guess we learned that firsthand. It totally sucked, but like any crisis, especially one abroad, it can give you confidence, too. It happened. We dealt with it. We moved on.

Though we were running out of peppy attractions.

Tormented detail on Charles Bridge

Stabbings, beatings at castle gate

Men in chains shouldering a lot of weight. I saw these burdened statues a lot.

General armor, for your everyday needs

Like I said, Prague has some dark stuff.

For light relief, we went to the Franz Kafka Museum. (Ha!)

The exhibition was very well done and I learned a lot, but let’s just say it’s not a happy place. Now when I say Kafka-esque I will really feel the weight of that word!

Not sure why these statues with the men's moving wee-wees were in front of the Kafka Museum.

But of course, there was joy, too. Prague is the golden city, a symphony of stone, a city of a thousand spires (all nicknames, not my poetic musings). There was something intriguing about the magical/haunting setting coupled with the seemingly no-nonsense Czech character.

Of course I found the expat bookstore/cafe

In sum: yes to Prague. Sneak off to the side streets, bundle up (or better yet – go when it’s warm!), watch your wallets, travel with jovial company, and fall under its spell.

My little secret, though?

As much as I love leaving, my favorite part is often coming back. Returning home to Paris? It never gets old.

Klub architektů
Betlémské náměstí 169/5A
110 00 Praha 1

Franz Kafka Museum
Cihelná 2b
118 00 Prague 1-Lesser Town

Globe Bookstore and Cafe
Pštrossova 6
Prague 1

Ten years ago I was a new New Yorker, having just moved back to the city of my birth a few weeks prior. On September 10 I was in the plaza of the World Trade Center watching the Trisha Brown Dance Company perform. My dream at that time was to dance and I was quickly taking advantage of all the city had to offer.

I looked up at the Twin Towers and thought I should go up to the top. I decided to save it for the next day, however, as I was returning in the morning for an audition in the area.

The next day, of course, was September 11. I never made it downtown.

I’ve never been able to talk about 9/11 well; not articulate my feelings or try to mine it for meaning. The loss and tragedy was total; how do you give such grief a name?

And then it became politicized and my words felt even more stopped up in my mouth. I was horrified to see how the attacks got transformed into further war, how in the name of innocents we went to foreign countries to kill even more.

In the aftermath, in New York, the subways were silent. The teeming metropolis, crowded with its denizens, hardly made a sound. The very air subdued by so many millions each trying to grapple with what we had just witnessed.

You know what else I remember, though? The incredible sense of unity. The way people helped each other. Strangers lending a hand. Neighbors checking in on each other. People looking you in the eye.

In those few weeks afterward, it seemed out of tragedy some miracle had happened: all barriers between people had fallen. All of us were truly the same.

I cannot map the erosion of that goodwill or all that has happened since. But it is this fact I’d like to remember as I struggle with my sadness today: people can and do come together. We show our true strength in moments of crisis. We are most human when we help each other, when we love those around us.

This 1949 excerpt from EB White’s “Here is New York” gave me chills today for its prescience and profundity. In it, he makes of an old tree a symbol of the city:

“life under difficulties, growth against odds, sap-rise in the midst of concrete, and the steady reaching for the sun. Whenever I look at it nowadays, and feel the cold shadow of the planes, I think: ‘This must be saved, this particular thing, this very tree.’ If it were to go, all would go — this city, this mischievous and marvelous monument which not to look upon would be like death.”

To read the full excerpt, go here.

Paris held the world’s second largest commemoration ceremony after NYC today at Trocadero’s Plaza of Human Rights.

Sending much love and light to the world today.

This morning, surrounded by family and friends, Tim passed away.

Today more than ever I am thinking about what matters. Tim was an incredible person and the loving response from community to his illness bore witness to the powerful good of the human spirit. We hear so many disheartening stories in this world, that sometimes we need reminders of that fact.

Tim and his Often Awesome Army turned his scary diagnosis and daily trials into something that transformed and touched many lives. I have been humbled and awed by their journey.

It can never be said too many times: love, kindness, compassion – this is what we need to hold onto. Every day is precious. Live each one to the full.

RIP, Tim. Holding all who loved him in the light.

The trailer for the award-winning web series that followed Tim and his wife Kaylan as they fought ALS:

Standard Hotel, NYC

Ok, so I’m back in Paris, but my mind is still Stateside. I’m trying to hang onto the creative inspiration of the writing residency as long as possible.

And New York? What can I say about New York? That city simply pulses with energy. All these years later and it still feels like the place where all is possible to me. Without even trying I seem to end up in amazing adventures. Why do I feel so open and free there?

You want more Paris, though? Well, let me tell you, there was a whole lotta French going on in the Big Apple. Not just all the French I actually heard (and I did!), but tons of cafes and patisseries, too. Here are a few shots of NYC’s nod to France. And then just some gratuitous pics of the city that have nothing to do with France…just because I like ‘em.

Endless nutella…Crepe Stand on top of the Standard Hotel

…and obligatory rooftop shot to prove I was there

Cafe Gitane in the Jane Hotel

Trout Salad

More French-inspired finds

Upper West Side

Union Square

Harlem

Williamsburg

Mango, Williamsburg

Harlem

A random NYC tale

“A dramatic evening of opera outside at Brooklyn Bridge Park”

-a storm rolls in

-rain, thunder, lightning as singers reach their operatic crescendo

-then the sky clears and we assess damage (clothes, blanket, everything wet).

But look! A rainbow!

Extending across the whole sky. And over the Watchtower! (Whoa! Creepy!)

-Then the (nearly) full moon appears during daylight

Yes, a dramatic performance by Mother Nature (oh yeah, and the Metropolitan Opera, too!)

More random NYC love

Outdoor Reading Room in Bryant Park

Take notes, Paris?

New York Public Library

The Highline

Birdfeeders

Men taking a break

Synchronized lounging? West Village, NYC

This completely freaks me out, but worth a photo, I thought

NYC Character: He *wanted* all these pigeons on him!

Ok, back to more beauty

Looks like a film set in back, but it's real! Bar in the sky

Bye-bye, NYC. Until next time.

Fini

Taxis and books, 5th Avenue, New York

Happy Bastille Day!

It’s been nearly three weeks that I’ve been back in the States and it’s been a great time. A beautiful wedding weekend in Brooklyn; the bubbling creativity of my writing residency in Vermont; a quick trip to DC to see family.

I’m now back in New York in a large apartment in Washington Heights, overlooking the Hudson River and hanging out with wonderful friends.

Am I home?

Well, home’s a funny word, you know. Walking the streets of New York I almost feel homesick for the city – which is strange, because I’m here!

When I was surrounded by so many amazing writers in Vermont, I also felt at home. Having so many people who understand and love the same things I do was such a gift. I am still riding that wave, but also mourning. It was hard to go.

My adorable niece!

Then family! My adorable niece who grows by leaps and bounds each time I see her. My mom who gives the best hugs, my sister and brother-in-law who are such fun.

Really, I look for community wherever I go. I guess the people in each place – they are my home.

As for where I actually live, though – yes! That is also home and how happy I am to say that it’s Paris.

I have a post over on the wonderful blog Pret a Voyager about my tiny pocket on the border of the 11^th and 20^th arrondissements. Here’s a taste, then head on over to read the rest if you like what you see. Anne has been featuring a tour of Paris by each arrondissement, so you might want to check out the whole series!
* * *

 “Borderlands (A Tiny Pocket of the Twentieth)”

It seems fitting where I ended up in Paris. People become passionate about their postcode, as each arrondissement has its own personality. Without falling into the trap of postal prejudice, certain quartiers do draw different demographics.

I’m most definitely a girl of the Rive Droite, and of the East. I started in the nineteenth – which will always hold a special place in my heart – but for the past three years I’ve lived right on a border. My mail bears an address of the 11th. I literally walk across the street, though, and I’m in the 20th.

Street art, 20eme

Of course, the 11th and the 20th are hardly opposites – nothing that dramatic. Both are far from the tourist crowds, local haunts are many. These two neighborhoods slip one into the next.

The 20th is the scruffier cousin to the 11th, more populaire, more mixed. Cheaper rents mean it’s home to many immigrant populations, as well as anyone on tighter budgets. No wonder that many artists find their ateliers here, too.

This starts the spiral of gentrification, though. Because where the artists go becomes cool, non? The twentieth holds an inherent tension, then – between a tougher edge and hip trends. I’d say it’s still a mostly positive tension, an energy that animates, but it’s always something to keep an eye on.

Still, I can’t speak for large swaths of the 20th. Most days I stay faithful to my tiny borderland – I don’t have to venture far to find interesting things.

Keep reading over on Pret a Voyager….

Cruising along the Bosphorous

Sometimes when I travel I feel as if I’ve just lived an entirely different life. Of course, we travel for new experiences and to immerse ourselves in other cultures.

But I mean there are a few instances where I sink into the new place so deeply it feels as if it’s become my whole reality. An inexplicable feeling grabs hold; I’m full with the sense that some part of me belongs even as everything is also foreign and unknown.

Ceiling of the Blue Mosque

On rare occasions – Paris was such a case – this feeling does presage a new life.

It’s been awhile, though, since I’ve felt thus transported.

Well, add Istanbul to the list. I can’t believe I was only there for a week; it felt like its own small lifetime. It helped, I’m sure, that 1) I was with my family so I truly was with people from my “real” life and 2) we had an extraordinary homebase that made us feel like we already had family there.

I don’t usually stay in hotels when I travel. I couchsurf, stay with friends, do apartment swaps – these feel like they put me in closer connection to the true city.

For our reunion, though, I wanted to join my family where they were comfortable and we chose a modest hotel in Sultanahmet in the Old City. We couldn’t have chosen better.

View from Hotel Peninsula

It’s no luxury experience. No. It’s a basic hotel but it has Ruhat at reception who by the end of the week was part of our clan. When I had to move for the final day, in fact (I stayed an extra day alone and the hotel was full), I still used Hotel Peninsula as my base and felt as welcomed as if I lived there. The man who served breakfast each morning literally told me I was family now. He looked as if he was going to give me a hug when I left.

And that’s sort of how the whole week felt: like an intimate, familial gathering – no matter that we were strangers.

We stayed mainly in our area, which, yes, is very touristy. We barely scratched the surface of the big, sprawling city. But when the Blue Mosque, Aya Sofya, Topkapi Palace, and the Grand Bazaar are all a stone’s throw from your hotel, it’s hard to get further out at first – so much to see on every corner!

None of those sites are what did it for me, though. (To tell the truth, I had to flee the Grand Bazaar and felt a bit let down by Topkapi). No, it was the vibe of Istanbul that drew me in. Laid-back, friendly, international, intriguing.

We hopped on a ferry to Asia one day in what has to be the easiest inter-continental commute in the world (and only 1.75 lira to boot). Cats roamed everywhere – over ancient ruins, rooftops, cobblestone streets. The Muslim call to prayer rang out 5 times daily, punctuating time with a strangely beautiful soundtrack.

Business, socializing, wooing were all conducted over tea – I can’t count the number of complimentary cups I was offered.

A grungy, cosy nightclub with a view played French, Spanish, American, Turkish, and gypsy music and a relaxed international crowd (no dress code) got down. Bustling crowds at Taksim Square bristled with energy. This might be the easiest way to say it then: Istanbul is alive.

These were things I knew on paper before going – a city on two continents, an East/West mix, the rich history – but I couldn’t have matched this knowledge to the actual feeling. It’s one of the reasons I try not to have any expectations when I travel. I discover what I discover.

I also know I really like a place even when the weather doesn’t smile on us and I still think it’s great. The last week in April, we had assumed we’d be taking full advantage of the many outdoor terraces and rooftops, sunning ourselves in warm temperatures. Instead, we were bundled up in winter coats for most of the week, though rain kept itself mainly to the hours we were sleeping.

Blue Mosque

When the sun did come out, though, it was glorious. The fact that I liked Istanbul even while wearing long johns under my jeans, though, is a high compliment indeed.

This trip feels like an experience to process and I’ve only just gotten back. So here are a few photos instead as sometimes a photo is worth a thousand words.

Aya Sofya

Graffiti on the Asian side

Lanterns in the Grand Bazaar

Art gallery

Bustling Taksim Square on Friday night

Cat with hookah

Tile wall

The flowers were beautiful. The Tulip Festival had just ended.

Old and new/ruins and renovation

Vintage cars by Aya Sofya

As we drove along the sea to go back to the airport, I had to put my sunglasses on. Yes, the sun had come out and it was lovely. Bright and warm. But it was because my eyes were filling with tears.

This, too, I feel on my most important of travels. If I feel I’ve lived a different life, it also means it’s one I’m not actually living. It’s like getting a small window into other possibilities, opening the door again to wonder. This is what I mean when I say bittersweet. Leaving a new home that is not my home. A touch of sadness, but oh, so much gratitude for the beauty.

Tesekkur ederim, Istanbul. Thank you.

Me in the Blue Mosque

Hotel Peninsula
Adliye Sokak no:6
34400 Sultanahmet, Istanbul

Araf (nightclub)
Istiklal Cadesi balo sokak no: 32
Beyoglu, Istanbul

Istanbul Eats
(I bought this book at the Topkapi Museum shop – lots of nice addresses of good local restaurants)

My friend Sarah's cat. His name is Little. He's big. I did a fair bit of lounging myself since we last spoke!

Hello, friends!

I know; it’s been awhile. I stumbled back into Paris yesterday just as I left it a month ago: racing against a snowstorm. The East Coast of the US got slammed and I escaped by just a hair. I’ve come back to rain and gray skies – the normal Paris winter, if you will. A fresh, warm baguette upon arrival made me forgive the city for such a soggy welcome.

Vermont College of Fine Arts on New Year's Eve

Funny, how the markers of “home” have changed for me. Between Christmas gifts, books, and a new pair of boots (I’m a sucker for boots), I had zero room for the little treats I usually bring back from the States: mac & cheese, peanut butter, black beans, Trader Joe’s chocolate-covered pretzels. (We can talk later about my random selection, if you want).

But coming back to Paris, changing trains at Gare du Nord and being taken in by the smell of pastries (gosh, even in a dingy train station the pastries smell good!), getting off at my metro stop, Alexandre Dumas, and rolling my suitcase through the outdoor market, I marveled: wow, actually, *this* is home. I think I might just make it this stretch without my home comfort food. Seems as soon as I popped into my bakery I was reminded I’ve found comfort right here in the City of Light.

I love being Tata Sion

I wish you all a Bonne Annee. I know it’s late, but I’ve stumbled into 2011 a bit like I’ve stumbled back to Paris: a little disoriented, but full of hope, happy to see what lies ahead.

On this day, one year ago, I started this blog on something of a whim. I had just come home from a reading, it was snowing outside then, too. I had no idea how many awesome folks like you I’d meet along the way, that Paris, however (im)perfect, would become ever more rich and interesting to me, the more I explored. It’s a blog birthday, but more than that – I’m raising a toast to another great year for all of us.

The wall at Mama's Restaurant in NYC

Cheers and thanks!

I remained firm in my decision, however, quixotic as it appeared to others. This marked perhaps the beginning of my unconventional, but quietly strong-willed approach to life: Don’t worry too much over other people’s logic; what feels right inside? When that question’s answered, then do it.

I’m more certain than ever of my decision, especially when I (continually) learn about the inspiring deeds of my former college classmates.

Quakers believe in peace, equality, and that of God in everyone, what they call “inner light.” Most of us who went to Guilford College weren’t Quakers ourselves, but it seems to have attracted some of the most caring people anyway, those who naturally manifest these ideals. (Though don’t get me wrong; we were also rowdy, as 18-year olds are meant to be rowdy).

Tim was a lively figure on campus. Often wearing a cow suit or playing loud music with his band in the Underground, he was someone you couldn’t miss. While he was never in my close circle of friends, we were still friendly – as you were with just about everybody (Did I mention the college was located on Friendly Avenue, too?)

In April 2009, Tim was diagnosed at age 29 with ALS, better known as Lou Gherig’s disease. A devastating diagnosis, as ALS is terminal, usually acts quickly in most cases, and robs people of muscle control, movement, and their voices.

But no, Tim still has a voice – a message. And a strong army behind him.

At first, his close friends simply wanted to find a way to take care of him and to raise money for his (increasingly expensive) medical needs.

The effort, however, has blossomed into an entire awareness campaign and something much larger than anyone anticipated. ALS isn’t a well-known disease – Tim and his Often Awesome Army as the support group has come to call themselves – are working to change that. Benefit concerts, auctions, and other awareness-raising events have all taken place in the past year.

Every 2 weeks, a new web video comes out documenting Tim’s story and the work of the Often Awesome Army. While I’m saddened to watch the progression of his disease – Tim is now mainly housebound, depends on machines to breathe, and can only speak through a technological device – I cry at each episode not simply for this painful reality, but also in joyful awe. That is because this is also a story of tremendous love and community.

It’s been amazing to witness what human beings are willing to do for each other without any expectation of reward, to see how many people care – strangers and friends alike – and see the proof once again that we are stronger when we work together and lean on each other for support.

People who don’t even know Tim have helped with the cause; it’s heartwarming and incredible. A special shout-out is necessary to a core group of folks, though, who look after Tim’s daily care needs, which at this point must be massive, exhausting, and hard. They’re still doing it. I recognize many familiar faces in this crowd.

Right now, people talk a lot about the holiday spirit. What exactly does that mean? My family is not particularly religious and we try not to be huge consumers. This means the holiday is simply a chance to be together and exercise what we should all year: generosity, gratitude, love.

Through the videos, I’ve been able to see how people care for Tim, support each other, and manifest community in their actions. I cannot think of a better embodiment of what we should be celebrating right now. This is the holiday spirit, but practiced year-round.

And so, my holiday greetings this year are inspired by Tim and his Often Awesome Army. I hope also, to raise some small bit of awareness.

Some people look at me and are wowed that I’ve lived in two of the world’s most amazing cities. What does it take, they ask, to thrive in these big, bustling metropolises?

I say, I gained confidence to go forth into this big wide world because of what I saw at my small Quaker school. And I see it still: That people are good. People will surprise and amaze you. People will help when called upon.

Please watch this trailer about the web series to discover more about Tim’s story, and visit the Often Awesome Army’s webpage and ALS Association to learn what you can do to help Tim and fight Lou Gherig’s disease.

Happy Holidays.

Still flowers in October down here

When I last left you with my continuing saga of foiled travel plans, I had not yet made it down to Aix-en-Provence due to a cancelled train. (Rule #1 during a strike: prepare to change original itinerary at a moment’s notice).

I was able to get on a train easily the next day (along with the entire waiting area of Gare de Lyon apparently). However, 5 minutes from pulling into Aix’s train station, we stopped abruptly. “A man on the tracks,” we were informed. A half hour later, the conductor further explained that the man was “putting himself in danger.”

Authorities from first the SNCF, then the police, then the firemen were called “to reason” with the man (wow, the euphemisms!) An hour and a half of reasoning later, people on the train were starting to lose it, too.

“I can’t take it anymore,” a man next to me said. “Not to be mean, but if the guy’s really trying to off himself, it shouldn’t take this long.” The nervous man went to smoke (illegally) in the bathroom.

Now I was not at all going down this line of logic, but I did wonder why after that long one of the strong firemen didn’t simply escort the distressed man from the tracks.

You’ll forgive me if by this point I am not posing the question whether travelling during strike-heavy periods is such a good idea.

As usual, though, once arrived, I was delighted I came:

Me, far, far away from public transportation

Quiet courtyard behind my friend's apartment

Fried green tomatoes, anyone?

Garden behind my friends' apartment - yeah, they have a nice place

For all the scenery, though, I’m staying right here in Paris until the strikes are over. (My original train back was, of course, cancelled). I’m happy to have safely returned.

Lake Alesario, a local's favorite

Phew. I – we- have survived September. Visitors, foiled travel plans, new writing gigs, MFA deadlines (it’s mid-semester!), strikes, terrorist threats. I mean, wow, I’m a pretty calm person, but it was a month to almost send me off-kilter.

But now it’s October, time to sit back, relax, settle into….seasonal affective disorder (SAD).

No wait! That is not at all the positive take was going for.

I was talking to my friend recently, he from the land of the famous Fall Foliage in the States, and I said, yes, I used to really love autumn, too. And why don’t you now? he asked. Light grows dimmer and everything’s dying? I ventured, as I stared at the Paris rain.

Hmm, attitude adjustment much?

Wait. Here is a big, bright sunray coming your way. Amidst all the hoopla of September I completely forgot to tell you anything about Italy.

Italy! Just saying the word releases my stress.

Wedding guest getting cozy at Lake Garda

You might recall that I was originally thwarted by strikes when I tried to go a few weeks ago. Two days later, though, I was back on a plane that actually flew to its destination.

Can I tell you – instant love? Even though my leisurely trip had turned into a packed itinerary – 4 days of moving from one place to the next – I couldn’t have felt more at ease.

Why? Two words: no problem.

See – and I’m sure I’ve brought this up before – the first response to anything in France is no. Not “no problem”, but “no.” C’est pas possible. And that’s kind of funny, because actually, wait, LOTS of things are possible! Yes, I’d say MOST things are possible!

The Duomo in Milan

It’s something I don’t take to heart anymore. You ask again, ask in another way – or just do what you’re there to do anyway. But you notice it again when you’re in a country of smiles and sunshine and no matter what you want or need the answer is “no problem.”

My friend Simone picked me up from the airport in Milan (I was late, but no problem!). We then drove to his lovely family home before heading to Lake Como. It was already late afternoon, but I didn’t feel pressed for time. Because a slow stroll along the lake is what you’re supposed to do anyway!

Lake Como - could I look any more relaxed?

We then decide to go to Bellagio. Bellagio! Why not! Once on the small, winding road, however, I – or rather, my stomach – thought better of it. Night was falling, I was motion-sick, and we weren’t sure we could go the distance. So we pulled off the side of the road, and watched the lights from other towns light up the lake. Not bad at all.

Because here’s the thing. Travel to me is so much about people and just being open to the experience. Simone and I hadn’t seen each other in 2 years since I had couchsurfed with him in Rome. So we talked and talked and talked, and it was just great.

The 24 hours I spent went something like this: “blah blah blah – oh, wow, that’s pretty! talk, talk, talk – cool, look at that!”

The next day Simone took me to one of his favorite lakes, Lake Alesario, far off the tourist map. I was in heaven.

The offending goose, before it was offended

Until a goose got all hussy, that is. When my sister was younger she was constantly getting attacked by fowl. (I know, how often are you in the position to get attacked by fowl? But really, turkeys, geese, peacocks, any such animal – they’d always go after her).

I had never thought myself cursed with this particular malady, until this goose came out of the water and started walking straight towards us. (Also, a swan hissed at us! Swans hiss?!)

We tried to pretend it was not threatening, but when it got too close, I said, “hey, Simone, that thing is coming straight for us, isn’t it?”

Yes, he said.

We get up, oh, you know, casual as can be. Nope, not running away from the goose. And the goose picks up speed!

“Don’t run,” Simone says. Oh, I’m not running. We’re just walking faster. And the goose walks faster. Wow, my heart was pounding! Simone picked up a big stick – just in case. The goose runs us all the way back up the path.

Maybe you can't see with the sign, but that cone is holding the biggest scoops of gelato you have ever seen

Ok, time to go anyway. Because now I’m off to the wedding in the gelato factory!

Which, do you even need details? It is exactly what you think it is. I also confess to eating gelato starting at 11 AM. The best dang gelato I have ever had in my life. My friend Julie is lucky – handsome Italian and his family owns an artisanal gelateria? Good plan!

After the merriment of the marriage til midnight, and the morning gelato the next day, we’re off to Lake Garda. Packed, but gorgeous.

At one point, I turned to another guest and said, “I am just so happy I could burst. I feel like I’m high!” She almost spit out her wine.

Milan

I stayed with a couple of the groom’s friends, who were absolutely delightful. If you’re ever in Reggio, you could look them up. They’re thinking of starting a bed and breakfast – and I would definitely stay there!

Anzi gave me a quick tour of Reggio before I had to head back to Milan.

It was a whirlwind trip, but completely wonderful. So I only saw the Duomo for 2 minutes? I ate panzerotto! So I spent more time in a car than in Como? I had the best chats ever!

Coming back to Paris feels like home, but gosh if I’m not going to bring some of this Italian spirit back with me.

Oh yeah, another thing? I don’t speak Italian, but between my Spanish and French, I can pick up some things. So everyone said, “oh! You speak Italian! So great!”

Yes. So nothing is a problem and it’s welcomed that I try to speak their language. Come back to Paris and it’s “not possible” and I still get the eye roll when I speak French.

Oh well. No problem. I’ll just jet-set it over to Italy when I need a break. That is, if there’s not a strike.

Sunset at Lake Garda

Palm trees in the city: a view from Governor's Island

The April I first vacationed in Paris – the one where I lived in a Sorbonne professor’s top-floor apartment near the Gare du Nord; the one where I met a Frenchman and experienced a coup de foudre; the month, that really, changed everything – I told a friend that I felt I had just lived an entirely different life.

You have, she said.

I feel kind of like that now.

It would be impossible to encapsulate over three weeks back on home soil, but I can tell you I feel different. There are reminders of who I used to be here, pieces of myself I’ve lost, aspects of my personality I want to regain.

As beautiful as Paris is, and as much as the (mostly invented) image of the bohemian writer may appeal, it is really here that I feel free.

Washington Square Park in bloom

I’ve appreciated having my loud laugh celebrated, rather than scorned, random smiles from strangers on the street. I saw a 70-year old man tattooed from head to toe, made friends in line at Trader Joe’s.

Paris has become home, but it wasn’t until I stepped back here that I realized I’ve actually been holding my breath, that the discreet city has quieted me. Sometimes you have to leave the country of “c’est pas possible” for the land of “yes we can.”

99 cents: the American dream?

Perhaps I’ll provide little snippets of my adventures over the coming weeks, because really, it’s hard to sum up. New York embraced me. Vermont invigorated me. From the buzzing city to a little hotbox of creativity, I am nearly full to bursting with inspiration.

Today New York celebrates its version of Bastille Day on 60th Street.

I think I’ll wait for the real deal on July 14 when I will just have arrived back to Paris.

Despite what I’ve been saying here, I’m looking forward to going back. I’m packing my smile and renewed strength with me, though. I prefer who I am in America. Can I be that American in Paris?

Belleville in Brooklyn

Like a roadtrip in Mexico where we set off without destination and ended up diving from high cliffs into a turquoise sea, sleeping on a white-sand beach, and stumbling upon a haunted house (we ran away as there were haunted people inside, too).

Or in Ghana, where my guidebook’s only accommodation recommendation for a certain region was to find the “Jesus Reigns Supply Shop” and ask the owner, Michael, if we could stay at his place. (He wasn’t there, but the two workers we met kept us stuffed on sweet mangoes until Michael arrived to whisk us away on his motorbike. He and his wife’s little B&B turned out to be a nice respite).

Sometimes, though, you just want to get to where you’re going.

For my trip back to the States, this was the aim. But you know what they say about the best-laid plans.

On a good day, the drive to Charles de Gaulle Airport takes 30 minutes, though we always leave over an hour for the inevitable traffic jams. The airline had already called early in the morning to inform me that the flight had changed – I love (read hate) how they’re allowed to change any thing at will up to the last moment.

Even with the delay, it became a race to the finish. After over an hour and half stuck in bumper to bumper traffic, a mad dash off the highway to find the nearest RER train station because it was obvious I would miss the flight if I stayed stymied amongst the cars, a worried wait in the Aulnay sous Bois station as it began to rain, I made it to the airport and through all check-in and security procedures with 20 minutes to spare.

I was seated next to 15 young Russian children for the next 7 hours.

But I made it, and I remember why I come back home:

My niece, the cutest little girl in the world.

The hardest thing about being an expat is being far from family and friends. So you soak up every last second with them, say grace for the time spent.

I stayed with my sister and her husband in their new house in DC (congrats, homeowners!) and my above-noted gorgeous niece. My mom came up from North Carolina.

At the end of the weekend, I couldn’t imagine how I ever thought these few days would be enough. (No matter how long, it’s never enough).

But then another travel mishap to distract me. A tardy cab, an asshole driver, a missed bus, a long wait in the hot sun.

But now I’m in New York and it’s all okay again. My last trip here was something of a heartbreaker. I felt like an outsider to a place I had once known so intimately.

This time I’m more prepared. I accept that I am a visitor, that Paris is now home. But I’m visiting as I lived here – with an open wonder. This great city helped shape me, taught me to be who I am to the fullest.

I’m on 95th street on the West side and found it a good omen to pass this building on my block:

Sans Souci. Without Worry.

I’m adopting that motto.

Until I fly up to Vermont on Monday, that is. (Third trip’s a charm?)

Slow lane

The island mentality is not so much about ignorance of other locales, however. It’s more a questioning of whether the rest of the world really has much to offer. I mean, the whole world already lives in New York and you can find anything you want there – not to mention be whoever you want to be. What’s so great about anywhere else?

Le Puy en Velay, a stop on the road to Santiago de Compostela, a walk I'd love to do!

A similar phenomenon can reproduce itself in Paris if you’re not careful. The City of Light is another one of those wonder capitals. It sucks you in, seduces you, lulls you into a sense that there exists no other place on earth. It’s a paradox I’ll call ‘city inertia’. Always on the move discovering amazing things; so much so that you sometimes forget to leave.

Of course, when you do leave, you wonder just why in the heck you didn’t do it sooner.

Truth be told, though, I’m pretty good at leaving France. Low-cost carriers to some of the old continent’s capitals for cheap were reason enough for me to weather the expat blues.

But travelling in France – I do that less. (I know, I know – what is wrong with me?) I think it’s something to do with my idea of vacation equaling an escape from the French language. As my French improves, however, I become less demanding on that point.

Really, I’m just “going native” – the French are always planning weekends away. I think they’re onto something.

I know the people who live here! I will return!

Of course, my ignorance shone bright. When it comes to French geography, I picture Paris – and then the rest of France in a bit of a cartoon blob. The Massif Centrale sounded, well, massive, but I couldn’t place it on a map.

I also had to ask about ten times before I could remember the name of the town: Le Monastier sur Gazeille.

“And the biggest city close by is Le Puy en Velay,” my friend Michal (and Bruno’s wife) said. Another stumbling block. I must have some sort of learning impediment when it comes to French names; I hear names like this and they disappear immediately.

But it sounded like a worthy adventure.

“We’ll increase the diversity by 200%,” Michal said, in describing the town of 1000. “I’ll be the only Jew…”

“And I’ll be the only person of color,” I finished.

Onward!

Yes, I know I look out of place, but please stop staring at me!

I’ve come to the conclusion that a weekend away really is the cure for most ails. My recent trip to Etretat and now to Auvergne (aha! I have now learned the more precise name of the region!) had me in full relaxation mode with just 2 days away, a feat I never would have thought possible before.

But when the agenda consists of simply eating, sleeping, and taking long walks, you’re pretty much guaranteed to reset your stress level back to zero.

The Cathedral in Le Puy en Velay definitely worth a gander

Bruno’s parents were lovely; his mom had been the math teacher for many years (EVERY person in the village in a certain age range had Denise as a teacher) and his dad was cute as a button. Everyone knew everyone and required three kisses. As this was the most strenuous activity required of me, I happily obliged.

The mountainous/volcanic (!) region means the weather is a bit iffy. Decked out in a heavy coat and scarf the last weekend in May, I also stripped down when the sun finally came out. All in a day’s work.

No complaints, however. I saw this:

And this wasn't even a clear day!

and this:

Red gate to heaven

I couldn’t help but think of the book title “How Green was my Valley” over and over again. (The Gazeille is the name of the valley).

My new resolve: whenever I’m invited somewhere, just go. No questions; just pack the overnight bag.

Michal and Bruno are soon moving to Aix en Provence. I’m sorry to lose some of my best Paris friends – but thrilled that they’re going somewhere I can easily make my second home (hope they mean it when they say to visit often!)

Swing set with a view

Well, just for the weekend. Sometimes it’s good to get away.

So, if you’ve come here looking for Faux Pas Friday, (first, thanks!), I’m afraid that my faux pas is not having one to share with you this week. I’m on the road (erm, on the train) as we speak.

But won’t it be fun to see what new rules I might break in a different region? Upper Normandy, here I come!

In even more exciting news, I have a guest post appearing any time now on another cool travel blog. Only it’s being posted on US time so it’s not up yet. I’ll post it for Tuesday TIPs when I get back.

Aren’t you just dying to know more about this guest post? No? Well, ok, I’m still excited.

In the meantime, have a great weekend. Here’s where I’m going, not in a word, but in an image:

I doubt Etretat will be this clear when I get there. The volcanic ash from Iceland is apparently heading towards France…(yikes!)

Ok, not such a secret.

In classic (random) fashion, my first visit to the Champagne region this past weekend actually had nothing to do with champagne.

Instead we were stalking a French new wave/rock band from the ‘80s. (But of course!)

1985, baby:

If you don’t know Indochine, apparently you’ve missed something, because all concerts on their current Meteor Tour are sold out country-wide. (Don’t worry, I had never heard of them until I moved to France, either).

My husband is a big fan, so for his birthday (which is coming up quick), I was lucky enough to snag some tickets to the Indochine concert in Epernay. (Getting into the Paris show wasn’t even a possibility).

I know that giving gifts should be about the other person, but in this case I thought we’d both benefit: Jerome sees his childhood dream band, and I get a weekend visiting vineyards.

We compromised on a hurried day and a half.

Less than 2 hours from Paris by car if the traffic gods are with you, Epernay is the capital of the Champagne region. As is our luck recently, we rolled in Sunday afternoon to gray skies, a bit of drizzle, and freezing temperatures.

Thankfully I found the sweetest B&B on earth called Au Coeur des Vignes and would have been happy just curled up in its cuteness the entire time. In fact, I almost feel I should write a separate post just on the B&B – such lovely people should not be mixed up in my bumbling adventures.

We stayed in the Pinot Noir room, with a view over the vineyards. Unfortunately at this time of year there’s not much to look at. You’d think champagne derives from small, knobby bits of wood if this were the only time you saw a field.

No matter, the place was spotless, the bed large and comfy, and the bathroom equipped with a hydromassage shower (which sounded more exciting than it actually was, but still). Even more awesome was the proprietor(ess), Chantal.

The lovely Chantal

But the main event? After waiting in the longest line I’ve ever been part of, we entered the Millesium with a whole cross-generational subsection of France. (The band itself formed in 1981 so you can do the math). I had just as much fun looking at the crowd as I did listening to the music. Little kids to senior citizens and every one in between represented.

Next to me was a rather robust man in his late 40s/early 50s sporting a sweater tied around his shoulders, as only French men seem to do. He whistled, pumped his fist in the air, rocked the “rock on” hand gesture and generally did everything to make the preppy sweater around the shoulders seem incongruous.

On my other side was an even older man – balding, glasses – who stood motionless the entire time but mouthed all of the words to every song.

It made me think about how we never outgrow certain music no matter how much we’ve changed, or how much we’ve grown. The importance of music from a certain period of our lives is, simply, immeasurable.

Though I am not an emo goth girl, for example, I am forever wedded to The Cure. Though U2 have long since left the Joshua Tree, I stay in that desert. I am always open to discovering new music, but in some ways I stay stuck to the sounds from my childhood. (What does it mean that I remain an awkward teen in my musical tastes?)

Indochine was never a soundtrack to any part of my life so I was more spectator than active participant like the thousands of enthusiastic fans surrounding me.

But I recognized the feeling: You speak for me. (When I can’t always speak for myself).

Whenever I bemoan the difficulty of French or the difference in culture, I can think back on this as a good reminder: some things are universal.

I was able to join in the chorus of this song as the refrain is “woo-oo-oo-ooo”

Josephine spoke to me in Spanish, long before I could understand or form words. There’s no doubt, however, that this early exposure stayed with me.

When I started studying Spanish formally in junior high school, the language came easily, my accent hardly noticeable; vocabulary stuck like scotch tape.

Cara K., my best friend, took French classes and I teased her endlessly for it.

“What good will French ever do you?” I ridiculed.

In fact, I charged anyone who chose not to learn Spanish as elitist. By that point we lived in North Carolina where the Latino population was exploding. Spanish was not only useful, but to me, completely beautiful.

Boy, doesn’t karma come back to get you? Spanish had felt wrapped up in my destiny – yet here I am living in French. My mocking laughter at the dreamy girls and waifish boys who took French lessons is now directed firmly at me.

Whereas the Spanish ‘r’s rolled off my tongue effortlessly, the French ‘r’ makes me sound (and feel) as if I’m gagging. Whereas I actually considered conjugating Spanish verbs fun (yes, I’ve told you before I’m a geek), you’ll never, ever catch me conjugating French verbs correctly.

And most importantly, I believed as long as I kept speaking and learning Spanish, fluency would come some day; I felt no barrier, no wall. Fluency in French, however, is not even a fantasy I entertain.

But I look on the bright side: one of Paris’ most redeeming qualities is how simple it is to leave it.

I flew to Seville last Wednesday in just two hours. Expecting sun and warmth (compared to Paris, at least), we instead endured freezing temperatures and disheartening rain nearly the entire time. As it’s a pays chaud (‘hot country’ as the French like to say), they’re not really equipped for cold spells. They’re usually trying to escape the heat, not generate it.

But I won’t complain because I did experience a moment of pure joy: I fell in love with a flamenco dancer.

A swirl of heat on a cold winter night

Yes, a striking woman with long blonde hair and a bold red-dress commanded the stage and suddenly the wind, the rain, the cold didn’t matter. Her heels forced the earth into submission. Her hands moved through the air like poetry. All of the elements seemed contained within her. It was hard not to think “sex” when a male dancer joined her on stage (or is that just me?)

Call it what you want (I’m not sure I’ve ever liked the phrase “Latin temperament”), but this was also something I always felt when I spoke Spanish – freedom, abandon. If the French are stereotypically thought of as good lovers, it’s a seduction a little to studied for me.

The bewitching flamenco dancer electrified every one of us in that damp, crowded room not with subtlety, but with fire, passion, lust. She showed us every emotion that was inside her.

The cafes where we lounged in Seville were chilly from lack of heaters, but buzzing with life, the din formed from animated conversations, stories recounted over tapas and wine. My loud laugh, which I often feel obliged to tuck away in France, would be welcome here. My tears, rage, any and everything – those would be just fine, too.

I won’t romanticize (too late!) because living in the “City of Love” I know how far from reality our imagined ideals can be (and because we were shivering and miserable most of the time).

But I will remember the language that feels close to my heart, the precious things learned as unconsciously as breathing. I’ll bring back the heat of my treasured flamenco dancer and insist on living passionately in Paris, no matter how reserved I sometimes take it to be.

Happy belated V-day, y’all.

I scroll through images of the injured, the dead, the trembling, the terrified, watch reporting from an entire city now in complete ruin and I can’t stop from crying. Anyone would weep, no matter where they are from.

France does have a unique link to Haiti, however, and it seems has a special responsibility due to its past. Its former colonial rule – brutal and unforgiving – should not be forgotten.

I don’t know enough about these things, certainly not as much as I should. I am experiencing this tragedy as a human being above all – not as an American or a resident in France. There are interesting things to consider there, though. The French government must understand that, too, as they have already called to cancel all of Haiti’s debt and for an international donor’s conference to discuss rebuilding.

I donated to Partners in Health (PIH) today, and found some measure of inspiration as I learned of the organization’s history. Founded 25 years ago with a mission they call both medical and moral, they have been providing health care to the poor on a consistent basis, not only when natural disasters strike. They operate the largest hospital in central Haiti and 98% of their staff comes from the local community. Paul Farmer, one of the founders, won a MacArthur genius award, and is truly an amazing person.

Please consider donating to PIH today. They are already on the ground and know how to use resources and aid effectively: http://www.standwithhaiti.org/haiti

Here’s a video on Partners in Health work, from before the earthquake, if you are interested. Though I feel helpless in the face of such towering suffering, I feel also the humanity and the hope when I learn of an organization like this:

http://www.cbsnews.com/video/watch/?id=4069409n&tag=api